Headquarters Fourth Brigade, Second Div.,
“MilliKEN's Bend,” Louisiana, January 3, 1863.
I seize a moment to write you a brief letter, for I know how
anxious you all must be about me. The papers, who know everything, and more
too, will have apprised you long before you receive this letter that we have
had a fight, that we have met the enemy and that they are not ours; and you
will imagine, of course, that I am captured, wounded and killed, but by the
grace of God I’ve come out of the ruins unscathed. I went under fire Saturday
evening, about six o'clock, 27th ult.; was in raging battle Sunday and Monday;
and Sunday, very early in the action, Gen. Morgan L. Smith was shot pretty
badly in the hip and had to go off the field. I think he’ll die. By General
Sherman's order, General Stuart assumed command of the division and I of the
brigade, but Stuart being unwell I virtually had command of the whole division
during the fight of Sunday. After the first part of the affair was over, Gen.
A. J. Smith, as ranking officer, took command. I had ten regiments and three
batteries of sixteen guns before Smith came. My men behaved splendidly,
especially in our own regiment, which, however, suffered a good deal, nineteen
killed and wounded; my best captain badly wounded. Our loss is pretty heavy,
but the enemy must have suffered terribly. I am now in command of the old
brigade, composed of the 54th Ohio, 55th Illinois, 57th Ohio, 83d Indiana, and
127th Illinois, with two fine batteries. The 83d Indiana is a noble regiment,
commanded by Colonel Spooner, of Lawrenceburgh; he knows your father well. I
led his regiment under their first fire myself and can testify to their
gallantry. I suppose the Administration will have too much to do to think of
the promotion of so insignificant and humble an individual as me, but it is
pretty hard to take the responsibility of commanding brigades without the rank.
Yet this is the second big fight in which I've been compelled to it, to say
nothing of minor skirmishes. My own little regiment is a brick; she'll follow
me to hell at the word go. Never falters, never complains. We lay in that
swamp, among the mud-turtles and alligators, a week, and short of rations, and
not the first man whimpered. I had a fellow shot through the hand, shattering
it and maiming him for life; the ball broke the stock of his rifle, and instead
of complaining about his hand, he went hunting about for another gun, cursing
the enemy for breaking his; however, all these incidents of battle are very
uninteresting to you and it is really wonderful how soon we forget them. There
is a party of officers sitting now at my right hand, laughing and talking and
playing cards, whose lives, twenty-four hours ago, were not worth a rush, who
have been in the imminent and deadly breach, who have lost comrades and
soldiers from their companies, and who this moment are entirely oblivious of
the fact.
The weather has been generally warm and pleasant for the
past ten or twelve days; is now warm enough, but it rains tremendously. I am
told, by those who know the climate, that it rains at this season of the year,
after it once sets in, for six weeks, then storms for six weeks, and then rains
again. I don't know how this may be, but God preserve us from having days of
such rain as has been pouring down this.
They all seem to be looking forward to Christmas, with the
usual fond anticipations of childhood, and with that they wish I could be with
them. My Christmas was far away, sailing on the Mississippi; my dinner, for
supplies were very short, a homely dish of codfish and potatoes minced, with a
relish of stewed beans. My New Year's Day was passed under the rifle-pits and
batteries of the enemy in one of the vast swamps of the Mississippi, beneath
huge cottonwood and sweet gum trees overgrown with the long peculiar moss of
the country that flaunts in the breeze like funeral weeds. On Saturday night,
while I was planting a battery, a huge owl — one of the species that make these
swamps their home — flapped his wings right over me, and roosting in the tree
above my head gave an unearthly screech and wound up with a laugh and prolonged
ha! ha! ha! so much like the utterance of a human being as almost to startle
me. I took it for an omen. Where will my next Christmas be, where shall I make
my next New Year's call? The last has been an eventful year to me; for the past
nine months each day has been filled with thrilling incidents. I should like a
little rest. I should like to lie down and be quiet. I should like to have some
one soothe my brow, and make me feel as if I were a little child again. That is
a beautiful idea in Scripture, where we are taught that all must become as
little children, before they can enter into the kingdom of heaven. It is almost
heaven to feel like a little child on earth. But now my business is to slay and
destroy, to exercise all my intellect in the destruction of human life and
property.
SOURCE: Walter George Smith, Life and letters of
Thomas Kilby Smith, p. 251-3
No comments:
Post a Comment