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| Union advance at Vicksburg, from an 1885 print |
Following is an extract of a letter from James B. Gregg, a
soldier in the Fourth Iowa Cavalry, written from Bear Creek, Mississippi on
July 6, 1863. It was published in the Burlington Weekly Hawk-Eye on
July 25, 1863.
Our regiment has not been idle. Since we left
Helena on 29 April, we have not lain in camp more than ten days altogether. We
have scouted and explored all the country for 40 miles around Vicksburg. We
have been engaged in a great many skirmishes, some which would’ve been called
battles a year ago.
In all these, we have lost as many men as any
one of the regiments engaged in the investment line of Vicksburg, excepting a
few; we are satisfied, we will become generally known and respected by the
rebels we have met in battle, and the smoke houses and beehives we have visited.
The Fourth boys are fond of ham, honey, and milk.
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| Fighting at Big Black River, after an illustration in Harper's Weekly |
The Fourth of July was a great day with the
army at Vicksburg. Of course, we did not celebrate it with picnics, parades,
bonfires, and the roar of Cannon. We had no “nicks” to “pick.” We have paraded
until we are tired; we have seen houses, mills, and corn pens burned until
bonfires have lost their interest; and as for rockets and cannon thunder, we
have seen shells burst and heard cannon roar until they become as common as a
cock crowing. We made our celebration dinner of hard crackers, coffee, and meat.
But the news that Vicksburg had fallen, that 32,000 prisoners had surrendered
to our arms was enough to make us glad, and we rejoice as no other people
rejoiced on that glorious Fourth of July.
No sooner had the surrender of Vicksburg been
agreed on that our army was in motion toward Big Black River. We have been
camped in advance of the army of defense for several days at this place. We are
3 miles west of Big Black and 25 miles east of Vicksburg.
Troops have been pouring past here since 12 AM
of the Fourth of July like the floods of springtime. All the troops on this
road expect to cross the river this afternoon. We are going out to settle a
little grudge we have against Jo Johnson for bothering our videttes and scouts
in our rear while we were attending to Vicksburg. And if he does not get out of
the way, we will punish him severely for his impudence and impunity.
Considerable firing is kept up across Black River, but what the result is I
know not. It is not “all quiet” on the Big Black.
The prisoners we have taken are heartily tired
of the war and long for peace. A great many of the Missouri troops will return home
if permitted. I have talked with a great many. They all wish they could again
have the Old Union as it was. But this can never, never be. The great, free,
loyal North, after spending so much blood and treasure will never again consent
to be a hitching post for a domineering and insulting South to chain her slaves
to. We want no more Fugitive Slave Laws in the North—we want no more slaves in
the South.
The graves of more than 300,000 of our
brethren concentrate the sunny plains of the South, and we who have not yet
fallen are determined that the @dull cold ear of death” shall never tingle to
the clank of chains or the slave drag his manacled limbs over their graves. No!
Not on his soul made holy by their blood—above these graves no race of slaves
can live. A deep incision has already been made around the cancer that has long
been nourished in the heart of our government—let the keen point of the war knife
cut deeper and still deeper until that cancer’s deepest root is cut out. The
South was not satisfied with the Union as it was; now let them have it as it is
or will be when slavery and rebels are exterminated.
There are some good people in the South
deserving our sympathy, but the great mass of them deserve the retribution that
is coming upon them. When I look on the desolation of this land and at the same
time think of the suffering and anguish they have caused, I cannot help saying,
let the iron wheel of justice and vengeance roll on. And I want to see those
enemies of human liberties and human rights, the old F. F. V’s of the Old
Dominion, the would be Lords and Earls and petty tyrants of the south, yes, I
want to see those men put between the upper and nether millstones and ground to
powder. They have vilified the peace-loving people of the North and tried to
make themselves, and those under their influence believes that we were a race
of cowards, too contemptibly mean to fight for our government. In short, they
have given themselves over to believe “a lie that they might be damned” and now
let them be damned.
I am told that it is a common thing for
Copperheads to wear the butternut breastpins, emblems of the treason that
wrinkles darkly in their hearts. This is as it should be. Men ought always to
show their mark. The day will come when these men would like to hide behind a
butternut tree from the presence of an honest, loyal patriot. Yes, the day will
come when their children would be glad if they could say unto them, we never
knew you. Let them wear their badge. I would rather see my father’s or
brother’s bosom ornamented with death wounds, received on some one of our Country’s
battlefields, than with that emblem of treason which the Northern traitors
wear.
If they become too troublesome, I am in favor
of sending a few regiments of Negroes to hang every damned one of them. They
are too contemptibly mean to be hung by white soldiers. Northern traders—butternuts—copperhead!
When the translator of the Bible could not find a word strong enough to express
the full meaning of the Greek word anathema, which means a severe course, he
wrote down the original anathema. So when the historian of this war seeks for a
word to express the character of a Northern traitor, let him acknowledge the
deficiency of the language, dip his pen in gall and Lethe and write Butternut
and Copperhead!
But the cannon booms louder and faster in the
direction of Big Black. I must close. Soon the bugle will sound forward. The
weather is very hot and the dust steep and dry. There are some signs of rain.
Hoping that the cannon’s roar is a prelude to victory and that peace will soon
spread her white mantle over our whole land. I will close.
(Signed) James B. Gregg.
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