camp Near Seneca, November 26, 1861.
If you are to have another letter from a major commanding, I
suppose it had better be written to-night. Tomorrow, I feel sure, will bring
back Colonel Gordon, and I shall very gladly shift that burden to his
shoulders. There are some objections to holding the reins, very long, of power
that you are not to continue in the exercise of; and, though I must say the
Colonel has got a very easily managed regiment, and I have had no difficulty in
my path, yet the temptation to mould things to your own will is a strong one,
not to be indulged in temporary command. On the whole, this is probably better
for the regiment, — it is certainly safer for me. The month of November, though
we have spent it quietly in camp, has been the most trying one to the regiment
in its whole history. I am glad to be able to persuade myself that we stand
firmer than we did three weeks since. I hope we shall steadily improve. There
is a hopeless desperation chilling one when engaged in a contest with disease.
The unseen malaria has such an advantage in the fight. I had rather meet
anything for the regiment than the enemy who surprised us in our former
camping-ground, and who seems hardly yet to have given up beat. Two weeks ago I
had something as much like depression as I ever allow myself the indulgence of.
Now I feel quite glad again. This afternoon, for example, a blue, overcast
November sky, but a keen, bracing air, we bad a lively battalion drill, which
went quite well. The regiment turned out full companies, and, altogether,
looked its old self — There, I was just in the midst of this last exultant
sentence, when what should happen but a knock at my tent. Enter Captain . “Major,
two men of my company are very sick in quarters, and ought to be in hospital,
but there is not room.” “Well, sir, I can't make room.” Then the same
complaint from another captain. I send for the Doctor. He is abed, having been
sick for the past three days. I send for the Assistant Surgeon. He says, “Yes,
it is so; but the Brigade Surgeon promises a tent soon. The measles cases have
increased within two days.”
I require from him a report of every case in quarters, and a
statement of how many sick men ought to be in hospital. This is the nature of
the work to be done. To make bricks without straw. Our sick officers have not
yet returned to duty. The Adjutant is still away. I have to look after
everything myself. Still, I do insist that we are getting better. A week on a
high piece of ground three miles from the river would put us all on our
feet again. But as long as the morning sun rises only to quicken the fatal
exhalations from this pestilent Potomac, and the evening dews fall only to rise
again with fever in their breath, the contest is unequal and the victory
uncertain. Well, we can only hope for better things, and be thankful for what
we have. You will see, however, that the constant maintenance of military
efficiency under all these circumstances exacts constant effort. I rejoice in
continued health and increasing strength, and am thankful and happy. I think,
too, that our experience will be a sort of seasoning. One thing is certain, —
we cannot have the measles again!
I have just come in from my nightly round through the camp;
and, as taps have sounded, all is quiet. I sit alone in my tent a-thinkin' o'
nothin' at all, — and writing about it, too. Yes, I can tell you about our
domestic arrangements, — I mean our mess.
We have intruded upon an elderly lady who lives near our
lines. She has given us her parlor and the use of her cooking-stove. Tony is in
great feather. He rejoices in all kinds of culinary eccentricities.
The old lady, meantime, is repaid by our protection. She
confides to me her griefs for the losses of fence-rails and cabbages, of pigs
and poultry. This happened when a former regiment was here. Now she is safe.
Tony and she observe an armed neutrality over the common cooking-stove.
This evening she told us the history of Jack Cross, the husband of the lady who
owns the house where Colonel Andrews is sick. Jack is in prison — at Fort
Warren perhaps — as a traitor. The good lady described his capture. Said she: “The
officers came to me, and says they, ‘Do you know of Jack Cross's hanging or
shooting any one?’ “As for shooting,” says I, “I've known him from a boy, and a
more peaceable man I never knew; and as for hanging,” says I, “I never knew him
to hang anything except a big black dog.” Which was true, indeed, and I
recollect how the dog looked, and he most frightened me to death. But they took
him. He was an unfortunate man, but he was a good neighbor; and a good neighbor
can't be a bad man. But this business has got him into trouble; but I can't
seem to understand it no how. I'm for the Union and peace before I die.” I
think she would have talked till now, had we not left the table, her ideas
running in a beaten track of puzzlement and dread. She evidently does not
either understand or enjoy civil war.
I said our camp was still. I ought to admit that the night
is full of echoes with the barking cough that prevails, — an unwholesome sound.
Good night, and God bless you all at home.
SOURCE: Elizabeth Amelia Dwight, Editor, Life and
Letters of Wilder Dwight: Lieut.-Col. Second Mass. Inf. Vols., p. 157-9
