This morning we move from Farmington. In the afternoon we come to a halt near the Mobile and Ohio Railroad, and go into camp. It seems that the enemy has left in great confusion. The amount of property destroyed is immense. In Van Dorn's camp, we find some rebel papers; from one we extract the following letter, written by one of the chivalry's fair beauties, which, though a little diverging from our subject, may perhaps prove interesting to the reader.
YANKEEVILLE, April 22d, 1862.
MY DEAR SISTER: As it may be a very long time before we again have an opportunity of writing to you, Ma has made us all promise to write you a long letter; so if a corpulent budget comes to hand (provided it is not kidnapped), you need not be surprised. You see by the dating of my letter that we have moved family, house servants and all into Yankeeville. We are only about one hundred miles farther from you than when we lived at Huntsville. The portion of the United States that we live in is decidedly one of the most out-of-the-way places I have ever seen. Although the cars seem to run regularly, there is never a breath of news to gladden our hearts. I declare I have not seen a newspaper for two weeks, and expect if I were to see one now, I should regard it as a supernatural appearance, and be frightened to death. The Rev. Mr.—— is here, and preached for us, and was not so partial to the President of the C. S. A., but what he could leave him out of his prayer when he saw it was necessary. He prayed the Lord to look down upon us in mercy as we then stood before Him, political enemies. The church was half filled with officers, brass buttons and black feathers, strange to say, looking as calm and collected after their exploits as a pan of butter-milk. I wish you could see them as they pass the gate; sometimes on horseback, forty or fifty of them together, with their long, murderous swords encased in brass, and dangling with terrific clamor against the horses' sides, which produces an effect so frightening that our faces are fear blanched with terror, and we instinctively pull our sun-bonnets over our faces and stop our ears with our fingers, that we may shut out as much as possible the humiliating noise. Do you not shudder when you think that we are in the hands of these ruffians. We expect every night that the town will be either shelled or burnt, and when I wake up in the morning I am surprised to find myself safe, and that the shells have not yet been hurled this way; then I say to myself in the most thankful and cheery way, “Good morning, dear, I'm glad to see you're all here.” I miss dear little Huntsville so much, and often think of the times we used to have swinging together on the porch every night. Here the streets are so guarded that one dare not go beyond the dwelling houses, and as to singing in concert, the town is too full of Yankeedoodles ever to attempt it. Oh! how I long to see our dear soldiers again. Although I have no near kindred in the army, each one of them is as dear to me as a brother. All our girls are proud and brave, and never lose faith. They give no quarters to the Yankees, and as one of them remarked, “He hadn't seen a woman smile since he had been here." But how can we smile and be gay in their presence, when our hearts are with Charley, over the water. If you see any of my soldier friends up your way, please tell them to come and escort us back. We cannot return without protection. There is a large party of girls here who come with me, and who will join us. Our political canoe has run aground, and the no-secession waves run so high that it is dangerous for a party of females to brave them without some trusty arm to guard the vessel's bow. I wish I could see you all. We ought not to be separated. Kiss my brother and take good care of him, for men are so precious these war times.
Your loving sister
E——
SOURCE: Daniel Leib Ambrose, History of the Seventh Regiment Illinois Volunteer Infantry, p. 76-8
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