Georgeanna Wolsey to her Mother.
May 19.
We are lying in the Spaulding just below the burnt railroad bridge on the Pamunkey. It is startling to find so far from the sea a river whose name we hardly knew two weeks ago, where our anchor drops in three fathoms of water, and our ship turns freely either way with the tide. Our smoke stacks are almost swept by the hanging branches as we move, and great schooners are drawn up under the banks, tied to the trees. The Spaulding herself lies in the shade of an elm tree, which is a landmark for miles up and down. The army is encamped close at hand, resting this Sunday, and eating its six pies to a man, so getting ready for a move, which is planning in McClellan’s tent.