Seventh Regiment safe and jolly. No fighting yet,— April 29th, 1861.
Eliza has been making a flag for their church. It was her part to cut out and sew on the stars. She sent for a large number of very small testaments, for knapsacks, for the Fishkill Regiment, and we have found some sheets of flags on paper, like stamps, to paste in them, each with an appropriate verse — “Fight the good fight;” “Endure hardness as a good soldier of Jesus Christ,” etc.
On Thursday evening Charley had a few friends to supper — a substitute for the birthday party — and we decorated the table with flags, bunting, red, white and blue mottoes, etc. They seemed to have a gay time and sang many songs to a squealing accompaniment from Pico. It is by no means unlikely that a Home Guard will be needed with all the militia ordered away and seditious people biding their time in town. Mansfield Davies is with his regiment at Fort Schuyler, drilling. They go south next week. George Betts goes today as Lieutenant-Colonel Second Zouaves. The great barracks in the park are nearly finished — meant as a mere shelter for troops in transit and there is a camp in the Battery— officers’ marquee and a whole fleet of tents. We hear from Norwich that last Sunday was spent by Dr. Bond’s congregation in making red flannel shirts for the regiment who were to leave next day. Mr. Davies asks us for bandages, etc., for their surgeon, which we shall supply with great readiness. Mother has made a great deal of beautiful lint. There is an organization of medical men to train nurses for the camp; lectures are to be given and bands of ten ladies are to walk some wards in the hospitals, as a preparation. Georgy has been to some of the lectures with Mrs. Trotter, and would like to go as a nurse, but would no doubt be rejected, as none but “able-bodied and experienced” women are to be taken. While I write a company goes down Broadway with the eternal Reveille. We had a grand patriotic sermon last Sunday from Dr. Prentiss, and now we have only patriotic prayers and psalms, with the petition for the President borrowed bodily from the Prayer Book.
This morning I got, to my surprise and pleasure, an official document containing a letter from Will Winthrop of the Seventh, written, no doubt, in acknowledgment of the little kindnesses we were able to show him on leaving. I quote, as it’s far too bulky to send:
“Washington, April 26. Dear Cousin: Here we are in “marble halls” the adored of everybody, the heroes of the hour. Members of Congress frank our letters; hotel men fetch the sparkling wines; citizens cheer us with tears and rapture. Wherever we appear vivas greet us — now the triple cheer, now the “bully for you!” This p. m. we paraded in the Capitol grounds, and forming in a grand square took the oath of allegiance, all together, repeating it sentence by sentence after the magistrate. Green grass was soft under foot, trees in spring attire exhaled fragrance, the marble halls gleamed on every side. Every man was clean and beautiful of moustache, pipe-clayed as to belts of snowy whiteness, well-dinnered internally. Brass plates and bayonets glistened in the sun. The band played the national hymns and the Valence polka. Abe and wife walked happy and beaming along the line. All was brilliant and imposing. Night before the last we were staggering along the line of railroad from Annapolis, wearied to exhaustion, stiff with cold and swamp damps, almost starved, with nothing but a little salt pork or jerked beef in our haversacks and no water in our canteens, feet sore with tramping—wretched beyond expression; yet all the time forced to build bridges destroyed by the enemy, and relay railroad track, torn up (rails and sleepers); also to push along before us heavy platform-cars carrying our howitzers; also to scout in the van and watch on all sides for the enemy who might be ambushed anywhere. This we had done during the day, now under a hot sun, now rained on by heavy showers; but at night in the dark and fog and cold it was cruelly severe, and to all of us the most terribly wearisome experience of our lives. Whenever we halted to hunt missing rails and lay track, our men who were not thus employed would sink down and instantly fall asleep, and often could not be roused without violent shaking. Many a time during the night did I thank (1) the cherub that sits up aloft for having put me in the way of roughing it in Minnesota; (2) the blessed women whose brandy helped to give heart to many a miserable beside myself. On the day before this forced march we were in clover in Annapolis doing parade drill on the Academy ground, sniffing the sea breeze and the fruit blossoms, swelping down oysters on the demishell. On the day before this, we were packed in the transport, either stifled in the steerage in odors of uncleanness and water drips, or broiling on the deck, each man with a square foot or two to move in, and all subsisting on the hardest of tack. The day before, we woke at dawn in Philadelphia and foraged for provisions around the railroad station, bearing off loaves on our bayonets, entertained by Quakers with eggs and cakes, lingering all day at the station, utterly in doubt about the future—ending with a hot fatiguing walk across the city to take the transport. The day before, the triumphal march down Broadway! Such are the vicissitudes of a week, the most eventful and strange in the lives of all of us—a week of cheers, tears, doubt, peril, starvation, exhaustion, great dinners, woe, exultation, passion. And the sweetest thing of all has been the brotherhood and fraternization. We share in common, give, relieve and love each other. . . . We were disappointed that we could not have a chance at Baltimore; also that we had no brush with the enemy in Maryland. We only saw them scampering over the distant hills. They could tear up the track, but were too craven to meet us. There were but few troops here in Washington; everybody was in doubt and dread, and when we marched up toward the White House with colors flying, full band playing and perfect lines, the people rushed out in tears and shouting welcome. Our importance is, of course, over-estimated, but moi I feel that I never before was so useful a member of the Republic.
We are quartered in the stunning Representatives Hall and march down three times a day to our browsings at the hotel. This is luxury, but pretty soon we go into camp on Georgetown heights. Regiments arrive all the while and the city is awake and brilliant — guards and watchings everywhere. Washington is not in immediate danger, but all are ready to resist an attack at any moment.”
All very graphic and interesting. Now we shall be eager to know how you take all this stupendous news, and whether it affects in any way your plans. Perhaps you will think best to spend the summer abroad — Isle of Wight, or something. For many reasons we should be quite satisfied to have you. Perhaps on the other hand you will be for rushing home;— natural but after all, useless. One thing, look out for Jeff. Davis’ privateers, and don’t come in any ship that hasn’t arms of some sort on board. This sounds ridiculous, so did the siege of the Capitol, ten days ago; so did the prophecy that New York would be nothing but a barrack full of marching regiments.
Uncle E. has a turn of gout. Abby is going out to spend the day there. Some day soon Mr. Aspinwall is going to drive Major Anderson out, for Aunt E.’s gratification. I shall keep my letter open for tomorrow’s news. Nothing immediate is expected, but a collision must come soon. We shall send every day’s papers and you must look out for them. Tuesday.—The news this morning is the final departure of Virginia and the call for more troops by the President. We can send as many as are wanted and more.
