Sent from Union Army Encampment, February 19, 1862, to Xavier Plantation in Georgia
I find myself at Fort Donelson, in Tennessee.
We just took the fort, but I hardly think you want to know the details—or maybe you do, but suffice to say I don’t much wish to tell them.
(War grows less novel as it goes on, you see. Still simple. Almost too simple—begins to bore me. But it is boring in a hectic, horrible sort of way, the boring that makes you want for it to be over, what with the bloody mud—sometimes literally, BLOODY—and the fighting and such. Aim for colour and fire.)
Hope you’ve been well—and all the children. Or not-children, in the cases of some, I suppose.
I’d like another full-scale update, if you wouldn’t mind giving me one.
I think I understand the term ‘homesickness’ a little better now.