Thursday, half past two
o'clock.
Letter-writing after Thanksgiving dinner! What an absurdity!
Yet here goes. I must rise on the wings of imagination, invoking also the
exhilaration of champagne, to give you a glance at our day. The morning rose
red and glorious. The camp was gay, and the men all jovial and willing. Last
evening I published an order reciting the Governor's Thanksgiving order, and
General Banks's order, and telling the Second Massachusetts that' Thanksgiving day
would be observed and kept by the officers and men of this regiment. There will
be religious services at ten o'clock, to be followed by the usual Thanksgiving
dinner. It is hoped that the officers and men of the regiment will unite in
reviving all the memories and associations which belong to the time-honored
home festival of New England, and in public thanksgiving and praise for all the
blessings which have followed them since they left the homes which this
festival recalls.'
Such was my programme. At ten o'clock the sun was bright,
and the morning like summer. We had a service. The reading of the Proclamation,
the singing of praise by a full, deep-toned choir, a jubilant, patriotic
awakening, exhortation from our chaplain, then a gay march by the band, which
followed the benediction, hastened the steps of the companies as they returned
to their quarters. I then immediately got into the saddle and rode off to see
the Adjutant and Captains Savage and Mudge, whom I sent yesterday to the
hospitable shelter of houses up at Darnestown. Found them all well and happy,
and recovering. Came back, visited the kitchens. Turkeys and plum-pudding
smoked and fragranced from them. Tables were built by some of the
companies. A New England turkey-shooting was going on. Companies B and C bore
off the crown of victory and the turkeys. I then went over to Colonel
Andrews. Then I came back to half an hour's business, and so to dinner. A
brisk, appetizing morning. But before I speak of our own dinner, let me give
you the statistics, the startling statistics of our regimental dinner. Hear it:
—
Turkeys.
|
Geese.
|
Chickens.
|
Plum-Puddings.
|
|
95 10½ lbs.
|
76 8½ lbs.
|
73
|
95
|
|
Weight
|
997½ lbs.
|
646 lbs.
|
164¾ lbs.
|
1179 lbs.
|
In other words, about half a ton of turkey, nearly as
much goose and chicken, and more than half a ton of plum-pudding. There's
richness, as Mr. Squeers would say. The statement shows at once, presumed
digestion, appetite, and courage. It is hopeful, — or will it prove the
rashness of despair? But then our own dinner, included in this general
statement, was as follows: —
A twenty-pound turkey, etc., and a vast plum-pudding, and no
end of apple-pies, etc. I ought to add, that many of the companies had their
nuts and raisins and apples. What luxury! We sat down, a small party, — the
Chaplain, the Doctor, the Chaplain of the Twelfth, and myself. Tony, or Antonio
Olivadoes, our ambitious and clever cook, was radiant over the fire. He had
spent most of the night in culinary constancy to his puddings and pies. He
invoked attention to his turkey. 'Well now, Major, considerin' the want
o' conveniences and fixins, I think it'll taste kind o' good'; and so it did. I
opened a bottle of champagne, a present, and gave my toast, “Luck and absent
friends.” So we drank it, and it cheered our somewhat narrow circle. The men
are now playing ball, and it will not be long before dress-parade and company
duty will replace our Thanksgiving sensations. Never mind, we've had a good
time, and a good time under a few difficulties, which, I think, only sweetened
our pleasure. Such is our Thanksgiving chronicle. I like to sit and fancy your
home dinner, and to preside, in imagination, over the boiled turkey at the foot
of the table. I hope our next Thanksgiving we may be all together; but if not,
at least we can hope to be all as thankful as now. Tony, the cook, just puts
his head into my tent, with conscious achievement in his eye: “Well, Major how
you like de dinner? I was up all night, — five minutes chopping wood, five
minutes cooking, — I did hope it would be nice.” I have just tickled his
vanity, and he goes.
I think I may have a letter from you to-night, but this goes
by the mail now. God bless you all at home, and good by.
SOURCE: Elizabeth Amelia Dwight, Editor, Life and
Letters of Wilder Dwight: Lieut.-Col. Second Mass. Inf. Vols., p. 153-5
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