79th Regiment,
Near Antietam Creek,
Sept. 28th, 1862.
My dear Horace:
Here we are, still resting at the mouth of this muddy little
stream now famous and historical. Ten days have gone since the battle and yet
there are no signs of bustle and busy preparation aiming at the destruction of
our dirty foes on the other side of the river. I say, “Forward!” To think of
hesitating before such a pitiful crew as those we have so lately beaten! You
perceive our recent successes are making us forget Manassas. But McClellan is
cautious, and, without intending any disparagement, does not possess that
lightning rapidity which characterized the “old Napoleon.” Yet we of the Army
are jealous of McClellan's reputation and fear the possibility of losing him.
Not indeed because we believe him equal to the command of 600,000 men — we
believe him simply the best general we have got, and do not trust the judgment
of old Abe in the selection of a new one. Pope, Sigel, Fremont, and the whole
batch of our political Generals are objects of honest terror to every soldier
in the Union Army. Stevens was a better man than McClellan. His judgment was
unerring, his foresight marvellous, his prophecies sure of fulfilment. He had a
power to electrify troops, and lift them at the critical moment to a degree of
enthusiasm that was inspiration. He could be cautious and crafty, as well as
daring. He felt himself born to hold the reins of authority, and grasped them
so that the steady hand was felt by the commonest soldier of his command.
Soldiers all loved him, and recognized his strength as it were by instinct. He knew
how to deal a hard blow, and deal it with rapidity. He never underestimated a
difficulty, but his estimates were forestallments of history. What he possessed
in an eminent degree was Power — and Power composed of rude strength and
natural vigor. What he lacked was comeliness. This, culture could not give him.
He needed a grand sphere in which to move. Then he would have been grand.
Confined, one could detect what was gnarled and ungainly. The oak is the
monarch in the midst of the forest, not in the garden. Among flowers, neat
trimmed box shows to the best advantage. There was something about Stevens that
offended little souls, and there were many little souls who hated him. He had
such a galling way of expressing his detestation at what deserves contempt,
that many felt themselves offended thereby. He had many enemies and many
friends, but those who knew him best mourn his loss most deeply. The neglect
and injustice shown him in his life time broke his heart. He is dead now and at
peace.
To-day I received nine letters, the first I have seen in
many a day. Some of them are very old, but they afforded a rare treat for all
that. In one of them my mother writes she had received a letter from you, in
which you wrote that I had glory enough at twenty-four to last me for a life
time. Ah, my dear Horace, there was rare irony in that! I acknowledge it. I
have had “glory” enough to last me for a life time. I am satisfied with what
I've had of the article and am willing in future to dispense with any further
accessions. See what a valuable thing it is! A few days ago I enjoyed high
favor, I went into fresh battles, and the records show fresh praises from my
Commanding Officers. Christ, who commanded a Brigade of five Regiments in the
recent battles writes in his report: “While the officers of my command in
general conducted themselves well, my special thanks are due to Capt. Lusk for
the valuable services he rendered me.” Now for the rewards of service. I have
to-day the command of 14 men, six of them old soldiers that grumble, and eight
raw recruits who are learning the mysteries of the goose-step. Sic itur ad
astra. There's glory for you. I acknowledge I have had enough to satisfy me
for the rest of my life. I have not been persecuted in any way. The whole thing
is the result of natural causes which could not be avoided. Fortune simply
played me a sorry trick. Friends say, “Resign.” But I am not willing to be
petulant. If disgusted with “glory,” I believe in a better word, and that is —
duty. So I have turned to, tried to stop the grumbling of the old soldiers, and
get the recruits to do the goose-step creditably. I want the fighting to go on
though. I can't stand it, lying still. I want to fight the thing through, and
get out of a mortifying position. After sixteen months of service I trudge
around with a corporal's guard, while old friends who have been waiting
favorable opportunities at home until now, prancing by me in new regimentals at
the heads of Regiments, nod to me familiarly perhaps, or probably pass me
unnoticed. There are no vacancies at present in the Field of the 79th Regiment,
and yet any day there may be. I am the next eligible candidate at present in
the Regiment for promotion, and might get the next vacancy if friends at home were
only alive to the necessity of vouching for me in some way, to those who have
the power to dispense Commissions. Here I see miners, tailors, carpenters and
all sorts of petty tradesmen, who find no difficulty in getting friends to
mention their names, and because successful, boast much of their political
influence, and yet I, a gentleman with plenty of friends, cannot boast of
enough to secure me my just dues in the regular order of seniority. I do not
want to be querulous. I do want Uncle Phelps though, if he knows Gov. Morgan,
to remind him occasionally that he has a nephew whom Gov. Morgan might
remember, &c. Well, my dear Horace, I will say no more. Verhum sat
sapienti. I hope one of these days to get home with my duty done, and then
I can laugh at my present comical situation. Do write me a long letter. I have
heard nothing from you for some months, though this is my third letter. I
suppose either yours or mine have been lost. Love to Cousin Lou, Hattie, your
mother and the good people on the Hill.
Affec'y. but sadly,
Will.
79th Regt. 1st Brig.
1st Div. gth Army Corps, Washington.
(To be forwarded)
SOURCE: William Chittenden Lusk, Editor, War Letters
of William Thompson Lusk, p. 214-7
