December 2012

Camp Near Fredericksburg, Va.

Dec. 23d, 1862.

My dear Mother:

Time slips by without much Lo break the monotony of the hour, but still it slips by rapidly. We had a review to-day, Gen. Sumner being the reviewing officer. One of his staff, a Major Crosby, stopped to say to me that he understood I was a Norwich boy, and, a Norwich boy himself, he would be happy if I would call on him. Do you know who he is? I do not as a rule cultivate acquaintances much; it is so mortifying to be in a subordinate position. I cannot bear to be patronized, and my position subjects me to the annoyance. Surely, people have a right to argue, when the most common of tradesmen are found worthy of the highest and most responsible military posts without an hour’s preparation, this fellow, who boasts of being an educated gentleman, must be poor stuff indeed, if, after eighteen months service, he finds himself unable to command as good a position as he did a half year ago. McDonald says it is a long road without any turn to it, but I begin to feel my military ambition satisfied. I would be so glad if I could only return to my medical studies. I know when I left home I acted contrary to the advice of all my friends.[1] Until now, pride forbade my acknowledging myself in the wrong, but stung and humiliated, I make my confession now. Many a time I have seen old school friends from Russell’s (who in old times felt proud to claim me as an acquaintance) pass me, high in rank and proud of manner, and I have turned away my head. I could not bear the thought of their recognizing me less honored than themselves. I am not often unhappy, for I have already written that few officers of any rank in the Army Corps enjoy as many privileges as are accorded to me. To say the least I meet a cordial welcome everywhere, from the Headquarters of the Commanding General down. Still at times I cannot help feeling half sickened at the mortifying position in which I am placed. When in active service, in the presence of the enemy, I am never troubled with such thoughts, but in camp a man has too much time in which to think. If the troops go into winter quarters, I do not think I will be able to endure this state of things until Spring. I must return to my medical studies again. Why, the most humble country practitioner is more respectable than I, a despised soldier, found unworthy of honors which the commonest shoemaker wears with grace. I do not forget how anxious my friends have been to serve me, how earnestly they have labored and are laboring for me. But is not that mortifying too—to feel that, after all, you must owe all advancement not to your own merits, but to the influence of your friends? My dear mother, you must feel that in writing this I am only telling my griefs, as one may tell them to one’s mother, and, having told them, find relief.

I do so wish I might come home. I am weak as a child now. To-morrow I will be stronger, and will regret this that I have written, yet I shall send it for all that. I shall send it because merely to tell one’s troubles to a sympathizing friend, deprives them of their chief bitterness. I do not know if it be true, but I understand that the telegraphic despatch to Walter for my Commission was a piece of sharp practice that did not emanate from Gov. Morgan. That, however, is a matter that is past, and hardly, perhaps, to be regretted.

Give my best love to the dear friends around you, and believe me,

Very affec’y.,

Your son,

W. T. Lusk.

[1] He enlisted in the ranks, being unwilling to wait for a Commission.