Cantonment Hicks, February 24, 1862.
Last Friday my two boxes arrived while I was on guard. I had
them carried to my tent and invited my friends for Saturday night. Saturday,
the 22d, our regiment went into Frederick with the brigade to parade through
the streets, so I had a good chance to make my preparations. I borrowed a white
tablecloth of a civilian, and the necessary dishes from our mess, silver,
etc. Everything came out of the boxes in perfect order; the pudding dish was
broken, but the pudding was all right. I found your note describing the
contents, stuck to a pie. Dinner was ordered to be ready at half-past five and
at that time punctually my guests made their appearance, hungry as bears after
their ten-mile tramp. The table had a truly grand and magnificent appearance.
In the centre of the white cloth reposed the turkey in all its glorious
proportions, filling the air with its fragrance, its flanks and approaches were
well guarded by those noble grouse, currant jelly, potatoes, etc. Plates were
set for seven: Captains Williams and Russell, Lieutenants Shaw, Horton, Perkins,
Oakey and myself. Candles suspended over our heads furnished the light in very
festive style. Captain Williams carved the turkey in a most scientific manner,
it was splendid; if it had not been for the grouse, there would have been very
little but bones taken out of the tent, but the grouse, they were perfection;
and now I come to them, I insist on knowing who sent them; the health of
the donor, he or she, was drunk in both Sherry and Madeira, and will be drunk
again when the name becomes known. Pudding, pies, coffee and cigars followed in
proper order, and after a prolonged sitting of four hours we got up from the
table convinced that in future years we should remember the 22d of February,
not as Washington's birthday, but as the anniversary of our dinner in
Cantonment Hicks. The whole affair was a perfect success, and I am truly
thankful to you for the pains and trouble you took to make it so. It will stand
out as a bright mark in our usual monotonous routine.
SOURCE: Charles Fessenden Morse, Letters Written
During the Civil War, 1861-1865, p. 35-6
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