May 23, 1863

May 23, 1863

Letter from Chauncey Herbert Cooke, May 23, 1863
Dear mother: -- I sent you a long letter the other day but I forgot to mention my birthday. In fact I was not reminded of it until the day after but it has come and gone. I am sure if I had been at home my good mother would have reminded me of it in the shape of something good to eat. I don't know as I am any older feeling than I was two weeks ago and the future looks just the same. When I see an old person I never think of being that way myself. Maybe the Lord will perform a miracle and keep me young like the story in the old testament, but if he doesn't I am pretty well satisfied to be in this good old world. When I go back in the country, away from the sight of these big black cannons sticking their muzzles through the port holes of the fort, and look up to the green of the trees, and hear the hum of the bees and the twitter of the birds, and see the peaceful quiet of the country. It is hard to realize that the country is being torn to pieces in a big war.

Dear mother, I should have answered your last letter more promptly. I have written so many of late. I had almost forgotten I owed you one. You know it is said everything is far in war, and I know you will excuse me.

During the last four days we have been shading our tents with brush. I
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tell you we have them fixed up nice. Standing off a little ways one can hardly see the tents and it makes it so much cooler. Hot? Well I should remark. These May days in old Kentucky make everybody lawl but the darkies and nobody think of them. The heat pretty near drove us out of the tents in mid day. We take turns going over to the hospital to fan the sick boys and brush away the flies. The doctors say the younger ones are dying of homesickness much as anything.

Some of my chums and myself have been skylarking out in the country of late and we have visited a lot of pretty Kentucky homes. In a good many of them I am sure they hated to see us come in. They might be Union people but they hate to see us talking to their slaves and the soldiers were a little saucy where they thought they were not wanted. We would hunt the strawberry beds and eat them too. We would call for milk, butter, apples and other good things to eat. Most of these people we knew were our bitter enemies and some of the boys were afraid their bread was poisoned. We found some places where we were invited into the house and where the young ladies would smile and would talk to us about our homes. We knew these smiling young ladies might have been traitors and might have spies hidden away to hear what was being said. The dwellings or cabins of the slaves were mostly empty. Here and there we saw a few old negroes who chose to stay by Ol missus and masser to leaving their old Kentucky home to go out into a strange world. These old slaves were awful shy and always made some excuse to get away when we tried to talk to them. I suppose they were afraid Masser would see them. I often wonder where the poor blacks will go to find a home and something to eat. Those I have talked with say they are treated better now since they can run away without being chased by dogs.

We found a pretty country home the other day where the young lady took us out in her flower garden and gave each of us a bunch of flowers. I am sure her mother did not like to see us there. She had a cross look on her face and watched us thru the window as if she feared we might capture the girl and run away with her. When we went away one of the Durand boys told the girl he hoped to come back after the war and making the prettiest bow she said she hoped he would. When we went back to camp we told Chet Ide and Joel Harmon of Mondovi what a picnic we had and we all joined in and sang "Our Old Kentucky Home." I found out a strange thing lately, the darkies don't know anything about the song, of Old Kentucky Home, except as they have picked it up from hearing the whites sing it. I guess I must have thought it came out of some negroes heart. Anyway when ever I met a negro alone anywhere I always wanted to ask him to sing that song. Those I did ask would smile and grin and say "Massa I don't know it." Their ignorance of the song gave me a curious feeling.

This is a long letter. I hope it will find you all well as I am and happy. Love to the boys father and sister Do.

Your boy,

CHAUNCEY.