DECEMBER 1ST.—The people here begin to murmur at the idea that they are questioned about their loyalty, and often arrested, by Baltimore petty larceny detectives, who, if they were patriotic themselves (as they are all able-bodied men), would be in the army, fighting for the redemption of Maryland.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
December 1st.
L. came in a few evenings ago. He was at Conway last summer, and able to contradict an absurd story that was going the rounds,—that Charley and Joe having joined the army, Mother had given up housekeeping and gone into the hospitals, and all the daughters were children of the regiment!
Dr. Carmalt called too. He is very quiet, but good-looking, and ready to laugh at poor jokes, which is much in his favor. . . . I never told you what a nice dressing-gown the one you left for Abby was; and though she was immensely disgusted at your having given it, she wears it every night and looks comfortable and warm, which is what she did not look, with her flannel petticoat over her shoulders.
Ebbitt House, December 1, ‘61
We saw yesterday a nice dodge for enlarging your tent and making the back one more private. It is pitching the two tents three or four feet apart and spreading the fly over the intermediate vestibule. Chaplain Edward Walker of the 4th Connecticut, whom we went to see yesterday, had his two tents arranged so, and the effect was very pretty. In the front one he had the regimental library (a very nice one) and the back one was his own, and between them was the little vestibule floored like the others and boarded at the sides to keep out the cold, and in it he had his stove and washing apparatus, and from its ceiling hung a pretty wire basket filled with moss and wild flowers! a charming little bit of New England country life in the midst of civil war. He is a nice fellow, one of Dr. Leonard Bacon’s Congregational boys and just the one for an army Chaplain—so cheerful and strong, and honest and kind-hearted. . . . He went with us through the camp and to the hospital, where we left them some supplies, including a lot of hair pillows which we had made from Abby’s material.
G. lately drove Chaplain Wrage’s wife out to her husband’s camp, carrying socks, pillows, comforters, farina, etc. to the hospital. The camp was very German and dirty; no New England faculty shown in keeping it warm and clean, and the little German bowers looked dreary in the freezing weather. The Colonel, who addresses us as “my ladies” in a polite note, is under arrest for stealing; the Lieutenant-Colonel and Quartermaster are fools, and the men suffer in consequence.
Winchester, December 1, 1861.
I have received your last letter, and am sorry that you write so despondently of the future. It would be sad, indeed, for me to think that day would ever come when the dear wife and little ones whose happiness and comfort have been the chief aim of my life, should be dependent. You would not be more grieved, I am sure, than I would be at such a prospect, and its reality could not distress you more than it would me, if I should be alive to witness it. But, Love, it does not become either of us to harass ourselves with trouble which the future has in store for us. Mine at present is not blessed with as many comforts as I have seen in times past; but it is the case with many thousands who feel impelled with a sense of patriotism and duty to bear it in patience, and I shall try to follow their example. When I sent the message to your father I knew that what he would have to give you out of his estate would be abundant to furnish a comfortable support for you and your children, whatever misfortune may befall my life or my property, and I desired, if it had not been done, that it might be secured to you as your own. The widow and orphan of many a gallant man destined to fall before this struggle ends, though deserving, have not, I apprehend, such a prospect of a comfortable provision as you have. So, Love, the best consolation I can offer you is that there are others whose future is as dark as yours, and that yours is not so bad but that it might be worse. It grieves me, I am sure, as much as it does you, and we must both make up our minds, as the surest guaranty of happiness, to bear the present in patience and cheerfulness, and cherish a hope of another time, when we shall be together again, loving and happy as we used to be. If I survive this war, I have no fear of being unable to earn, by my own industry and energy, a comfortable support for my household. If fate determines that I must perish in the contest, then I trust that He whose supreme wisdom and goodness tempers the wind to the shorn, lamb will shield from want the widow and orphans left dependent upon His providence. This is the first day of winter, and as yet we have had no snow. It has for some time been quite cold, and the water often frozen over. I have not as yet suffered much from exposure, and think I shall stand the winter well. With the assistance of four or five blankets, and bed made of some hay and leaves laid on split timber raised off the ground, I sleep quite warm. I hear nothing said of winter quarters, and so far there seems to be no determination to provide them. I think it would be as well to go into winter quarters, for the weather and the roads will soon be such as to make active operations utterly impracticable.
Will Lewis and Annie left here Wednesday, I think, and, I suppose, have reached home before this time. I sent by her my likeness and some candy for the children. When he returns send me your likeness—that which was taken before we were married. I suppose you know where it is put away, for I don’t remember.
And now, Love, as I have written you quite a long letter compared with what I generally write, I will bid you goodbye till my next. You have my heartfelt sympathy in your approaching illness, and my sincere hope of your speedy and safe recovery. Kiss dear little Matthew and Galla for me, and tell them to be good boys. And now, dearest, again good-bye.
December 1st, 1861.—Father was reading what I had written about the Battle of Manassas and he said, “My baby has forgotten to write of school plans. They should be recorded by all means. In years to come you will read of it with great interest and it should have come before the account of the battle.” As he thinks it is not too late to tell of it I will write it here, though I do not like to think of it. I was so opposed to it at first and so disappointed when I had to give it up. In June, last, Grandpa wrote to Mother, urging her to send me to Raleigh to school. Mother was educated in that city and many of her old friends still live there. I would probably have their children as classmates. Grandpa, himself, would take me to Raleigh and see to all details necessary. His plan was for me to go on to Enfield with cousin Johnnie, who was then at home on a furlough and would see me safely in his hands. I could visit Grandma and himself until school opened. He said Raleigh was so far in the interior that there would be no danger of the enemy reaching it and he could think of no safer place in these days of war. He went on to say he thought the war would be over in sixty days; a great many people think so. Father was opposed to this but Mother thought well of it and though I hated the thought of leaving them, Mother told such entrancing tales of school life in Raleigh, that I soon became reconciled. Then, too, I dearly love to please Grandpa. Mother graduated with first honors and her father was so delighted that he gave her that lovely set of jet and gold, which I have always admired. I thought to myself, I, too, can study hard and perhaps I can get first honors and Father and Mother may be proud of their “ugly duckling” yet. Though the blockade is much more effective than we had any idea it would or could be, it was still an easy matter to fit out a school girl.
In the fall of 1860 uncle Arvah had bought an unusually large stock of goods and when, in the following January, Florida seceded, he wired his commission merchants in New York, to buy such goods as he was in the habit of supplying himself with, to the value of the cotton in his name, which they held in their possession. When these goods arrived, and they were shipped immediately, the bills of lading showed one hundred and forty-two thousand dollars worth of merchandise. So Mother had no difficulty in finding pretty materials; she and Lulu made my dresses and Mrs. Manning made my underwear. They were so beautifully made that I told sister Mag it was almost like her bridal trousseau. My traveling dress was brown, a soft, rough-surfaced material of wool, with small flecks of gold color woven in. There is a long cape, lined with satin of the same shade as the dress, quilted in small diamonds. My hat is of beaver felt, the color of the dress, three fluffy little ostrich tips are fastened in with a gold arrow. The cape, too, is fastened with three gold clasps. Such a pretty dress. But I will not wear it to North Carolina, for as soon as I had made up my mind to go things began to happen. The Battle of Manassas did not seem to alarm them but when the enemy attacked the coast of North Carolina, Father and Mother were quite positive that I must stay at home. So, war interferes with everything, even with education. It may be all for the best, I am sure it is, since Cousin Richard was killed. I believe what made Father and Mother change their minds is the discovery that the enemy are sending spies through the country to cut off telegraphic communication, when they get ready to attack. It would be dreadful to be cut off from your own home folks.
