Camp Near Seneca, Sunday Evening,
November 3, 1861.
If you had waked night before last in our camp, you would
have thought yourself in a storm at sea, with a very heavy northeaster blowing.
By the rattle, and creak, and strain, and whistle of the canvas and gale, you
would have believed that the good ship was scudding before the blast. If you
had shivered outside to attempt to secure your fluttering tent, you might, by a
slight effort of the imagination, have thought yourself overboard. When the
morning broke, after a sleepless and dreamy night, expectant of disaster, you
would have seen, here and there, a tent prostrate, and the wind and rain, for
you could see them both, wildly making merry over the storm-driven camp.
As the Colonel stepped out of his tent at reveillé, a big branch from an overhanging tree came
crashing down upon it, and broke the pole, and drove into the tent he had just
stepped from. “There's luck,” said I, putting out my own head at the instant.
We went out, and found half a dozen of the limping officers' tents flat upon
the ground in shapeless masses. Captain Cary said, with an attempt at mirth, “I
woke up about three o'clock with a confused idea that something was wrong, and
found my face covered with wet canvas, and my tent-pole across my breast. I
crawled out into the rain, and ran for shelter.' By the chill and exposure of
the night, I found myself a little under the weather, and I found the weather a
good deal over me. I was indisposed for breakfast, and the Doctor said,
with a meaning chuckle, “Sea-sick, I guess.” I got my tent secured with ropes
and strong pins, and, after considering the best way to be least uncomfortable,
determined to go to bed and “feel
better by and by.” What a day it was! The storm howled and
roared, and seemed to tear the tent away from its moorings. I had every
alternation of fear and hope, but, to my surprise, weathered the gale. The
Sergeant-Major, who is an old soldier and a professional croaker, and whose
rueful phiz always appears shining with grim pleasure amid disaster, who says,
with a military salute, “Can't get nothing done, sir, not as it ought to be,
sir,” — the Sergeant-Major appeared at my
tent with his gloom all on. “Tent is blown down, sir; pins don't seem to do no
good, sir; my things is all wet, sir. Never see no storm, sir, equal to this in
Mexico, sir.” “Well, Sergeant, it 'll be pleasanter to-morrow,” is all the
satisfaction he gets. The day blew itself away, and, as we had hoped, the sun
and wind went down together. This morning a clear sky and bright sunshine
brought their gladness with them, and our Sunday morning inspection was a proof
that “each tomorrow finds us better than to-day.” The men came out bright and
shining and clean, except an occasional unfottunato whose clothes were drying. “Got
wet yesterday, sir,” was a valid excuse, though not a frequent one. The day was
a proof, however, that winter-quarters in this latitude will have to be our
resource before many weeks. Tell Mr. that I put my feet in a pair of his
stockings, and thought of him with the warmest affection. Sich is life, and,
more particularly, camp life. To-day we receive the news of Scott's retirement,
which has been rumored of late. I did not think that the day would come when
the country would welcome his loss. But I think every one is relieved by his
retirement. Now McClellan assumes an undivided responsibility, and if he has
courage to defy the politicians, he may yet win the laurel which is growing for
the successful general of this righteous but blunder-blasted war. What a fame
is in store for that coming man. Talk of hero-worship. The past cannot furnish
a parallel for the idolatry which will bow down before the man who restores the
prestige and rekindles the associations of our dear old flag. You ask in your
last letter if my heart does not sink. Sink? It swims like a duck when I think
of the future which some of our eyes shall see; and will not they swim, too,
with intense delight, when the sight dawns upon them? For myself, even now, I
cannot look upon the flag which we brought away from Boston without a glow and
heart-bump, which I take to be only faint symptoms of the emotion that is to
come. I augur well from McClellan's new power, and I feel sure that things will
go better for it. One will, one plan, one execution. As to the immediate
results, I have no opinion. Upon this line of operations I do not look for
anything decisive this winter. Yet it is not impossible that the season may
favor us sufficiently to allow activity here this month.
SOURCE: Elizabeth Amelia Dwight, Editor, Life and
Letters of Wilder Dwight: Lieut.-Col. Second Mass. Inf. Vols., p. 135-7
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