Adams Family Civil War letters; US Minister to the UK and his sons.

Mount Felix, Walton on Thames¹
December 25, 1862

Public matters remain yet in a profound state of repose, and probably will continue so for another month. The publication made by the Secretary of State of large portions of my Despatches for the past year has rather stirred a hornet’s nest in the press, but I fancy it will prove only a nine days’ wonder. I have said merely what everybody knows. The great body of the aristocracy and the wealthy commercial classes are anxious to see the United States go to pieces. On the other hand the middle and lower class sympathise with us, more and more as they better comprehend the true nature of the struggle. A good deal of dust was thrown into their eyes at first by the impudent pretense that the tariff was the cause of the war. All that is now over. Even the Times has no longer the assurance to repeat that fable. The true division now begins to make itself perceptible here as elsewhere in Europe — the party of the old and of the new, of vested rights and of well regulated freedom. All equally see in the convulsion in America an era in the history of the world, out of which must come in the end a general recognition of the right of mankind to the produce of their labor and the pursuit of happiness. Across all these considerations come occasionally individual and national interests which pervert the judgment for a time, but the world moves onward taking little note of temporary perturbations, and whatever may betide to us of this generation, the end is sure….

__________

¹ Russell Sturgis’ place.

In the woods, near Falmouth, Va.
December 15, 1862

My Dear Mother:

Potomac Run, Va.
December 21, 1862

My Dear Father:

I leave the above heading to my letter for two reasons. In the first place to show you that I did n’t forget you while we were at the front; and in the second because this is my last sheet of paper and when this is gone I must borrow or be silent.

My last was written on Tuesday the 9th and while we were under orders for the front. The orders however did not come until Thursday and on Wednesday we had nothing to contend with but our new Colonel. He, however, was a host in himself and worried us very thoroughly. You ‘ve no idea what a nuisance such an ass as ____ is at the head of a regiment. Ignorant to the last degree of his supposed profession, his ignorance is only surpassed by his conceit and vanity and his love of display. He has two and only two of the qualities of an officer of cavalry: he is a good and daring horseman and a man of great personal courage. At the same time he is the most cruel man on horses I ever saw in my life, and his courage, combined with his plenteous lack of judgment, only endangers the lives of those under his command. He prides himself on being a disciplinarian, knowing nothing of discipline, and so wears out his officers and men by an inordinate attention to useless trifles. He considers himself a tactician and yet he could not drill a corporal’s guard without making ludicrous blunders. His mistakes on the drill ground, his theories of war and his absurdities in camp are, as John will tell you, the laughing stock of the regiment. He is universally disliked as well as ridiculed. He has already cost us the best officers in our regiment, and we all fear that he will ultimately ruin it. We of course can do nothing, but I assure you we keep up a devil of a thinking. This particular day certain horses were to be condemned and he nearly drove the commanders of companies wild. Their horses were led out and then led back again, and then led out and kept standing. Then some blanks were made out and then some more horses were ordered out, and then some were inspected and ordered to be shot or turned over to the Quarter Master, and then some messages were sent round and then we were ordered to pick out our worst horses to hand over to another regiment, and the Majors laughed and cursed, and the Captains cursed and swore, and the. men grumbled and looked sullen, and he strutted round, overwhelmed with a sense of his own importance and utterly unaware with what a hearty contempt the general camp, pioneers and all, were cursing him and laughing at him. We see how ridiculous he makes us in the army and what a tool he becomes in the hands of others; and yet, discuss it as we will among ourselves, to the world we must put our tongues between our teeth and bear it as best we may. As for me, I have no great trouble with him. I am in command of my company and go near him only when I can’t help doing so. My company is a very good one and so I’m not often drawn into scrapes….

Early Thursday morning, clear and cold, the brigade got into line and began to advance to the front. While we were at the stable call a heavy cannonade had opened towards Fredericksburg and it was clear that work was before some one. Our column was not formed until nine o’clock and then we began to move towards the front, but very slowly. It was at first very cold, and our fingers and feet felt it sharply; but as the sun rose this passed away and the weather moderated. Then the battery in front of us got stuck and delayed us an hour, during which we listened to the firing and discussed the prospects. For, instead of going out to operate on the right flank as we had expected, it was now clear that we were going straight towards Fredericksburg. Finally we passed the battery by a path through the woods, leaving it fairly mired and then pushed rapidly forward. Presently we came to a large field, about I should say a mile and a half from the point of cannonading, and there the brigade drew up, dismounted and began to wait. Around us were deserted infantry camps. On our left, on a rising ground, was an infantry line of battle, beyond and above them was a cloud of white smoke, and this was all I saw of Thursday’s fighting.

For ourselves, we waited. The warm sun had started the frost and converted our field into a fine mire, and in that we stood from eleven o’clock to sunset. As long as I could I stood by my horse and eat hard-bread and smoked. When that was played out, I found the driest place I could, spread the cape of my overcoat on the mud, laid down on it and went to sleep. So the day passed tediously and disagreeably away. Rumors of doings at the front reached us from time to time; our pontoons were knocked to pieces and the engineers killed and we were not getting ahead very fast. Finally it became clear that we were to do nothing that day, so we watered our horses and presently the column started for a camp. It was dark before we reached it, but finally we found ourselves packed away in a pine wood, full of camp fires and pine smoke. I have ceased to be a believer in any necessity for discomfort under any circumstances. On this occasion Davis and I at eight o’clock, with the horses groomed and fed, had had a very comfortable supper ourselves and then with blankets unrolled were lying before our fire and smoking the pipe of great content. The weather too had moderated and though it froze stiff during the night, in the woods we rolled ourselves in our blankets and were as comfortable as need be.

Friday the 12th, instead of moving as was expected, we lay all the morning in the camp, listening to the artillery firing which still continued, but we noticed no musketry. The day was warm and bright and we found picnicing in the woods in December not so bad. To be sure the Colonel worried the officers all he could — among other trifles in one morning threatening the Lieutenant Colonel, Major and Adjutant with arrest; but I was fortunately at the extreme further end of the camp and took good care not to lessen my distance. As it was I began to enjoy myself very much. I am growing more and more attached to out of door life, so that it is pleasant even in December. We found that our camp was most prettily situated in a little strip of pine wood surrounding a little hollow in which the 4th Pennsylvania was encamped. The weather was delightful and we had nothing to do but to while away the time watching our neighbors and listening to the cannonade. The Pennsylvanians were a source of endless delight to Davis and myself — they were so ragged, so independent, and so very peculiar. No officers troubled their repose, and stable calls worried them not. They were grave and elderly men and very, very old campaigners. They were curiously clad in defiance of all rule whether military or civil, and we pondered long as to where they could have got their clothes, until Davis happily suggested that, having all started as civilians, they had been picking up old soldier clothes ever since, until they had arrived at their present degree of uniformity. They had strange ways of leaving camp whenever they saw fit and returning ladened with well filled haversacks; whereat the faces of their comrades would light up with grim satisfaction. Water they had not now and soap they had evidently never known; but they were old soldiers, for they cooked strange messes and when boots and saddles sounded, undisturbed by the cannonade they would saddle their horses carefully, slowly and meditatively, evidently with respect for the beast if not in the fear of God. They compared so curiously with our own men so comparatively young, clean and well dressed, full of intelligence and yet subject to such rigid and never ending discipline. Then as the afternoon crept on the most beautiful lights and shadows I ever saw crept over the little hollow in which our friends were encamped, the smoke of the camp fires rising among the pines, while the sunlight played round the horses and riders among them gave effects which in pictures we should declare unnatural. At two o’clock orders came for us to saddle. We did so and got all ready to start and then, anxious and waiting for orders, we killed away the time until dusk, when again we watered and unsaddled, and again Davis and I after a comfortable supper lay before our fire enjoying the charms of tobacco and December moonlight.

Saturday the 13th, we did not change our position at all, but, as before, our horses were kept saddled the greater part of the day; but learning by experience I made myself comfortable, reading Holmes and observing the preparation of our dinner. Still, at best, this comfort was a very relative term that day, for all day long, from before day-break to long after dark, the heavy cannonade was broken only by long and terrific vollies of musketry, now before us, now on the right, now far away to the left. Evidently a terrible battle was going on, but with what result we could only guess, for we could only hear, and during all these days did not see an enemy or hear the whir-r-r of a single shot. There we lay, cold, idle and anxious, aware only of the severity of the contest, expecting soon to take part in it and knowing nothing of the result. The day passed slowly away, ending in the heaviest musketry fire by all odds that I ever heard, and again we passed a moonlight evening over our camp-fires….

An order has just come for me to go out with two days’ rations and twenty pounds of forage on some unknown job. If we meet an enemy God save us, for I understand Colonel _____ is to command.

Wednesday, 24th.

We got back from our scout yesterday at about noon, having accomplished nothing and now, as Colonel Sargent has kindly put me under arrest, I hope to be able to quietly finish my letter. Where did I leave off? I had accounted for Saturday I believe. Sunday the 14th found us still in the woods and still the weather continued clear and warm. At daybreak the usual firing began and at times there seemed to be explosions of musketry and cannon, but it was not at all the fire of yesterday. Our horses were still kept saddled and all our traps packed, but I had ceased to believe that we should move, and lay peaceably before my fire, enjoying the soft air and the strange lively scene and reading Browning’s poems.

Towards evening rumors of some great success were rife and made us all very cheerful, and we again hoped soon to be in the saddle and following the enemy briskly up on the road to Richmond. I put less faith in the rumors than most and accordingly next day my disappointment was less. For next day our hopes most suddenly collapsed. There was a desultory firing going on all day, but not amounting to a great deal as compared with what had been going on. We lay in the woods as usual and I started this letter, but was suddenly cut short by an order to shift all the picket ropes, which, while it increased my comfort, took up the rest of the day and cut off your letter.

Tuesday the 16th, they actually took us out to drill, to exercise the horses and occupy the time. We skirmished round a hilly field opposite the camp for a couple of hours, and then the Colonel blundered us into camp. It began to grow clear that we should not immediately be wanted. When I got in I was informed that I was to be officer of the day and was to go out and post some pickets to protect the rear of the camp. I should just as soon have thought of posting pickets in State Street, as we were all surrounded by the camps of our friends; but I did as I was told and posted at least half a dozen miserable men in positions in which they seemed least likely to be ridiculous and returned to camp to be worried by my Colonel. That night it rained smartly and, as usual, the drops pattering on my face reminded me that we were in bivouac. Like a knowing campaigner I called to my servant to throw my rubber poncho over me, pulled my boots under the blankets and my cape over my head and chuckled myself to sleep, as the rain came down harder and harder, to think how comfortable I was and how very much I had got ahead of the elements this time. The next morning it cleared away at about the time when decent people get up. I suppose, of course, that you bear in mind that eight o’clock P.M. is our bed time and that the regular hour of reveille is half past six — one hour before sunrise — which we vary on special occasions by having it at three o’clock and so down. I assure you I have seen all the sun-rises I ever want to see and I thoroughly believe in lying abed until the earth is dry.

Hardly was the sun out when the announcement seemed to run at once all through the camps that our whole army had recrossed, that the bridges were all up and the campaign was a terrible failure — in a word, all our cake was dough. Even Colonel Sargent concluded that his regiment would not advance for a few days and left camp. Hardly was he gone when “The General” sounded and it was announced that we were to go back whence we came. It was a muddy, sullen, discouraging march home. The sky was cloudy and threatening and the mud deep, liquid, and slippery. It was rapidly growing cold and the wind was rough and chilling. We had been to the front and had not been under fire or seen an enemy, and we were going back with a campaign ruined and winter quarters before us. For myself I did hope that now we should put through this winter campaign and not sit down under this blow. I never had any confidence in this advance, but we had tried it and now I, and I think all, felt that it would not do to give it up so, and we did earnestly hope that we might be called upon to face and be able to surmount all the exposures, dangers and obstacles of a winter campaign. At any rate we felt willing to try and I do so now, but I understand this feeling does not extend to the body of the army which crossed the Rappahannock. We got into camp by three o’clock, finding it dirty, unprepared, bleak and cold, and there finished as quietly disheartening a day as I care to pass, with a miserable and insufficient dinner and a night passed wretchedly cold in a wet overcoat and frozen blankets. I had n’t got ahead of the elements the night before as I had calculated.

A change of weather had taken place and we had got back to our tents just in time to meet it. It was cold, very cold, ice an inch and a half thick and now and then men frozen to death — only stragglers and serve them right; but then you know “a soldier’s life is always gay.” As for us, again we went shivering round camp, frozen out of our tents and miserably grouping round first one fire and then another. Our camp is the coldest, bleakest, most exposed place in the whole surrounding country, and we wanted to move into the woods; but our Colonel, fully impressed with the idea each day that tomorrow we are going to advance in triumph to Richmond, did n’t think it worth while to make us comfortable just for a day, and, as he has a large tent with a fireplace in it, he is n’t frozen out as we poor devils are. Anyhow, the next three days until Sunday passed uncomfortably enough, clear and bitter cold, the water in our blankets freezing even at noon. They drilled us Friday and Saturday, and that was a bore; but on Friday my patience gave out and I resolved to be comfortable if only for a day. So I set men to work and had a fireplace built behind my tent, of rough stone. The seam in the rear of the tent was then opened and closed around its mouth, and lo! in one corner of my tent was a mean, ugly little open fireplace. Then I had a shelf put up on one side, on which I am now writing, and a bed of fir-tree branches on the other side on which I spread my blankets. Thus I become more comfortable than I had ever been before and, though the wind sweeps and the rain drips through my tent, and Davis in abject despair calls it a “dirty kennel,” in it I can be comfortable and I can write in the coldest weather, and there I am writing now, and tomorrow in it Davis and I will have our Christmas dinner, if we can raise one, which seems doubtful; but your dinner in London and John’s in Boston will not taste better than ours, though we do eat tough beef and drink commissary whiskey out of battered and campaign worn old tin plates and cups. And even if it does, I am very sure that my health will be drunk and I shall be remembered in Newport and Boston and London and that if it lay in the power of my family, I should eat and drink of the fat of the land. However, to go back to my letter. I left off, I believe, just where I began this letter — at Sunday noon. We got our orders — 250 men from the command, with two days rations and twenty pounds of forage, and were to report in an hour. It struck hard, for though the weather had moderated it was cloudy and threatened rain and it was still rough and we were just comfortable. However, out it was and my fifty-six men were in line at the time the fifty-six horses having had two quarts of oats and no hay, thanks to the shortcomings of the brigade Quarter Master, that day. We got out and joined other details from the brigade, making 1000 cavalry all told, and somewhat after dark took up our line of march for Hartwood Church. We reached our advanced pickets at about nine o’clock and then encamped in the woods, lighting fires and feeding our horses and before eleven we were all asleep. At three o’clock Monday morning an orderly came round and woke us up, though why we did n’t exactly see, as our horses were neither fed nor cleaned, and all we had to do was to get our breakfasts. I fed my horse and got myself up a fine breakfast of four hard-breads and was ready for a start, but the start did n’t come until daybreak, and the sun rose, weak and cloudy, while we were still within our pickets, but yet on the road. Then came a long killing march, ending in nothing. We rapidly pushed directly forward, at times at a gallop, until after noon, when we pushed forward through some fields and woods as fast as our horses could go, using many up and finishing a man or two by tumbles and accidental shots. Here we drove in pickets, but I saw no signs of any force of the enemy having been in that vicinity. We then turned to the South and towards the river and ended by meeting Sigel’s corps and marching home to our camp of the night before, having made a dashing reconnaissance with no results…. We got into camp about five o’clock having covered I should say not less than thirty-five miles. We cleaned and fed the horses, cooked some supper and then went to sleep. Yesterday (Tuesday, 23d) at daybreak we were roused and got ready to come home. To show you how government kills horses, I will say that my fifty-six from twelve o’clock Saturday night to twelve o’clock Tuesday noon — sixty hours — travelled nearly sixty miles and had no hay and just thirteen quarts of oats apiece. I am glad to say only one gave out, and that one has since been brought in. We came leisurely in on a pleasant, warm, winter morning, and here befel my most lamentable arrest by my Colonel. He thinks himself a disciplinarian and is great on “marching orders,” and leading the column on a march. Now we were within sight of our camp and the brigade had stopped to water at a stream, and watering a thousand horses is a matter of time. As we were waiting I happened to hear that Colonel Buchanan was quartered just a hundred yards or so on our right in plain sight. I wanted to see him and said so to Major Higginson, with whom I was riding. He replied: “Why don’t you go now? I would.” I said I would come over again, there was n’t time, etc.; but he still advised me to go until at last I said I thought I would and cantered over there. I found the Colonel in front of his tent and had a pleasant talk of about ten minutes with him. I then started to rejoin my column and found it had gone forward. I followed and came up just after my company had watered and found Colonel Sargent just finishing some unknown manœuvre through which he discovered my absence. As I calmly took my place, he summoned me before him and inquired where I had been. I pleasantly informed him, in that airy manner which makes me a universal favorite, and he immediately put me under arrest. Upon which, winking pleasantly at his orderlies, I retired to the rear of my company. I believe now he is debating in his own mind as to whether he will have me dismissed the service without a hearing or court martialed and cashiered. He is too ignorant to know that my having had the consent of my immediate superior to what I did covers me completely. So now I look upon this as a little vacation and to my release from the weary monotony of company duties you owe this letter….

London, December 19, 1862

To change the subject let me tell you of a pleasant little experience which diverted my thoughts from home last evening. The Queen’s Advocate, Sir Robert Phillimore, learning that I had accepted an invitation of the Westminster School to attend their annual performance of a Latin play, asked me to join him at his own house to dinner, and proceed from there. I accepted very thankfully. The company I met was small but choice. It consisted of the Lord Chancellor (Lord Westbury), the Brazilian Minister, Lord Harris, now attached to the new household of the Prince of Wales, and a brother of the host. We had a lively dinner, as the Chancellor is a very ready talker, and has great resources, and soon after proceeded to Westminster School which is in close proximity to the famous old abbey. It dates from the time of Elizabeth and has produced many eminent men from Ben Jonson downward to Gibbon and Southey. The stage is set up in what is called the dormitory, a large hall, the bare walls of which are marked with the names in large letters of those who have been scholars with the date attached, apparently done by themselves without any order or method. The popularity of the school has declined of late years, whilst that of Eton has developed beyond all legitimate bounds. Nevertheless those who are attached to it cling with pride to its usages, and of these the most notable and peculiar is the performance about Christmas time every year of some old Latin play.

This year it happened to be the Andria of Terence. The scene was well got up. It represented Athens in the distance, as it may be presumed to have looked in its sunny days. The costumes were rigidly Grecian according to the best authority. The only modern things were the prologue and epilogue, and these were likewise in Latin.

I had seen the same thing done at Ealing in my boyhood. But now that I could understand it better I wanted to see it again. Not having read the piece for twenty years I had bought a copy of Terence previously and refreshed my memory with a careful perusal. The result was that I enjoyed it exceedingly. The boys articulated well and acted with spirit, one or two with power, so that I could form a very fair notion of the secret of the charm of old Menander. The audience, composed mostly of old Westminster scholars familiar with the play, was quiet and sympathetic, so that it really gave a good illusion. On the whole I must say that this is the pleasantest evening I have yet passed in England. The Queen’s Advocate, Sir Robert Phillimore’s son was what is called the Captain of the school, and played the part of Pamphilus very well….

Potomac Run, near Falmouth, Va.
December 9, 1862

After a day or night of duty, it is strange what a sense of home and home comfort one attaches to the bivouac fire. You come in cold, hungry and tired and I assure you all the luxuries of home scarcely seem desirable beside its bright blaze, as you polish off a hot supper. And such suppers! You’ve no idea how well we live, now we ‘ve added experience to hunger. This evening, I remember, I had army-bread fried in pork — and some day I’ll let you know what can be made of that dish — hot coffee, delicate young roast pig, beefsteak and an arrangement of cabbage, from the tenement of a neighboring mud-sill. This, with a pipe of tobacco, a bunk of fir branches well lined with blankets and a crackling fire before it left little to be desired. There is a wild luxury about it, very fascinating to me, though I never realise the presence of danger and that excitement which some men derive from that; to me camp always seems perfectly secure and my horses kick and champ on the other side of my fire, and my arms hang on the ridge of my bunk, practically as little thought of by me as though the one were in the stable at Quincy, and the other hanging over my mantelpiece in Boston. My enjoyment springs from the open air sense of freedom and strength. It’s a lawless sort of feeling, making me feel as if I depended only on nature and myself for enjoyment.

This is all very well when the weather is fine, even in December; but next morning a change came o’er me, for early in the morning it began to rain and snow and, by the time we were relieved, at noon it snowed most heartily, so that I sincerely pitied the miserable creatures who relieved us. Home we rode, wet and cold, and as I walked sulkily along, I tried to think of one crumb of comfort awaiting me when I got back into camp. I couldn’t think of one, unless indeed the commissary might have procured some whiskey. Wrong again! I got into camp and found Colonel Sargent there with three companies from Hooker’s head-quarters and things looked lively enough, though far from cheerful, and as luck would have it Henry Davis was there, established in the midst of discomfort in his usual comfort. So I passed the evening with him, cursing Colonel (in which chorus we all unanimously concur), smoking the best of tobacco, drinking hot whiskey punch and eating plum-cake fresh from Washington….

The next time Henry passes a bookstore let him stop and buy for her [Mary] a little volume called “Ten Years of Soldiers’ Life in India.” It contains the life of Major Hodson taken from his own letters and is one of the most touching and charming books of these later days, to say nothing of the character of Hodson himself — my ideal of a Christian gentleman and soldier. I wonder none of you ever heard of him.

Potomac Bridge, near Falmouth, Va.
November 30, 1862

Here we are once more with the army, but not on the move. We passed six days in Washington and it stormed the whole time, varying from a heavy Scotch mist to a drenching rain. Our camp was deep in mud, at times a brook was running through my tent, and altogether we were most unfortunate as regarded weather. Still we succeeded in completing our equipment and I started out on our new campaign tolerably prepared to be comfortable in future. Nor did I, I am glad to say, waste my time while there, but I fed on the fat of the land, feasting daily, without regard to expense, at Buhler’s. I no longer wonder at sailors’ runs on shore. Months of abstinence and coarse fare, cooked anyhow and eaten anywhere off anything, certainly lead to an acute appreciation of the luxuries of city life. It seems to me now as if I could n’t enjoy them enough. While here I saw Aunt Mary repeatedly and she seems much the same as ever. She was very kind and hospitable. I also saw Governor Seward for an instant. He invited me to dinner and was very cordial; but he looks pale, old and careworn, and it distressed me to see him.

Here we remained till Friday evening, on which day the two Majors and myself succeeded in getting paid off, after immense exertion and many refusals, when we had our last dinner at Buhler’s and on Saturday, when we saw the sun for the first time for a week, we struck camp and moved over to Alexandria, on our way to join the brigade. We got into Alexandria by two o’clock and went into camp on a cold, windy hill-side. We were under orders to join our brigade at Manassas, but when we got to Alexandria we found Manassas in the possession of the enemy and we did not care to report to them. Accordingly we sent back for orders and passed Sunday in camp, a cold, blustering, raw November day, overcast and disagreeable. The damp and wet, combined with the high living at Washington, had started my previous health, and now I not only was n’t well, but was decidedly sick and lived on opium and brandy. In fact I am hardly well yet and my disorder followed me all through our coming march. Sunday afternoon we got our orders to press on and join the brigade at the earliest possible moment near Falmouth, so Monday morning we again struck camp and set forth for Falmouth. It was a very fine day indeed, but the weather is not what it was and the country through which we passed is sadly war-smitten. The sun was bright, but the long rains had reduced the roads almost to a mire and a sharp cold wind all day made overcoats pleasant and reminded us how near we were to winter. Our road lay along in sight of Mt. Vernon and was a picture of desolation — the inhabitants few, primitive and ignorant, houses deserted and going to ruin, fences down, plantations overgrown, and everything indicating a decaying country finally ruined by war. On our second day’s march we passed through Dumfries, once a flourishing town and port of entry, now the most God-forsaken village I ever saw. There were large houses with tumbled down stairways, public buildings completely in ruins, more than half the houses deserted and tumbling to pieces, not one in repair and even the inhabitants, as dirty, lazy and rough they stared at us with a sort of apathetic hate, seemed relapsing into barbarism. It maybe the season, or it may be the war; but for some reason this part of Virginia impresses me with a sense of hopeless decadence, a spiritless decay both of land and people, such as I never experienced before. The very dogs are curs and the women and children, with their long, blousy, uncombed hair, seem the proper inmates of the delapidated log cabins which they hold in common with the long-nosed, lank Virginia swine.

To go back to our march however. Our wagons toiled wearily along and sunset found us only sixteen miles from Alexandria, and there we camped. During the latter part of the day I was all alone riding to and fro between the baggage train and the column. I felt by no means well and cross with opium. It was a cold, clear, November evening, with a cold, red, western sky and, chilled through, with a prospect of only a supperless bivouac, a stronger home feeling came over me than I have often felt before, and I did sadly dwell in my imagination on the intense comfort there is in a thoroughly warm, well-lighted room and well-spread table after a long cold ride. However I got into camp before it was dark and here things were not so bad. The wind was all down, the fires were blazing and we had the elements of comfort. The soup Lou sent me supplied me with a hot supper — in fact I don’t know what I should have done if it had not been for that, through this dreary march; and after that I spread my blankets on a bed of fir-branches close to the fire and slept as serenely as man could desire to sleep.

The next morning the weather changed and it gradually grew warmer and more cloudy all day. Our road lay through Dumfries and became worse and worse as we pushed along, until after making only eight miles, we despaired of our train getting along and turned into an orchard in front of a deserted plantation house and there camped. Our wagons in fact did get stuck and passed the night two miles back on the road, while we built our fires and made haste to stretch our blankets against the rain. It rained hard all night, but we had firewood and straw in plenty, and again I slept as well as I wish to. Next day the wagons did not get up until noon and it was two o’clock before we started. Then we pushed forward until nearly dark. An hour before sunset we came up with the flank of the army resting on Acquia Creek. We floundered along through the deep red-mud roads till nearly dark and then, having made some five miles, turned into a beautiful camping ground, where we once more bivouacked. One thing surprises me very much and that is the very slight hardship and exposure of the bivouac. Except in rains tents are wholly unnecessary — articles of luxury. Here, the night before Thanksgiving and cold at that, I slept as soundly and warmly before our fire as I could have done in bed at home. The reason is plain. In a tent one, more or less, tries to undress; in the bivouac one rolls himself, boots, overcoat and all, with the cape thrown over his head, in his blankets with his feet to the fire, which keeps them warm and dry, and then the rest will not trouble him. A tent is usually equally cold and also very damp.

The next day was Thanksgiving Day — 27th November. It was a fine clear day, with a sharp chill in the little wind which was stirring. I left the column and rode forward to General Hooker’s Head Quarters through the worst roads I ever saw, in which our empty wagons could hardly make two miles an hour. I saw General Hooker and learnt the situation of our brigade, and here too we came up with our other battalion. We passed them however and came over here to our present camp, where we have pitched our tents and made ourselves as comfortable as we can while we await the course of events.

As to the future, you can judge better than I. I have no idea that a winter campaign is possible in Virginia. The mud is measured already by feet, and the rains have hardly begun. The country is thoroughly exhausted and while horses can scarcely get along alone, they can hardly succeed in drawing the immense supply and ammunition trains necessary for so large an army, to say nothing of the artillery which will be stuck fast. The country may demand activity on our part, but mud is more obdurate than popular opinion, and active operations here I cannot but consider as closed for the season. As to the army, I see little of my part of it but my own regiment. I think myself it is tired of motion and wants to go to sleep until the spring. The autumn is depressing and winter hardships are severe enough in the most comfortable of camps. Winter campaigns may be possible in Europe, a thickly peopled country of fine roads, but in this region of mud, desolation and immense distances, it is another matter.

Potomac Bridge, Virginia
November 28, 1862

Here we are back with the Brigade at last. I hope you yesterday remembered us at home in your cups, for not a drop to drink, save water, had we, and our eating was of the toughest and slimmest. Here we are though, through mud and mire and rain, up with the army at last. A winter campaign here, by the way, is just impossible, no more and no less, and you who sit so snugly at home by the fire and round the hearth, and discuss our laziness in not pressing on, may as well dry up. We will allow everything to please you, waste of life, loss of labor, extreme exposure without tents, existence in a foodless country and all you will, and yet any movement is just simply impossible on account of mud. Horses can’t walk, artillery can’t be hauled, and ammunition can’t be carried through this country after this season. Of course, we don’t expect to get any forage, rations or tents through, but it is simply impossible to go ahead and carry the arms and ammunition to enable us to fight, though we should consent to starve and freeze cheerfully. So I look on it after the experience of a few days’ march. I may be wrong and hope I am. But Lord! how it vexes and amuses me to think how easy it is, after a full dinner, to sip your wine in the gas light, and look severely into a fine fire across the table, and criticise and find fault with us poor devils, at that very time preparing to lie down before our fires, mud to the middle, wet through, after a fine meal of hard bread and water, and with nothing between us and the sky but November clouds. I don’t complain of these little incidents of our life myself, and only I do wish they found less fault at home….

London, November 21, 1862

My work is now limited to a careful observation of events here and assistance in the manual labor of the place, and to a study of history and politics which seem to me most necessary to our country for the next century. The future is a blank to me as I suppose it is also to you. I have no plans nor can have any, so long as my course is tied to that of the Chief. Should you at the end of the war, wish to take my place, in case the services of one of us were still required, I should return to Boston and Horace Gray, and I really do not know whether I should regret the change. The truth is, the experience of four years has done little towards giving me confidence in myself. The more I see, the more I am convinced that a man whose mind is balanced like mine, in such a way that what is evil never seems unmixed with good, and what is good always streaked with evil; an object seems never important enough to call out strong energies till they are exhausted, nor necessary enough not to allow of its failure being possible to retrieve; in short, a mind which is not strongly positive and absolute, cannot be steadily successful in action, which requires quietness and perseverance. I have steadily lost faith in myself ever since I left college, and my aim is now so indefinite that all my time may prove to have been wasted, and then nothing left but a truncated life.

I should care the less for all this if I could see your path any clearer, but while my time may prove to have been wasted, I don’t see but what yours must prove so. At least God forbid that you should remain an officer longer than is necessary. And what then? The West is possible; indeed, I have thought of that myself. But what we want is a school. We want a national set of young men like ourselves or better, to start new influences not only in politics, but in literature, in law, in society, and throughout the whole social organism of the country — a national school of our own generation. And that is what America has no power to create. In England the Universities centralize ability and London gives a field. So in France, Paris encourages and combines these influences. But with us, we should need at least six perfect geniuses placed, or rather, spotted over the country and all working together; whereas our generation as yet has not produced one nor the promise of one. It’s all random, insulated work, for special and temporary and personal purposes, and we have no means, power or hope of combined action for any unselfish end.

One man who has real ability may do a great deal, but we ought to have a more concentrated power of influence than any that now exists.

For the present war I have nothing to say. We received cheerful letters from you and John today, and now we have the news of McClellan’s removal. As I do not believe in Burnside’s genius, I do not feel encouraged by this, especially as it shakes our whole structure to its centre. I have given up the war and only pray for its end. The South has vindicated its position and we cannot help it, so, as we can find no one to lead us and no one to hold us together, I don’t see the use of our shedding more blood. Still all this makes able men a necessity for the future, and if you ‘re an able man, there’s your career. I have projects enough and not unpromising ones for some day, but like most of my combinations, I suppose they ‘ll all end in dust and ashes.

We are very comfortable here in London fog. Some sharp diplomatic practice, but, I hope, not very serious. People don’t overwhelm us with attentions, but that is excusable.

Washington, D.C., November 19, 1862

I am certainly very well and in very good spirits, though the downfall of McClellan was a heavy blow to all below the rank of a General. The army believed in McClellan, but the Generals are jealous and ambitious and little, and want to get a step themselves, so they are willing to see him pulled down. We believed in him, not as a brilliant commander, but as a prudent one and one who was gradually learning how to handle our immense army, and now a new man must learn and he must learn by his own mistakes and in the blood of the army. It is all for the best and the Lord will in his own good time bear witness for us; but oh! the blunders and humbug of this war, the folly, treachery, incompetence and lying!!! They tell me here that Halleck is a very strong man, and that his touch is already felt in the West and soon will be in the East, and that the winter will restore our fortunes. I hope it may prove so, but my theory is that there will be much more fighting this year in Virginia, but that while we are to hold the enemy here, the war is to rage on the Mississippi and the sea-board. But who knows — not I. Keep up your heart.

London, October 24, 1862

Your account of the campaign in Maryland was exceedingly interesting to us all. It contrasted admirably with those of the newspaper writers in telling only what you saw; whereas they, with far less of opportunity, undertake to say they see many things which did not happen. I have lost all confidence in any accounts which do not come with responsible names attached to them. I am not sure since General Pope’s time that I always credit official statements. His mistakes have however had one good effect in reducing the tone and style of our other generals. They now do not overstate their success, nor boast of gains they have not made. Still the war drags on. I scarcely know what to think of the prospect….