HEADQUARTERS DISTRICT
OF SOUTH ALABAMA,
Fort Gaines, April 29, 1865.
My Dear Wife:
Your very interesting and affectionate letter of 23d March,
apprising me of your safe arrival at home and of your adventures by the way,
was received.
Truly, you passed through great peril and vicissitude, and
are now prepared to somewhat appreciate my life upon the road for the past four
years. We feel called upon to thank God whenever we graze a great danger, that
is visible and tangible, forgetful that the same care is constantly over us, in
the unseen and impalpable peril in which we always move. But it is well with us
occasionally to look danger in the face, that we may form the proper estimate
of our weakness and frailty, eliminated from God's care, while we learn that
without danger there is no greatness, that in the hazardous conflicts where
life is ventured, high qualities only are developed.
What canting nonsense do we occasionally hear in certain
quarters to disparage mere personal courage, “mere personal courage!” We are
reminded that the ignoble quality is held in common with the bulldog, and that
in this essential he is our master; we are reminded that it is a low and vulgar
attribute, that neither elevates nor enlightens, that the meanest creatures are
often gifted with it, and the noblest natures void of it. But we may be sure
that without it, there is neither truth nor manliness. The self-reliance that
makes a man maintain his word, be faithful to his friendship, and honorable in
his dealings, has no root in a heart that shakes with craven fear. The life of
a coward is the voyage of a ship with a leak, eternal contrivance,
never-ceasing emergency. All thoughts dashed with a perpetual fear of death,
what room is there for one generous emotion, one great or high-hearted
ambition. I congratulate you that in the presence of danger, you were not frightened,
that you did not lose your presence of mind, but felt able to put forth your
best powers for the emergency that might have been near.
There is very little in my life here now, that is of
sufficient importance to entertain you in detail. It is five days since I have
had news from the outside world, and I hardly know whether we have war or peace
in the land. My health is pretty good and I am perfectly comfortable, so far as
shelter, food and raiment can make me comfortable. I have abundance of fish,
flesh, and fowl, and plenty of whiskey, brandy, wine and ale, though I am
making very sparing use of any kind of stimulants. I have had some fine birds,
snipe, peep, plover, and a splendid shore bird, the “sickle billed curlew,” as
large as a barnyard fowl. Mother will remember father's often speaking of them.
I miss my family, and continually regret that I had not kept you and Walter
with me, for up to this time I could have made life here for you very
agreeable. Here I find myself using the word “regret” again, when I well know,
humanly speaking, it is better as it is. Yet, philosophize as I will, comes
that increasing, unwearied desire, that is with us in joy or sadness, that
journeys with us and lives with us mingling with every action, blending with
every thought, and presenting to our minds a constant picture of ourselves,
under some wished-for aspect, different from all we have ever known, when we
are surrounded by other impulses and swayed by other passions. “Man never is
but always to be blessed.”
The weather has been delightfully pleasant, an occasional
storm and one or two sultry days, but I have not been called upon to dispense
with winter garments and sleep comfortably under two blankets. The sea breeze
is always fresh, and it is charming in the evening to ride upon the hard and
perfectly level beach and see the breakers dash in surf and foam on the shore.
The air then becomes perfectly pure from the ocean and is wonderfully
exhilarating. The horses become so much excited as to be difficult of control,
and the Captain, the best broken horse of the times, has frequently become with
me wholly unmanageable. You would be amused to see him capriole and play with
the waves, dashing close to the brink as they recede and advance, and rejoicing
in the cool spray. But everything about me is constantly damp. My arms always
rusty, my buttons dimmed and black, and the paper on which I write almost as
wet as if it had passed through the water. I believe this climate would be
favorable to persons with pulmonary complaints. I have been a good deal
exposed, but never take cold, or if I do, it does not make itself apparent by
sore throat, cough, sneezing, or anything of that kind. At the same time I must
say that the atmosphere is undoubtedly malarial and no science or skill can
guard against malaria.
Intelligence now comes that the rebel General Dick Taylor
has asked terms of surrender, and that General Canby has this day gone to
arrange, also that General Hurlbut has gone on a mission to Kirby Smith. So
that this department is fast winding up the rebellion in this quarter.
SOURCE: Walter George Smith, Life and letters of
Thomas Kilby Smith, p. 392-5
