Wilmington, N. C., Oct., 1862.

My Precious Husband—The little angel God promised us has come, and I am so happy. If you were only here, to see the little cherub nestling by me, I would be too full of bliss for utterance. To think it is yours and mine, darling! I feel sometimes that I must send it to you that you may see how beautiful and sweet it is. Mother says it is like me, but I see in it nothing but your image. I think it notices me some already, though it is only a week old, but I know there never was such an intelligent baby; the very first name it lisps shall be “papa,” and it shall say its little prayers each night for dear papa’s safety. I often weep over it, darling, as I think of the danger and hardship you are exposed to, and Oh! I do pray so fervently that no harm may befall you. We are making a fearful sacrifice for our country. God grant her independence may be won!

There is an old friend of yours here now—Frank, or rather Col. Paning, as he calls himself. He relates wonderful stories of his achievements in South Carolina, and wears his three stars very proudly. He is all devotion to Lulie, and report says they are to be married soon. Poor, infatuated girl, how I pity her!

We are getting on very pleasantly in our domestic affairs; the servants are all faithful and efficient, and Mr. Bemby reports excellent crops up at the plantation.

I would write more but feel wearied even with this, and mother, who has propped me up in bed, threatens to take away my paper.

Our love and kisses to dear father. Johnnie sends his little love to papa.

As ever your fond

Carlotta.

Camp near Gettysburg, July 3d, 1863.

My Dear Wife:

I write to-night, because I know you will be uneasy when you read the telegraphic accounts of to-day’s fight. I am grateful to say that I am well, and cannot even boast a scratch, though I have been to-day where a thought of life seemed folly. The hardest conflict of the war has taken place here, and even as I write the very air seems burdened with the groans of the wounded and dying. The loss of life has been fearful indeed, as the reckless courage of our soldiers drove them into the jaws of death. Our great commander and our men did all that human strength could do, but the position of the enemy was impregnable, and all our efforts to dislodge them were futile. To-morrow we retire, though we are not whipped, and if Meade dare leave his mountain entrenchments we will put him to utter rout. Would to God our retreat were all I must write, but the old proverb about the plurality of misfortune is but too true. Last night Ned, my dearest friend, died, and to-day father was taken prisoner by the enemy; he was at the head of our company, in a charge which was repulsed with heavy loss, and when we fell back, in some disorder, he was left within the Yankee lines. We trust that he is not wounded or hurt in any way, as, when last seen, he was standing erect, waving his sword, and calling on his men to rally. He will, I hope, soon get a communication through the lines to some of you. Even if he is sent to Elmira, or Point Lookout, he has so many personal friends at the North that he may make his situation comfortable. Help mother to bear up bravely, for she will need help. Prison life, however, is not so bad if one can get funds to purchase comforts, and you know the gentleman who is now holding father’s property for him in New York will attend to that as soon as he hears that he is in prison. But, oh, darling! how my heart bleeds to write of poor Ned’s death. You remember he came on to Virginia soon after we did, but his company was placed in another regiment, so that he was in yesterday’s fight while we were not engaged. Last night, about dark, he sent for me to come to him, in the field hospital. When I reached his side I found him in a stupor, from which he roused only enough to recognize me, and faintly call my name, when he again sunk into that ever deepening coma that seems like the very mantle of approaching death. He had been struck in the breast with a fragment of shell, and his lungs were completely torn to pieces. The surgeons, seeing his hopeless condition, had given him an opiate and left him to die, turning their attention to those who could be saved. He was breathing with great difficulty, and with long intervals between the gasps, as I sat down by him and took his hand in mine. His pulse was scarcely perceptible, and I felt that his life would not last through the night. You, Carlotta, who know how I loved him, know how deep was my grief as I saw him slowly dying, his poor torn breast pouring out its life-blood with every labored breath. I sat, watching him in silence, ‘till midnight, when he opened his eyes and attempted to sit up, but was too weak; he then commenced talking, in a confused strain, of angel armies he had seen marching all night, in white battle lines, over the blue sky, and of how they had formed a hollow square around his cot; and how their commander had approached and laid bare his bosom, that they all might see his wound, and how they had sung a song of triumph and filed back up the blue vault, out of sight. He then seemed to become conscious of his condition, and pressing my hand feebly, said: “I can’t last much longer, John, but I am ready to die, thank God! Tell mother I said so. And, John, let me be buried under the old pines at home.” He closed his eyes and was silent for an hour or more; when he again opened them there was that strange vacancy in their look that is Death’s signet, and the tone of his voice was husky and cold, as he murmured, “The white army—has come—a-gain. I must—go. For Heaven, forward!”

He made an effort to spring up as he uttered the last word, but his strength failed, and he fell across my lap, dead. The bravest spirit that ever led a charge was marching through the pearly gates!

I had him buried this morning before the battle, and marked the grave, so it may be easily found. You must go down to Mr. Cheyleigh’s and tell them how he died.

I close now to visit Ben, who is suffering with a broken arm. Love to mother, and a kiss to my dear boy.

May God bless and preserve you all.

Yours devotedly,

John.

Our Country Home, Oct., 1864.

My Dear Boy:

Though it has been nearly three months since your sainted father’s death, this is the first time I have felt strong enough to rouse myself from my tears and grief, that I may write to you. My heart is broken, and I have nothing now to live for. I can only pray God for patience to wait His summons. But, my dear child, only those who are bereaved know how hard it is to say “Thy will be done!”

Sometimes I feel, so full of deep despair, as I look to the dark, lonely life before me, that I cannot help murmuring; and did I not know, from all our past, that God does all in love and infinite wisdom, He would seem now my bitterest enemy. O Christ! pardon the feeble rebellion of my burdened soul!

Dear Carlotta is as kind and tender as she can be, and does all she can to comfort and cheer me, but there are times when I feel that I shall die, when I think of your poor father’s languishing on his coarse prison bed, with no comforts near, and only his enemies to smooth his pillow and attend to his wants. I know how he longed for me at his bedside, and how his dying thoughts came back to his dear old home. O John! it almost kills me to think I shall never see him again, never hear his voice calling “Mary” any more.

I hope and pray now for the close of the war, that I may go with you to Elmira and bring home his dear remains to our quiet graveyard—where mine, I trust, will soon rest beside them.

But I must not fill my whole letter with sadness. Dear little Johnnie is running all about now, and lisps our names very sweetly. Carlotta is holding him on her knee near me as I write, and he says, “Tiss papa for me.”

You see from the date of our letter that we are up at the plantation. We brought most of our valuables up with us, and left the house in charge of Miss Wiggs, our housekeeper, who has taken her brother, the cripple, to stay with her, and says she is not afraid of the Yankees. All our servants left us except Horace and Hannah, who are touchingly faithful in their devotion. The negroes up here are too far from Federal influence to be much demoralized, and Mr. Bemby is gathering a very fine crop. Since we left Wilmington we have heard some very sad news about Lulie Mayland. Frank Paning, you know, has been in Wilmington for more than a year, in some position that exempted him from service. He and Lulie have been very intimate, and every one expected that they would soon be married. Lulie made a cloister of her home, and would see no one but Frank, who almost lived under her roof. Of late, dark rumors began to be whispered about them, but no one believed their slanderous import. At last, however, her shame could be no longer concealed, and your once bright, guileless little playmate is ruined for ever. Frank has fled, no one knows whither, though many believe he has gone to the Federal lines, which is, I think, probable. It is but the result of Frank’s long studied designs of evil and Lulie’s too implicit trust and confidence.

The blow has almost killed Dr. Mayland, whose health is very feeble. Carlotta has written to the poor girl, begging her to come up here to us, as her ruin will be less marked in this retired neighborhood. Lulie’s mother was my dearest friend, and I would love and protect her child for her sake.

Alas! all the news we hear now is sad and gloomy. Fort Fisher must soon fall and Wilmington be evacuated; and I fear that even our home here will not be safe from the invasion of the enemy. But we are in the hands of the Lord. May He deliver our struggling country!

Write to us often, my dear boy, for you can never know what a comfort are your letters to your mother’s sorrowing heart. May God enfold you with His arms of mercy! is her earnest prayer.

My Dear Smith: Your application for transfer to the Army of South Carolina has just been returned to us from the Department at Richmond, approved, and I take pleasure in enclosing it to you, together with transportation for yourself, servant and horse. We regret to give you up, but hope that you and Bemby may render as signal service to General Johnston as you have to General Early.

I remain, very truly yours,

Amos Halstead,

Acting Ass’t Adj’t Gen’l

Major John Smith,

of Gen. Early’s staff.