Headquarters Second Brigade, Second Div.,
Fifteenth A. C.
Camp Near V-burg, Walnutt Hills in The Rear
And Before Fortifications, May 23, 1863.
My Dear Mother:
“The bugles sing truce, and the night cloud has lowered,”
and I have brief season to say that I am alive and unscathed, though since
Thursday last, this being Saturday at one, I have been in a slaughter pen. I
have this moment come from my hospital in the rear — my first duty after putting
my troops under some sort of protection from fire, such as the ravines could
give, was there. God help us — a fearful, fearful sight. I have seen agony and
death in all its phases, but never before have as many of my own, my own good,
true, leal hearts, draining off drop by drop their best blood in mortal agony,
been bared before me. One of my pet colonels is shot through, maimed for life,
if life is saved at all. Captains, lieutenants, non-commissioned officers, and
so many private soldiers. My official reports are not all in, but I must lose
out of my own command nearly three hundred, and these my bravest and best. God!
what a charge it was! Talk of Balaklava — it sinks into insignificance. And
they went on horseback, while we had to work in on foot, over tangled abattis,
up precipitous hills, and against ramparts bristling with cannon and rifle; the
pits behind filled with soldiers ready with the hand grenade, and under a
constantly enfilading fire. You have read of hurling masses of men. I wish I
could write — language utterly fails me. Not now at least. You will read I
suppose something of it. We have been in battle for days, but the charges, the
attempts to carry the place by assault, — then was the very pitch, the
culminating grand climax and fever drama of battle, only horses were wanting.
My men came on so gallantly; not one to falter. I turned back to see them swept
down in ranks. Their comrades rushed over the bodies of the dead. I planted two
stands of colors on the outer verge; these stand upon the crest . . . just
behind. Men could not scale a perpendicular wall of fifteen feet. Men could not
have gone up without guns in their hands and with no enemy in front. We did all
mortal man could do — but such slaughter! Our division lost six hundred and
eighty the first day; yesterday probably a thousand. We shall certainly lose
fifteen hundred, and of those our bravest and best. My men are so gallant. I
haven't a coward in my brigade. But if you could see their ghastly wounds, the
faces of the dead. I have been on many battlefields, none like this, no such
slaughter in so brief a space of time; not so many of my own to mourn. I ought
not to write you now; ought not to write to any one in my present frame of
mind, but I have an opportunity to send. I have just unbuckled my sword, and in
the unnatural calm succeeding a bloody, bloody battle, pencil to you that I am
well. Tomorrow, perchance, the jest and the wine cup, maybe the grave. I hope
not the hospital. Oh, that horrid, horrid, damnable hospital! Rather a thousand
deaths in the glorious enthusiasm of battle than an hour's torture on that
table.
We cannot take Vicksburg by assault upon the rear through
these fortifications. They are masterpieces of skill in military engineering.
We shall approach by parallels, sap and mine. Our other great victories before
reaching here you have heard of. If I can possibly get the leisure you shall
have a detailed account of my march, and engagements up to the time of forming
the first line of battle before the fortifications. God has spared my life. I
hope for some good purpose. I cannot understand it. I have passed through a
rain of bullets. Why is it? All around me have been cut down. So many, so much
more valuable lives sacrificed and mine spared. I am ripe; I could go now. Oh!
if I could only have got in the devils would have fled; they can't fight in
open field; it is only behind breastworks and intrenchments. God help Vicksburg
now, if our soldiers do get in, I shall be deaf and blind and one city will be
sacked. We wax hot; the battle is not to the strong. I am running away in
rhapsody. I am well, unhurt. I stand at the head of what is left of as brave a
brigade as America can boast. It is known as the “fighting brigade,” and well
has it sustained its reputation. I am proud; not quite exulting in victory,
though we have driven the enemy to his stronghold. We have desolated his towns
and villages, and of pleasant places have made a wilderness. He has fled before
us like chaff before the wind; this is enough for you all to know now. I am
well, exultant, my armor on, my face to the foe; even as I write bullets
whistle and shells hurtle about me. To-morrow, if it comes to me, or the next
day, I will write you in detail. I am writing very hurriedly now, in the midst
of much excitement, perhaps not lucidly. I am sitting among the dead and must
bury my dead, no shrift or shroud, and shallow grave. I only write to let you
know I am safe and well. There are brigadier-generals here, with bright, new
stars upon their shoulders, but without command, who are doubtless eagerly
seeking my place. Perhaps I shall be compelled to give way to some one of them;
if not, before I put my sword away something may be accomplished. So much of
myself. You are this night reading the papers and trembling for my fate, so I
write, and of myself, to stay your grief and apprehension. I am quite well. God
grant you all are well. Pray for me now. My spirit is proud and high; it goeth
before destruction; I cannot subdue. God bless you all.
Your affec. Son,
Tom.
SOURCE: Walter George Smith, Life and letters of
Thomas Kilby Smith, p. 295-7
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