1862 CIVIL WAR Soldier Letter - 18th MASS - Westover Landing VA SUPERB CONTENT

Description

Civil War soldier's letter,
8 pgs
., approx. 5-3/4" x 7-3/8", dated at
"Camp near Westover Landing, Va., Friday, August 8th, 1862"
, from Cyrus C. Holmes, Co. G, 18th Massachusetts Infantry, to his Sister.
The writer of this letter,
Cyrus C. Holmes
, (1836-1879), was a 24 year old shoemaker when he was mustered into Co. G, 18th Mass. Infantry on Aug. 24, 1861;
Seriously wounded at the 2nd Battle of Bull Run on August 30, 1862, 3 weeks after writing this letter, when he was shot in the face
; Hospitalized at the 3rd Division Hospital in Alexandria, and
discharged for wound
s on Oct. 27, 1862 at Alexandria. Died at age 42.
A well-written letter with
great content
,writing of a deadly artillery shelling they received from the Rebels, of their burning the house of the fire-eating secessionist, Edmund Ruffin, who fired the first shot at Fort Sumter (and shot himself when the South lost the war), of the critical position of the Army and expecting a hard fight, and much more superb content.
Includes:
"Dear Sister,
....Today is extremely hot, in fact, there are not adjectives enough to begin to give you any idea of the climate. It is so hot, one cannot go out of doors without being scorched and singed, burned and toned and blistered. It is said one little contraband has melted, and it is feared other accidents may happen of the same kind, so I am very careful, as 'Old Sol' seems to take especial delight in playing hide and seek, now hiding behind a cloud, and as soon as he gets me fairly away from the tent, showing his bright and shining face, all radiant with smiles, seeming to say, 'Ha! Ha! boy, you will learn wisdom from experience'. I gain the shelter of a tree, and then defy him, daring him to do his worst. How would you enjoy a sail on the river tonight, not on the muddy waters of the James, but upon the clearer waters of the double and twisted North. I should choose the latter, though the James is beautiful, and now all is life, hundreds of vessels are anchored here, puffing and steaming, hither and thither, no one knows where...
Everything today is quiet, for the first time for three days. We are now under marching orders, and may march in an hour, or not for three months. Every day this week we have been ordered to march, once, at 12 at night, but have not started yet. The rebels are expected to attack us every day, in front, and rear; if so, look for the most desperate work two armies ever yet have done, for with us it will be literally 'Liberty or Death'; we must have the victory, or die fighting. The result, if they attack, will be of great moment to our dear cause. Maybe the roar of the next cannon will be a death knell to our beloved government, or else belch forth its thunders, as the glad shout of Victory rolls up from our veteran army, until the echoes reach you, even in your home. God grant that when next the battle rages, the victory may be ours. I know my opinion is worth but little, but I believe that very soon, even before you may receive this, it may be that we shall mingle in the
fiercest, bloodiest fight
ever fought by civilized nations. It may not come for weeks, but I believe it will surely come; everything indicates it, it is expected, being prepared for, and but for our gun boats, our destruction would be swift and terrible, if
the rebels have
gunboats up the James, and it is quite certain they have our position, is
very critical
. The rebels have a force of 700,000 effectual men, armed and equipped; we have not near that. Should they throw their army upon any point,
it must give way
. We need
men, men, men
, must have them, now,
not in two months
,
but now, immediately
; else we are lost, the noblest army that ever was raised, destroyed, and worst than that, we are nearly surrounded, are in fact, but for the river, and so defeat here will mean something more than usual.
Our army must hold its position, or else surrender
, a fearful alternative, to fight ten times our number, gain the day, or die. The game is desperate. If they throw the glove, it must be played. I would not have you think our army despairing, or wanting in patriotism. They are, I think them, the only true patriot soldiers, who at the first call, rushed to arms, counting nothing too dear to sacrifice for their Country. It must be a miserable patriotism, a mere apology for love of Country, that should take
a year
, and a
hundred dollars bounty
, to wake it up, and then, the new regiments are preferred, showing thereby, a
wholesome dread of bullets
.
The army know that they need reinforcements, they know that thousands of them have been butchered, their lives thrown away for the want of them; they feel it is their right to demand them, and they look with scorn upon the reluctance with which they come; the selfish motives that influence them - a hundred dollar bounty - out upon such patriotism, it is wicked to desecrate the holy name.
The rebels gave us some hard shelling the other night, waking us from sound sleep. It was far beyond anything at Yorktown for swiftness of execution and accuracy of aim. The shells passed very near, striking some of the tents, and ploughing up the ground. They struck within a few feet of us. No one in our regiment was killed or wounded, though they fell almost as fast as hail stones and killed upon our right and left and rear. It seems providential, does it not?  Six were killed on our side and many wounded. Our siege guns soon silenced them. They were from the other side of the river. It was a wonder they did not destroy our fleet. It was sad, next day, to hear the muffled drum, the funeral dirge, as 'slowly' they marched, 'and laid them down', to sleep in quiet, until that day of account. 'Softly sleep, ye brave departed'.
I hope you will write very soon. Events are so uncertain, ever changing here, you may not hear from us. Let not that be any excuse, write us, and when we can, we will answer. I have not told you how well I am. I am better than ever. I may not at first endure as well as before, but soon shall. I am in perfect health, the climate suits me exactly. I
am
happy.
Yours,
Cyrus
We have moved camp since we last wrote, to near Westover Landing, a rebel Major's plantation near by. Our men, Sunday, crossed the river and burned the house of Ruffin, who fired the first rebel gun at Sumter. I wish I could have fired the house.
Sunday, Aug. 10.
We have not sent this, hoping your letter may yet arrive. It has not come. Do please write as soon as this is received, or else we may get homesick. Don't wait till Sunday before answering.
Yours,
C.C.H.
Don't allow anyone to say in your presence a word against our Patriot Leader, but tell them the army
love
him,
worship him
, are ready to die for and with him, and that is enough. They know him & others do not."
A couple old repairs of partial fold splits. Fine.
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