Beverly, August 25. Sunday.—A cold night. Clear but foggy this A. M. No orders to march yet. Good! Provisions and provender, i. e. rations and forage, scarce and poor. Captain Clark, a spirited German (Prussian) officer of the “Greys,” dined us yesterday at Widow What’s-her-name’s hotel, Got letters here from Lute, Uncle, and Mother, with a Testament from Mother. Shall read it “in course”—through I mean; begin now.
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BEVERLY, VIRGINIA, August 25, 1861, Sunday A. M.
DEAREST:—Supposing I might have to go on towards Cheat Mountain this morning, I wrote you a very short note last night I now write so soon again to show you how much I love you and how much my thoughts are on the dear ones at home.
I never enjoyed any business or mode of life as much as I do this. I really feel badly when I think of several of my intimate friends who are compelled to stay at home. These marches and campaigns in the hills of western Virginia will always be among the pleasantest things I can remember. I know we are in frequent perils, that we may never return and all that, but the feeling that I am where I ought to be is a full compensation for all that is sinister, leaving me free to enjoy as if on a pleasure tour.
I am constantly reminded of our trip and happiness a year ago. I met a few days ago in the Fifth Regiment the young Moore we saw at Quebec, who went with me to see the animals at Montreal one Sunday. Do you remember the rattlesnakes?
Young Bradford goes to Cincinnati today.—We have our troubles in the Twenty-third of course, but it is happiness compared with the Guthries—fine fellows and many fine officers, but, etc., etc.
We saw nothing prettier [last year] than the view from my tent this morning. McCook’s men are half a mile to the right, McMullen’s Battery on the next hill in front of us. The Virginia Second a half mile in front, and the Guthries to the left. We on higher ground see them all; then mountains, meadow, and stream. Nothing wanting but you and the boys.
I want to say to you it will be impossible often, as we get further in the hills, to write, and when I do write it will be only a few lines. Don’t think I am getting weaned from you and home. It is merely the condition of things compels me. I saw young Culbertson, looking strong and healthy, Channing Richards, the Andersons, etc., etc., all ditto. Young Culbertson is now in a scouting party that is after guerrillas who murdered some of their men in an ambulance.
I have got a new boy—a yellow lad in Guthrie Gray uniform, aged about sixteen, named Theodore Wilson.
Sunday evening.—Just got orders to go to Huttonsville. Look on my map of Virginia and you will see it geography style, but the beautiful scenery you will not see there. We are to be for the present under General Reynolds, a good officer, and then General Benham or General Rosecrans. All good. The colonel takes our one-half and the German half of McCook and the battery of McMullen. The soldiers are singing so merrily tonight. It is a lovely sweet starlit evening. I rode over to Colonel Sandershoff (I think that is the name of McCook’s soldierly and gentlemanly lieutenant-colonel) to tell him about the march, and from his elevated camp I could see all the camps, “sparkling and bright.” I thought of the night you walked with me about Camp Chase.
Good-night. Our most advanced outpost is connected by telegraph, so that in Cincinnati you will know what happens at an early date; earlier far than any letter of mine can reach you. Kisses to all the boys. Love to Grandma and affection enough for you, dearest.
Affectionately,
R. B. HAYES.
P.S.—It would do mother good to know that I read three chapters in the Testament she sent me. Send a quarter’s worth of postage stamps in your next.
MRS. HAYES.
