Thursday, September 18, 2014

Brigadier-General Thomas Kilby Smith to Elizabeth Budd Smith, April 29, 1865

HEADQUARTERS DISTRICT OF SOUTH ALABAMA,
Fort Gaines, April 29, 1865.
My Dear Wife:

Your very interesting and affectionate letter of 23d March, apprising me of your safe arrival at home and of your adventures by the way, was received.

Truly, you passed through great peril and vicissitude, and are now prepared to somewhat appreciate my life upon the road for the past four years. We feel called upon to thank God whenever we graze a great danger, that is visible and tangible, forgetful that the same care is constantly over us, in the unseen and impalpable peril in which we always move. But it is well with us occasionally to look danger in the face, that we may form the proper estimate of our weakness and frailty, eliminated from God's care, while we learn that without danger there is no greatness, that in the hazardous conflicts where life is ventured, high qualities only are developed.

What canting nonsense do we occasionally hear in certain quarters to disparage mere personal courage, “mere personal courage!” We are reminded that the ignoble quality is held in common with the bulldog, and that in this essential he is our master; we are reminded that it is a low and vulgar attribute, that neither elevates nor enlightens, that the meanest creatures are often gifted with it, and the noblest natures void of it. But we may be sure that without it, there is neither truth nor manliness. The self-reliance that makes a man maintain his word, be faithful to his friendship, and honorable in his dealings, has no root in a heart that shakes with craven fear. The life of a coward is the voyage of a ship with a leak, eternal contrivance, never-ceasing emergency. All thoughts dashed with a perpetual fear of death, what room is there for one generous emotion, one great or high-hearted ambition. I congratulate you that in the presence of danger, you were not frightened, that you did not lose your presence of mind, but felt able to put forth your best powers for the emergency that might have been near.

There is very little in my life here now, that is of sufficient importance to entertain you in detail. It is five days since I have had news from the outside world, and I hardly know whether we have war or peace in the land. My health is pretty good and I am perfectly comfortable, so far as shelter, food and raiment can make me comfortable. I have abundance of fish, flesh, and fowl, and plenty of whiskey, brandy, wine and ale, though I am making very sparing use of any kind of stimulants. I have had some fine birds, snipe, peep, plover, and a splendid shore bird, the “sickle billed curlew,” as large as a barnyard fowl. Mother will remember father's often speaking of them. I miss my family, and continually regret that I had not kept you and Walter with me, for up to this time I could have made life here for you very agreeable. Here I find myself using the word “regret” again, when I well know, humanly speaking, it is better as it is. Yet, philosophize as I will, comes that increasing, unwearied desire, that is with us in joy or sadness, that journeys with us and lives with us mingling with every action, blending with every thought, and presenting to our minds a constant picture of ourselves, under some wished-for aspect, different from all we have ever known, when we are surrounded by other impulses and swayed by other passions. “Man never is but always to be blessed.”

The weather has been delightfully pleasant, an occasional storm and one or two sultry days, but I have not been called upon to dispense with winter garments and sleep comfortably under two blankets. The sea breeze is always fresh, and it is charming in the evening to ride upon the hard and perfectly level beach and see the breakers dash in surf and foam on the shore. The air then becomes perfectly pure from the ocean and is wonderfully exhilarating. The horses become so much excited as to be difficult of control, and the Captain, the best broken horse of the times, has frequently become with me wholly unmanageable. You would be amused to see him capriole and play with the waves, dashing close to the brink as they recede and advance, and rejoicing in the cool spray. But everything about me is constantly damp. My arms always rusty, my buttons dimmed and black, and the paper on which I write almost as wet as if it had passed through the water. I believe this climate would be favorable to persons with pulmonary complaints. I have been a good deal exposed, but never take cold, or if I do, it does not make itself apparent by sore throat, cough, sneezing, or anything of that kind. At the same time I must say that the atmosphere is undoubtedly malarial and no science or skill can guard against malaria.

Intelligence now comes that the rebel General Dick Taylor has asked terms of surrender, and that General Canby has this day gone to arrange, also that General Hurlbut has gone on a mission to Kirby Smith. So that this department is fast winding up the rebellion in this quarter.

SOURCE: Walter George Smith, Life and letters of Thomas Kilby Smith, p. 392-5

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