War Letters of William Thompson Lusk.

Camp Near Falmouth, Va.

Dec. 22nd, 1862.

My dear Mother:

Since the late disastrous affair at Fredericksburg, as before, I look in vain for some tidings from you. These mails! As for me, it is of less importance, for the letters you write me will eventually reach me, but with you I hope that long ere this, you may have had the pleasant tidings of my safety throughout the late battle. Of that fight I have not words to express my indignation. It was so uncalled for. Not being a participant myself, only an anxious witness, I can fully appreciate the terrible character of the massacre. No one was more desirous than I for an onward movement, but not for such an one. The idea of an attempt directly in the front was scouted at by those who professed to know, as sheer madness, concerning which the result could not be doubtful. Yet it was attempted, but at whose orders we cannot tell. Rumors reach us of the resignation of Lincoln’s Cabinet. God grant this be true. We may fall into worse hands, but there is the hope of something better. I have lost faith in Halleck, and for this reason: Last summer I wrote Walter I had cheered the last time for McClellan. I did this on the authority of Gen. Halleck. Halleck was an unsuccessful competitor of Stevens for the honors of his class. At Newport News Halleck had an interview with Stevens, the result of which I afterwards learned. In this interview Halleck represented McClellan as solely responsible for the misfortunes of the Peninsula; represented that McClellan had received everything from the administration he had requested; that McClellan was responsible for the division in his command, resulting in the creation of McDowell’s Department. This and much else against McClellan, which Halleck’s subsequent report, and the revelations from the McDowell Court of Inquiry, prove to have been base and malignant falsehoods. Since then it has been my good fortune to have been twice in battle under McClellan. How admirably those battles were planned and executed, I, who have seen so much mismanagement, so many defeats, know best how to appreciate. Therefore I say, as I heard a rebel officer once say “God bless old Stonewall Jackson,” “God bless McClellan.” We have had enough of Halleck — and disgrace.

Mother, do not wonder that my loyalty is growing weak. I love the Nation too well to willingly pardon the “unfortunate Abraham Lincoln” as the London Times so aptly calls him. With resources enough to have long since ended the controversy, with resources enough to end it before the opening of Spring, sixty years will not end it if we are obliged to sustain the paltry policy of the administration. I am sick and tired of disaster, and the fools that bring disaster upon us. I believe Burnside to be brave and honest, a good soldier and worthy of honor, but I know that no one in this country has a heartier esteem for McClellan than he. No one bends more to McClellan than Gen. Burnside. The President I doubt not is honest, but “let the shoemaker stick to the last.” Let Lincoln turn his talents to splitting rails. I prefer George McClellan to Abraham Lincoln, as the Commander-in-Chief of the Army. The same energy, the same good-sense, the same foresight exhibited by us that the South has shown, and the rebellion is a dead letter. The same fatal disregard of common sense on our part, and the Southern independence is won. At least so I feel, and so I write strongly, who so earnestly pray for the triumph of our cause.

I have just received your letter, and feel truly thankful to learn you had heard of my safety previous to the arrival of my own letter written the day after we recrossed the Rappahannock. Day before yesterday I was on picket, and saw several officers of the rebel service who came to our lines under a flag of truce. One of them who came from near Atlanta, told me he knew Alfred Tyler; that it was a mistake that Alfred was on Gen. Lawton’s staff; that, on the contrary, he still was employed on the Macon and Atlanta R. R., and was reputed to be one of the truest supporters of the Southern movement in his district. The same officer, Capt. McBride, appeared to know enough of Tyler’s family and family affairs to make his statement worthy of credit. The same officer further told me that among the brave officers of his army that fell at Fredericksburg, was Henry Lord King, who you will remember was an old admirer of Sarah Phelps. King fell, pierced by nine minie balls, in the attack made on our left (Franklin’s Division). Morrison professes to be a strong supporter of mine now. He says that there had been so much intriguing in the Regiment, that he suspected me for some time, but my action with regard to More has fully satisfied him, and he professes himself anxious to serve me in any way. What the professions are worth I have yet to learn.

Give my best, my dearest love to my sisters. Tell Uncle Phelps that I leave my proposition to be settled according to his judgment, and with best love to him and all my friends, I remain,

Your affec. son, W. T. Lusk.

(Col. A. Farnsworth to W. T. Lusk)

New-York, December 20th, 1862.

My dear Lusk:

Your last letter has not been answered before this, because of the reason that you — ye army of the Potomac — were on the move before it reached me, and I felt disposed to await your arrival in Richmond! The “turn of things” lately, however, has induced me to alter my mind.

In regard to the matter of the Majorship, I must confess I was “dead beat.” They got “way ahead” of me. I’ll explain all to you satisfactorily when we meet.

I suppose you have seen Dr. McDonald, and that he has told you how “on the 29th of October, Gen. Burnside wrote a letter to the War Department, recommending me for a Brigadiership,” and how the said letter was sent to Gen. McClellan for his approval, and never returned. Now, if that letter could be reproduced and sent again to the War Department, nothing would prevent me from soon pocketing a Brigadier’s Commission. I’ll tell you a joke about the Brigadiership, rather at my expense however. The other day Thurlow Weed was sitting with the President — Generallissimo Lincoln — when Col. Farnsworth’s card was sent in. Weed, supposing that the card represented this individual, remarked, “By the way, Mr. President, my call on you was particularly in relation to Col. Farnsworth.” And then he “put in” for me, leaving with the promise that my name should be sent in to the Senate immediately. Three or four days thereafter, to the astonishment of Mr. Weed, he saw an announcement in the papers that Col. Farnsworth of Illinois had been appointed a Brigadier! In fact, the Illinois Farnsworth secured his promotion at the expense of the New-York Farnsworth. Mr. Weed and others are now pushing the thing for me, but as every Col. in the army is now an applicant for a Brigadiership, I am not disposed to rely solely upon the aid and influence of politicians. That letter from Burnside would fix the thing at once. In the event of my promotion, you can rely upon the Lieut.-Colonelcy. Keep mum on the subject. Of course this matter is in my own hands. As soon as my name is sent in to the Senate, I shall go to Albany at once. I can do far more with Seymour than a Black Republican. Now keep quiet and get your straps. I am getting better — leg improving a little. Great excitement here among ye people in relation to Fredericksburg affair. Don’t be surprised to hear in a few days that “Old Abe” has been forced to abdicate or change his cabinet.

Regards to all. Yours,

A. Farnsworth.

[Battle of Fredericksburg]

Camp Near Falmouth, Va.

Dec. 16th, 1862.

My dear Mother:

Back again once more in the old camp, sound as a dollar. Would that 10,000 lying on the field across the river, or stretched on rude soldiers’ beds in pain and some in mortal agony, could say as much! Gone are the proud hopes, the high aspirations that swelled our bosoms a few days ago. Once more unsuccessful, and only a bloody record to show our men were brave. This cannot heal the broken hearts this pitiful record is to cause. That God must do! Alas, my poor country! It has strong limbs to march and meet the foe, stout arms to strike heavy blows, brave hearts to dare — but the brains, the brains — have we no brains to use the arms and limbs and eager hearts with cunning? Perhaps Old Abe has some funny story to tell appropriate to the occasion. Alas, let us await the wise words of Father Abraham! I say I am back, having recrossed the river about two o’clock this morning. Yesterday evening I was sent out with a couple of hundred sharpshooters to cover the front until the troops were all withdrawn. There I lay supporting the pickets within two or three hundred yards of the enemy while our troops crossed the river. Then word was sent us, and in silence we fell back, crossed ourselves, and then the pontoons were removed. Now we are in the old camp, and I am happy to write myself down in the number of those who have narrowly escaped. In the battle of Saturday, troops were thrown into the fight without any seeming regularity. Many were not under fire at all. Among the latter were the First, and a part of the Second Division of Wilcox’s Corps. You know I belong to the First Division. Our position gave me a fine opportunity to witness the battle. It was a bonnie sight though, and thrillingly exciting. From the crests of the hills frowned the enemy’s batteries. The city was gay with our troops. Beyond the city and below the batteries was open country giving no cover to advancing troops. Over this expanse our men were marched. The pennons fluttered gaily in the sunshine. Then suddenly the hills seemed to vomit forth smoke wreathing them in obscurity. Then followed the thunder of the cannon, intermingled with the screaming of the bursting shells. The ordeal was a terrible one. Some Regiments marched on without flinching; others fell back. To the left, running diagonally, was a stone-wall. A portion of our troops drew near it. This suddenly is likewise jetting with curls of smoke, followed by the sharp crack of the rifle and the angry humming of the conical balls. Now the troops are shaken. Stragglers run rapidly to the rear, then whole Regiments fall back with torn colors and broken ranks. It is of no use. That terrible stonewall is alive with death. Many Regiments try to reach it. Their efforts avail nothing, though. Nearly in the center of the hill, west, there stands a fine old Virginia mansion of red brick with a stately colonnade running along its front. It was here that Col. Farnsworth had his headquarters last summer. This point was often attacked by our troops, but the house was like a hornet’s nest. The enemy was strongly posted about it, in its alcoves, outbuildings and windows. There was death only, for those who tried to reach it. Our troops found some partial cover at a point below the house at the foot of the hill, where a small white house stood. Here two American banners were planted, the dear old thirteen stripes! How breathlessly we watched them! Though often attacked, when the smoke wreathed upward, our hearts were happy to see the colors still floating defiantly near the small white house. At length night closed on the scene. We believed the bloody day was done. There was one scene yet bloodier to be enacted. A final night attack was decided upon. We could not see our troops advancing in the darkness, but we heard a yell along the rebel line. Then a rapid musketry fire ran along the heights — a more terrible fire I never have seen. Forked tongues of flame such as old artists paint issuing from the mouths of the serpents to whom is given the tormenting of the damned, flashed in the night with a brilliant effect as the fire was delivered from man to man. Then darkness followed. Then silence. And we knew that more blood had been shed and nothing won. The next morning we were told that the 9th Army Corps was expected to storm the heights. It was Sunday morning. The Regiment was drawn up in line. The Chaplain read a chapter from the Bible, then said a short prayer. The men followed the prayer with their hearts, as men do who may never pray again. Then the word was given, “Forward,” and we started on the march, few hoping to survive. Then we were ordered to halt. We lay long in a state of expectancy. Meanwhile a new council of Generals was being held. There had been enough blood fruitlessly shed, said the most. No more of the madness and folly which will only result in the certain destruction of our army. Ten thousand men lost and the enemy sits unharmed in his trenches. Burnside says he will lead his own corps in person. But finally reason prevails in the council. The attack is postponed and finally abandoned. Last night the troops crossed the river, and to-day we are counting on our fingers the thousands of men the events of the past few days have cost us. There are impossibilities in warfare — things that no troops can accomplish, however brave they may be. They cannot for one thing cross long stretches of open country without any cover in the face of an artillery fire of any magnitude, and then clamber up a hill-side exposed to the musketry of a concealed foe, and then cross the ditches and scale the earthworks of the enemy, driving the latter from their position with the bayonet. Men fight in masses. To be brave they must be inspired by the feeling of fellowship. Shoulder must touch shoulder. As gaps are opened the men close together, and remain formidable. But when the ranks are torn by artillery, the cohesion begins to fail. Then expose the men for several hundred yards to a murderous fire of musketry, and front rank man is gone, rear rank man is gone, comrades in battle are gone too. A few men struggle along together, but the whole mass has become diluent. Little streams of men pour in various directions. They no longer are amenable to command. The colors must be drawn to a place of safety, and in time the men will gather around it again. Numbers can effect little under such circumstances, provided they have no means of touching the enemy. The latter, lying under cover, firing from a place of safety, may murder your men. You may try again and again the experiment, but each repetition only lengthens the butcher’s bill. Now I have written all this to show that success, as the attack was made, was impossible. In the same way we butchered the Confederates at Malvern Hill.

Well, I have seen McDonald, and felt quite happy to meet one who had been so lately among my friends at home. He told me of Uncle Phelps’ offer of a horse, of his efforts for me and their probable success, and brought me some liquor and cigars from him and Cousin Henry. Give them my thanks, and say I delay acknowledging their kindness in a special manner until I can learn all particulars from the Doctor. Arriving here the day of the battle, he has been so busy in the hospitals since, that I have barely learned the above facts as they were hurriedly repeated by him. I will write Uncle Phelps as soon as McDonald has time to tell me anything more than the general result of his visit.

I am so cold, that though I have much more that I would like to write, I must close and go to the fire. I may write again to-morrow. Love to all.

Affec’y.,

Will.

Camp Near Falmouth, Va.
December 10th, 1862.

My dear Mother:

I was much disappointed to-night not to hear from you. I had expected a letter all day long, but the usual mail did not arrive. I wanted to hear this time, because tomorrow we believe will be spent amid the deafening roar of cannon, which is to usher in another act, let us hope the final one, of the grand drama popularly known as “Onward to Richmond.” While I write, wagons are moving over the road, and preparations are being completed for to-morrow’s engagement. Possibly the enemy may make no resistance here, still their batteries frown ominously upon us. The indications promise the great battle of the war — possibly an Austerlitz for the enemy — we hope a Waterloo for us. I have heretofore, sheltered by the prayers of mother and sisters, been singularly exempt from the accidents of war. The same Power that has already shown so much tenderness, has still the power to spare. But if in His wisdom it seemeth best this time to take my life, then, my dear mother, recognize in it only the Hand of the Inevitable. If my dying hours were only crowned by the certainty of victory, I could then close my eyes in peace. And in the great joy of the Nation, all individual griefs were selfish. So that I would have my mother’s heart beat high, and be proud to have contributed a part of its own life’s blood to the glorious consummation. With my whole heart I am eager for our success. Should I not see it with my earthly eyes, still let my mother rejoice for me, when all once more is well. But I am not given to entertaining forebodings. It is enough to do one’s duty and let Providence provide. I prefer to think of the time when we all will return home, the laurel won. Think of the pride I shall feel as my own Regiment receives its welcome from the joyous citizens of New-York, a welcome deserved by its conduct on many fields. Think of the stories I would have to tell. I believe that Mary’s boys — the next generation — will be better when they hear the story of the present. And another generation still, when the dimness of time shall have enhanced the romance, will dearly love to hear the tale of the Great Rebellion from the lips of Uncle Will. I think a wound — not a dangerous one, but some mark to show at the climax of the tale — would both contribute to the interest, and heighten the effect. Let us hope for the best in all things then, and believe that in all things, if we seek, we may always find a best.

Give my best love to Tom and Lilly, Hunt, Mary and the boys, Walter, Ellen and Nellie, Cousin Louisa. Pshaw! My dear friends are so numerous that I cannot mention them without surely omitting many often in remembrance, so good-bye.

Affec’y. your son,

Will.

(Note appended in his mother s handwriting)

My dear, dear child, he has a nobler, purer, better, more unselfish heart, than the poor weak mother who gave him birth.

Camp Near Falmouth, Va.

December 7th, 1862.

My dear Mother:

We are still lying quietly in camp — no signs of a move yet, but general suffering for want of clothes, shoes in especial. The miserable article furnished by the Government to protect the feet of our soldiers seldom lasts more than three or four weeks, so it is easy to understand the constant cry of “no shoes” which is so often pleaded for the dilatoriness of the Army. I am, happily, well provided now, and can assure those of my friends that contributed to the box Capt. _____ brought me, that the box contained a world of comfort for which I heartily thank them. I think I have acknowledged the safe receipt of the box and its contents already, but a letter from Lilly says not. I will write Uncle Phelps that it came all right. I have had a rare treat to-day. Indeed I feel as though I had devoured a Thanksgiving Turkey. At least I have the satisfied feeling of one that has dined well. I did not dine on Peacock’s brains either, but — I write it gratefully — I dined on a dish of potatoes. They were cut thin, fried crisp, and tasted royally. You will understand my innocent enthusiasm, when I say that for nearly six weeks previous, I had not tasted a vegetable of any kind. There was nothing but fresh beef and hard crackers to be had all that time, varied sometimes by beef without any crackers, and then again by crackers without any beef. And here were fried potatoes! No stingy heap, but a splendid pile! There was more than a “right smart” of potatoes as the people would say about here. Excuse me, if warming with my theme I grow diffuse. The Chaplain and I mess together. The Chaplain said grace, and then we both commenced the attack. There were no words spoken. We both silently applied ourselves to the pleasant task of destruction. By-and-by there was only one piece left. We divided it. Then sighing, we turned to the fire, and lighted our pipes, smoking thoughtfully. At length I broke the silence. “Chaplain,” said I. “What?” says Chaplain. “Chaplain, they needed SALT!” I said energetically. Chap puffed out a stream of smoke approvingly, and then we both relapsed again into silence. I see a good deal of Capt. Stevens now, who says were his father only living I would have little difficulty in getting pushed ahead. He, poor fellow, feels himself very much neglected after the very splendid service he has rendered. It is exceedingly consoling, in reading the late lists of promotions made by the War Department, to see how very large a proportion has fallen to the share of young officers whose time has been spent at Fortress Monroe, Baltimore, or anywhere where there has been no fighting done. Perhaps our time may come one of these days, but I trust I may have better luck in the medical profession than at soldiering. However, I suppose when I get old, it will be a proud memory to have fought honorably at Antietam and South Mountain, in any capacity. I feel the matter more now, for I have been in the service so long, and so long in the same place, that I am fairly ashamed to visit old friends, all of whom hold comparatively high rank. I do not see why before the first of January, though, I should not be the Lt.-Col. of the 79th Regiment. In trying to be Major, I attempted to be frank and honorable, and lost. Now I shall try to act honorably, but mean to try and win.

I feel sad enough about Hannah. You know what inseparable playmates we were when children. God help her safely, whatsoever his will may be.

Love and kisses for all but gentlemen friends.

Affec’y.,

William.

Camp Near Falmouth, Va.

December 3d, 1862.

My dear Mother:

I hasten to write you to-day, fearful lest you should dread my being overduly oppressed by any feeling of disappointment at not receiving that promotion in my Regiment which friends may have flattered themselves was my due. I accept the disappointment without complaint — at least now, if not at first. It’s so indifferent a matter, after all, what position I may fill, so long as I am found worthy to serve in any wise the interests of a beloved country. I do not believe you love or esteem the simple Captain less. Rank in our Army is of small importance at best. I know full-fledged Colonels who once sat cross-legged in a tailor’s shop, and who still know a deal more about mending breeches than about soldiering. Our democratic institutions work beautifully in the Army. But I won’t grumble, provided friends at home don’t fall asleep while such an institution as “piping” exists. I saw Gardner Green to-day, and talked McClellan to him until the cars carried him off.

By-the-way, dear mother, I need hardly state to you that I would rather like to get out of the 79th Regiment, and not only that, but out of the Volunteer service altogether. I do not know if the thing be possible, but would like very much to get into the Regular Army. Ask Walter and Uncle Phelps if they know of any parties capable of helping me in the matter. I suppose there are plenty of parties with feelings similar to my own, so that there are twenty applicants for every vacancy. Even if I were not to retain my Commission after the close of the war, a position in the Regular Army would secure me more congenial companions for the present. Do, mother, inquire if the thing can be done.

I like “Old Abe’s” emancipation plans as developed in his “Message” very much. His “Emancipation Proclamation” though, I decidedly object to, after my Beaufort experience. The “Freedmen’s friends” down there used to send home very glowing accounts of their successes, but they told awful lies. That _____ whom Lilly speaks of meeting was a rare old chap in the way of lying. I believe in getting rid of slavery at any cost, but think Father Abraham has proposed the wisest plan I have heard of yet.

I tried to get a chance for a few days at home this month, but as usual was told there was no chance. Were I any

where else I could get home occasionally on Regimental business, but I don’t ask, nor expect, any favors in a Scotch Regiment. What evil star ever guided my destiny into a parcel of foreigners? I suppose Providence knows best, and now I find myself as fairly caught as Sterne’s Starling with no likelier chance of getting out.

Well, success to my new fancy for the Regulars.

Love to all.

Affectionately,

Will.

I am repeatedly informed of the great sacrifices my brother officers have made in coming out to the war, usually in the following words: “Why, that man used to be a boss-mechanic at home.” Nothing but boss-mechanics in the 79th are supposed to have either hearts or any other kind of entrails.

(W. W. Phelps To W. T. Lusk)

Nov. 28th, Evening.

My dear Will:

The end of a day marked by the alternation of joy with sorrow in an extreme degree. This morning the Postman gave me a large envelope covered with postage stamps, and marked with the seal of the State. It contained two papers — the one in a large envelope with the same seal upon its face and the superscription Major W. T. Lusk; the other, the letter explanatory from the Gov.’s Secretary, which I enclose.

You can imagine my gratification — the labor of months rewarded and the suspense ended. I made it a holiday.

Your Uncle, who had travailed with me, should rejoice over the birth. Down I rattled in the omnibus, with that beautiful Commission in my pocket — surest of the sure, for hadn’t I it in black and white and on parchment? I could tell any one, but, except Nelly and our folks who were rejoicing over it at home, Mr. I. N.[1] should be the first.

I left the omnibus at the Post-Office, where I dropped in a letter to tell your mother that I had a Commission, in which the Commonwealth of N. Y. declared that for the confidence it had in him, her son was declared Major of the 79th. From the Post briskly to 45 Wall, where your Uncle and I re-read the Commission, shook hands and laughed over the accomplishment of well-laid schemes. Mr. Stillman was still off for Thanksgiving, so we had the office to ourselves.

Finally I tore myself away and went with Commission and a light heart to my desk at Judge Woodruffs. Young Woodruff read the Commission, congratulated me and floored me with a telegraphic despatch. I felt it in my boots as soon as “the words” (vide Homer) “escaped the hedje of his teeth,” that here was a fall to Pride. And so it was, and a happy day received a most gloomy end.

The Despatch told me to send back the Commission— that Capt. More must have it — that Capt. Lusk had recommended the appointment. I saw our Postmaster and told him to recall your mother’s letter if possible. I broke the joy of your Uncle, who was telling Mr. Brady with glee of his nephew’s promotion, and longed for bedtime that I might cease to think of the disappointment of human hopes.

I don’t see how you could well help signing, but if you had only had the courage to rely on our watchfulness and refuse! But it’s too late now. Your Uncle and I have only this melancholy consideration to console us — that we have spread your fame. Your name is as familiar as household words to Mr. A. T. Stewart, who wrote for your Uncle the strongest of letters, to Gen. Wetmore, to Mr. Opdyke and hosts of solid men, who could tell your story from Bull Run down, as well as I.

Never mind, Will, your disappointment cannot be any greater than mine, who carried “Major Lusk’s” Commission for six hours and had to return it.

Only next time, if your friends have worked and provided for every contingency except that, don’t sign away your chances by recommending another for the place they seek.

All well. Your mother comes down Monday to live with Lilly.

In haste, most affec’y.,

Walter.

[1] Isaac N. Phelps.

(W. W. Phelps To E. F. Lusk)

New-York, Nov. 28th, 1862.

My dear Mrs. Lusk:

You will rejoice with me on hearing that the Postman has just brought me a large envelope stamped with the State Seal, containing a Commission for Major W. T. Lusk! Hurrah! And Hurrah a second time, because I was too much for his honor, Lt.-Col. Morrison!

I surmised he would play Will a shabby trick and recommend another, and I was ready for him. I wrote to the Gov.’s secretary that he might nominate a fellow named More, but that Farnsworth, I was pretty sure, preferred Capt. Lusk. Sure enough! In Major Linsly’s letter enclosing the Commission, he tells me that Capt. More presented himself with Col. Morrison’s nomination, whereupon Major Linsly read my last letter to the Gov., in which I had anticipated the case, and the Gov. told him to send me the Commission for Capt. Lusk.

I write Will to-day, and send the Commission. I daren’t send the latter before I have advised Will, or Col. Morrison, through whose hands it goes, might venture to detain or destroy it.

With love of Nelly and me to Hunt and Mary,

Very truly,

Wm. Walter Phelps.

Near Falmouth,

Nov. 26th, 1862.

My dear Mother;

I have selected the most inviting of the paper Nellie sent me to write you to-day — such nice paper I thought it would be to write a love-letter on, to some dainty little lady. I have lighted a real good cigar, and fancy I might be delightfully sentimental, but nearly five years absence from home has left me, alas! with no dainty little lady acquaintances, time having changed them into interesting matrons. So as my own mother is the most interesting matron of my acquaintance, I find myself writing to her.

To-morrow will be Thanksgiving Day. The manner in which it is supposed to be observed in camp you will find interestingly pictured in last week’s “Frank Leslie.” I suppose we will dine in reality to-morrow on coffee and crackers and fried beefsteak. Still these things satisfy the appetite, and are even capable of producing dyspepsia, notwithstanding the popular notion that such an evil is confined to the pampered denizens of cities. You must take Sam Elliott’s descriptions of camp-life cum grano salis, remembering what wonderful descriptive powers he possesses. I do not doubt he pictures the horrors so vividly that the hearers suffer far more from listening to his accounts, than the actual victims do from experiencing the reality.

You will see Wm. Elliott I suppose. Tell him then that I must have written authority from him to collect the money for his lost horse. I wish to serve him, but need the writing to enable me to act. My special friend, Lt.-Col. Morrison, played me another amiable trick tonight, having appointed More Major of the Regiment, subject to the approval of the Governor of New-York. This was in the first place unnecessary, as More has not yet reported for duty. Then it was a thing he had no special power to do, Col. Farnsworth (so he writes me) having already recommended me to the Gov. for the position. But it was a cunning trick, as, should my appointment occur in the face of his own published to the Regiment, endless troubles could easily be made to result. Yet Morrison to my face is the sweetest, most amiable among the artificers of brasses for andirons.

Capt. _______,who so flatteringly presented my prospects and deserts to Uncle Phelps, was at the same time, Farnsworth writes me, the bitterest of my opponents, and using his best efforts to ruin me in New-York and Albany. They are a sweet set among whom I have fallen. They owe Elliott and myself an old grudge for the favor Stevens showed us, which they now have an opportunity to repay. They have fixed Elliott’s case for him, and they are busy settling mine. However, have recovered my amiability, and1 no longer feeling any hope of escape, am not a little amused at the trouble they take regarding me. I tell them everything candidly, so that they need be at no pains on my account, but they, not supposing it possible for a man to be staightforward, exhaust any amount of useless cunning to gain their ends. And the best of it all is, that while all this working is going on, we are all such capital friends that it is really delightful to see brethren live in such harmony together.

With regard to the intended Army movements we are all utterly in the fog, the time passing and the mud growing deeper, while batteries are being built by the enemy under our very noses. What’s the use of questioning? Time will show.

I shall think of you feasting merrily to-morrow, mindful of the absent son and brother, and wish you all joy.

I am wearing the stockings you sent me and find them glorious. I am generally quite comfortable now, from the contents of the box my friends prepared and sent me. You must thank all those to whom I am indebted, in my name. I shall send this letter to New-York direct, supposing it may reach you sooner so. Love to Lilly, Mary, Hunt, Tom, and the Infant Department.

Affec’y.,

Will.