Camp Causten, Aug. 22d, 1861.
My dear Cousin
Lou:
What a pleasant
thing it is to live, and how I do enjoy it here on the banks of the Potomac. I
do not believe God ever made a more beautiful land than this. How I would fight
for it if I believed it threatened by an unscrupulous foe! Cousin Lou, I used
to think the “booty and beauty” allusion a sort of poor joke, too sorry even
for ridicule, but I now see it as the cunning work of the far-sighted master
who knew his people.
By-the-way do you
know we are now encamped on the Kosciusko farm, and near by the house still
stands where the patriot lived? I was walking in a cornfield today, and spied
the silk drooping from one of the ears, dyed a deep red. I plucked it, and send
it now to you in memory of Kosciusko, or if you like it better, in memory of
Cousin Will. Bother! I was getting sentimental, when a gust of wind tore up the
tent pins and blew out the candle. One has great experiences in camp. The other
night I was softly slumbering, dreaming of Dolly Ann or of cutting a
Secessionist's throat, or something agreeable at any rate, when I heard a sound
like that of mighty waters — I felt the waves washing over me — then followed a
chilly sensation. I awoke. The stars were above me and by my side lay a sea of
canvas — “in short,” as Mr. Micawber would say, my tent was blown down. Another
night my tent was pitched on the side of a steep hill. I wrapped myself in my
blanket, braced my feet against the tent-pole and fell asleep. In the night my
knees relaxed, and no longer prevented by the prop, I slid quietly downward,
awaking in the morning at a good night's march from the point at which I first
lay down to rest.
Much obliged for the
information you send me regarding that youngest son of the Earl of Montrose,
who came to America and graduated at Yale College. I always knew I was of noble
degree, and have felt my blood preeminently Scotch since the first time I heard
Aunt Caroline singing “Where, and oh where is my Highland Laddie gone?” I look
too, admiringly upon the queenly Julia, and I say, “Nay, nay, but there's no
churl's blood there.” In beatific vision the sisters five file past me; then
comes long lanky Sylvester Vegetable Graham, leanest of men, with a bag of
oatmeal, and I say to myself, “verily my blood is very Scotch.”
Give my best love to
that wee mite of a little lady, who is to have the delightful honor of taking
charge of my wooden leg, when I return from the wars a garrulous one-legged old
soldier. Imagine me, Cousin Lou, tripping it at my own wedding not on the light
fantastic, but on timber toes. Now let us consider the matter, Cousin Lou.
Shall the leg be a real timber one though, or shall a compromise be made with
Nature, and one of the flexible Anglesea pattern be chosen?
Alas, alas! All day
long we have heard guns firing in the distance. Some poor fellows must have
fallen, though we get no intelligence of movements made. We are left out of the
question. There is a great battle soon to take place, but I fear the 79th is
too much crippled to make a great show. We numbered once a thousand gallant
hearts — we number now 700 men capable for action; to such a pass we have been
reduced by death and what is worse, by desertion. Officers have deserted, and
the men have followed the base example. I have seen enough to convince me that
this is no war for foreigners. It is our war, and let us cheerfully bear the
burden ourselves. The South sends its best blood to fight for a phantom, but
we, in the North, send our scum and filth to fight for a reality. It is not
thus we are to gain the victory. I would have all our Northern youth not talk,
but act — not deem their lives so precious as their honor. Have you read the
names of those who resigned their commissions after the Battle of Manassas? The
names of over 250 cowards. Life is sweet to all, but have they no trust in God
that they fear the bitterness of death? Love to all friends in Enfield. I must
say good-night.
Au-Revoir,
Will.
I did not serve as a
private but in the capacity of Lieut, at Bull Run.
SOURCE: William Chittenden Lusk, Editor, War Letters
of William Thompson Lusk, p. 77-80
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