Camp Seventeenth Michigan,
Near Petersburg, Va.,
September 18th, 1864.
Another Sabbath day has come—another week has passed away. We, of the army, take little note of time. Eighteen days in succession our regiment has toiled, without intermission, on fortifications or on roads. Today is general inspection of arms, equipments, clothing, etc. The regiment musters one hundred twenty guns. It was a sad sight, to me, to see this little band of tried heroes march out and rally on their torn and battered colors. I thought of the hundreds who had given up their lives, a free offering on the altar of freedom; of others undergoing tortures more cruel than death in Rebel prisons. Of still others languishing on beds of sickness, far from home and kindred, with none but rough men to minister to their wants or speak a word of sympathy, and then I thought of my wife’s last letter, in which she said: “It grieves me to say the majority of people here are not over-fastidious as to the means used to bring about peace.”
I would like to tell it so that all our friends might hear and know that it is true, that we, the soldiers in the army, hold in contempt the man who would accept peace on any other terms than submission to law. We have fought too long; have suffered too much; too many precious lives have been lost, to falter now.
The Rebels themselves acknowledge all their hopes are based on a divided North; they are straining every nerve to hold out until after the fall elections, hoping their friends may triumph.
