1862 Aug 16 Fayetteville

[from the diary of Private Charles Hay, Co. H, 23rd Ohio]                    

                      

                                                                              

                             Fayetteville, Aug. 16.

     This evening we encamp on the

borders of Fayetteville, where last

winter we spent many a day floundering

about in the mud and water, which,

I might remark, is peculiar to Western

Va., at that season of the year, and,

I might also say, like bushwhackers,

apparently indigenous.  Thank fortune,

we are spared some of the disagreeable

scenes of last winter.  But today was

an excessively severe march upon all.

A march of twenty-four miles on a

day as hot as August generally affords,

is a task which few have any inclin=

=ation to accomplish in twelve hours,

but it was well performed today, but

few straggling, and those falling back

from sheer exhaustion.  Last night was

cold and chilly, and tonight promises to

be the same.  Such a wide difference

in the temperature of day and night, is

extremely disagreeable at best, but, now

that we are obliged to sleep exposed

at night, it is much more so.

     Huddled together in as small a

compass as possible in order to discommode

every one to the greatest extent (so supposed,)

and in as mean and inconvenient a

camp as could be selected, the men

are busily preparing their suppers, or

laying down to snatch a few hours’

repose as best they can.  All will soon

be hushed in silent and peaceful

slumber, the blue and overarching

canopy above, dotted here and there with

stars and constellations, being our covering.

     What an impressive scene is this, and

what a subject for the poet.  How

suggestive of thought and speculation as

to what may be the destinies of those

by whom we are surrounded, and,

what ones, of all these robust, brave men,

may soon sleep the “sleep that knows

no waking,” and render “earth unto earth,

and dust unto dust.”  These are solemn

thoughts, and although unpleasant ones,

they will suggest themselves continually,

despite our exertions to the contrary, as

we sit by the bright camp fire and meditate

upon things past and present, and upon the

uncertain future.  How fleeting, how

much in doubt is this which is called

life.  We abide but temporarily here,

a few more years, and the clods of

the valley will cover us all.

     An accident occurred in camp

about sundown this evening, which,

it is singular, was not much more

serious.  As it was, a man of Co. A,

was slightly wounded in the shoulder

with a musket-ball.  A gun in one

of the stacks went off by some means,

and, by some singular turn of affairs,

did not result in anything serious.

The men were all huddled together

like sheep, as before stated, and, indeed,

we have cause for congratulation that

it did not result more seriously.

[transcript by Mary Roy Dawson Edwards]

MSS 13925