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Richmond, 1781 - written by Betsy Ambler, 16 years old. My dear Mildred, What an alarming crisis this is! War in itself, however distant, is indeed terrible, but when brought to our very doors, when those we most love are personally engaged in it, when our friends and our neighbors are exposed to its ravages, when we know assuredly that without sacrificing many dear to us as our own lives, our country must remain subject to Britain's tyranny, the reflection is overwhelming. Oh, my dearest girl, I tremble for your safety. Where were you hid when the enemy passed your door? We only had time to learn that they were on the road from Richmond when we were again in the carriage, and in a few hours reached this place where it would seem impossible for us to be in any danger. Great cause have we for thankfulness, and however dreary it is I will endeavor to be contented, hoping and trusting for a speedy deliverance. But how dreadful the idea of any enemy passing through such a country as ours, committing enormities that fill the mind with horror! Oh! my friend, when will there be an end to our sorrows! Betsy
We arrived at the Valley Forge in the evening of December 18. Fatigue and thirst, joined with hunger, almost made me desperate. I felt at that instant as if I would have taken victuals or drink from the best friend I had on earth by force. Just after I arrived at my tent, two soldiers whom I did not know, passed by. They had some water in their canteens which they told me they found a good distance off, but could not direct me to the place as it was very dark. I tried to beg a draught of water from them but they were as rigid as Arabs. At length I persuaded them to sell me a drink for three pence, Pennsylvania currency, which was every cent of property I could call my own, so great was the necessity I was then reduced to. Private James Martin.
August 29, 1776. My dearest friend: I have spent the three days past almost entirely with you. I have possession of my aunt's chamber in which, you know, is a very convenient pretty closet with a window which looks into her flower garden. Here I have amused myself in reading and thinking of my absent friend, sometimes with a mixture of pain, sometimes with pleasure, sometimes anticipating a joyful and happy meeting, whilst my heart would bound and palpitate with the pleasing idea. And with the purest affection I have held you to my bosom till my soul has dissolved in tenderness and my pen fallen from my hand. How often do I reflect with pleasure that I hold in possession a heart equally warm with my own, and full as susceptible of the tenderest impressions, and who now whilst he is reading here, feels all I describe. Abigail Adams |
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November 22, 1812. I only write, dear wife, that you may have the satisfaction of hearing that I am very well. I am in a better state of health than I have been in two years. My waistcoats are too small and my breaches are tight. My Uniform coat, which was made very large, is now tight. I find great comfort with my tent and mattress, especially when it rains. I hope, wife, you will have more fortitude than to suffer any unnecessary grief about me as you must think me capable of taking care of myself. I am, dear wife, as usual, your affectionate companion, H. Cromwell. |
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September 17, 1862. In passing among the wounded after they had been carried from the field, my attention was attracted by the pale, sweet face of a youthful soldier who was severely wounded in the neck. The wound still bled profusely, and the boy was growing faint from loss of blood. I stooped down and asked him if there was anything he would like to have done for him. The soldier turned a pair of beautiful, clear intelligent eyes upon me for a moment in an earnest gaze, and then, as if satisfied with the scrutiny, said faintly: "Yes, yes; there is something to be done, and that quickly, for I am dying." Something in the tone and voice made me look more closely at the face of the speaker, and that look satisfied me that my suspicion was well founded. The little trembling hand beckoned me closer, and I listened with breathless attention to catch every sound which fell from those dying lips, the substance of which was as follows: "I can trust you, and will tell you a secret. I am not what I seem, but am a female. I enlisted from the purest motives, and have remained undiscovered and unsuspected. I have neither father, mother nor sister. My only brother was killed today. I closed his eyes about an hour before I was wounded. I shall soon be with him. I am a Christian, and have maintained the Christian character ever since I entered the army. I wish you to bury me with your own hands, that none may know after my death that I am other than my appearance indicates." I remained with her until she died, which was about an hour. Then making a grave for her under the shadow of a mulberry tree near the battle-field, apart from all others, I carried her remains to that lonely spot and gave her a soldier's burial, without coffin or shroud, only a blanket for a winding-sheet. There she sleeps in the beautiful forest where the soft Southern breezes sigh mournfully through the foliage, and the little birds sing sweetly above her grave. Emma
June 25, 1863. I never wish to see another time as the 27th of May. The surgeons used a large cotton press for the butchering room and when I was carried into the building and looked about, I could not help comparing the surgeons to fiends. It was dark and the building lighted partially with candles. All around on the ground lay the wounded men; some of them were shrieking, some cursing and swearing, and some praying. In the middle of the room was some 10 or 12 tables just large enough to lay a man on. These were used as dissecting tables and they were covered in blood. Near and around the tables stood the surgeons with blood all over them, and by the side of the tables was a heap of feet, legs, and arms. On one of these tables I was laid and being known as a colonel the chief surgeon of the department was called and he felt of my mouth and then wanted to give me chloriform. This I refused to take and he took a pair of scissors and cut out the pieces of bone in my mouth, then gave me a drink of whiskey and had me laid away.
June 9, 1862. This war has done me good in many ways. It has taught me patience and endurance and to "labor and wait." It has learned me to be less particular in a great many things. When I see dirt in my victuals, I take it out and eat on. If I taste it, I swallow and eat on. If my bed is hard and my head not high enough, I content myself with the idea that it might be worse and go to sleep. I think I have seen the dark side of soldiering and although it is tolerably hard, yet there ain't any sense in calling it intolerable. E. J. Ellis
Date and Author unknown Wishing to hear from you I write you this, it being the fourth letter that I have written home and as yet have received only one from those I so dearly love. It looks very hard, Father, and still I deserve it all and more too. But when you come to reflect that you have seen me for perhaps the last time on earth, I feel as though I ought to hear from home at least once a week. But you may be right in this, after giving you the trouble and anxiety that I have. But Father I ask you, I beg of you to forget and forgive all, and I promise to do better in the future. The time may come yet when you will be proud of your wild, reckless and dissipated son as I have been called. My mind is made up to be in the front rank if we ever get in a fight, and there to make my mark.
Date Unknown: "Miss - I'm raving, I'm furious, I'm mad! I'm jealous, uneasy, disheartened and sad! I received information, perhaps through the papers, Of your tricks and maneuvers, your pranks and your capers. You know when I left here I bid you beware Of the fellows, Lieutenants and Captains up there. For you know that you promised that mine you'd be That evening beneath the old Mulberry tree, When the moon in mid-heaven was shining so bright And your dark eyes were radiant with love's mellow light. Then happy was I and how perfectly blessed As your beautiful form to my bosom I pressed. But my pleasure so full is now faded and yellow For I hear that you're now loving another young fellow. And if what people tell me so often is true The courting is carried on chiefly by you. And if you deny it, I'd like much to know Why so often to visit Miss Mary you go? And why when you meet him your eyes are so bright With every expression of rapturous delight. And even your voice ever changes its tone: As soft and as sweet as a turtle dove's moan. And then I'm told the opinion you harbor: The Lieutenant is the nicest young fellow in Barbour. But nice as he is if ever I meet him As sure as his Bales, I'm going to beat him. But I'm not going to speak of the thing any further Lest my passions should drive me to some bloody murder. But I'll give you, my dear, in the close of this letter Some advice which might suit in the absence of better: For they tell me he is surely engaged to another. And if this is the fact (and I've no reason to doubt it) Remember the lamp and the moth that was hovering about it. For in flying around him there's nothing to gain, But you might accidentally get burnt for your pains. Yours in good will, John Bunkam. |
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May, 1898. I opened on the Spanish flagship Reina Christina with my 8 inch guns at five thousand eight hundred yards. Every shot took effect. The Spanish Admiral Montojo fought his ships like a hero. He stood on his quarter-deck until his ship was ablaze from stem to stern, and absolutely sinking under his feet, then transferring his flag to the Isla De Cuba, he fought with what was left of his fleet, standing fearlessly amid a hail of shrapnel until his second ship and over one hundred of her crew sank like lead in a whirl of water. It seems to me that history in its roll of heroes should make mention of an Admiral who could fight his ships so bravely, and stand on the bridge coolly and calmly when his fleet captain was torn to pieces by one of our shells at his side. I sent him a message telling him how I appreciated the gallantry with which he had fought his ships, and the deep admiration my officers and men felt for the commander of the Reina Christina, who nailed his colors to his mast, and then went down with his gallant crew. George Dewey |
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May 19, 1916. Life here, in spite of the hard work, seemed no more than camping out, and war only another way of spending the summer agreeably. With the warm weather we had left the underground bomb proofs and pitched little shelter tents under the trees, when suddenly "whizz-bang! "whizz-bang!" "whizz-bang!" -- a terrific rafale of shrapnel bursting right in our midst. But that there were victims was inevitable. Moans from outside. Cries to lend a hand. A sergeant and seven men had been touched. The most serious case was Corporal Colette, a splendid fellow whom everyone liked. They took him away on a litter, but he died before reaching the ambulance. Havoc in our little camp that had been so peaceful. Air full of dust and smell of powder, ground littered with leaves and branches, tents, clothes, equipment riddled with holes, ground splashed and trailed with blood. Naturally since then we have had to come back into the bomb proofs, where deep underground we live in holes like those that I remember from our old natural histories, that show a gopher, an owl and a snake all living happily together in the same burrow. Here, it is men, rats, and vermin. This is a typical episode in our life here on the front. It happens quickly and is quickly forgotten. Life is so cheap here. I am writing you this from the first line trenches. A French aeroplane is circling overhead and being bombed by the Boches. It is the close of a beautiful spring day. Alan Seeger.
July 18, 1918. I was bumped off right off the reel this time, but my bunch got there and made up for me and the other boys who did not get there. Got shot through both legs and lay on the battlefield about four hours before I could get help to the rear. You know, the only ones going to the rear are cripples and have troubles of their own. A fellow who was shot in the face came along and put me on his back, and with a rest now and then, in shell holes, we managed to get to the regiment dressing station without getting shot up any more. Georgie, dear, I am not kidding one bit when I say it was the hottest place in the world. It rained machine gun bullets, and shells of all sizes fell like hailstones. But that couldn't stop the Americans. They were going right ahead, and they are going still. Corporal G. Gulberg.
September 15, 1918. It is very fine to say that the soldier who rushes out at the right moment and brings information that turns a defeat into a victory, only to die of his wounds, is a hero. He is. But think of the weeks he has doubtless spent in the trenches, with sleepless nights, rainy nights, or under shell fire. Think of the time he has spent impatiently waiting to get into action, perhaps in a training camp, perhaps delayed in port, or waiting orders in the reserve lines. Does he think he is going to do a grand and glorious thing? Not a bit of it. It is easy to do the spectacular act. It is easy to act in the midst of action. But it is hard to do the sordid daily task day by day. But that's the thing that counts exactly as much as the supreme act in its time. Life, whether in war or peace, is not made up of thrills and glories. It is made up of little things. But it is the grace and good will with which these little things are done that counts. Donald G. Mitchell, Jr. |
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