Near Falmouth,
Nov. 26th, 1862.
My dear Mother:
I have selected the
most inviting of the paper Nellie sent me to write you to-day — such nice paper
I thought it would be to write a love-letter on, to some dainty little lady. I
have lighted a real good cigar, and fancy I might be delightfully sentimental,
but nearly five years absence from home has left me, alas! with no dainty
little lady acquaintances, time having changed them into interesting matrons.
So as my own mother is the most interesting matron of my acquaintance, I find
myself writing to her.
To-morrow will be
Thanksgiving Day. The manner in which it is supposed to be observed in camp you
will find interestingly pictured in last week's “Frank Leslie.” I suppose we
will dine in reality to-morrow on coffee and crackers and fried beefsteak.
Still these things satisfy the appetite, and are even capable of producing
dyspepsia, notwithstanding the popular notion that such an evil is confined to
the pampered denizens of cities. You must take Sam Elliott's descriptions of
camp-life cum grano salis, remembering what wonderful descriptive powers
he possesses. I do not doubt he pictures the horrors so vividly that the
hearers suffer far more from listening to his accounts, than the actual victims
do from experiencing the reality.
You will see Wm.
Elliott I suppose. Tell him then that I must have written authority from him to
collect the money for his lost horse. I wish to serve him, but need the writing
to enable me to act. My special friend, Lt.-Col. Morrison, played me another
amiable trick tonight, having appointed More Major of the Regiment, subject to
the approval of the Governor of New-York. This was in the first place
unnecessary, as More has not yet reported for duty. Then it was a thing he had
no special power to do, Col. Farnsworth (so he writes me) having already
recommended me to the Gov. for the position. But it was a cunning trick, as,
should my appointment occur in the face of his own published to the Regiment,
endless troubles could easily be made to result. Yet Morrison to my face is the
sweetest, most amiable among the artificers of brasses for andirons.
Capt. who so
flatteringly presented my prospects and deserts to Uncle Phelps, was at the
same time, Farnsworth writes me, the bitterest of my opponents, and using his
best efforts to ruin me in New-York and Albany. They are a sweet set among whom
I have fallen. They owe Elliott and myself an old grudge for the favor Stevens
showed us, which they now have an opportunity to repay. They have fixed
Elliott's case for him, and they are busy settling mine. However I have
recovered my amiability, and no longer feeling any hope of escape, am not a
little amused at the trouble they take regarding me. I tell them everything
candidly, so that they need be at no pains on my account, but they, not
supposing it possible for a man to be staightforward, exhaust any amount of
useless cunning to gain their ends. And the best of it all is, that while all
this working is going on, we are all such capital friends that it is really
delightful to see brethren live in such harmony together.
With regard to the
intended Army movements we are all utterly in the fog, the time passing and the
mud growing deeper, while batteries are being built by the enemy under our very
noses. What's the use of questioning? Time will show.
I shall think of
you feasting merrily to-morrow, mindful of the absent son and brother, and wish
you all joy.
I am wearing the
stockings you sent me and find them glorious. I am generally quite comfortable
now, from the contents of the box my friends prepared and sent me. You must
thank all those to whom I am indebted, in my name. I shall send this letter to
New-York direct, supposing it may reach you sooner so. Love to Lilly, Mary,
Hunt, Tom, and the Infant Department.
Affec'y.,
Will.
SOURCE: William Chittenden Lusk, Editor, War Letters
of William Thompson Lusk, p. 233-5
