Major Robert Selden Garnett to Senator Robert M. T. Hunter, July 8, 1855

FT. MONROE, VA., July 8, 1855.

MY DEAR COUSIN: Your kind letter of the 25th Ult was misdirected to me at New York and did not overtake me at this place until a few days since. I am truly obliged to you for the frankness and liberality with which you have given me your views in relation to my proposed marriage. I do not understand you as fully approving the step under the circumstances, and fully appreciate—perhaps indeed even concur with you in your doubts as to its wisdom. I need hardly assure you that I had rather have had your approval of it than that of any relation I have. I owe so much of my professional services and advancement to your kind exertions that I have felt it to be a sort of duty I owed you to speak with you freely and fully on the subject. I should have only felt too happy if the step could have met with your unqualified approbation, yet my own judgment told me that it would be unreasonable to expect it. I sincerely hope, however, and believe, that as time rolls on I shall be able to show that I have not made after all so great a mistake as would appear to be the case at first. In comparing my own case with that of hundreds of other officers of the army, the advantages appear to me to be all on my side. There are 86 majors in the Army. Of this number about 8 are bachelors. The rest are married men; many with large families and some even grand-fathers. In most of these cases, these officers married while in the subordinate grades of the Army, with small pay and when they and their families were consequently subjected to many inconveniences from which my rank will now entirely exempt me. Yet many of these people have lived very happily, have educated and established their children well as they could, and express themselves content with their present and past life. Many of these officers too—indeed the most distinguished in our service—acquired their professional reputations as married men, and that too when they married as subalterns such for instance as Taylor, Worth, Lee, Smith, Mansfield, Huger &c &c. Marriage does not appear to have affected in the slightest degree their activity or efficiency. This was a point upon which I reflected much before taking this step and upon which I have but few apprehensions.

My rank in the army has freed me from many of the onerous and confining details of company, and subaltern duties. My movements are not now so much controlled by the movements of a particular line of men. I am much less subjected to that constant change of station so inimical to the comforts of married life in the army. I shall as a general thing henceforth, be in command when I go to my post, and will thus have the power and means of securing to myself many comforts &c. of which, as a Capt[ain] or Subaltern, I would have been necessarily deprived. I cannot believe that my professional prospects or standing will be injuriously effected by this step. Indeed I think that they may be materially improved, for what I most desire now is to have two or three years of quietness at some remote post where I may devote myself without interruption to professional reading and study, and I truly believe that I could do so much more successfully as a married man than as a single one. My own doubts and anxieties, however, lie in quite another direction. Life in the army is more precarious than in any other walk or pursuit of life; and an officer ought not perhaps to calculate upon living the usual term of years and then dying of old age. The obligation then to provide for his family for the future in case of his death is more urgent and imperative upon a married officer than upon other men; and as Miss Nelson is poor, I feel the full weight of this obligation in my case. Had I only to guard against disease I might perhaps safely calculate upon living long enough to do, as hundreds of other officers have done with fewer advantages than I have―viz, to lay up a respectable competency for my family in case of my death. This I confess is a point upon which I feel the greatest anxiety. During my life unless I should be ejected from the army, and this is improbable, I shall have no fears as to my ability to secure to her all the comforts she can reasonably desire; but it is a very painful reflection to me to think that I may be killed off and leave her in straightened circumstances—with nothing but my name. For this reason only, it has always, been my desire, if married at all, to marry a lady with some means of her own. If I felt certain that I should live 10 or 15 years longer, I should feel no anxiety on this subject, for with the increased pay and rank which I cannot help from acquiring in the meantime I feel confident that I could secure her against such a misfortune. A great many of our officers who have married with small pay and in the lower grades have managed to put away money and to live comfortable—some have become independent and even rich; and it seems to me that there must be something radically wrong about me, if I cannot, with my rank and advantages, now do the same.

SOURCE: Charles Henry Ambler, Editor, Annual Report of the American Historical Association for the Year 1916, in Two Volumes, Vol. II, Correspondence of Robert M. T. Hunter (1826-1876), p. 166-8

Diary of John Beauchamp Jones: June 1, 1862

The ambulances are now bringing in the enemy's wounded as well as our own. It is the prompting of humanity. They seem truly grateful for this magnanimity, as they call it; a sentiment hitherto unknown to them.

The battle was renewed to-day, but not seriously. The failure of Gen. Huger to lead his division into action at the time appointed, is alleged as the only reason why the left wing of the enemy was not completely destroyed. But large masses of the enemy did cross the river, on bridges constructed for the purpose, and they had 50,000 men engaged against a much less number on our part; and their batteries played upon us from the north bank of the Chickahominy. The flying foe kept under shelter of this fire — and these guns could not be taken, as the pontoon bridge was defended by heavy artillery.

All day the wounded were borne past our boarding-house in Third Street, to the general hospital; and hundreds, with shattered arms and slight flesh wounds, came in on foot. I saw a boy, not more than fifteen years old (from South Carolina), with his hand in a sling. He showed me his wound. A ball had entered between the fingers of his left hand and lodged near the wrist, where the flesh was much swollen, He said, smiling, “I’m going to the hospital just to have the ball cut out, and will then return to the battle-field. I can fight with my right hand.”

The detectives are jubilant to-day. They say one of their number, –––, did heroic feats of arms on the field, killing a Yankee colonel, and a private who came to the rescue. At all events, they brought in a colonel's sword, pistols, and coat, as trophies. This story is to be in the papers to-morrow!

SOURCE: John Beauchamp Jones, A Rebel War Clerk's Diary at the Confederate States Capital, Volume 1, p. 131-2

Diary of John Beauchamp Jones: May 31, 1862

Everybody is upon the tip-toe of expectation. It has been announced (in the streets!) that a battle would take place this day, and hundreds of men, women, and children repaired to the hills to listen, and possibly to see, the firing. The great storm day before yesterday, it is supposed, has so swollen the Chickahominy as to prevent McClellan's left wing from retreating, and reinforcements from being sent to its relief. The time is well chosen by Gen. Johnston for the attack, but it was bad policy to let it be known where and when it would be made; for, no doubt, McClellan was advised of our plans an hour or so after they were promulged in the streets. Whose fault is this? Johnston could hardly be responsible for it, because he is very reticent, and appreciates the importance of keeping his purposes concealed from the enemy. Surely none of his subordinates divulged the secret, for none but generals of division knew it. It must have been found out and proclaimed by some one in the tobacco interest. It is true, Mr. Randolph told Mr. Jacques a great battle would begin at 8 A.M., to-day; but he would not propagate such news as that!

But the battle did not occur at the time specified. Gen. Huger's division was not at the allotted place of attack at the time fixed upon. His excuse is that there was a stream to cross, and understanding Gen. Longstreet was his senior in command (which is not the fact, however), he permitted his division to have precedence. All the divisions were on the ground in time but Huger's, but still no battle. Thousands of impatient spectators are venting their criticisms and anathemas, like an audience at a theater when some accident or disarrangement behind the scenes prevents the curtain from rising.

At last, toward noon, a few guns are heard; but it was not till 4 P.M. that Huger's division came upon the field. Nevertheless, the battle began in earnest before that hour; and we could hear distinctly not only the cannon but the musketry.

The hearts of our soldiers have been inspired with heroic resolution, and their arms nerved with invincible power to overcome the difficulties known to be in the way. Every one is aware that the camp of the enemy, on this side of the Chickahominy, is almost impregnably intrenched; and in front of the works trees have been cut down and the limbs sharpened, so as to interpose every obstacle to our advance.

Ever and anon after rapid firing of cannon, and a tremendous rattle of musketry, a pause would ensue; and we knew what this meant! A battery had been taken at the point of the bayonet, and we cheered accordingly. One after another, we could in this manner perceive the strongholds of the enemy fall into our hands.

Toward sundown it was apparent that the intrenched camp had been taken; and as the deep booming of cannon became more distant, and the rattle of musketry less distinct, we felt certain that the foe was flying, and that our men were pursuing them. But we knew that our men would take everything they were ordered to take. They care not for wounds and death. This is their only country. But the enemy have a country to run to, and they hope to live, even if defeated here. If they kill all our young men, the old men and women, and even our children, will seize their arms and continue the conflict.

SOURCE: John Beauchamp Jones, A Rebel War Clerk's Diary at the Confederate States Capital, Volume 1, p. 129-30

Diary of John Beauchamp Jones: May 31, 1862, Night

The ambulances are coming in with our wounded. They report that all the enemy's strong defenses were stormed, just as we could perceive from the sounds. They say that our brave men suffered much in advancing against the intrenchments, exposed to the fire of cannon and small arms, without being able to see the foe under their shelter; but when they leaped over the breastworks and turned the enemy's guns on them, our loss was more than compensated. Our men were shot in front; the enemy in the back — and terrible was the slaughter. We got their tents, all standing, and a sumptuous repast that had just been served up when the battle began. Gen. Casey's headquarters were taken, and his plate and smoking viands were found on his table. His papers fell into our hands. We got a large amount of stores and refreshments, so much needed by our poor braves! There were boxes of lemons, oranges, brandies and wines, and all the luxuries of distant lauds which enter the unrestricted ports of the United States. These things were narrated by the pale and bleeding soldiers, who smiled in triumph at their achievement. Not one in the long procession of ambulances uttered a complaint. Did they really suffer pain from their wounds? This question was asked by thousands, and the reply was, “not much.” Women and children and slaves are wending to the hospitals, with baskets of refreshments, lint, and bandages. Every house is offered for a hospital, and every matron and gentle daughter, a tender nurse.

But how fares it with the invader? Unable to recross the swollen Chickahominy, the Yankees were driven into an almost impenetrable swamp, where they must pass the night in water up to their knees. The wounded borne off by them will have no ministrations from their sisters and mothers, and their dead are abandoned on the field. If Huger had come up at the time appointed, the enemy would have been ruined.

SOURCE: John Beauchamp Jones, A Rebel War Clerk's Diary at the Confederate States Capital, Volume 1, p. 130-1

Diary of Sarah Morgan: May 10, 1862

Last night about one o'clock I was wakened and told that mother and Miriam had come. Oh, how glad I was! I tumbled out of bed half asleep and hugged Miriam in a dream, but waked up when I got to mother. They came up under a flag of truce, on a boat going up for provisions, which, by the way, was brought to by half a dozen Yankee ships in succession, with a threat to send a broadside into her if she did not stop — the wretches knew it must be under a flag of truce; no boats leave, except by special order to procure provisions.

What tales they had to tell! They were on the wharf, and saw the ships sail up the river, saw the broadside fired into Will Pinckney's regiment, the boats we fired, our gunboats, floating down to meet them all wrapped in flames; twenty thousand bales of cotton blazing in a single pile; molasses and sugar thrown over everything. They stood there opposite to where one of the ships landed, expecting a broadside, and resolute not to be shot in the back. I wish I had been there! And Captain Huger is not dead! They had hopes of his life for the first time day before yesterday. Miriam saw the ball that had just been extracted. He will probably be lame for the rest of his life. It will be a glory to him. For even the Federal officers say that never did they see so gallant a little ship, or one that fought so desperately as the McRae. Men and officers fought like devils. Think of all those great leviathans after the poor little “Widow Mickey”! One came tearing down on her sideways, while the Brooklyn fired on her from the other side, when brave Captain Warley put the nose of the Manassas under the first, and tilted her over so that the whole broadside passed over, instead of through, the McRae, who spit back its poor little fire at both. And after all was lost, she carried the wounded and the prisoners to New Orleans, and was scuttled by her own men in port. Glorious Captain Huger! And think of his sending word to Jimmy, suffering as he was, that “his little brass cannon was game to the last.” Oh! I hope he will recover. Brave, dare-devil Captain Warley is prisoner, and on the way to Fort Warren, that home of all brave, patriotic men. We'll have him out. And my poor little Jimmy! If I have not spoken of him, it is not because I have lost sight of him for a moment. The day the McRae went down, he arose from his bed, ill as he was, and determined to rejoin her, as his own boat, the Mississippi, was not ready. When he reached the St. Charles, he fell so very ill that he had to be carried back to Brother's. Only his desperate illness saved him from being among the killed or wounded on that gallant little ship. A few days after, he learned the fate of the ship, and was told that Captain Huger was dead. No wonder he should cry so bitterly! For Captain Huger was as tender and as kind to him as his own dear father. God bless him for it! The enemy's ships were sailing up; so he threw a few articles in a carpet-bag and started off for Richmond, Corinth, anywhere, to fight. Sick, weak, hardly able to stand, he went off, two weeks ago yesterday. We know not where, and we have never heard from him since. Whether he succumbed to that jaundice and the rest, and lies dead or dying on the road, God only knows. We can only wait and pray God to send dear little Jimmy home in safety.

And this is War! Heaven save me from like scenes and experiences again. I was wild with excitement last night when Miriam described how the soldiers, marching to the depot, waved their hats to the crowds of women and children, shouting, “God bless you, ladies! We will fight for you!” and they, waving their handkerchiefs, sobbed with one voice, “God bless you, Soldiers! Fight for us!”

We, too, have been having our fun. Early in the evening, four more gunboats sailed up here. We saw them from the corner, three squares off, crowded with men even up in the riggings. The American flag was flying from every peak. It was received in profound silence, by the hundreds gathered on the banks. I could hardly refrain from a groan. Much as I once loved that flag, I hate it now! I came back and made myself a Confederate flag about five inches long, slipped the staff in my belt, pinned the flag to my shoulder, and walked downtown, to the consternation of women and children, who expected something awful to follow. An old negro cried, “My young missus got her flag flyin', anyhow!” Nettie made one and hid it in the folds of her dress. But we were the only two who ventured. We went to the State House terrace, and took a good look at the Brooklyn which was crowded with people who took a good look at us, likewise. The picket stationed at the Garrison took alarm at half a dozen men on horseback and ran, saying that the citizens were attacking. The kind officers aboard the ship sent us word that if they were molested, the town would be shelled. Let them! Butchers! Does it take thirty thousand men and millions of dollars to murder defenseless women and children? O the great nation! Bravo!

SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's Diary, p. 25-8

Diary of Sarah Morgan: April 26, 1862

There is no word in the English language that can express the state in which we are, and have been, these last three days. Day before yesterday, news came early in the morning of three of the enemy's boats passing the Forts, and then the excitement began. It increased rapidly on hearing of the sinking of eight of our gunboats in the engagement, the capture of the Forts, and last night, of the burning of the wharves and cotton in the city while the Yankees were taking possession. To-day, the excitement has reached the point of delirium. I believe I am one of the most self-possessed in my small circle; and yet I feel such a craving for news of Miriam, and mother, and Jimmy, who are in the city, that I suppose I am as wild as the rest. It is nonsense to tell me I am cool, with all these patriotic and enthusiastic sentiments. Nothing can be positively ascertained, save that our gunboats are sunk, and theirs are coming up to the city. Everything else has been contradicted until we really do not know whether the city has been taken or not. We only know we had best be prepared for anything. So day before yesterday, Lilly and I sewed up our jewelry, which may be of use if we have to fly. I vow I will not move one step, unless carried away. Come what will, here I remain.

We went this morning to see the cotton burning — a sight never before witnessed, and probably never again to be seen. Wagons, drays, — everything that can be driven or rolled, — were loaded with the bales and taken a few squares back to burn on the commons. Negroes were running around, cutting them open, piling them up, and setting them afire. All were as busy as though their salvation depended on disappointing the Yankees. Later, Charlie sent for us to come to the river and see him fire a flatboat loaded with the precious material for which the Yankees are risking their bodies and souls. Up and down the levee, as far as we could see, negroes were rolling it down to the brink of the river where they would set them afire and push the bales in to float burning down the tide. Each sent up its wreath of smoke and looked like a tiny steamer puffing away. Only I doubt that from the source to the mouth of the river there are as many boats afloat on the Mississippi. The flatboat was piled with as many bales as it could hold without sinking. Most of them were cut open, while negroes staved in the heads of barrels of alcohol, whiskey, etc., and dashed bucketsful over the cotton. Others built up little chimneys of pine every few feet, lined with pine knots and loose cotton, to burn more quickly. There, piled the length of the whole levee, or burning in the river, lay the work of thousands of negroes for more than a year past. It had come from every side. Men stood by who owned the cotton that was burning or waiting to burn. They either helped, or looked on cheerfully. Charlie owned but sixteen bales — a matter of some fifteen hundred dollars; but he was the head man of the whole affair, and burned his own, as well as the property of others. A single barrel of whiskey that was thrown on the cotton, cost the man who gave it one hundred and twenty-five dollars. (It shows what a nation in earnest is capable of doing.) Only two men got on the flatboat with Charlie when it was ready. It was towed to the middle of the river, set afire in every place, and then they jumped into a little skiff fastened in front, and rowed to land. The cotton floated down the Mississippi one sheet of living flame, even in the sunlight. It would have been grand at night. But then we will have fun watching it this evening anyway; for they cannot get through to-day, though no time is to be lost. Hundreds of bales remained untouched. An incredible amount of property has been destroyed to-day; but no one begrudges it. Every grog-shop has been emptied, and gutters and pavements are floating with liquors of all kinds. So that if the Yankees are fond of strong drink, they will fare ill.

Yesterday, Mr. Hutchinson and a Dr. Moffat called to ask for me, with a message about Jimmy. I was absent, but they saw Lilly. Jimmy, they said, was safe. Though sick in bed, he had sprung up and had rushed to the wharf at the first tap of the alarm bell in New Orleans. But as nothing could be done, he would probably be with us to-day, bringing mother and Miriam. I have neither heard nor seen more. The McRae, they said, went to the bottom with the others. They did not know whether any one aboard had escaped. God be praised that Jimmy was not on her then! The new boat to which he was appointed is not yet finished. So he is saved! I am distressed about Captain Huger, and could not refrain from crying, he was so good to Jimmy. But I remembered Miss Cammack might think it rather tender and obtrusive, so I dried my eyes and began to hope he had escaped. Oh! how glad I should be to know he has suffered no harm. Mr. Hutchinson was on his way above, going to join others where the final battle is to be fought on the Mississippi. He had not even time to sit down; so I was doubly grateful to him for his kindness. I wish I could have thanked him for being so considerate of me in my distress now. In her agitation, Lilly gave him a letter I had been writing to George when I was called away; and begged him to address it and mail it at Vicksburg, or somewhere; for no mail will leave here for Norfolk for a long while to come. The odd part is, that he does not know George. But he said he would gladly take charge of it and remember the address, which Lilly told him was Richmond. Well! if the Yankees get it they will take it for an insane scrawl. I wanted to calm his anxiety about us, though I was so wildly excited that I could only say, “Don't mind us! We are safe. But fight, George! Fight for us!” The repetition was ludicrous. I meant so much, too! I only wanted him to understand he could best defend us there. Ah! Mr. Yankee! if you had but your brothers in this world, and their lives hanging by a thread, you too might write wild letters! And if you want to know what an excited girl can do, just call and let me show you the use of a small seven-shooter and a large carving-knife which vibrate between my belt and my pocket, always ready for emergencies.

SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's Diary, p. 16-20

Diary of Mary Boykin Chesnut: June 13, 1862

Decca's wedding. It took place last year. We were all lying on the bed or sofas taking it coolly as to undress. Mrs. Singleton had the floor. They were engaged before they went up to Charlottesville; Alexander was on Gregg's staff, and Gregg was not hard on him; Decca was the worst in love girl she ever saw. “Letters came while we were at the hospital, from Alex, urging her to let him marry her at once. In war times human events, life especially, are very uncertain.” For several days consecutively she cried without ceasing, and then she consented. The rooms at the hospital were all crowded. Decca and I slept together in the same room. It was arranged by letter that the marriage should take place; a luncheon at her grandfather Minor's, and then she was to depart with Alex for a few days at Richmond. That was to be their brief slice of honeymoon.

The day came. The wedding-breakfast was ready, so was the bride in all her bridal array, but no Alex, no bridegroom. Alas! such is the uncertainty of a soldier's life. The bride said nothing, but she wept like a water-nymph. At dinner she plucked up heart, and at my earnest request was about to join us. And then the cry, “The bridegroom cometh.”  He brought his best man and other friends. We had a jolly dinner. “Circumstances over which he had no control” had kept him away.

His father sat next to Decca and talked to her all the time as if she had been already married. It was a piece of absent-mindedness on his part, pure and simple, but it was very trying, and the girl had had much to stand that morning, you can well understand. Immediately after dinner the belated bridegroom proposed a walk; so they went for a brief stroll up the mountain. Decca, upon her return, said to me: “Send for Robert Barnwell. I mean to be married to-day.”

“Impossible. No spare room in the house. No getting away from here; the trains all gone. Don't you know this hospital place is crammed to the ceiling?” “Alex says I promised to marry him to-day. It is not his fault; he could not. come before.” I shook my head. “I don't care,” said the positive little thing, “I promised Alex to marry him to-day and I will. Send for the Rev. Robert Barnwell.” We found Robert after a world of trouble, and the bride, lovely in Swiss muslin, was married.

Then I proposed they should take another walk, and I went to one of my sister nurses and begged her to take me in for the night, as I wished to resign my room to the young couple. At daylight next day they took the train for Richmond.  Such is the small allowance of honeymoon permitted in war time.

Beauregard's telegram: he can not leave the army of the West. His health is bad. No doubt the sea breezes would restore him, but — he can not come now. Such a lovely name — Gustave Tautant Beauregard. But Jackson and Johnston and Smith and Jones will do — and Lee, how short and sweet.

“Every day,” says Mem, “they come here in shoals — men to say we can not hold Richmond, and we can not hold Charleston much longer. Wretches, beasts! Why do you come here? Why don't you stay there and fight? Don't you see that you own yourselves cowards by coming away in the very face of a battle? If you are not liars as to the danger, you are cowards to run away from it.'” Thus roars the practical Mem, growing more furious at each word. These Jeremiahs laugh. They think she means others, not the present company.

Tom Huger resigned his place in the United States Navy and came to us. The Iroquois was his ship in the old navy. They say, as he stood in the rigging, after he was shot in the leg, when his ship was leading the attack upon the Iroquois, his old crew in the Iroquois cheered him, and when his body was borne in, the Federals took off their caps in respect for his gallant conduct. When he was dying, Meta Huger said to him: “An officer wants to see you: he is one of the enemy.” “Let him come in; I have no enemies now.” But when he heard the man's name:

“No, no. I do not want to see a Southern man who is now in Lincoln's navy.” The officers of the United States Navy attended his funeral.

SOURCE: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 184-6

Diary of Mary Boykin Chesnut: April 6, 1861

The plot thickens, the air is red hot with rumors; the mystery is to find out where these utterly groundless tales originate. In spite of all, Tom Huger came for us and we went on the Planter to take a look at Morris Island and its present inhabitants — Mrs. Wigfall and the Cheves girls, Maxcy Gregg and Colonel Whiting, also John Rutledge, of the Navy, Dan Hamilton, and William Haskell. John Rutledge was a figurehead to be proud of. He did not speak to us. But he stood with a Scotch shawl draped about him, as handsome and stately a creature as ever Queen Elizabeth loved to look upon.

There came up such a wind we could not land. I was not too sorry, though it blew so hard (I am never seasick). Colonel Whiting explained everything about the forts, what they lacked, etc., in the most interesting way, and Maxcy Gregg supplemented his report by stating all the deficiencies and shortcomings by land.

Beauregard is a demigod here to most of the natives, but there are always seers who see and say. They give you to understand that Whiting has all the brains now in use for our defense. He does the work and Beauregard reaps the glory. Things seem to draw near a crisis. And one must think. Colonel Whiting is clever enough for anything, so we made up our minds to-day, Maxcy Gregg and I, as judges. Mr. Gregg told me that my husband was in a minority in the Convention; so much for cool sense when the atmosphere is phosphorescent. Mrs. Wigfall says we are mismatched. She should pair with my cool, quiet, self-poised Colonel. And her stormy petrel is but a male reflection of me.

SOURCE: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 31

Brigadier General George G. Meade to Margaretta Sergeant Meade, May 14, 1862

CAMP OPPOSITE FREDERICKSBURG, May 14, 1862.

Last Sunday the enemy, who have some force in our front on the other side of the river, advanced to our picket line, I suppose to see what we were doing. They were well received by a portion of General Patrick's brigade, stationed on the other side, and driven back, with the loss of one officer and twelve men. One of the generals in front of us is named Field, whom perhaps you may remember as being stationed at West Point. He was a large man and distinguished for sporting an immense shirt collar, a la Byron. He was married to quite a pretty little woman, whose sister, Miss Mason, was staying with them. This Miss Mason afterwards married Lieutenant Collins, of the Topogs. (your relative). Their mother, Mrs. Mason, is now at Fredericksburg, but her daughters are with their husbands, Field, a general in our front, and Collins, an Engineer, who has gone to Brazil. General Ricketts has joined, having been assigned to one of the brigades of the new division we are to have. He has a staff of Philadelphians — one of Julia Fisher's sons, John Williams, young Richards (son of Benj. W.) and I believe others. Colonel Lyles's¹ regiment is in his brigade, and I believe he has other Pennsylvania troops.

I hear the reaction in favor of McClellan since he has had some men killed is very great, and that even Greeley² has begun to praise him. Poor Mac, if he is in this strait, he is in a pretty bad way! Greeley's enmity he might stand, but his friendship will kill him. I am afraid Richmond will be taken before we get there.

I have not seen the death of Huger³ positively announced in the papers; all I have seen was that he was badly wounded. But he does not seem to have been made prisoner.

__________

¹ Peter Lyles, colonel 90th Regt., Pa. Vols.

² Horace Greeley, editor New York Tribune.

³ Thomas B. Huger, brother-in-law of General Meade, in the Confederate army.

SOURCE: George Meade, The Life and Letters of George Gordon Meade, Vol. 1, p. 266