“Richmond, Va., June, 1861.
“Dear Mother: Pray don’t think you’ve seen a ghost when you recognize my writing. You thought me dead, I suppose, but there’s no such good news as that. I’m bullet-proof, I reckon, or I should have died in New Orleans last summer when the yellow fever and I had such a squabble. I was dreadfully sick then, and half wished I had not run away, for I knew you would feel badly when you heard how I died with nobody to care for me, and was tumbled into the ground, head sticking out as likely as any way. I used to talk about you, old Martha said, and about Rose, too. Dear little Rose. I actually laid down my pen just now, and laughed aloud as I thought how she looked when I treated her to those worms; telling her I had a necklace for her! Didn’t she dance and didn’t Tom thrash me, too, till I saw stars! Well, he never struck me a blow amiss, though I used to think he did. I was a sorry scamp, mother,—the biggest rascal in Boston. But I’ve reformed. I have, upon my word, and you ought to see how the people here smile upon and flatter me, telling me what a nice chap I am, and all that sort of thing.
“In short, mother, to come at once to the point, and not spend an hour in arguing, as Tom used to do when he took me up in the attic where he kept the gads, you know,—in short, I’ve been naturalized,—have sworn allegiance to the future Southern monarchy, and am as true a Southern blood as you would wish to see. I’ve got a Palmetto cockade on my cap,—a tiny Confederate flag on my sleeve, and what is best of all, I’ve joined the Southern army under Beauregard, and shall shortly bring the war to the threshold of the Capitol, licking the Yankees there congregated like fun. It’s about time now, mother, for you to ring for Margaret. You’ll want the camphor, and make a fuss, of course, so while you are enjoying that diversion, I’ll go and practice a little with my gun. You know I could never hit a barn without shooting twice, but I’m improving fast, and shall soon be able to pick off a Yankee at a distance of a mile!
“2 o’clock, P.M.
“Well, mother, I take it for granted you are nicely tucked up in bed, with the curtains drawn and a wet rag on your head, as the result of what I’ve told you. I’m sorry that you should feel so badly, and wish I could see you for an hour or so, as I could surely convince you we are right. We have been browbeaten and trodden upon by the North until forbearance has ceased to be a virtue, and now that they’ve thrown down the gauntlet we will meet them on their own terms. I dare say they have made you believe that we struck the first blow by firing into Sumter, but, mother, those northern papers do lie so, all except the Herald, and a few others, which occasionally come within a mile of the truth, but even they have been bribed recently, or something. If you want the unbiased truth of the matter subscribe for the Richmond Examiner, or better yet, the Charleston Mercury, whose editor is a New England man, and of course is capable of judging right. He knows what has brought on this war. He’ll tell you how the South Carolinians generously bore the insult of the Federal flag flying there defiantly in their faces until they could bear it no longer, and so one day we pitched in.
“I say we, for I was there in Fort Moultrie, and saw the fight, but did not join, for the brave fellows, out of compliment to my having been born near Bunker Hill, said I needn’t, so I mounted a cotton bale and looked on, feeling, I’ll admit, some as I used to on the Fourth of July, when I saw how noble old Sumter played her part. And once, when a shell burst within ten feet of me, turning things generally topsy turvy, and blowing shirt sleeves and coat sleeves, and waistbands and boots, higher than a kite, I was positively guilty of hurrahing for the Stars and Stripes. I couldn’t help it, to save me.
And yet, mother, I believe the North wrong,—and the South right, but so generous a people are we, that all we ask now, is for you to let us alone; and if the Lincolnites won’t do that, why, then we must stoop to fight the mud-sills. It’s all humbug, too, about the negroes being on the verge of insurrection. A more faithful, devoted set, I never saw. They’ll fight for their masters until they die, every man of them. Tom will tell you that. What are his politics? Bell and Everett, I dare say, so there’s no danger of my meeting him in battle, and I’m glad of it, for to tell the truth, I should feel rather ticklish raising my gun against old Tom. May be, though, he is humbugged like the rest, and forms a part of that unit said to exist at the North. What sort of a thing is that, mother? What does it look like? Democrats and Republicans, Abolitionists and Garrisonites, all melted in one crucible and bearing Abraham’s image and superscription! I wish I could see it. Must have changed mightily round Boston from what they used to be when they quarreled so, some against and some for Southern rights and Southern people. But strange things happen nowadays, and it may be Tom, too, has turned his coat, and taken sides with the Federals. If so, all I can say, is, Tommie, oh, Tommie, beware of the day, when Southern bloods meet thee in battle array; for a field of weak cowards rushes full on my sight, and the ranks of the Yankees are scattered in flight. Won’t we rout them, though! I shall fight next time. I’ve played pollywog long enough. I am regularly enlisted now. Am a Rebel, as you call us at home. Nothing very bad about that, either, as I can prove to you, if you’ll take the trouble to hunt up my old dog-eared History of the United States, where Washington is styled by the British the Rebel Chief.
“The South are only doing what the Thirteen did in ‘76, trying to shake off the tyrant’s yoke. It’s the same thing precisely, only the shoe is on the other foot, and pinches mightily. We did not at first intend to subjugate the North, but maybe they’ll provoke us to do it, if they keep on. Now, however, we only want, or rather did want a peaceable separation, and you may as well yield to it first as last. What do you intend doing with us, any way, suppose you succeed in licking us? Hold us as a conquered province, just as England holds Ireland? Much good that will do you. It will be some like keeping a mad dog chained so tightly that he cannot get away, but is none the less snappish and non-come-at-able for that. No, no, acknowledge our independence, and call home the chaps you have dragged from Poor Houses and State Prisons, lanes and ditches, and sent to fight against Southern gentlemen. This, to me, is the most humiliating feature of the whole; and if I must be shot or taken prisoner, I hope it will be by some one worthy of my steel. This last I’m writing for old Tom’s benefit. Give him my compliments, and tell him nothing would please me more than to welcome him to our camp some day.
“Dear little Rose,—perhaps she would not let a Rebel kiss her, and I don’t know but I’d turn Federal for half an hour or so for the sake of tasting her sweet lips once more. I do love Rose, and I feel a mysterious lump in my throat every time I look at her picture, taken just before I left home. I never show it, for somehow it would seem like profanation to have the soldiers staring at it. So I wear it next my heart, and when I go into battle I shall keep it there. Perhaps it will save my life, who knows?
“I am getting tired, and must close ere long. Now, mother, please don’t waste too many tears over me. The time will come when you’ll see we are right; and if it will be any consolation, I will say in conclusion, that I have written a heap worse than I really believe. I am not a fool. I understand exactly how the matter stands, but I like the Southern side the best. I think they are just as near right as the North, and I’m going to stick to them through thick and thin. We shall have a battle before long, and this may be the last time I’ll ever write to you. I’ve been a bad boy, mother, and troubled you so much, but if I’m shot you will forget all that, and only remember how, with all my faults, I loved you still,—you and Tom and little Rose,—more than you ever guessed.