Peebles House, October 15th, 1864.
The army, at this point, is pursuing a course of “masterly inactivity.” Even the work of fortifying, which has been carried on with so much vigor the past five months, is partially suspended. The hostile armies, separated by only a few rods of forbidden ground, are silently watching each other. Not a shot is fired, by day or night, along the front. The pickets, in some places not more than ten rods apart, are on the best of terms, exchanging newspapers, trading rations for tobacco, etc.
From the top of a hill but a few rods from here the Rebel camp is plainly visible. By the aid of a field glass I can see the “Johnnies” lounging lazily in camp or at work on their fortifications. But, for all this seeming quiet, we are in constant expectation of the storm that is liable to burst upon us at any moment. General Grant, with Secretaries Stanton and Fessenden, are at Ninth Corps headquarters tonight. Generally, where Grant goes a blow is to be struck. He is almost omnipresent. Today we hear of him with Sheridan, in the Valley; tomorrow he is closeted with the President; before we have time to turn around, he is back in City Point.
Our officers are, during this temporary quiet, freely indulging in those refined tastes which army life is so well calculated to develop, by engaging in such innocent amusements and gentle recreations as horse racing, gambling, and their usual accompaniments, commissary whiskey, midnight revels and broken noses.
Part of this I have seen; the rest is told me by a “reliable gentleman” on duty at headquarters. Of course, he does not make public what he sees, as it would cost him his position and do no good. Last Saturday a very exciting contest came off between two blooded horses, owned by two “bloods,” both Brigadier Generals. Another match is announced for tomorrow and another for Saturday. With such examples, is it any wonder that gambling is on the increase? So far as my observation goes, nine men of every ten play cards for money.
I received a letter from home today, filled with gloomy forebodings.
Sometimes, almost unconsciously, I give way to gloomy thoughts, bordering on despair, where hope lies buried. With me, such moods are of short duration. Can it be possible my darling wife has breathed the tainted air from the “slough of despondency” for two long years? Come up with me, dear one, and together let us climb the mountain of hope. Lean fearlessly on your husband, for he is strong in faith and will lead you gently up, above the dark, murky clouds of doubt, to bask in the bright sunshine of trust and confidence. Viewed from this height, how bright the prospect. Home treason lies powerless, bound hand and foot by a free people’s choice. Armed treason, that hideous monster, is fiercely struggling in dying agony. Its heart still beats at Richmond; but Grant, and Sherman, and “Glorious Phil” are sapping its life blood. When the heart shall cease to beat, the extremities must die.
