Diary of William Howard Russell: July 6, 1861

I breakfasted with Mr. Bigelow this morning, to meet General McDowell, who commands the army of the Potomac, now so soon to move. He came in without an aide-de-camp, and on foot, from his quarters in the city. He is a man about forty years of age, square and powerfully built, but with rather a stout and clumsy figure and limbs, a good head covered with close-cut thick dark hair, small light-blue eyes, short nose, large cheeks and jaw, relieved by an iron-gray tuft somewhat of the French type, and affecting in dress the style of our gallant allies. His manner is frank, simple, and agreeable, and he did not hesitate to speak with great openness of the difficulties he had to contend with, and the imperfection of all the arrangements of the army.

As an officer of the regular army he has a thorough contempt for what he calls “political generals” — the men who use their influence with President and Congress to obtain military rank, which in time of war places them before the public in the front of events, and gives them an appearance of leading in the greatest of all political movements. Nor is General McDowell enamored of volunteers, for he served in Mexico, and has from what he saw there formed rather an unfavorable opinion of their capabilities in the field. He is inclined, however, to hold the Southern troops in too little respect; and he told me that the volunteers from the Slave States, who entered the field full of exultation and boastings, did not make good their words, and that they suffered especially from sickness and disease, in consequence of their disorderly habits and dissipation. His regard for old associations was evinced in many questions he asked me about Beauregard, with whom he had been a student at West Point, where the Confederate commander was noted for his studious and reserved habits, and his excellence in feats of strength and athletic exercises.

As proof of the low standard established in his army, he mentioned that some officers of considerable rank were more than suspected of selling rations, and of illicit connections with sutlers for purposes of pecuniary advantage. The General walked back with me as far as my lodgings, and I observed that not one of the many soldiers he passed in the streets saluted him, though his rank was indicated by his velvet collar and cuffs, and a gold star on the shoulder strap.

Having written some letters, I walked out with Captain Johnson and one of the attachés of the British Legation, to the lawn at the back of the White House, and listened to the excellent band of the United States Marines, playing on a kind of dais under the large flag recently hoisted by the President himself, in the garden. The occasion was marked by rather an ominous event. As the President pulled the halyards and the flag floated aloft, a branch of a tree caught the bunting and tore it, so that a number of the stars and stripes were detached and hung dangling beneath the rest of the flag, half detached from the staff.

I dined at Captain Johnson's lodgings next door to mine. Beneath us was a wine and spirit store, and crowds of officers and men flocked indiscriminately to make their purchases, with a good deal of tumult, which increased as the night came on. Later still, there was a great disturbance in the city. A body of New York Zouaves wrecked some houses of bad repute, in one of which a private of the regiment was murdered early this morning. The cavalry patrols were called out and charged the rioters, who were dispersed with difficulty after resistance in which men on both sides were wounded. There is no police, no provost guard. Soldiers wander about the streets, and beg in the fashion of the mendicant in “Gil Bias” for money to get whiskey. My colored gentleman has been led away by the Saturnalia and has taken to gambling in the camps, which are surrounded by hordes of rascally followers and sutlers' servants, and I find myself on the eve of a campaign, without servant, horse, equipment, or means of transport.

SOURCE: William Howard Russell, My Diary North and South, Vol. 1, p. 389-90

Diary of John Beauchamp Jones: September 23, 1863

We have nothing additional up to three p.m. to-day; bat there is an untraceable rumor on the street of some undefinable disaster somewhere, and perhaps it is the invention of the enemy. We still pause for the sequel of the battle; for Rosecrans has fallen back to a strong position; and at this distance we know not whether it be practicable to flank him or to cut his communications. It is said Gen. Breckinridge commanded only 1600 men, losing 1300 of them! Gen. Cooper and the Secretary of War have not been permitted to fill up his division; the first probably having no desire to replenish the dilapidated command of an aspiring “political general.”

A Mr. G. Preston Williams, of Eden, Chatham County, Ga., writes to the President, Sept. 7th, 1863, saying he has lost three sons in the war, freely given for independence. His fourth son is at home on furlough, but he shall not return unless the President gives up his obstinacy, and his favorites — Bragg, Pemberton, Lovell, etc. He charges the President with incapacity, if not wickedness, and says our independence would have been won ere this, but for the obstacles thrown by him in the way. He threatens revolution within a revolution, when Congress meets, unless the President reforms, which will cause him to lose his office, and perhaps his head. To which the President replies thus, in an indorsement on the envelope:

“Secretary Of War. — This is referred to you without any knowledge of the writer. If it be a genuine signature, you have revealed to you a deserter, and a man who harbors him, as well as incites to desertion, and opposition to the efforts of the government for public defense. Sept. 19th, 1863. — J. D.”

The indorsement was written to-day, since hearing of Bragg's victory.

SOURCE: John Beauchamp Jones, A Rebel War Clerk's Diary at the Confederate States Capital, Volume 2, p. 50-1

Captain William Thompson Lusk to Horace Barnard, September 28, 1862

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

Elizabeth Adams Lusk to Horace Barnard, September 10, 1862

Norwich, Sept. 10th, 1862.

Dear Horace:

I received your letter on Sunday morning. I am satisfied that you will manage the business intrusted to you as well as may be during these horrible times, and hope for a better future. I am sad, sick, despairing. Fifteen months ago I gave my son, my only one, to serve his country as he best might. How faithful he has been his General has testified. He has fought in five large battles and in ten or twelve small ones, not a day's respite, always at the wheel, full of hope, full of energy, sacrificing home, University honors in Berlin, all that made life lovely, to serve his country in her hour of need. Look at the result. Gen. Stevens, his good friend, the best, the bravest, the truest patriot, the courageous soldier, the great man, is sacrificed, while blundering little men who can never fill his place are for political reasons reaping honors. My son is still performing the duties of an Assistant Adjutant-General, trying, as he says, to keep the concern in motion, but with gloomy prospects when the command passes into new hands. His regiment, the 79th, is reduced from its proud array of 1000 men to a regiment of cripples — only 230 men are left, wholly, I fear hopelessly, demoralized. Oh, my God, has he not one friend who can lift a hand to help? Are his services of no value? Loyal as I have ever been, loyal as I am still, now that his kind appreciative General is gone, I would, if I could, withdraw him from the army, where the faithful servant is unnoticed, and the scheming politician receives the honors.

I have received two letters since the battles on the Rappahannock, in all of which he was engaged, through which, my God, “The God of the widow,” preserved him alive. He was “Acting A. A. General,” full of love and admiration for his General, and honored in return by his loving confidence. I now quote from his letter regarding his last battle: “Whenever anything desperate was to be performed, Kearny and Stevens were always selected, with this difference though, that Stevens was rarely credited with what he did, while Kearny's praises were very properly published. On Monday's fight, the General's son and I were walking together in the rear of the 79th Regiment, when Capt. Stevens was wounded. Finding that he was able to move off without assistance, I continued to follow the Regiment. Soon the General came up on foot. 'Have you seen your son?' I asked him. 'Yes,' said he, I know that he is wounded,' and then added, 'Capt. Lusk I wish you would pass to the left of the line, and push the men forward in that direction.' I did as I was ordered and on my return found the Gen. had been killed, and the troops badly slaughtered. The General you have read was shot while holding the flag of the 79th Regiment in his hand. There were five shot holding the same flag in about 20 minutes time. I found the sixth man standing almost alone at the edge of some woods, still clinging hopelessly to the colors. I drew him back to the crest of a hill a couple of hundred yards, and gathered a few of the 79th about it. Kearny then came riding up, and asked the name of the little band. On being told, he said, 'Scotchmen you must follow me.' They told him they had not a round of ammunition left. 'Well,' said he then, 'stand where you are, and it may be you will be able to assist my men with the bayonet.' The soldierly form moved on and it too, soon was dust. Stevens was a great man, and Kearny a courageous soldier.”

If these incidents would interest the public, and Mr. Godwin is inclined to publish them I have no objection; you may do as you like. I wish the country knew all that occurred on those battlefields. The truth is beginning to dawn. I have written a long letter. Will is still at the Headquarters of the 1st Division, Reno's Command. He shudders at the thought of returning to his Regiment. The General and all the best friends of the 79th felt that it had suffered so much from constant active service, was so terribly decimated, and so demoralized from the loss of officers, it should be recalled from the service. If my son has friends who can help, beg them to think of him now — his General killed, his intimate friends wounded, Major Matteson, his tried friend, dead of typhoid fever — his cup is more than full, and my heart is ready to burst with its grief for him.

Well, good-bye; give much love to all who care for us, and believe me,

Truly yours,

E. F. Lusk.

SOURCE: William Chittenden Lusk, Editor, War Letters of William Thompson Lusk, p. 193-5

Major Wilder Dwight: Thursday Morning, October 24, 1861

Camp Near Conrad's Ferry, October 24, 1861,

Thursday Morning.

The violation of every rule and maxim of military law, the exaction of the extreme penalty therefor. Such is the summing up of the massacre near Leesburg. Does it awaken you to the fact that politicians are not generals?

But how shall I tell you the story of these trying days? I wrote a hasty word as our line was forming on Monday night. We marched gayly and willingly off in the moonlight towards Poolesville, at nine o'clock in the evening.

We supposod we were to cross at Edward's Ferry, to aid in a victorious advance upon Leesburg. The men marched splendidly. At Poolesville we first met the faint shadows of the coming gloom, — a few stragglers of the Fifteenth Massachusetts. “Our companies are all cut to pieces. Our captain is shot; our lieutenant-colonel has lost his leg; we have all been cut up,” &c. On we went, more earnestly, and took the road to Conrad's Ferry. Then we began to meet the flying and scattered soldiers. One with only an overcoat, another with only a blanket, another with even less. They all told one story, of flight and death and despair. Still we pressed on. Our men were eager to reach the Ferry. We got there at about three o'clock in the morning. Eighteen miles in between six and seven hours. Then came the rain, and then came the order to stay where we were. The morning broke, — a wild, gusty, rainy morning, — upon our shelterless and weary regiment. The only house near where the regiment stopped was filled with the wounded. As soon as I could get away, I galloped down to the place of crossing. I saw them letting down a wounded man on a stretcher into the canal-boat. It was Captain John Putnam, a clever fellow, of the New England Guards. I turned and went down to the river, meeting on my way a dead one, and, as I passed, one of the soldiers who carried him turned up the face, and said, “Yes, this is one of the Tammany boys.” I went to the river, to a flat-boat full of wounded; found Dr. Hay ward, of the Twentieth. He said that Lieutenant Putnam, Mrs. Sam Putnam's son, was in the boat, badly wounded. I spoke to him; he was bright, but evidently sinking. I asked him if I could do anything for him, telling him who I was. He said, eagerly, “I should like to see Lieutenant Higginson.” I said I would bring him. Then I asked about Caspar Crowninshield, Abbott, Lowell, Holmes. Caspar, they thought, was wounded. Abbott, safe. Lowell and Holmes, both wounded. A little while after Caspar turned up. Ho was in the primitive costume of his overcoat and drawers, but full of cheery pluck, calm, clear, and a young hero in bearing and aspect. He gave a clear account of himself. I was compelled to go back to the regiment. I sent Lieutenant Higginson down, and did what I could for the men.

I had been in the saddle about twenty-four hours, and without sleep, and I got into the house among the wounded, and fell asleep on a camp-stool. Soon we were off again to put the regiment in camp under cover of a wood. Just as we got in camp, General Hamilton ordered five companies to go on picket along the river-bank The next morning at daylight, still raining, we were ordered to strike our tents, and move back out of cannon range from the river. We came to our present camp. General Hamilton then ordered me to take three companies to the river, and post pickets and keep a lookout. I started. At about three o'clock I returned to report to the General the position of things on the river, when I found General Banks and General McClellan in his quarters. I enjoyed hearing McClellan talk for half an hour. One good remark of his I recall. “Well,” said he, “so far we seem to have applied a new maxim of war, always to meet the enemy with an inferior force at the point of attack.” General Hamilton then ordered me to return, and cross to the island at night, and remove some stores which had been left there. I started off again. I got my preparations all made, when an order came, at about eight, P. M., “Take your companies at once to Edward's Ferry to cross. The enemy is in force there.” I drew in my pickets, and got ready to move promptly, when I was met, just as I started, by a mounted orderly, with a note addressed to the officer in command moving towards Edward's Ferry. “Return to your camp, and await further orders.” I turned back. The orderly had orders for General Hamilton, and did not know how to find him. It was dark, and I took my horse and rode with him to General Hamilton's quarters. Our regiment had started for Edward's Ferry before the orderly arrived. When they got there, they were ordered to return, and did so. This made the third night of fatiguing marching or guard duty, and to-day they are just done up. My three companies got their rest, however, at the river. It turns out that we were to support Stone, but McClellan suddenly determined to withdraw him, and so the countermanding order. To-night I go back to the river, and go over to the island to remove the government stores. That will give me a lively night again. I ought to be very tired, but excitement makes me feel the fatigue very little. . . . .

Providence seems to have watched over the Massachusetts Second, does it not? It has saved us from Bull Run, and now, from a worse blunder. For what has it reserved us? I hope and pray for the guidance of a good general, unhampered. I must go back to the Ferry. Good by. Love to all. God bless you.

SOURCE: Elizabeth Amelia Dwight, Editor, Life and Letters of Wilder Dwight: Lieut.-Col. Second Mass. Inf. Vols., p. 120-2

Brigadier-General John A. Rawlins to Mary Emeline Hurlburt Rawlins, March 28, 1864

March 28, 1864.

. . . To-day has been mild and cloudy, threatening rain. Everything is quiet along our lines, but in our camps is a burning desire for something to be done which will break the monotony prevailing in this vicinity, and the only fear I entertain is that the General's restlessness, and the spirit animating the troops will make him commence operations before he is sufficiently prepared. You know, I believe more in the infallibility of numbers than in the infallibility of generals, no matter how great their reputation.

Everything we hold dear as patriots and pride ourselves in as Americans, is staked more certainly upon the impending campaign than upon any which has preceded it. We are close upon the beginning of the fourth year of the war and notwithstanding all our successes in the West and South, our National Capital is still beleaguered by a formidable and unbroken army of the enemy. Unless this army of foes is defeated and broken, and our Capital relieved of its fierce frowns, we cannot hope that the recognition of the rebel government will be much longer postponed by European Governments, a recognition which while it would not necessarily precipitate us into a war with the powers making it, would tend to raise the hopes of our enemy. And worst of all, it would tend much towards the further prostration of our national finances. In this view of the case no steps should be taken that would in the least possible way promise anything less than certain success.

I believe a victory, great and decisive, is within our grasp — that we have men enough which may be spared from other points, to be brought here, to increase our numbers to so far beyond those of the enemy, do all he can, as to ensure victory. In other words, we may in this manner “organize victory,” and this is the only way to organize it.

General Grant returned this afternoon from Washington much disgusted with the news from General Banks, who was to have been at Alexandria on the Red River by the 17th instant, but instead of being there was on the 18th instant still at New Orleans, while the forces from Sherman had promptly reached Alexandria in pursuance of orders, but will have to wait there for weeks for the tardy and I might say immovable Banks. This delay of his may delay greatly our spring operations.

This proves to me that politicians cannot be soldiers and entrusted with great and responsible commands. It may, however, be providential, for it opens the General's eyes to the character of men he has to command, and fixes in a measure the limit to which he may trust them. Thank God there are generals whom he knows and can trust implicitly to carry out his orders, and that promptly. . . .

SOURCE: James H. Wilson, The Life of John A. Rawlins, p. 407-8

Colonel Thomas Kilby Smith to Eliza Walter Smith, January 7, 1863

Headquarters Second Brigade,

Second Division, Second Army Corps, Army Of Miss.,

On Board Steamer "Sunny South," Jan. 7,1863.

My Dear Mother:

We are on the broad bosom of the Father of Waters, the shimmering moonlight streaming bright on the glittering waves that dazzle in reflection. I am surrounded by gay officers, the jest and the laugh and the song go round, but I get a little apart and look out into the night, and alone, with no commune for my thoughts save sweet memories of my mother. Two natures, two distinct beings seem blended in mine. Blood, carnage, and exposure to the elements, the dull and dripping rain at night, sapping the creeping marrow in my bones, the swamp, the forest, the noontide heat, prolonged endurance of fatigue, and wakeful watching, intimate converse with gladiatorial soldiers, the harsh reproof and bitter curse (alas, too familiar to my own lips,) the forcing of fierce and maddened spirits to my own will, at times as fierce and maddened as theirs, the groan, the imprecation, oftener than the prayer of the dying; the contorted limbs and fixed stare of the dead, who have gone to their death at my bidding — all this, and more, more than I dare to think or to write, makes me feel as he must have felt who fell from heaven. When plunged in the abyss of reflection, I look for my pure, bright angel, with white and fleecy wings, hovering above me, her outstretched arms, her beckoning hand, her mild and lovely eyes entreating, the mother of my early days. I change, even in thought with her. I become a child again, like the little child I used to see in some of the editions of the '”Common Prayer,” with the leopard, and the lion, and the lamb, that I used to ponder over instead of listening to the service long years ago, when I sat in the quaint old church. The Bible pictures all come back to me, the clouds that I used to watch through the open windows, when the Sunday was pleasant, shaping themselves into queer and fanciful forms, when I used to wonder if God really sat among them, as upon His throne, and if the little cherubims and seraphims, all head and wings as they were lined above the pulpit, were really all about him crying aloud, and if he ever spanked them for so doing, and from these child dreams I passed to others; soft and pleasant fancies flit through my mind; music and the bright fireside, whispering voices, pure, sweet, holy love, the greeting and the parting, the hopes and fears. My spirit changes; I lean over the top-rail and gaze into the deep and flowing river, to wonder if the scene about me is real, if I may not go to you within the hour and lay my head upon your breast and cry myself to sleep, with your dear hands clasped in mine. You are curious to know where I am and what I have been doing, and I can only give you commonplace descriptions of fleets and the great broad river, martial music, startling the wild fowl from the well-nigh deserted shores, the debarkation of the army, the bivouac, the attack at night, the fiercer conflict that raged for two days, the storming of the “imminent and deadly breach,” the heroism, the slaughter of the soldiers, the withdrawal to the transports — all this you will hear about in any penny paper, told with all the variations far better than my pen can portray, and your heart will sicken that such things can be. You will hear that my own band acquitted themselves nobly, that nineteen of them bit the dust. Stancher followers no man ever had. They say I did my devoirs. I don't know. The blood gets into my head in the hour of battle and I rage, though men say I am cool. The Generals have given me the command of a brigade. . . .  If I live, I shall hope to gather laurels; you shall not be ashamed of your son. I have a splendid command, five fine regiments of infantry, two full batteries of artillery (one of which is the famous Taylor battery of Chicago, and the best of the service), and a squadron of horse, nearly five thousand men, and the very flower of the army. The treason of these Southerners is almost atoned for by their dauntless courage; but if the political generals don't succeed in taking my command from me, they shall meet a “foeman worthy of their steel” the next time we are in battle array. Remember I am writing to my mother, and if an indirect trail of egotism or vanity is suffered to creep into my plain letters, forgive me.

De Quincey, in his confessions of opium eating, says, speaking of his reveries, “Often I used to see after painting upon the blank darkness, a sort of rehearsal whilst waking, a crowd of ladies, and perhaps a festival and dances. And I heard it said, or I said it myself, these are English ladies, from the unhappy times of Charles I. These are the wives and daughters of those who met in peace, and sat at the same tables, and were allied by marriage or by blood; and yet, after a certain day in August, 1642, never smiled upon each other again, nor met but in the field of battle; and at Marston Moor, Newberry, or at Naseby cut asunder all ties of blood by the cruel sabre, and washed away in blood the memory of ancient friendships.”  One of my lady friends in Memphis gave me a copy, and in casually turning its leaves to-day, the quotations seemed strangely apt to the unhappy condition of our own bleeding land.

I have said if the political generals do not take my command away, — a batch of them have come down with McClernand, who, you will perceive by one of the accompanying copies, has divided the command with General Sherman; two or three of them are educated military men, and have great reputation as soldiers; an effort was made to place one of them over my command; it may yet be successful, though they tell me my popularity with officers and men is very great, especially since the last battle; that some of them declare they won't fight under another leader, especially under an importation. The advent of McClernand is deprecated. What the result may be I do not know. General Sherman is pretty firm about the matter, now, and I do not think will go behind his order. The Administration is treating me badly, but “Time at last sets all things even, and if we do but watch the hour,” etc. Meanwhile, in my little authority, you must imagine me as I really am, surrounded by very considerable state. My staff consists of an adjutant, two aide-de-camps, four clerks, six mounted orderlies, and as many of a detachment of cavalry as I may choose to detail for personal escort; this, with my body servants, makes up a very considerable menage, and as I retain my own old regiment as a body guard, I move with very considerable personal force. My colors float very proudly. You know I was always given to the taking on of airs, and thereby exciting envy, malice, hatred, and all uncharitableness, which with evil speaking, lying, and slandering, are always rife in the army. Therefore, there will be many attempts at assassination (figuratively speaking, I mean), and these political pets will be after me. Whatever I've got has been literally dug and hewed out with the point and edge of the sabre, and the devil of it now is that I have to fight front and rear. I had a bitter enemy in . . .  who is now hors de combat, having been badly shot in the late engagement. I think he’ll die; he won't sit on horseback for a year anyhow. I had disposed of him pretty effectually before he went under.

I know of none other now of any consequence, but the higher one gets up the more he makes of them. It's damned hard they won't back me at Washington.

I received a day or two since a very beautiful letter from Mrs. Sherman, in which she spoke of “having had the pleasure of seeing my very elegant and charming wife and mother.”

I enclose General Stuart's official report, which you may show to as many friends as you please, though it should not be published. Also the order assigning me to command. It is not difficult for some people to get the rank of brigadier, but the same find it devilish hard to get the command to follow the rank, and are proud enough of two meagre regiments. Mine is a young army; I am immensely proud of it.

I won't write myself to ask for promotion. I don't want it unless it comes regularly and through my commanding general, but inasmuch as I have been clothed with the command, and that against the claims of rank; inasmuch as I must assume immense responsibility, expense, and exposure without commensurate reward, therefore, I think, I am right to urge through my friends for what is only my due.

SOURCE: Walter George Smith, Life and letters of Thomas Kilby Smith, p. 254-7