Well, I've got back to camp again. We have had a rough twenty-four hours of it; it rained nearly the whole time. The enemy kept pitching shell into us nearly all night, and it took us all our time to dodge their Whistling Dicks (huge shell), as our men have named them. We were standing nearly up to our knees in mud and water, like a lot of drowned rats, nearly all night; the cold bleak wind cutting through our thin clothing (that is now getting very thin and full of holes, and nothing to mend it with.) This is ten times worse than all the fighting. We have not one ounce too much to eat, and, altogether, there is a dull prospect before us. But our men keep their spirits up well, although we are nearly worked to death night and day. We cannot move without sinking nearly to our ankles in mud. The tents we have to sleep in are full of holes; and there is nothing but mud to lie down in, or scrape it away with our hands the best we can--and soaked to the skin from morning to night (so much for honour and glory). I suppose we shall have leather medals for this one day--I mean those who have the good fortune to escape the shot and shell of the enemy, and the pestilence that surrounds us. I will write as often as I can; and if I do not meet you any more in this world, I hope to meet you in a far brighter one. Dear mother, now that I am face to face with death, almost every day, I think of some of my wild boyish tricks, and hope you will forgive me; and if the Lord protects me through this, I will try and be a comfort to you in your declining days. Good bye, kind and best of mothers. I must conclude now. Try and keep up your spirits--
And believe me ever Your affectionate son, T. GOWING, Sergeant, Royal Fusiliers.
A mother's love--how sweet the name, What is a mother's love? A noble, pure, and tender flame Enkindled from above, To bless a heart of earthly mould; The warmest love that can grow cold,-- This is a mother's love. _James Montgomery._
"The gates of mercy shall be all shut up: And the fleshed soldier,--rough and hard of heart,-- In liberty of bloody hand, shall range With conscience wide as hell: mowing like grass Your fresh fair virgins and your flowering infants." _Shakespeare._