My Dear Mary

7 March, 1865

Dearest Mary,

I am hoping this letter finds you in good health. At the expense of transparency, I cannot say where we have settled since our last correspondence. Letters from the top ordered all locations filed as top secret while we await our next move.

Goddamn smugglin’ tactics.

Our scouts reported messages containing false information been intercepted. The army moved southwest of our position, as the false notes suggested we would move at nightfall a fortnight last day.

Some in camp have begun to wonder if the General has lost his touch, but I believe most of my comrades have grown tired of war in the most general sense. We are tired, hungry, and injured. Some beyond repair. God have mercy. The cold don't aid our quest for comfort. Winter ain't been kind. Although, Madam Giselle and her Red Cross women have become a beacon of hope for many of us. Without them, we'd a lost when the snows hit. The last battle saw us lose thousands. Honest and hardworking farmers. Dentists and doctors. Writers too. Good men all the same.

I remain steadfast, but war is a nasty business. To conceal my disgust would be duplicity to my soul.

I would attempt to describe to you the horrors we have seen, but your tender soul does not deserve such evil poison. The vile cruelty of men at war should not concern a pure heart such as yours, however, I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge your unwavering thoughtfulness. Your correspondence has been most uplifting to a wretched sinner such as I. Perhaps one day, I shall return and describe them to you, and with luck, a soul as pure as yours may cleanse a soiled one such as mine.

For now, I cannot bring myself to divulge in good faith. I wish instead to confess my bout of homesick. My heart aches to return to you my love. Your tender words haunt me whilst I lay awake at night in terror of the coming day. Know that they bring me joy in times of sorrow. I have imagined many a time stealing away under the cover of night so that I may be reunited with you once again.

I often reminisce on the day you brought me along to pick strawberries in Momma’s garden. It was July. Your birthday had just passed. You were wearing a bright yellow sundress. The one you wore on the day I met you. It was the first time you laid your eyes on me as if the world around us ceased to exist. I remember the tremble in your lips as I held you close, and the sparks that flew when I kissed you. It was the day I knew I could not go on without you. Not a day goes by that I do not think of it.

A Goddamn fool I must be for leaving.

You are my one burning passion to see my duty through. But the candle runs low, and the tray is filled with old wax. A sinner’s salvation, all the same.

Give my love to Mother and Little Jax. I shall keep you all in my heart, this day, until my last.

With Love,

Clark

25 May, 1865

Dearest Mary,

The nights continue to bring terror and unrest, and the days seem to pile more on top of what already lies broken beneath. I confess to you that the whiskey brings comfort in false hope. Many like myself have drown in it all the same. My Homesick lingers while the terrors of war surround us. Ever nearer. Day and Night. The cold has relented at last, a prospect that should have brought us hope. Instead, God seen fit to punish us with a terrible reality. Frostbite, by God, at least what the sawbone calls it, has come to take our hands and feet. Madam Giselle has tended to the injured with saint-like ability, prepping them for the sawbone. Like you did when Jax fell off the horse and broke hisself.

Musta been June that year. He could barely drag hisself by the arms. Shouldn'ta never let him on that ride. But you nursed him back. Even miracle work got limits.

The pile of blackened limb outside our camp done overflowed above the bodies. Now they on about their own graves. Dug ourselves we did. Some unfortunate souls to bury their own limbs. I reckon we’ll all lose a limb if that cold show itself again.

I swore to your precious heart I wouldn’t never burden your tender soul with such horrors, least until your comfort was with me, but my doubt for such a time grows with each scream of horror in the night. The warmth has only provided us with harsh truth. This war will claim more than it saves. The price of freedom is mountainous, and to be taken for granted is treacherous.

We got our orders to move east, long the river, to meet the troops in battle. The pain settled in my chest is catastrophic. Whiskey and rum only serve to numb what will always be cureless. The thought of battle has made us all drunkards of the forest floor all the same.

In my dreams, you waked me with the smell of fresh pie on the table. Blueberry. Just like momma made it. And a jug of Watson’s milk. Jax tugs at my leg, pleading for the next lesson in woodshop. God as my witness, that boy will make this family rich.

Then there is your radiating beauty, blinding the both of us, father and son. You offer that tender smile full of love. Full of compassion that there ain’t no comparison.

My soul griefs with the burden of happiness. I shall never again live so complete. I am sure of it.

With Love,

Clark

1 June, 1865

Dearest Mary,

The good Lord calls to me while I search for the words to share it. I remain confident in my decision to join this fight for the rights of all Americans. I am reminded of my father’s courage throughout my youth. Many a man such as he faced conditions akin to these that negros face now, though few men have courage enough to admit.

I have had the pleasure of sharing the fire with them for many nights now. It only serves to confirm what I already suspect. Man ain't so different from each other no matter color, nor accent. And I tell you no goddamn pleasure ain’t never seen more’n it. Whiskey flows over the tongue all the same. Men wage war on behalf of the tender and ill-able all the same. Women bear children and uncommon, oft unheard wisdom all the same. Farmers reap a harvest in the fall after a years’ hard work all the same. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west, all the same.

Few things are simple, yet so true.

This I know, if nothing else. My love for you shall never see death. My body will surely parish on the battlefield tomorrow. The whiskey has made peace with me for long enough at least. But know that I shall be with you always, My Love.

Forgive my transgressions. They are too painful to reject at this hour. I owe you that much all the same.

Jax will bring you through. That boy is everything. Guide him. Teach him. Trust in him. He bears the courage of my father and the brains of his before. Before this day is over, he shall bear my sacrifice for the sake of all of us.

I am not a good man, my Dear Mary. Many a-sin blackens my soul as the frostbite turn our limbs in this war of men. I will atone for them ne’ermore upon this earth. I tell you this. I must ask your forgiveness now, My Love. You have given me love without condition. Such that I never thought possible for a man. It is the only wish a man on this earth seldom sees true.

The sun in my eyes while I gaze upon that yellow sundress shall be the savior of my soul. A wretched sinner, God ain’t never told. If only it were summer, seven year ago.

My life I give, for you, for our son, My Dear Mary.

2nd Lt. Clark Thomas

55th Infantry