George H. Gordon, From Brook Farm to Cedar Mountain

In the afternoon of the thirtieth of August our regiment, at the end of its day's march, turned from the road-side into a field within the town of Darnstown. The single farm-house in view, with the grounds adjacent, called Pleasant Hill, comprised all we could discover of the village; for the clouds hung densely around us, and the earth and sky were moist with rain. We were cold, hungry, and tired. In my official capacity I ate a supper prepared for another: doubtless my rank saved me from a blessingafter the meal. That we were to move forward on the morrow I believed. I did not know where; but somewhere, in some position, to take our part in a general attack upon the enemy. The morning came and went, and we moved not. A week passed; then a month; and but few days were left of another, and still my tent covered the same spot on which it was pitched upon the first day of our arrival. For nearly two months, upon the hills, in the valleys, and along the highways of Darnstown were clustered the camps of our division, with their camp-fires at night dotting the ground with flame. For almost two months we heard at evening music from various regimental bands, as it fell faintly from the distance, or swelled in harmony around, until the drum and fife, or the bugle-call, breaking forth into the tattoo, announced the hour for sleep. From day to day, and from night to night, sound and sight repeated itself, until it was not easy, in the strife of the spirit with the tedious details of the hour, to hold in view the grandeur of the achievement. Even our sentinels, watching the Potomac, six miles away from our encampment, softened their hostile glances, and swimming across the river, exchanged friendly conferences and hearty handshakes with their Rebel neighbors. That the round of duties became tedious must be admitted: provision returns for pork, beans, flour, rice, tea, coffee, etc., were presented