Army letters of Oliver Willcox Norton (Eighty-third Pennsylvania Volunteers)
    

“No one knows what will be done with us.”–Army letters of Oliver Willcox Norton.

Camp Wright, Hulton, Penn.,
Thursday, June 27, 1861.

Dear Father:–

One of the items of interest in the editor’s visit to Colonel McLane yesterday, is found in the Gazette of this morning, viz.: that throughout the whole day (yesterday) no marching orders or countermands were received. For a week or ten days the camp has been in a feverish state of excitement. First came the orders to distribute the arms and hold in readiness to march. The arms were distributed and then came the orders to start for Harrisburg, then the countermand–”Hold on, wait for further orders.” Next day, “Grant no more furloughs, drill fast, you will be called soon.” The orders stopped here and we “drilled fast” for two or three days, anxiously waiting for the “soon.” It did not come, but, in its place, it was announced on Monday that the Governor was not dead, as before reported, only dead drunk, and that he and his aide would be here on Tuesday to dispose finally of the Erie Regiment, either order us to Harrisburg or home. Well, Tuesday came and the Governor didn’t, so he was announced to come on Wednesday. Wednesday came and the Governor didn’t, and it was then announced that the whole thing was a canard, started just to keep the boys quiet.

Some of the boys got a great demijohn and paraded round the camp with it, labeled in staring capitals, “The Governor’s Aide.”

Company F had a comic picture sent up from New York, representing a very milingtary man with a fierce mustache. When turned upside down, it was a complete jackass. That is just about our situation. No one knows what will be done with us. I think we will be kept here the rest of our time and then sent home with our clothes worn out, and no pay to buy more with. They will hardly uniform and equip us and send us into the held for three or four weeks.

Pay no heed whatever to the letters and telegrams saying we are coming home, but continue to write to us till you see us at home. A couple of wagon-loads of dead letters would be nothing compared to our uneasiness without letters from home.

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