October 20, 1862

October 20, 1862

Dear mother, father and all the rest.

I am writing you from a sick bed propped up on the back of a chair made soft with pillows. You must think it strange that you have got no letters these three weeks but if
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you knew how fearfully sick I have been you would understand. I have been a mighty sick boy with the measles all this time in a big room in the city building along with ten other of my comrades. Three others of my Co. are here. Andy Adams, one of my chums from Mondovi. is one of them and he has been very sick. I tell you mother it is a terrible thing to be sick among strangers anyway. I've tho't of home and you so many times. Maybe if I had ever been sick before it would not have seemed so bad, but I want to tell you my dear mother, I never want to be sick away from you. The women of the town came in every day to give nice things to eat and make lemonade for us but they were all strange and new ones came nearly every day. They were kind, of course but O, I don't know. I felt if they were thinking more of their nice clothes and how fine they looked than of us. They wouldn't give me all the water I wanted, and I was always so thirsty. I just dreamed all the time. I don't want to talk like a baby mother, and the boys say, "Don't write any bad news to your father and mother," but you have always told me I should tell the truth and I believe its all right. God knows I never felt before what it meant to have a good home and a kind father and dear mother. And for these nearly three weeks on my back, I have thought of you all more than a hundred times. What a nice thing is a good home. Don't think I am home sick mother, you know I can say all these things and still not be homesick. When a fellow is sick and all broke up he can't help saying soft things. But I know if you had been here or I had been there I should not be where I am. Some of the fellows here are awful rough in their talk. They wasn't very sick and they are joking me and a young fellow in Co. E. because we are talking so much about our home and our mothers. I don't deny that I long to see my dear mother, and when the tears come into his eyes I know the poor boy that lays next to me is thinking of home too.

Don't think for a minute mother, that I am dying. I am getting better and in a few days will rejoin my Co., which is now at Richmond, about 20 miles from here. It will seem like going home almost, to get back to my dear old Company. The nights are getting freezing cold and they tell me the lakes are covered with ice, and lately I dreamed of laying on my stomach and drinking cold icewater through the air holes. I suppose it's because I am always so dry.

They say that a few days ago three hundred soldiers came down from Ft. Abercrombie, 130 miles from here. They left everything quite, in fact the Indian war seems at an end unless the upper Sioux turn on us.

Colonel Sibley has recovered all the white prisoners and nearly 2.000 Indian prisoners. The question seems to be whether to let the Sioux remain or drive them from the homes of their ancestors into some western reservation. It seems likely
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that they will be driven away. Mother this whole Indian question is wrong. Laying on my sick bed here, I can't help thinking of the wrong doing of the government toward the Indians. I am losing heart in this war against the Indians. When you come to think that all this beautiful country along the Minnesota river was bought for 2 cents an acre and that the government still owes them this pitiful sum for it, I am sorry for them. The boys tell me I am no better than an Indian when I talk about it, but I can't help it. God made this country and gave it to the Indians. After a while along comes Columbus with his three cocle shell boats, takes possession of all the continent in the name of the Almighty, Queen Isabelle of Spain and the Indians are treated as wild beasts. I often think as I have heard father say, "if this is the spirit of the present Christianity, God will dam it.

I don't expect we will have a brush with the Indians unless we go farther west. The boys at Richmond are having good times, hunting deer and bear and catching fish. The lakes are clear and cool and full of fish.

We don't know where we are to winter, likely as not just where we are. My dear mother I am out of money. I haven't got the three dollars yet I wrote for the last time. I got to borrow a stamp to send this letter, but its alright. Mother, how does the new house come on? Have you got in it yet? Have you dug the potatoes yet? Does brother W. kill many prairie chickens this fall, or hasn't he got any ammunition? Has father got the stable plastered up warm? The bule clay in the bottom of the creek is all right for that.

Mother, don't you hate to leave the dear old cabin this winter for the new house? I love to think of that best of beds under those long oak shingles warped and twisted, that let in the rain and snow in my face. I would give all this world if I owned it, if I could sleep there tonight. Did the corn get ripe? Has father broke the colts? Has brother W. broke the steers so they can haul things? How is father Cartwright? Has father killed any game this fall, what is it? Mother, as to the money I sent home, I want you or father to use it for anything you want. All I want is the first payment on that land so that is clear I don't care for the rest. You must get some apple trees if you have not already, and get a stand of bees. You ought to raise your own honey. I would like very much to hear from you mother. I haven't heard from home since I left La Crosse, I do not complain. There may be letters some where for me. Remember mother, a letter in your own hand writing. Love to all, to yourself, father, brothers and sister.

Your soldier boy.

CHAUNCEY