"...Home, Sweet Home."

Wednesday, Christmas Eve, 1862, Picket Post, Rappahannock River

We are cold. We are wet. We are hungry. We are ill-clothed. We are ill. Even so, our muskets are clean and our cartridge boxes are full even if our bellies are not. Our morale is very high. It has been some two weeks or so since the big to-do on this side of the river near Fredericksburg. We still talk about as if it were yesterday. We find it helps us to forget that we are suffering.

Our suffering is but nothing compared to that of Burnsides' Yankees. We shot them up rather badly. Those who survived the slaughter pen intact spent the night on the battlefield with the dead and wounded for company. We heard gunfire all during the night as any movement on their side was answered with a shot from ours. The following day, they left the field and retreated across the river to the tune of our musketry.

Burnside has barely budged since that day. We suppose that his army is licking its wounds from the licking we gave it. We had entertained the thought that after such a defeat, they would go home and leave us alone. If this were to be, they would have left some many days ago. As they are still there, we expect that Lincoln will make good Burnsides' losses and he will try us again in the spring. If he does come at us again, we will have to shoot them to pieces again. At some time, they'll have to run out of Yankees.

And what of Burnside himself? Will Lincoln keep him on or send him packing? As far as we are concerned, he can stay around a little while longer. We do not care to break in a new one so soon after breaking in the old one.

If we are indeed going to go into winter quarters, we will need some shelter worthy of the name. The few tents in the regiment are reserved for the officers. There are some saws and axes about. Some of us have some experience with carpentry. It should be nothing to throw up a few cabins of logs in which we can spend the winter in luxury. At least when we die of starvation, we will be warm.

This is the second Christmas Eve of the war. We are still in the field, as are the Yankees. Neither side seems able to convince the other to yield. There will be another year of this war and there will be more effusion of blood.

The effusion is suspended, at least temporarily, for the season at hand. Some moments ago, we heard music from the Yankee lines. I think it was John Brown's Body. When they concluded, we heard Bonnie Blue Flag responding from our side. After a few more selections, a band of theirs struck up some less martial airs. They played Lorena and Just Before the Battle Mother. We had no band to compete with theirs but I did hear a few fiddles, a guitar and a harmonica from our side. We did have  a fifer, Boy Stephen in the company but he was discharged earlier this month. Our drummer, Boy Lewis, has transferred to Company D. 

There must be some Dutchmen on the other side as we heard something like Silent Night but the words were in their own tongue. We sung back at them with Greensleeves. There is no firing. The singing is spirited. Both sides are singing Home, Sweet Home. I won't write anymore.