December 29th, 1862.
As I was sitting by my cosy fire last evening—for we have
evenings here, long, dreary ones—thinking of past events and trying, with my
weak vision, to pierce the dark future, the thought occurred to me where is all
the trust and confidence with which I started out, and which cheered and
sustained me until our late defeat? Have we made no advance? Surely we have
made blunders, but will we not profit by them? We are learning the art of war—time
is required to change a citizen into a soldier. Our officers are being weighed
the light weights cast aside or relegated to their class—and the good work will
go on until one is found of size and weight to cope with Lee. 'Tis said,
"Great generals are born, not made;" that true greatness is also
modest, and does not vaunt itself; but our President is on the lookout for him
and will find him—never fear—one who has the genius to plan, the will to do,
the nerve to dare. As I pondered, hope returned and all my gloomy forebodings
fled away.
As I was about to retire for the night, our door was thrown
open and some letters were handed in. Among them was one for me. I recognized
the well-known hand—tore open the envelope, and, after perusing the welcome
contents over and over again, I went to bed and dreamed of home.
Inexpressibly dear, to the soldier, are letters from home.
It is interesting to stand by as the mail is being distributed, and, as the
names are called, witness the animated, joyful expression that illuminates the
countenance of the happy recipients, while those less favored retire to their
tents disappointed and sad.
Captain Goldsmith has returned, but will not stay long, as
he has sent in his resignation. The regiment is hard at work building winter
quarters. Our houses are all built after the same pattern-eight feet by ten in
size, five feet high-rafters one-fourth pitch, covered with tent cloth. The
different companies are separated by streets one rod wide. The men do not work
with very good heart, as they expect orders to leave as soon as finished. They
say this has been their experience in the past.
Contrary to expectations, the health of the men does not
improve with frosty nights. Diarrhea, colds and rheumatism prevail, with now
and then a case of fever.
SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of
a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 24-5