Soldier's Letter, Civil War - December 1861

 Chenango Telegraph, Norwich, NY, January 22, 1862

Letter from I.O. Foote, 61st Regiment NY Infantry

Camp California, Va., Dec. 26, 1861

Dear Cousin:  The pleasures of Christmas with you have passed, and had it not been for the hand of Death in our company yesterday, I might have given you an account of the games and sports in Camp California and how they resulted. The 61st, and especially Company C, seem to be somewhat afflicted at the present time. Measles and colds have reduced the company to thirty-one in number fit for duty - thirty-nine being on the sick list.  It has been remarked, and with truth, I think, that our boys are not made for soldiers. But be assured your humble servant is an exception.  I've not been unfit for duty since the day of my enlistment.  Some of the boys who were thought to be able to endure the most, being hardy, some of farmers, when they tried the perspiring ordeal of a knapsack march, were as ready to throw themselves on the ground at "hale" as "we, us & Co."

Yesterday was a sorry Christmas for us and two other companies.  A corporal, beloved by all his brother soldiers for his kind and genial disposition, his wit and humor being the life of the company, died; and, almost in his last moments breathing forth, Hood-like, a witticism that would bring a smile to the veriest stoic, spent a portion of his Christmas in the spirit world.  His disease, Measles, by reason of some imprudence, was thrown back upon the system, causing congestion of the lungs and shortly death. Today we escorted his body as far as Alexandria on its way home. Twelve men and a corporal, besides six pallbearers, are allowed from the company as an escort for the body of a corporal.

Friends at home think the battle field is terrible, but the field of disease is more so.  They think only of bullets and bayonets dealing out death while these comparatively bring but few to the earth.

The daily routine of a soldier's life becomes rather irksome when there is nothing to do but eat and drill, and drill and eat, with a variation now and then.  The reveille, as you are aware, beats at daybreak, when every "son of Mars" turns out and falls in on the "color line" for rollcall.  You can imagine that this cold weather makes us step quite briskly at so early an hour of the day.  This done, we march back in two ranks to our company street, "break ranks," hurry away to our tents, roll up blankets and bind them on the top of the knapsacks, double up our "ticks" and arrange things generally, last of all giving the "grocery" a thorough dusting.  Presently the breakfast call sounds, when we walk up and make a "right face" to the cook and kettles, and are helped to the healthiest of food and as much as any common man could wish to eat.  Squire C. is boss of the pots, and the boys have reason to congratulate themselves that they have so good a governor in this department.

At eight-and-a-half o'clock is guard mounting, from nine to eleven, either battalion or brigade drill, and again from two till nearly sunset. After forenoon drill, the boys convert themselves into washer women, when there is a great waste of soap and little rubbing, as such business doesn't agree with their feelings and digital extremities.  You can rest assured that I do as little as possible.

The evenings are spent in as many different ways, almost as there are persons.  Writing, readng, telling stories, smoking the fragrant Havana, or the "weed" raised on the "sacred soil" broken and pressed into the clay pipe; cards in white with hearts and diamonds of red, thus using two-thirds of the national tri-color, are sometimes rubbed between the Ongers.  Some perhaps, will like exercising their muscle and take a turn at boxing; others will look on, and like the "trumpster," blow for the rest to fight.

Roll call at eight and-a-half P.M., taps at nine, all lights in the tents must then be extinguished, before which we spread out bed and blankets preparatory to taking a journey to the land of dreams. We soldiers have the advantage of you civilians in one thing; no time is spent in dressing and undressing; down we lie at night ready to jump up at any time the "long roll" may beat and fall in if necessity requires it to march three or four miles to strengthen our pickets.

I can hardly make myself believe that 100,000 men are in array against me.  In fact we seem to rest as securely in these tents and within six or eight miles of the enemy as if we were at home.  For a brigade hospital, we have the once splendid mansion of Commodore Forrest, formerly of the U.S.  Navy.  The grounds around it are beautifully laid out and numerous shade trees almost conceal from it the view.  Lawns there are in front and rear, which I could but think many a fair one had tripped, never dreaming that the rude hand of war would mar the beauty of that [-?-] mansion and ruthlessly defile its surroundings. But the soldier knows no beauty, and the General looks only to the comfort of his soldiers and the property being confiscated 'tis our right to use it.

Our Brigadier General is Howard, a man who means to do as near right as military rules will allow.  S.... is General of this Division.  We hope and believe if ever this brigade is called into action, though there are some deaths, the 61st will prove itself to be [...unreadable...] returning "with honor upon its shield."

All confidence is placed in McClellan and the president.  Even though we have thus far been inactive, it is judged to be for the best.  It is not the -?- of flesh that always conquers.  We are confident that infinite wisdom will bring this contest to a close in His own appointed time if our leaders but desire to be guided by it.  L.O.F.