Petersburg, Va., June 22d, 1864.
It is nearly two months since I heard from my loved ones. I cannot express my anxiety; words are too feeble.
The fighting continues around Petersburg. It has raged, without intermission, since the 15th inst., night and day. All their works have been carried by storm except their last, or inner, works, which seem to be impregnable.
In the different engagements around this place our —the Third—Division has lost in killed and wounded 1,500 men. I cannot describe—would not if I could —the scenes I have witnessed and passed through during the past six weeks. The sights of woe are enough to appal the stoutest heart. I have worked day and night since we arrived here, and cannot see that I have done anything, so much still remains to be done. Fast as possible the wounded are sent to City Point, and thence to Washington, to make room for fresh victims. City Point is about eight miles from here. Every possible comfort is there provided. Mrs. Brainard, Mrs. Wheelock and several other Michigan ladies are there, freely distributing to soldiers the people’s gifts. I have written my friends if they have anything to give the private soldier, to do it through the Christian Commission or Michigan Soldiers’ Relief Society. Tomorrow I go to City Point in charge of a train of sick; I will probably remain there for the present; at least, that is now my intention. My object is that I may the sooner hear from my loved wife, for this suspense is torture. My position is a peculiar one. I am left to take care of myself as best I can; am reported on company books as “Absent, prisoner of war;” can draw neither pay or clothing. For myself I care not, but the thought that my family may suffer—is suffering—is maddening.
