WILMINGTON, N. C., Oct., 1862.
MY PRECIOUS HUSBAND—The little angel God promised us has come, and I
am so happy. If you were only here, to see the little cherub nestling
by me, I would be _too full_ of bliss for utterance. To think it is
_yours_ and _mine_, darling! I feel sometimes that I _must_ send it
to you that you may see how beautiful and sweet it is. Mother says
it is like me, but I see in it nothing but your image. I think it
notices me some already, though it is only a week old, but I know
there never was such an intelligent baby; the very first name it lisps
shall be “papa,” and it shall say its little prayers each night for
dear papa’s safety. I often weep over it, darling, as I think of the
danger and hardship you are exposed to, and Oh! I do pray so fervently
that no harm may befall you. We are making a fearful sacrifice for our
country. God grant her independence may be won!
There is an old friend of yours here now—Frank, or rather Col.
Paning, as he calls himself. He relates wonderful stories of his
achievements in South Carolina, and wears his three stars very
proudly. He is all devotion to Lulie, and report says they are to be
married soon. Poor, infatuated girl, how I pity her!
We are getting on very pleasantly in our domestic affairs; the
servants are all faithful and efficient, and Mr. Bemby reports
excellent crops up at the plantation.
I would write more but feel wearied even with this, and mother, who
has propped me up in bed, threatens to take away my paper.
Our love and kisses to dear father. Johnnie sends his little love to
papa.
As ever your fond
CARLOTTA.
* * * * *
CAMP NEAR GETTYSBURG, July 3d, 1863.
MY DEAR WIFE:
I write to-night, because I know you will be uneasy when you read the
telegraphic accounts of to-day’s fight. I am grateful to say that I am
well, and cannot even boast a scratch, though I have been to-day where
a thought of life seemed folly. The hardest conflict of the war has
taken place here, and even as I write the very air seems burdened with
the groans of the wounded and dying. The loss of life has been fearful
indeed, as the reckless courage of our soldiers drove them into the
jaws of death. Our great commander and our men did all that human
strength could do, but the position of the enemy was impregnable, and
all our efforts to dislodge them were futile. To-morrow we retire,
though we are not whipped, and if Meade dare leave his mountain
entrenchments we will put him to utter rout. Would to God our retreat
were all I must write, but the old proverb about the plurality of
misfortune is but too true. Last night Ned, my dearest friend, died,
and to-day father was taken prisoner by the enemy; he was at the head
of our company, in a charge which was repulsed with heavy loss, and
when we fell back, in some disorder, he was left within the Yankee
lines. We trust that he is not wounded or hurt in any way, as, when
last seen, he was standing erect, waving his sword, and calling on his
men to rally. He will, I hope, soon get a communication through the
lines to some of you. Even if he is sent to Elmira, or Point Lookout,
he has so many personal friends at the North that he may make his
situation comfortable. Help mother to bear up bravely, for she will
need help. Prison life, however, is not so bad if one can get funds
to purchase comforts, and you know the gentleman who is now holding
father’s property for him in New York will attend to that as soon as
he hears that he is in prison. But, oh, darling! how my heart bleeds
to write of poor Ned’s death. You remember he came on to Virginia
soon after we did, but his company was placed in another regiment,
so that he was in yesterday’s fight while we were not engaged. Last
night, about dark, he sent for me to come to him, in the field
hospital. When I reached his side I found him in a stupor, from which
he roused only enough to recognize me, and faintly call my name, when
he again sunk into that ever deepening coma that seems like the very
mantle of approaching death. He had been struck in the breast with
a fragment of shell, and his lungs were completely torn to pieces.
The surgeons, seeing his hopeless condition, had given him an opiate
and left him to die, turning their attention to those who could be
saved. He was breathing with great difficulty, and with long intervals
between the gasps, as I sat down by him and took his hand in mine. His
pulse was scarcely perceptible, and I felt that his life would not
last through the night. You, Carlotta, who know how I loved him, know
how deep was my grief as I saw him slowly dying, his poor torn breast
pouring out its life-blood with every labored breath. I sat, watching
him in silence, ‘till midnight, when he opened his eyes and attempted
to sit up, but was too weak; he then commenced talking, in a confused
strain, of angel armies he had seen marching all night, in white
battle lines, over the blue sky, and of how they had formed a hollow
square around his cot; and how their commander had approached and laid
bare his bosom, that they all might see his wound, and how they had
sung a song of triumph and filed back up the blue vault, out of sight.
He then seemed to become conscious of his condition, and pressing my
hand feebly, said: “I can’t last much longer, John, but I am ready to
die, thank God! Tell mother I said so. And, John, let me be buried
under the old pines at home.” He closed his eyes and was silent for an
hour or more; when he again opened them there was that strange vacancy
in their look that is Death’s signet, and the tone of his voice was
husky and cold, as he murmured, “The white army—has come—a-gain. I
must—go. For Heaven, forward!”
He made an effort to spring up as he uttered the last word, but his
strength failed, and he fell across my lap, dead. The bravest spirit
that ever led a charge was marching through the pearly gates!
I had him buried this morning before the battle, and marked the grave,
so it may be easily found. You must go down to Mr. Cheyleigh’s and
tell them how he died.
I close now to visit Ben, who is suffering with a broken arm. Love to
mother, and a kiss to my dear boy.
May God bless and preserve you all.
Yours devotedly,
JOHN.
* * * * *
OUR COUNTRY HOME, Oct., 1864.
MY DEAR BOY:
Though it has been nearly three months since your sainted father’s
death, this is the first time I have felt strong enough to rouse
myself from my tears and grief, that I may write to you. My heart is
broken, and I have nothing now to live for. I can only pray God for
patience to wait His summons. But, my dear child, only those who are
bereaved know how hard it is to say “Thy will be done!”
Sometimes I feel, so full of deep despair, as I look to the dark,
lonely life before me, that I cannot help murmuring; and did I not
know, from all our past, that God does all in love and infinite
wisdom, He would seem now my bitterest enemy. O Christ! pardon the
feeble rebellion of my burdened soul!
Dear Carlotta is as kind and tender as she can be, and does all she
can to comfort and cheer me, but there are times when I feel that
I shall die, when I think of your poor father’s languishing on his
coarse prison bed, with no comforts near, and only his enemies to
smooth his pillow and attend to his wants. I know how he longed for
_me_ at his bedside, and how his dying thoughts came back to his dear
old home. O John! it almost kills me to think I shall never see him
again, never hear his voice calling “Mary” any more.
I hope and pray now for the close of the war, that I may go
with you to Elmira and bring home his dear remains to our quiet
graveyard—where mine, I trust, will soon rest beside them.
But I must not fill my whole letter with sadness. Dear little Johnnie
is running all about now, and lisps our names very sweetly. Carlotta
is holding him on her knee near me as I write, and he says, “Tiss papa
for me.”
You see from the date of our letter that we are up at the plantation.
We brought most of our valuables up with us, and left the house in
charge of Miss Wiggs, our housekeeper, who has taken her brother, the
cripple, to stay with her, and says she is not afraid of the Yankees.
All our servants left us except Horace and Hannah, who are touchingly
faithful in their devotion. The negroes up here are too far from
Federal influence to be much demoralized, and Mr. Bemby is gathering
a very fine crop. Since we left Wilmington we have heard some very
sad news about Lulie Mayland. Frank Paning, you know, has been in
Wilmington for more than a year, in some position that exempted him
from service. He and Lulie have been very intimate, and every one
expected that they would soon be married. Lulie made a cloister of her
home, and would see no one but Frank, who almost lived under her roof.
Of late, dark rumors began to be whispered about them, but no one
believed their slanderous import. At last, however, her shame could be
no longer concealed, and your once bright, guileless little playmate
is ruined for ever. Frank has fled, no one knows whither, though many
believe he has gone to the Federal lines, which is, I think, probable.
It is but the result of Frank’s long studied designs of evil and
Lulie’s too implicit trust and confidence.
The blow has almost killed Dr. Mayland, whose health is very feeble.
Carlotta has written to the poor girl, begging her to come up here
to us, as her ruin will be less marked in this retired neighborhood.
Lulie’s mother was my dearest friend, and I would love and protect her
child for her sake.
Alas! all the news we hear now is sad and gloomy. Fort Fisher must
soon fall and Wilmington be evacuated; and I fear that even our home
here will not be safe from the invasion of the enemy. But we are in
the hands of the Lord. May He deliver our struggling country!
Write to us often, my dear boy, for you can never know what a comfort
are your letters to your mother’s sorrowing heart. May God enfold you
with His arms of mercy! is her earnest prayer.
* * * * *
HEADQUARTERS, ARMY OF VA., }
February 28, 1865. }
MY DEAR SMITH: Your application for transfer to the Army of South
Carolina has just been returned to us from the Department at Richmond,
approved, and I take pleasure in enclosing it to you, together with
transportation for yourself, servant and horse. We regret to give
you up, but hope that you and Bemby may render as signal service to
General Johnston as you have to General Early.
I remain, very truly yours,
AMOS HALSTEAD,
Acting Ass’t Adj’t Gen’l
MAJOR JOHN SMITH,
of Gen. Early’s staff.
As explanatory of this letter, I would state that, when our regiment
first reached the Army of Virginia, it was placed in the old
“Stonewall” brigade. Ben soon began to attract the attention not
only of the officers, but of General Jackson himself, for his daring
bravery in battle, but chiefly for his skill in conducting foraging
and scouting expeditions. So successful was he in stealing through
the enemy’s lines and gaining reliable information in regard to
their strength and position, that General Jackson honored him with a
special appointment for his own service. Soon after this a friend of
father’s, in high position, secured for me a place on Jackson’s staff,
and Ben and I were thus thrown together in many a field of danger and
hair-breadth escape. After Ned’s death, at Gettysburg, and father’s
capture and subsequent death in prison, I became more than ever
attached to Ben, and we were fortunate in not being separated till near
the close of the war. When Jackson fell at Chancellorsville we were
both transferred to Ewell’s command, and at his death to Early’s—Ben
receiving a commission as chief of scouts, while I was appointed
aide-de-camp with the rank of major. After that memorable valley
campaign, and when we had joined General Lee in the trenches around
Petersburg, Ben was sent to General Beauregard, in South Carolina, to
act as scout and spy; and as I felt lonely without him, and General
Early had little need for staff officers in the trenches, I applied for
transfer, with the result indicated in the letter.
When I reached the army, Johnston had, at Beauregard’s request, been
placed in command, and, with his splendid skill, was fighting Sherman
at every step, yet drawing his small force farther and farther back
without demoralization, and without a wagon’s loss.