[from the “War Journal” of George Hazen Dana, as compiled by him at a later date from his letters and diaries]
Camp near Falmouth.
Dec. 18th 1862.
I had to cut my epistle short, yesterday, on account
of the closing of the mail, so I will resume where
I left off – as nearly as I can remember.
We slept that night – Saturday – on the brow
of the hill we had advanced to, the ground wet
and muddy, and with no blankets; the night also
cold, and very damp and foggy.
Early the following – Sunday –morning, we com-
menced firing stray shots whenever we saw a head
pop up about the enemy’s barricades, the rebs returning
our fire, they lying about a hundred yards distant,
and our men displaying great coolness in the pre-
cision of their aim, and the consequent exposure of
their persons. There was one “sharpshooter,” who
annoyed us much by his fire from a brick house
about four hundred yards from us, picking off
several officers and men from the regiments behind
us. I took a rifle, sighted it at four hundred
yards, and as he appeared from behind the house, to
take aim, fired. Lieut. March and four of my
men insisted that he dropped like a log. I hope so.
Well, we held our position till night, when, under
cover of the darkness, a brigade was sent out to
relieve us, and we marched back to Fredericks burg,
and slept in houses, on floors, tables, any where; and
oh! what a luxury for our aching bones, after
sleeping in the mud the night before, and lying
in it in a constrained position all day.
By the way, I forgot to tell you, that after my
shot, my hat – a tall felt one – seemed to be the
mark aimed at by the beggars, for the moment
my head went above the top of the hill, fiz,fiz,
fiz, went the bullets around it, while some of the
men could stand up straight once in a while.
I am going to wear a cap next time. The
Colonel ordered us at last to keep down, so I had
no more shots, though I stuck up my head once
more without my hat, and not a shot greeted it.
All I have to shew for the fight is a bullet hole
through the right leg of my pantaloons, so never
again say anything against “pegtops,” for had “tights”
been the fashion, of course I should have been hit in
the leg.
There is one thing to be much regretted (I am sorry
to say, but can’t help it), in the practice of this
profession; that is, one loses, in a very great
measure, the good impressions – however temporary –
made else where than on a battle field, by the
sight of death. But here it seems but a nat-
ural sequence, in a measure self-sought, and loses
most of its force. There I slept, and soundly
with one dead man within touching distance, and
dozens more spread around, yet it did not seem
strange to me, nor shock me in the least – and
I do not think I am particularly unfeeling either.
. . . . We spent Sunday night and Monday
in Fredericks burg, and at about 7 o’clock Monday
evening were ordered to march. We all ex-
pected more war, but to our surprise were marched
and counter-marched through the main street of
the town till 3 o’clock the following morning,
and then, to my bitter chagrin, away we went
back over the pontoons, although Sigel had
arrived the previous evening with a large body
of men for our support. . . . . A Christmas
box on the car for Tiger/ softly).
[transcribed by Mary Roy Dawson Edwards]
MSS 5130
