CHAPTER I. FROM PORTLAND TO ANTIETAM.

ON THE SECOND DAY OF September, 1862, a regiment of uniformed, but unarmed men, marched from Camp Mason, near Portland, Maine, to the railroad depot, from whence it proceeded by rail to the city of Boston. The regiment numbered “a thousand strong”; and as we marched through the streets of Boston, the sidewalks were covered with people who were eagerly looking at us.

“Where are you from?” bawled an old salt, who stood leaning his back against a lamp-post. “From the land of spruce gum and buckwheat cakes,” loudly responded a brawny backwoodsman fresh from the forests of his native state. A loud laugh rang out from the crowd. One gentleman swung his hat, and proposed “three cheers for the old pine tree state.” Hip, Hip, Hip, and a rousing volley of cheers ran along the street for many blocks.

We soon reached the wharf, where we embarked on board the United States transport “Merrimac,” a huge steamer of some three thousand tons burden.

We quickly proceeded to our new quarters “between decks,” but had barely time to stow our knapsacks away in the rough berths, before we heard the sound of music and loud cheering upon the wharf, and the 36th Massachusetts regiment, a gallant body of men, twelve hundred in number, marched on board the Merrimac, and shared our quarters with us. The two regiments numbered some twenty-two hundred men, and occupied every square foot of space that the steamer afforded.

Preparations for departure were rapidly made, and soon the plank was pulled in, the lines were cast off, the great engine began to throb with a fiery life, and we glided down the harbor,—I knew not where.

With moist eyes and heart strangely throbbing, I stood in the midst of the crowd pressed against the steamer’s rail, and looked toward the city, now fast receding from view, but I saw not the countless domes and spires of the great town. I did not notice the great business blocks, and heard not the rush and hum of traffic that fell upon my ear like the music of a distant waterfall. I was thinking of home, and seemed to see, like a picture on the distant sky, a great forest, a small clearing on the hillside, a little cottage home, and a circle of dear friends as they stood with tearful eyes to say good-by, as I thus took my departure from home. A sickly sensation came creeping over my heart, a great lump gathered in my throat, but just at that moment a sergeant, who sat on a huge pile of baggage, began to read a paper just purchased in the city: it contained the condensed telegrams of the preceding week—telegrams that had sent mourning and consternation all through the loyal North. “McClellan’s retreat from the peninsula.” “Major General John Pope assumes command of the Army.” “His headquarters are to be in the saddle.” “A terrible battle has been fought on the old battle-field of Bull Run, in which the union forces have been disastrously defeated.” “A terrific encounter between the right of Pope’s army and Stonewall Jackson at Chantilly, twenty miles from Washington, in which the Unionists are defeated.” “General Stevens and brave Phil Kearney are among the slain.” “Lee still advancing.” “Washington is in danger.” “The war to be transferred to Northern soil.”

It would be difficult to describe the emotions of the listeners as the news was read. Each man comprehended the fearful situation of the army we were hastening to reinforce, but not a cheek grew pale at the thought of coming danger. A son of the old Bay State, from the hills of Berkshire, climbed up in the rigging of the steamer, and proposed three cheers for “Old Abe,” and at least a thousand voices responded to the call. Three more were given for “Little Mac,” and then three times three for the “red, white and blue.” Men cheered until they were hoarse, the air was filled with flying caps, and the good steamer Merrimac shook from truck to keel.

Thus began my first voyage on the ocean. Everything was new and exciting to my boyish vision. The steamer’s space between the decks had been filled with rude bunks, and in these we were stowed until every square foot of space was occupied, and then hundreds of men were obliged to remain on deck.

The first night was one of unnecessary alarm. Several rumors were flying. “The lower hold was said to be filled with powder and munitions of war.” “And one of the Confederate privateers had been seen cruising in the vicinity within a short time. If we came in contact with her, we would be all captured, or blown to the stars, by their firing a shell into the magazine under our feet.” “Some wondered what we should do if the steamer should strike a rock and go down.” And thus the hours pass. The steamer rolls in the swells of the ocean. There is the sickening and monotonous roar of the machinery, and the tramp of feet overhead.

The atmosphere grows thick and foul; sleep refuses to come to my relief. At last all is still save the rumble of machinery, and the ceaseless lapping of the waves against the sides of the steamer. All are sleeping; suddenly there is a fearful crash. Fifty voices shout, “She has struck a rock.” Fifteen hundred men spring from their bunks, and with a mighty surge rush for the gangway. The panic is terrible. Men push, swear, crowd, strike, and rush on, but to our horror the hatch is fastened down, and there is no escape. Then some one for the first time discovers the cause of the alarm. The boat has not struck a rock, but a long tier of bunks insecurely fastened had fallen upon the tiers below, and all had gone down together.

A general laugh followed this discovery, all declaring they had not been frightened in the least, and we returned to our bunks wiser, and I trust, braver men.

Thus days and nights passed; the weather was beautiful, and the ocean like a sea of glass.

Through the days, we studied the ever-changing sea, dotted here and there with snowy sails. We watched the flight of birds, and the playing of the fish. At night we would dream of home and friends, or of the scenes of carnage toward which we were hastening.

On the morning of September 7th our steamer drew up to a wharf at the city of Alexandria, Virginia, seven miles below Washington. At this point the Potomac river is a mile in width, and in the harbor of Alexandria the largest vessels can find anchorage.

The landing was made; our regiment disembarked, and stood for the first time upon the “sacred soil of Virginia.”

Alexandria was a city of some twelve thousand inhabitants at the breaking out of the rebellion, and was of considerable commercial importance. At this time it was occupied by a small Union force, and the “stars and stripes” were flying from the public buildings.

We were to remain for a short time, and went forth to make our first visit in a southern town. Darkies, dirt, and demoralization met the eye in every direction. There were but few places of interest to visit, and the most important of these was the “Marshall House,” from which Colonel E. E. Ellsworth removed the secession flag, on the 24th of May, 1861. We climbed to the roof from which the flag had been torn, and stood on the stairs where the blood of the brave patriotic colonel had mingled with that of the disloyal Jackson.

As we stood on the stairs, and cut small pieces of wood from them, to bear away as relics, we seemed to draw an inspiration from the memory of the brilliant soldier who there gave his life to his country.

At night we encamped near the city. Our blankets were unrolled, and we lay down to rest. The air was balmy and scented with southern mint. We were weary with the excitement of the past week. God’s stars twinkled overhead as if to assure us of his protection and care. Amidst the falling shower of mist and dew we passed our first night on southern soil. At sunrise the reveille awakens us. Breakfast is eaten, and we embark on board a small steamer for Washington.

The capital of our country in 1862 but little resembled the capital of to-day.

It was the Sabbath day when we entered the city. At home it had been a day of quiet rest, or delightful worship. How strange the surroundings seemed to us as we marched along the streets of Washington. Every one was excited over the recent defeats suffered by the Union army, and the rapid advance of General Lee.

The demoralization of war was visible on every hand. Regiments of soldiers filled the squares, squadrons of cavalry were dashing along the streets, batteries of artillery, long lines of baggage wagons and ambulances were seen in every direction. We marched to the United States Arsenal, and here everything reminded us of war. Great piles of dismounted cannon looked grimly upon us, stacks of shot and shells surrounded them, the building itself was packed with fire-arms of every design, from the old flintlock musket of continental times to the rifle of most modern make. Our regiment was equipped and armed with Enfield rifles, and there were dealt out to each man forty rounds of ammunition. We now supposed we were model soldiers, and marched proudly away. That night we encamped near the arsenal grounds.

On the 8th we were assigned to Butterfield’s famous “Light Brigade,” “Morrell’s Division,” “Porter’s Corps,” and late...