2 April, 1850
Dearest Mama,
Mister Lincoln is off to the War. He took the cars south, to the big new base at Cairo, shortly after mid-day today. Our good friend, Joshua Speed, took a different train a few hours later, his destination Carlyle (in Pennsylvania) and eventually the National Capital. As you can see, the Springfield Depot was a very busy place today.
The children are very unhappy that their Papa has gone, though Jimmy puts a brave face on it, thinking that as the eldest it is his duty. I understand his feeling, and am struggling with my own brave face. Sarah and Thomas are too young to really understand what is happening, and I hope that they will soon enough forget their unhappiness and return to the careless joys of childhood.
I think that Mr. Lincoln himself was happy to board his car, if only so that he could sit down. For most of the morning he seemed to be in some discomfort, the result (he told me) of his new boots not being fully broken in yet. He will have plenty of opportunity to break in those boots in the next few weeks, filled with Marching and Drilling as his days no doubt will be.
I am told that Springfield Depot has been a busy place for a week now. Many of the town’s best men have taken up commissions in the Volunteers—and so I should perhaps have referred to my Husband as Colonel Lincoln, and to our old friend as Major Speed. Every one, it seems, is anxious to obtain a commission quickly, lest the fighting be over before the uniform can be put on.
My darling Abraham was a logical choice to command a Regiment: you will recall, Mama, how he was elected Captain of his Company during the war with the Indians. He laughs, of course, when I remind him of this—it was nearly twenty years ago, he says (and he and I have been married nearly fourteen!) and he did no fighting.
I would be happy if he did none this year, either. I feel a great disgust in my heart for John C. Calhoun and his fellow-Traitors of the South who have made this war necessary by their wicked Secession. If God is just he will visit punishment on these wicked men who have sundered my family, just as they have sundered our Nation.
Mr. Lincoln does not care for such talk, I hasten to add, and is quick to chastise me when I speak aloud what my heart feels. But I cannot deny my heart, Mama.
I sometimes wish we could leave Illinois, to go West to safety. When I said this to Mr. Lincoln, he assured me he understood. But moving is not an option, and I think I always knew that.
Even if I wanted to go, how could I take my family west? There is no more West to go to, because the English are in our way. Mr. Lincoln says they are called “Canadians” now, but I find that a harsh word. Leaving Illinois would mean having to decide between one of three foreign countries: Canada, California, or Texas. And you well know, Mama, how Mr. Lincoln feels about Texas. It has been eighteen months, nearly, since he lost his place in the Congress, and often I suspect that he has not completely accepted this rebuff. He jokes with me about it, thinking that I do not see how he was hurt, and that I do not understand how frustrated he was—and still is—by this check on his ambition.
I can see you smiling, Mama, as you read these words. And indeed Mr. Lincoln’s ambition has done very nicely by me. I have a highly respected Husband, three fine children still Living, and a lovely house such as I could scarce dream of, as a girl in New Salem.
And yet I worry. Mr. Lincoln is forty-one, and War is rightly the preserve of young men. He told me, after accepting his commission from the Governor, that older men than he have gone to the Colors and taken up the Flag, but it is not those men who concern me. Life was cruel enough when I had to uproot the household and the children and move to Washington when Mr. Lincoln was elected to the Congress. At least then we had, most nights, our husband’s and father’s company in the evenings, even if the city reminded me of something in an engraving of the Lower Regions. (And I never told Mr. Lincoln just how glad I was to return to Springfield last year. Despite what I wrote a moment ago, it would not break my Heart if I stayed here the rest of my life.)
Mr. Lincoln gone away completely, I fear, will be too much to bear. If he stays away a year, or God forbid longer, I am not sure how I will be able to face the days. And how will we live? As it is, I must become a Business Woman and seek payment of Mr. Lincoln’s outstanding invoices, because we fear our savings may not be sufficient.
Oh, I know that everyone says that this will be the shortest of Wars. Even Mr. Speed—Major Speed—says that the Southern traitors will throw down their arms and beg forgiveness at “the first whiff of powder” (those are Major Speed’s words). He reminds us that the last time Mr. Lincoln put on a uniform he neither heard a shot fired in anger nor even saw the Enemy.
I wish I could believe Major Speed when he says the men will all be home before this year’s harvest is in.
But I have noticed that Mr. Lincoln does not join in the raillery about the ill-preparedness of the Southern Confederates, or about their laziness and inability to do hard work (having always forced such labors on their unwilling bondsmen). I asked him about this once, last week, and while he would not answer me directly he did say that those Virginians and Carolinians and Alabamians and Georgians he had met seemed every bit as proud and stubborn as anyone from Illinois. He foresees a lengthy struggle, I think.
And then there is the matter of General Grant.
We met this Gentleman on the platform today—he was to take the same eastbound train as Major Speed. The General seems to me a very odd man, and perhaps it is his oddness—of both person and temperament—that made his comments so upsetting to me.
I call him “General” but he is also a Captain. I still find this confusing, in spite of my Husband’s attempts to explain it to me. Somehow, I think, General Grant is at once able to be a Captain in the Regulars—because he is a graduate of West Point and therefore one of our Nation’s Professional Soldiers—and a General in the Volunteers, which is the Army raised by the late President Clay to end the Rebellion.
He does not look like a Professional Soldier—nor like a General. There is no pomp about him, and nothing inspiring, either. This afternoon he was wearing an undistinguished great-coat over a short, pale-blue jacket that my Husband said was that of a plain, private soldier. Neither coat nor jacket seemed to have been cleaned in months.
His attitude was far from martial, either. I could not tell whether what upset him was the thought of having to serve with such inexperienced men as my Husband—and this is what he must do, because Mr. Lincoln says there are only a few thousand in the Regulars, and the Confederates will soon have a hundred thousand—or because he does not agree with Major Speed that the war will be over soon.
I am confused, Mama, and unhappy, because an hour spent in the company of a General should have left me confident in the Righteousness and Success of our Cause. Instead, when I said good-bye to my Husband I could not help but cry. I have been crying as I have written this.
Pray for me, Mama. Pray for my Husband. Pray for us all.
Your devoted daughter,
Anne Rutledge Lincoln
Dearest Mama,
Mister Lincoln is off to the War. He took the cars south, to the big new base at Cairo, shortly after mid-day today. Our good friend, Joshua Speed, took a different train a few hours later, his destination Carlyle (in Pennsylvania) and eventually the National Capital. As you can see, the Springfield Depot was a very busy place today.
The children are very unhappy that their Papa has gone, though Jimmy puts a brave face on it, thinking that as the eldest it is his duty. I understand his feeling, and am struggling with my own brave face. Sarah and Thomas are too young to really understand what is happening, and I hope that they will soon enough forget their unhappiness and return to the careless joys of childhood.
I think that Mr. Lincoln himself was happy to board his car, if only so that he could sit down. For most of the morning he seemed to be in some discomfort, the result (he told me) of his new boots not being fully broken in yet. He will have plenty of opportunity to break in those boots in the next few weeks, filled with Marching and Drilling as his days no doubt will be.
I am told that Springfield Depot has been a busy place for a week now. Many of the town’s best men have taken up commissions in the Volunteers—and so I should perhaps have referred to my Husband as Colonel Lincoln, and to our old friend as Major Speed. Every one, it seems, is anxious to obtain a commission quickly, lest the fighting be over before the uniform can be put on.
My darling Abraham was a logical choice to command a Regiment: you will recall, Mama, how he was elected Captain of his Company during the war with the Indians. He laughs, of course, when I remind him of this—it was nearly twenty years ago, he says (and he and I have been married nearly fourteen!) and he did no fighting.
I would be happy if he did none this year, either. I feel a great disgust in my heart for John C. Calhoun and his fellow-Traitors of the South who have made this war necessary by their wicked Secession. If God is just he will visit punishment on these wicked men who have sundered my family, just as they have sundered our Nation.
Mr. Lincoln does not care for such talk, I hasten to add, and is quick to chastise me when I speak aloud what my heart feels. But I cannot deny my heart, Mama.
I sometimes wish we could leave Illinois, to go West to safety. When I said this to Mr. Lincoln, he assured me he understood. But moving is not an option, and I think I always knew that.
Even if I wanted to go, how could I take my family west? There is no more West to go to, because the English are in our way. Mr. Lincoln says they are called “Canadians” now, but I find that a harsh word. Leaving Illinois would mean having to decide between one of three foreign countries: Canada, California, or Texas. And you well know, Mama, how Mr. Lincoln feels about Texas. It has been eighteen months, nearly, since he lost his place in the Congress, and often I suspect that he has not completely accepted this rebuff. He jokes with me about it, thinking that I do not see how he was hurt, and that I do not understand how frustrated he was—and still is—by this check on his ambition.
I can see you smiling, Mama, as you read these words. And indeed Mr. Lincoln’s ambition has done very nicely by me. I have a highly respected Husband, three fine children still Living, and a lovely house such as I could scarce dream of, as a girl in New Salem.
And yet I worry. Mr. Lincoln is forty-one, and War is rightly the preserve of young men. He told me, after accepting his commission from the Governor, that older men than he have gone to the Colors and taken up the Flag, but it is not those men who concern me. Life was cruel enough when I had to uproot the household and the children and move to Washington when Mr. Lincoln was elected to the Congress. At least then we had, most nights, our husband’s and father’s company in the evenings, even if the city reminded me of something in an engraving of the Lower Regions. (And I never told Mr. Lincoln just how glad I was to return to Springfield last year. Despite what I wrote a moment ago, it would not break my Heart if I stayed here the rest of my life.)
Mr. Lincoln gone away completely, I fear, will be too much to bear. If he stays away a year, or God forbid longer, I am not sure how I will be able to face the days. And how will we live? As it is, I must become a Business Woman and seek payment of Mr. Lincoln’s outstanding invoices, because we fear our savings may not be sufficient.
Oh, I know that everyone says that this will be the shortest of Wars. Even Mr. Speed—Major Speed—says that the Southern traitors will throw down their arms and beg forgiveness at “the first whiff of powder” (those are Major Speed’s words). He reminds us that the last time Mr. Lincoln put on a uniform he neither heard a shot fired in anger nor even saw the Enemy.
I wish I could believe Major Speed when he says the men will all be home before this year’s harvest is in.
But I have noticed that Mr. Lincoln does not join in the raillery about the ill-preparedness of the Southern Confederates, or about their laziness and inability to do hard work (having always forced such labors on their unwilling bondsmen). I asked him about this once, last week, and while he would not answer me directly he did say that those Virginians and Carolinians and Alabamians and Georgians he had met seemed every bit as proud and stubborn as anyone from Illinois. He foresees a lengthy struggle, I think.
And then there is the matter of General Grant.
We met this Gentleman on the platform today—he was to take the same eastbound train as Major Speed. The General seems to me a very odd man, and perhaps it is his oddness—of both person and temperament—that made his comments so upsetting to me.
I call him “General” but he is also a Captain. I still find this confusing, in spite of my Husband’s attempts to explain it to me. Somehow, I think, General Grant is at once able to be a Captain in the Regulars—because he is a graduate of West Point and therefore one of our Nation’s Professional Soldiers—and a General in the Volunteers, which is the Army raised by the late President Clay to end the Rebellion.
He does not look like a Professional Soldier—nor like a General. There is no pomp about him, and nothing inspiring, either. This afternoon he was wearing an undistinguished great-coat over a short, pale-blue jacket that my Husband said was that of a plain, private soldier. Neither coat nor jacket seemed to have been cleaned in months.
His attitude was far from martial, either. I could not tell whether what upset him was the thought of having to serve with such inexperienced men as my Husband—and this is what he must do, because Mr. Lincoln says there are only a few thousand in the Regulars, and the Confederates will soon have a hundred thousand—or because he does not agree with Major Speed that the war will be over soon.
I am confused, Mama, and unhappy, because an hour spent in the company of a General should have left me confident in the Righteousness and Success of our Cause. Instead, when I said good-bye to my Husband I could not help but cry. I have been crying as I have written this.
Pray for me, Mama. Pray for my Husband. Pray for us all.
Your devoted daughter,
Anne Rutledge Lincoln
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