Camp Tompkins, Tuesday morning, October 29, 1861. — A bright, cold October morning, before breakfast. This month has been upon the whole a month of fine weather. The awful storm on Mount Sewell, and a mitigated repetition of it at Camp Lookout ten days afterward, October 7, are the only storms worth noting. The first was unprecedented in this country and extended to most of the States. On the whole, the weather has been good for campaigning with this exception. Camp fever, typhus or typhoid, prevails most extensively. It is not fatal. Not more than four or five deaths, and I suppose we have had four or five hundred cases. Our regiment suffers more than the average. The Tenth, composed largely of Irish laborers, and the Second Kentucky, composed largely of river men, suffer least of any. I conjecture that persons accustomed to outdoor life and exposure bear up best. Against many afflictions incident to campaigning, men from comfortable homes seem to bear up best. Not so with this.
I have tried twenty cases before a court-martial held in Colonel Tompkins’ house the past week. One conviction for desertion and other aggravated offenses punished with sentence of death. I trust the general will mitigate this.
We hear that Lieutenant-Colonel Matthews, who left for a stay of two weeks at home about the 18th, has been appointed colonel of a regiment. This is deserved. It will, I fear, separate us. I shall regret that much, very much. He is a good man, of solid talent and a most excellent companion, witty, cheerful, and intelligent. Well, if so, it can’t be helped. The compensation is the probable promotion I shall get to his place. I care little about this. As much to get rid of the title “Major” as anything else makes it desirable. I am prejudiced against “Major.” Doctors are majors and (tell it not in Gath) Dick Corwine is major! So if we lose friend Matthews, there may be this crumb, besides the larger one of getting rid of being the army’s lawyer or judge, which I don’t fancy.
Colonel Baker, gallant, romantic, eloquent soldier, senator, patriot, killed at Edwards Ferry on the upper Potomac! When will this thing cease? Death in battle does not pain me much. But caught surprised in ambush again! After so many warnings. When will our leaders learn? I do not lose heart. I calmly contemplate these things. The side of right, with strength, resources, endurance, must ultimately triumph. These disasters and discouragements will make the ultimate victory more precious. But how long? I can wait patiently if we only do not get tricked out of victories. I thought McClellan was to mend all this. “We have had our last defeat, we have had our last retreat,” he boasted. Well, well, patience! West Pointers are no better leaders than others.
October 29, 1861. Evening. — This is the anniversary of the Literary Club — the society with which so much of my life is associated. It will be celebrated tonight. The absent will be remembered. I wish I was there. How many who have been members are in the tented field! What a roll for our little club! I have seen these as members: General Pope, now commanding in Missouri; Lieutenant-Colonel Force of the Twentieth, in Kentucky; Major Noyes of the Thirty-ninth, in Missouri; Lieutenant-Colonel Matthews,Twenty-third, in Virginia; Secretary Chase, the power (brain and soul) of the Administration; Governor Corwin, Minister to Mexico; Tom Ewing, Jr., Chief Justice of Kansas; Ewing Sr., the great intellect of Ohio; Nate Lord, colonel of a Vermont or New Hampshire regiment; McDowell, a judge in Kansas; McDowell (J. H.), a senator and major in Kansas; Oliver and Mallon, common pleas judges; Stanton, a representative Ohio House of Representatives; and so on. Well, what good times we have had! Wit, anecdote, song, feast, wine, and good fellowship — gentlemen and scholars. I wonder how it will go off tonight.
Queer world! We fret our little hour, are happy and pass away. Away! Where to? “This longing after immortality! These thoughts that wander through eternity”! I have been and am an unbeliever of all these sacred verities. But will I not take refuge in the faith of my fathers at last? Are we not all impelled to this? The great abyss, the unknown future, — are we not happier if we give ourselves up to some settled faith? Can we feel safe without it? Am I not more and more carried along, drifted, towards surrendering to the best religion the world has yet produced? It seems so. In this business, as I ride through the glorious scenery this loveliest season of the year, my thoughts float away beyond this wretched war and all its belongings. Some, yes many, glorious things, as well as all that is not so, [impress me] ; and [I] think of the closing years on the down-hill side of life, and picture myself a Christian, sincere, humble, devoted, as conscientious in that as I am now in this — not more so. My belief in this war is as deep as any faith can be; — but thitherward I drift. I see it and am glad.
All this I write, thinking of the debates, the conversations, and the happiness of the Literary Club. It has been for almost twelve years an important part of my life. My best friends are among its members — Rogers, Stephenson, Force, James. And how I have enjoyed Strong, McConkey (alas!), Wright, McDowell, Mills, Meline, and all! And thinking of this and those leads me to long for such communion in a perfection not known on earth and to hope that in the future there may be a purer joy forever and ever. And as one wishes, so he drifts. While these enjoyments are present we have little to wish for; as they slip from us, we look forward and hope and then believe with the college theme, “There is more beyond.” And for me to believe is to act and live according to my faith.
