"Damn them"

Sunday, November 17, 1861   Camp Lee, Pocotaligo

I have been neglectful in my entries. So much time has passed since the glorious battle and our ingloriuos retreat. We did not run but we might as well have. All of us were pretty well feeling ourselves whipped and fearful that the Yankee army would follow us to finish us all up. We need not have fretted. They took Hilton Head and pretty much have not strayed too far from it. I understand they have taken Beaufort.

We have seen some refugees but not many. Almost all of the loyal folks were gone before the forts fell. The displaced families are behind our lines, some far away in the upcountry. Every so often we see great columns of smoke in the distance and think that their General Sherman and his infernal Yankees must get some sort of criminal satisfaction by sacrificing peoples' homes to Lucifer. I do not care if they burn my house down so long as they are in it when it happens.

The day after the fall of the forts, a new general arrived to take command. Lee is his name and he came too late to save anything. Now that he is here, we are moles again, digging, digging and more digging. We are becoming more adept at drilling with the spade than with the musket. Some muskets were lost by our boys during the retreat but I carried mine out. To have done otherwise would have been dishonorable.

The digging is such that all of us ache mightily. Every morning, during Surgeon's Call, there is a line of soldiers, all complaining of being in agony and seeking a medical certuificate exempting them from duty. The surgeon has little to give them, including certificates.

Our rations are not so bad. There is very little in the way of delicacies sent by supporting families. I imagine they are having enough difficulty supporting their own selves. Here in camp in Pocotaligo, where Lee has his heaquarters, we are on the line of the Charleston and Savannah Railroad so supplies of some sort arrive everyday from one or both of those places. I am sure every train brings in a fresh supply of spades.

My new frock coat is not new any more. It looks more like a laborers coat and that' is exactly what we are, just a notch or two above slaves and there are a few of those working here, too. When we and they are bent over our spades, directing our heads and attentions downward to our similar tasks, no one can tell white from Negro unless they stand up.

I have not yet seen this new man, Lee and know nothing about him save that he is a Virginian. No one else here knows much about him either. General Drayton we know. He is a gentleman and a good South Carolinian.

On occasion, we here the sounds of battle in the distance and a few times, we fell in with our muskets prepared to be sent to wherever the Yamkees were threatening but nothing has come of it. The sounds are such that we can tell that the battle is just a small skirmish and is of little consequence.

The Yankee papers say that already there is music to commemmorate the Battle of Port Royal. They have wasted no time in composing their tunes of oppression. Damn them. We shall play our own tunes with our muskets.