.NjAw.NzY2
[1]
Chaffin’s Bluff Sept[ember] 24th, 1862
My dear Wife:
Our means of sending off and getting letters are still very deficient, and they will necessarily cause me to be irregular in writing until it is changed. Have received no letters from you since my last, but suppose they have been sent on to Col[onel] Goode’s Reg[imen]t, which is with the Brigade down towards Williamsburg [Va.]. I write to-day as I expect to go with the wagons to-morrow to Richmond, for my box. I failed to get the box sent me by Sis[ter] Sue, but hope to get it tomorrow. – It is now very hard for us to get to Richmond unless we have business of some importance, but this is no hardship to me as I dislike almost to go because I then feel so near home, and cannot go. It is now near two [struck-through] six months, darling, since I left you. I hardly know how I have passed the time, and how I have stood
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so well the separation from those who are more than half of my life. When I look back the time seems like a long long horrible dream, and when I look forward, I feel as if I would give any- thing even it only [underscored] a dream. I still see no im- mediate prospect of getting a furlough, but hope that the time cannot be very far distant, when the war will end; and I shall have a final fur- lough to come home, & be happier than we have ever been before. In the mean time, it must be a great comfort to you to know that I am in no immediate danger, - that I am spared the terrible marches, and fightings, & [pri-?] [vations?], & sufferings of our army on the Potomac [River], and that we can hear from each other [c...tly?]. I repeat what I wrote last, - if you have given out the idea of meeting me in R[ich]mond – write all that you think and talk about it, that I may cheat myself into the belief that I shall soon meet with & see you there. You know best what
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is proper about it, but if you do conclude to coming be sure, and with me word, some ten days be- fore you start and then again immediately after you reach R[ich]mond. I will also repeat what I wrote last about my boots for [for?][struck-through] you may not receive my letters. Have me a p[ai]r of boots No. 8 made by a boot-maker (named [cousins?], I think) at Buffalo Springs [Mecklenburg County, Va.]. Jimmy Watkins will attend to it for you , & send them to Mr. Howison by express. They will cost about $20. I wish them to reach to my knees & be of his best make. The statements we get now from the army are conflicting, and uncertain. We have done a great deal of desperate fighting, and hav’n’t been whipped; but have not accomplished all that was expected, I think, though fully as much as any one had the right to expect. You have doubtless seen the death of Col[onel] Crump, our old commander at Glo[uce]st[er] P[oin]t [Va.] & of Jack Thorton (L[ieutenan]t Col[onel]) former Capt[ain] of Pr[ince] Ed[ward] Cavalry.
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I learn from Pr[ince] Ed[ward] that bro[ther] Dick is with the Mary- land [army?] [?] [from?] the death of Gen[era]l [Samuel] Garland (Baskervilles Brig[ade] Gen[era]l) , that Baskervilles Reg[imen]t must have been in the fight. Ben Watkins too is with [General Robert E.] Lee’s army. I think I feel more interested about those three than any others. If you hear from any of them write what has become of them. In our company, we have no restrictions on us except a roll call at night & in the morning, and a few hours log cutting one day in five. The rest of the time is entirely at our own disposal. We spend it in hunting, fishing, and wandering over the country, and reading such books as we can get. This, of course [‘of course’ struck-through] though, of course, more pleasant, in many respects than hard duty, makes it seem [underscored] harder that I can’t get a permit to spend a few of my idle days at Home. I might spend at least four days in every week with you darling, & still do all that is required of me here. (Evening) Have just *
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*received your letter of 18th directed to Chaffin’s Bluff. Our let-
ters will now, I hope be regular again. My trunk is safe and will be brought up to me as soon as some one comes up from that part of K[ing] & Q[ueen] [County, Va.]. I am glad you wrote me what you did about Aunt Mary – it reminds me that it might be a comfort to Aunt M[ary] to get a letter from me, telling her of Daniel’s good health. I will [write?] as if I have not heard of her uneasiness. I feel very sorry for her, & think she ought to be humored a great deal in her anxiety. Daniel is a [?] fellow. I will get Dr. F[lournoy] to notice him particularly without letting him know of Aunt M[ary]’s un- easiness. I think he is better able to stand the service than when he first volunteered. He sleeps with Abe, who is a perfect old-maid- [Daniel?] [‘old...Daniel’ underscored] about taking care of others. I am writing by candle light that I may have my letter early [struck-through] ready early in the morning. I wish you could see me, kneeling by my bed & writing on the back of the little [testament?] sis[ter] Martha gave me. It is my portfolio and writing table. Sam & Philip are [eva...ing?.] a
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most [discordant?] dust. My bed is made of poles laid across forks driven into the ground. It is not hard, but I would not exchange it for a feather bed, unless it was at home, and I am frequently surprised at how sweetly I sleep on it. The tent is just large enough for three, and has a [narrow?] passage between the beds, a nice dirt floor, and beautiful green grass growing under the beds. My candle is stuck in an old bayonet, and every thing has an air of great comfort and neatness. I sometimes think that if it were not for the fact that I could be so often reminded by it of the long, anxious months of our separation, I would have me a nice little tent in our yard when I get home, to spend the hottest parts of the summer int. We had a prayer meeting with a short [exhortation?] from Mr. Bagley, to-night, just before roll –call. As soon as we get our house completed we will begin again our regular prayer-meetings, and bible classes, as we had them at Glo[uce]st[er] P[oin]t. We continue nightly prayers in our tent, and one or two more of the mess have joined us. Since the nights have gotten longer & we have candles, we have added to it, the reading of a chapter in the bible. This makes it feel much more like family prayers. And precious we always remember those at home, whom we [love?] and who love us so clearly; and who feel such great solicitude and [?] for ones welfare I dont know if I am treating you exactly right to cross as many of my letters, & would not do it, but my paper is getting scarce, and it is sometimes difficult to get it for some time – then these cross lines too are such a temptation. If you find any difficulty in making out what I have written please let me know, and I will stop it. Daniel has told me a good many of Charley’s saying and doings. It seems to amuse him and Sam very much. Tell Charley & [Jus.?] [not?] that three or four of us have caught very nearly a thousand fish this week, some of them very fine perch & chub, but none very large. We have them frequently twice a day for meals. Henry is getting to be a first rate cook, and would make us a [number one?] servant, only he is rather slow. He does his best though, and
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seems much better satisfied, since Daniel has gotten back, and he has gotten entirely well again. He says now that he cares nothing a- bout going home. I would be glad if you would send me oc- casionally a copy of the N[orth] C[arolina] Presbyterian – only such copies as you think are very interesting. Also send, if you have an opportunity, any books of light reading, that will not be of much worth in a library. If you can get hold of a copy of Adam Bebe, I would like to read it again very much. We cant find such read[in]g in R[ich]mond, & cant do solid reading in camp, - can find good reading & religious books, but nothing that we can pick up at any time, & pass off an hour in forgetfulness. A good many too will only [struck-through] need light reading, who now spend their time much more unprofitably & injuriously. Men cant do nothing without doing something worse, and any light reading which hasn’t [ab...tely?] an injuriously [‘ly’ struck-through] tendency, may do some good in camp. [?] love to all Kiss our precious little one for me. Good night my precious & may God watch over you always – y[ou]r devoted husband – N[athaniel] V. W[atkins]
