London, July 26, 1861
You say that you wanted to go off with Gordon’s regiment. I tell you I would give my cocked hat and knee-breeches to be with them at this moment. I don’t understand being sorry for them. I have no doubt that barring a few lives and legs and arms lost, they’ll all like it and be the better for it. And as for the lives and legs, if they estimate theirs as low as I do mine, the loss won’t amount to much. Pain is the only thing I should fear, but after all, one’s health is just as likely to be benefitted as to be hurt by a campaign, bullets and all, so that this does n’t count. My own task however lies elsewhere and I should be after all hardly the material for a soldier; so that I do my own work and resign the hope of becoming a hero.
My good old Nick Anderson is a Lieut. Colonel, I see. How I’d like to see him. I suppose Rooney Lee has some command also, so it’s as likely as not that he and Nick may come in contact. There never was any friendship between them. Indeed they always hated each other, so that the collision would not be so painful to either of them as it might be. There are so many of our friends in the army now and under fire, that I watch with curiosity the lists of casualties. It won’t be long before something happens, I suppose. . . .
