Monday, April 25, 1864, 8:00pm
Near Culpeper Court House, Virginia In the field with the Army of the Potomac.

Mr. M.G. Campbell, Ass’t. Editor, Harper’s Weekly: A Journal of Civilization.
Harper Bros. Building, Franklin Square, New-York City.

Dear Campbell,

I write to you from the vast outdoor metropolis of campfires, log huts, tents, wagons, limbers, mud roads, and picket lines which is the great encampment of our Army in Virginia, just north of the Rapidan River. I left Washington this morning with General Burnside’s IX Army Corps, 30,000 strong, which took six hours to march in columns past President Lincoln and General Burnside himself as they stood on the Willard balcony with heads uncovered in salute. Before falling in with the wagon train at the end, I watched this grand event from across the street with my sister Emma and three of her volunteer comrades in Miss Dix’s nursing corps, viz., Miss Emily Ingram, Miss Adriana Burns, and Miss Mellicent “Missie” Walker, the last of whom is the niece (by marriage) of the illustrious Mrs. Alice Walker of the U.S. Sanitary Commission, who was herself also in attendance. The morning was cool but dry, with occasional clouds casting dramatic shadows upon the momentous scene before us. The sharp cadence of the drums, the burnished brass, barrels and bayonets of the troops, the brilliant colors of the regimental and national flags, some of them bearing witness to the savagery of prior campaigns with their tatters and holes, and the enthusiastic singing of the five regiments of United States Colored Troops, whose deep voices rose as one man in a thunderous cheer upon seeing Mr. Lincoln, all contributed to the stirring grandeur of this sublimely patriotic spectacle.

We were also joined by none other than the great sage of Pfaff’s, the poet Walt Whitman, who has befriended my Emma through his volunteer work at the Armory and the other hospitals sprouting throughout the Federal city. Mr. Whitman’s younger brother George is a captain in the 51st New York Volunteers, and after three hours of breathless anticipation, he spied his gallant sibling and rushed to embrace him, much to the chagrin of Capt. Whitman, who was distracted by the affectionate gesture from his obligatory “eyes right” to salute the President and his Corps commander. After casting one final look at President Lincoln on the Willard balcony, I bade Whitman, Mrs. Walker, my dear sister and her comrades an affectionate farewell, and then leapt onto the rear of a supply wagon, doffing my straw slouch hat in a final adieu as the ladies in the crowd blew kisses, threw blossoms, and waved their handkerchiefs at the departing heroes.

The southwestward journey by rail and road to the encampment of the Army proceeded uneventfully, the rattle of the soldiers’ tin cups against their bayonet frogs and the snorts of mules and horses keeping cadence with the tramp of boots and brogans. We were soon joined by various of our cavalry patrols, who reported that there had been little sight of the enemy, the Rebs being largely positioned on the south side of the Rapidan, with a lookout post on Clark’s Mountain. The surrounding countryside has been fairly stripped bare of anything of value to our troops, with disassembled rail fences lying mournfully next to the carcasses of slaughtered livestock and the occasional abandoned haversack or blanket. Most of the homes stand empty, with the local residents of Secessionist sympathies having fled south to areas of the state still held by the Rebels. A visitor would not recognize what was once the verdant and prosperous Old Dominion State, the home of Washington, Jefferson, Madison and Monroe. Alas, the poisonous effects of Secessionitis have exacted their toll in blood and desolation, even in the land of our Founding Fathers, most of whom were themselves slaveholders.

We arrived at the main encampment of the Army this evening. Our arrival was greeted warmly by all, although the Negro troops received a mixed reception, with some of our brave veterans joining hands with them and welcoming them as brothers in arms, and others remaining aloof, still ensnared in their prejudices and distrust. I was truly astounded at the mettle of the colored troops, who maintained their dignity and happy disposition throughout the train journey and march, and uttered nary a complaint about the blisters, the mud, the sore legs, the stale hardtack, and the occasional rain shower, in sharp contrast to the sour choruses arising from many of the ranks of the white soldiers, and the veritable dictionary of profanities erupting from the teamsters and artillery drivers.

I fell in with one regiment of Negro soldiers for a few hours, and enjoyed a lively conversation with Private Isaiah Smalls, who was born a slave in Harrisonburg, Virginia before escaping with Banks’ army in ‘62 and relocating to Washington. Smalls is a strapping, muscular gentleman of thirty-three, with a complexion the color of Army coffee and a full black beard flecked with grey. He has four children still held in bondage, and a wife sold into Georgia in 1858. His parents died in slavery, and he has had no word of his beloved these six years. Yet in spite of this unspeakable suffering, he evinces no bitterness or self-pity, but only keeps his eyes fixed southward, his cartridge box full, and his bayonet sharp. “A reckonin’ is comin’ for the Secesh,” he declares confidently, a twinkle in his deep brown eye, the corners of his broad mouth spreading the folds of his beard in a grin. “Marse Cummings was killed at Gettysburg,” he says of his former master, who was an officer in Armistead’s Brigade. “A man can only offend th’Almighty so many times before he gets a reply.” Many of the men are eager to avenge the cruel massacre perpetrated by Forrest on their brethren at Fort Pillow near Memphis two weeks ago; they intend to repay in full the Rebel policy of no quarter.

I secured a pass from a member of General Burnside’s staff before leaving Washington, and intend to seek out General Grant’s headquarters on the morrow to obtain a document with more longevity. It would appear that the IX Corps will be reporting directly to General Grant, rather than to General Meade, who remains in command of the Army of the Potomac, due to General Burnside’s status as Meade’s predecessor (this may actually benefit the colored troops, who have in Grant one of their greatest allies). I sent a telegram to General Grant’s headquarters to inform him of my impending arrival, but the censorship from the War Department has been stringent, and I fear the General did not receive my message. I will also find Andrews in the Quartermaster Department tomorrow, to obtain a proper mount and McClellan saddle, &c. I know Waud is already here somewhere, as well as Cadwallader and his legion of Herald men, but I have yet to encounter another correspondent in person. I will write again soon; word has it that we move in two weeks toward Richmond.

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