October 8th, 1864.
I received a letter from home this evening, freighted with love and wifely endearments. As I read that comforting letter, my heart overflowed with gratitude to the Giver of all Good for the bestowal of this, His most precious gift to man. I rejoice at the safe arrival of my “relic.” I valued it more than money. I had marked several pieces which were my favorites. Among them was one entitled “We Miss Thee at Home.” The first time I sang it was in company with Mr. Collier and two other good singers. I was never in better trim for singing than on that night. We had sung several of my favorite pieces and were passing the otherwise tedious hours very pleasantly. But this was too much for me. My voice, before so clear, suddenly thickened and became hoarse. My eyes, before so strong, refused to trace the “mystic words.” I could only see my poor, grief-stricken wife, as, solitary and alone, she mourned her absent mate.
But I must return from these “dreamy wanderings” to record the rugged scenes of cruel war. The Ninth Corps is again on the “war path.” It started this morning, at daylight, on a reconnoissance toward the South Side Railroad. When I last heard from them —at 3 p. m.—they had advanced one mile, driving the enemy before them, which brings them to within one mile of the road. Yesterday I could plainly hear the engines whistle defiantly. The Seventeenth remained in camp to receive pay. I have drawn for eleven months, which will relieve the most urgent needs of my family and enable them to tide over “the coming winter.” One might infer, from what I have written this summer, that I had been a “man of business.” Well, I have had a hand in nearly everything that floats. My parole bars me from “regular duty,” and, taking advantage of it, I have followed my inclination in the main, only being careful to “keep within the lines.” My Captain commands the regiment, and this makes me some extra work, as I do all his writing. Our business relations are satisfactory. He treats me with unvarying kindness.
We have drawn our fall clothing today. It came in good time, for most of our men were thinly clad. The weather, which only three days ago was very hot, has suddenly taken cold—so cold we actually had a frost this morning; hardly discernible, ’tis true, but still a frost, and we were fain to get up early to “gather ’round the fire, and we piled the rails on higher” until we fairly turned night into day. All to little purpose, however, for, like “poor Harry Gill,” my teeth did “chatter, chatter still.”
Our recruits who came to us recently say it is not nearly as cold here as in Michigan when they left. The General and his staff are having brick fireplaces built in each of their tents. Privates cannot afford this luxury, as brick houses are scarce in this part of the country. Unfortunately for us, the houses are all of wood, and their chimneys, when torn down, will not supply the officers with brick. Most of the houses, too, are occupied by their owners, they not having been notified of our contemplated visit.
But hark! what causes all this uproar? More good news, I think, for I seldom have heard such cheering. “What is it, Amos?” “Don’t know; guess Burnside’s come, er the boys ‘ave scart up a rabbit.” “More good news from Sheridan,” says Charley. “He’s had another big fight with Early, whipped him, took nineteen pieces of artillery, seven thousand prisoners, most of his supply train, and, at last accounts, was following him up close, bound to capture his whole army or follow him into Richmond.” I expect this is slightly exaggerated, but the news is good. I wonder if the noise disturbs the Johnnies?
