"...Grand High Noble Master Possum of the Mess."

Monday, December 26, 1864, Trenches

I would have liked to have made this entry yesterday, Christmas Day, but it was much too cold to write anything, even a signature on a furlough. It is slightly warmer today. The best thing about yesterday is that no one was shooting at each other. There has been a truce of sorts, strictly unofficial. Each side has independently gotten it into our respective heads that we will not kill each other. That is to say, yesterday. Today, we have heard a little exchange of musketry and some small amount of artillery but nothing in our immediate front. For this temporary respite in killing, we are grateful.

Castles is both a gentleman and a scoundrel. For some time, I had been loudly lamenting that my diary entries would have to cease as I was running out of ink. Yesterday morning, after breakfast, Castles presented me with a bottle, half-full of writing ink. On our march earlier this month to try and catch the Yankees who committed depredations against the railroad, he had picked up an abandoned Yankee knapsack in which was the bottle. Castles has let me fulminate about my lack of ink all this time, just waiting until yesterday to make a present of it to me.

Captain Stover authorized a whiskey ration to all in the company and God bless the man. As I do not imbibe, I gave my small share to Castles but God bless the Captain all the same. Hancock, Vincent and Terry, during one of the wood details, cut and brought to our cabin some pine boughs so as to make it look somewhat festive. Crenshaw made a rather artistic cross for the cabin from twigs and bark. We would put a candle near it but we have none to spare.

Some of us in the Dandy Eights mess exchanged small trifles as gifts. At least these things would be considered trifles at home. Here in the trenches, they have the status of luxuries. Terry received Hancock's old socks. He will undo them and use the threads to repair his own socks.Vincent and Terry each gave the other a half of a hard cracker and had a good laugh at it. I gave everyone a blank page from my diary so they could write a letter home.

Vincent said that he had nothing at hand but said that after this war was over, we could go to his home in Lancaster County and feast on as much bacon, apple pie, molasses and whiskey as we could hold. At once, we all gave him the rebel yell and elected Vincent Chairman of the mess. It dawned upon us at that point that we had never had a chairman before this. We anointed him with the title of Grand High Noble Master Possum of the Mess.

Truce or no truce, unofficial or otherwise, someone had to pull picket duty last night and it was most of the company. Once the Sun was down and the stars were out, someone started playing a fiddle. I do not know from which side the playing started but it was not long before he had come company. We could make out some more fiddles, some guitars and at least one banjo. Terry tried to join in with his jaws harp but no one could hear him beyond the confines of our hole.

Those who could sing and those who could not added to the melodious din. There was Jingle Bells, complete with someone hammering on a cowbell. It Came Upon a Midnight Clear, Deck the Halls, Hark the Herald Angels Sing, and We Three Kings were sung with as much volume as the cold would allow. O Come All Ye Faithful and Silent Night sounded so  sorrowful compared to the other songs. The last that was played was Home, Sweet Home. No one sang or could sing after that.


I Send You These Few Lines


The brigade historian, Caldwell, mentioned that there was a small whiskey ration issued to the brigade this winter.

All the songs mentioned were correct for the period.

This is the fourth Christmas of the war. It was never supposed to have lasted to even the first one. Will there be a fifth? It is too soon to tell but let us hope not.