The Calloway-Whitmore Letters

In the spring of 1863, as America tore itself apart in civil conflict, two young people from the small town of Oakridge found themselves drawn together at a local festival. Eleanor "Nora" Whitmore, the thoughtful twenty-year-old daughter of the town's respected schoolteacher, had grown up surrounded by books and romantic ideals. With her talent for drawing and quiet determination, she saw beauty in the world even as war clouds gathered on the horizon.

James Calloway, the blacksmith's apprentice of twenty-three, possessed hands made strong by his trade but a heart gentle enough to dance poorly and laugh about it. Born to a farming family who had fallen on hard times, James had found purpose in his apprenticeship and deeper meaning in the shy glances of the schoolteacher's daughter.

What follows is their correspondence spanning fifty years—a collection of letters that begins with youthful flirtation, evolves through war's crucible, and ultimately chronicles a lifetime of devotion. These pages contain what remains of two intertwined lives: the words they exchanged, the words they longed to say, and the words that would forever remain unwritten.

Spring, 1863

April 12th Nora to James

Dear James,

I find myself still smiling this morning after last night's Spring Festival. Who would have thought the blacksmith's apprentice could be so thoroughly defeated by a simple waltz? Your determination to lead despite your two left feet was both admirable and thoroughly entertaining. Mrs. Peterson is still talking about how you nearly toppled the punch table!

Father says I shouldn't tease, but I believe you enjoy it. At least, that's what your smile suggested when we sat by the creek afterward. The way the moonlight caught in your eyes—I'm being terribly forward, aren't I? But somehow, I think you won't mind.

The daffodils are blooming by the schoolhouse. Perhaps you might accompany me to sketch them sometime? I've been practicing my drawing, though I doubt I'll ever capture how vibrant the world seems this spring.

Yours in friendship, Nora Whitmore

P.S. I've enclosed a pressed violet from the festival. A small remembrance of the night.

Summer, 1863

July 7th James to Nora

Dear Nora,

I hope this letter finds you well. By the time it reaches you, I'll be halfway to Camp Douglas. I enlisted yesterday with the 6th Regiment.

I wanted to tell you in person, but when I came by your house, your father said you were visiting your aunt in Millfield. Perhaps it's easier this way. I'm not good with goodbyes, as you know.

Don't worry about me. They say we'll push those rebels back before the leaves fall. I'll return with stories to tell and perhaps slightly improved dancing skills (the drill sergeant couldn't possibly be a harsher critic than you).

It felt right to write to you first. Of all the people in Oakridge, you're the one whose words I'd most like to carry with me. I'll be waiting for your reply, if you're inclined to send one.

Your friend, James

P.S. I still have that violet. Pressed between the pages of my Bible now.

Autumn, 1863

September 18th Nora to James

Dear James,

Your letter arrived three weeks ago. I've started this reply a dozen times, never finding the right words. How dare you enlist without saying goodbye? How dare you be so brave while I sit here, terrified for you?

Father says I should be proud, and I am. Truly. But pride tangles with fear in my chest until I can scarcely breathe thinking of you marching south. I've been following the news religiously. The battles sound so brutal, James.

Will you be home for Christmas? Mother suggests we might send you a package—socks and preserves and such practical things. I'd like to include something more personal. Perhaps a drawing of Oakridge in winter, so you remember what awaits your return.

The maple outside my window has turned the color of fire. I wonder what you see where you are. Are there trees? Do you have enough blankets at night? Is there anyone to make sure you eat properly?

I find myself watching the road from town, half-expecting to see you striding up the hill, that lopsided grin on your face. The one you wore when you taught me to skip stones last summer.

Please write when you can.

Yours, Nora

Winter, 1863

November 30th Nora to James

Dear James,

It's been two months since I wrote, and I've had no word from you. The papers report your regiment engaged near Chattanooga. I pray daily for your safety.

The first snow fell yesterday. I've enclosed a sketch of the creek where we used to walk—all frozen over now and beautiful in a lonely sort of way.

Please, just a line to know you're well.

With deepest concern, Nora

Winter, 1863

December 19th James to Nora

Dear Nora,

Forgive my silence. Your letters both reached me only yesterday—some mix-up with the mail carriers as we moved camps. To answer your most pressing question: no, I won't be home for Christmas. We're moving south tomorrow.

Training has been more difficult than I let on. The food is barely recognizable—I would trade a month's wages for one of your mother's apple pies. The coffee is more mud than drink. The men in my unit tease that I guard your letters more carefully than my rifle.

They're not wrong. I keep them in my breast pocket. Sometimes at night, when the homesickness feels like a physical ache, I read them by candlelight. Your words remind me of cool creek water and autumn leaves and everything good I left behind.

Your drawing hangs by my bunk. The other fellows admire your talent. Williams asked if you might have a sister with the same artistic touch. I told him you were one of a kind.

I must be brief. Dawn comes early, and with it, the march. Write to me at the new address enclosed. Knowing you're thinking of me makes this all worthwhile.

Your friend, James

Spring, 1864

April 3rd James to Nora, from the war front

Dear Nora,

We've seen our first real action. I won't burden you with details that would only cause worry. It wasn't like the stories. Nothing prepares you for the noise, the confusion. Men I've eaten with, laughed with, prayed with—some won't ever go home.

I find myself changed. At night, when it's quiet (it's never truly quiet), I try to remember the sound of your laugh. The way your eyes crinkle at the corners. Small things that once seemed ordinary now feel like treasures I hoarded without knowing their worth.

Yesterday I saw a meadow full of wildflowers not unlike those we picked that day by Miller's pond. Strange how beauty persists alongside such ugliness. I picked one for you, but it wilted before I could press it.

Your latest letter arrived smelling faintly of lavender. The other men noticed me smiling like a fool as I read it. Your words keep me sane when nothing else makes sense. 

I must stop here. We move out before dawn.

Yours, James

Summer, 1864

June 12th Nora to James

My dearest James,

Your last letter left me sleepless. I read between your careful lines and sense what you cannot say. I wish I could erase the horrors you've witnessed. Since I cannot, I'll fill this page with memories instead.

Do you remember the summer before you left? The picnic by Farley's Mill where you jumped in to rescue little Sarah Parker's doll? You emerged from the water like some dripping river god, laughing despite your soaked clothes. Or the harvest dance where you accidentally stepped on Reverend Mitchell's toes and turned so red I thought you might catch fire?

Father's shop has been busy with the war effort. I've been helping with accounts. Mother says I have a head for figures that might land me a position as a schoolteacher someday. Can you imagine? Me, corralling children like Mrs. Winters did to us?

I walk to our creek often. Last week I saw the family of rabbits that live beneath the oak tree. The smallest one reminded me of you—bold yet gentle. I sat very still and it came within inches of my skirt.

James, I must tell you something I've held back too long. These months of separation have clarified what I suspect my heart has known since that night under the stars. I think I may love you. There, it's written and I won't take it back, even if you don't feel the same.

Come home to me. Please, come home.

All my love, Nora

Winter, 1864

December 26th James to Nora, months later

My Nora,

Forgive my terrible silence. Your letters reached me all at once—five of them after months of nothing. We've been cut off, moving constantly. I meant to write sooner, but the opportunities were scarce and the exhaustion overwhelming.

Christmas has come and gone without celebration. I've seen things I lack both the words and the will to describe. Some nights I fear I'll never be the man who left Oakridge. That boy seems like someone I used to know, like a character from a book I read long ago.

But then I read your words. You wrote that you may love me. Nora, know this: The thought of you is what I hold onto in the darkest hours. Your face is what I see when I close my eyes at night. If I make it through this hell, it will be because of you.

I carry your letter about the rabbits by the creek. I've read it so many times the paper is wearing thin. I want to see that place again with you. I want to sit beside you and watch the sunlight filter through the leaves. To hear your laugh without the memory of cannon fire behind it.

I must end here. Dawn approaches and with it another push forward. They say this spring may end it all. I pray it's true.

Hold fast to hope, as I hold fast to you.

James

Spring, 1865

March 30th Nora to James, after hearing nothing for too long

My dearest James,

Are you well? It's been three months since your last letter. The papers report heavy fighting in Virginia. Each day I watch for the postman with increasing dread. Each night I pray you're simply unable to write, not unwilling or—I can't bring myself to finish that thought.

I've been checking the post daily. Mrs. Wilson at the post office has started giving me pitying looks. I refuse to accept her silent condolences. You promised you would come back to me, James Calloway, and I hold you to that promise.

Father says I should prepare myself for difficult news, but I won't. Not yet. Not until I know for certain.

The creek thawed early this year. Our spot awaits you. I visit it still, speaking to you as if you were beside me. Sometimes I imagine I can feel your presence there, that somewhere you're thinking of me too.

Please, James. Just a word to know you live. Just a line to ease this terrible waiting.

With all my heart, Nora

April, 1865

April 9th Final Warfront Letter (James to Nora, never sent)

My beloved Nora,

They say it's nearly over. Richmond has fallen. We march tomorrow for what may be the final push.

I'm not the same man who left you. My hands shake now when they're idle. Loud noises make me start like a frightened colt. But through it all, one thing remains unchanged. I lo

[The letter ends abruptly, with smudged ink staining the remainder of the page. It was found in James Calloway's breast pocket, never mailed.]

Spring, 1866

April 9th Nora to James, one year later

My dearest James,

It's been a year since the lists of the fallen included your name. They gave me your effects: the Bible with my violet pressed between its pages, my letters tied with twine, your unfinished final letter to me. I've read it a hundred times, tracing your handwriting with my fingertips, trying to divine what words the smudged ink conceals.

The town held a memorial service last month for all our lost boys. Your mother placed wildflowers on your empty grave. I couldn't bring myself to attend. To do so feels like accepting you're truly gone, and I'm not ready for that yet.

I've taken a position at the schoolhouse. Teaching gives structure to days that would otherwise stretch empty before me. The children ask about the war, about the men who didn't come home. I tell them about a brave, gentle man with two left feet who could make me laugh even on my darkest days.

Forever yours, Nora

Spring, 1870

April 9th Nora to James, five years later

My James,

Five years now. The world moves forward relentlessly. Oakridge has changed—new buildings, new faces. Your parents moved west last year, unable to bear the memories here. I remain, rooted to this soil that holds our past.

Thomas Reed has asked for my hand. He's a good man, widowed in the war like so many women were. His daughter needs a mother, and he offers stability and kindness. Father urges me to accept.

But how can I give to another what has always been yours? My students say I smile too rarely. Perhaps they're right.

I walked to our creek today, sat on our stone, and asked what you would have me do. The water offered no answers, but I felt a curious peace descend. I think perhaps you would want me to find happiness, even if it cannot be with you.

I make no decisions yet. For today, I remember you as you were that last spring before the war: laughing, alive, full of hope for a future we thought stretching endlessly before us.

Still loving you, Nora

Spring, 1875

April 9th Nora to James, ten years later

Dear James,

A decade without you. I married Thomas three years ago. He understands about these letters, about you. He never asks to read them, never questions why April brings melancholy with its flowers.

His daughter, Mary, is twelve now and reminds me sometimes of you—that same stubborn optimism, that refusal to see the world as anything but good. I wonder if our child might have had your eyes, your gentle strength.

The war feels distant to the younger generation. To them, it's history—pages in a book rather than blood and tears and letters that stopped too suddenly. I preserve your memory differently now: not in public grief but in quiet moments when something—a wildflower, a strain of fiddle music, the particular slant of late afternoon sun—brings you back to me with sudden, breathtaking clarity.

Thomas is patient with these ghosts. "We all carry them," he told me once. His are buried in Tennessee.

I am not unhappy, James. I hope that brings you peace, wherever you are.

With enduring love, Nora Reed

Spring, 1885

April 9th Nora to James, twenty years later

My dear James,

Twenty years. Half my life without you now. Thomas passed last winter—pneumonia took him quickly. Mary is married with two children of her own. They visit often, filling my house with noise and life.

I found myself at the creek again today, our stone worn smooth by time and weather. Sitting there, I realized something strange: I can no longer perfectly recall your face. The details blur—was that small scar above your eyebrow on the left or right? Did your eyes crinkle first at the corners when you smiled, or did your mouth quirk up to the side?

Yet I remember with perfect clarity how it felt to be loved by you. How your letters made my heart race. How your absence has shaped me as surely as your presence would have.

The new century approaches. I wonder what you would make of telephones, of electric lights beginning to replace gas lamps. Would you marvel at them as I do, or take them in stride as the young seem to?

The maples we sat beneath are taller now. The creek runs its course. And I go on, carrying you with me still.

Always, Nora

Spring, 1913

April 9th Final Letter (Nora to James, decades later)

My beloved James,

This will be my last letter to you. The doctor says my heart is failing. I find a certain poetry in that—it has been half-broken for so long.

The creek still flows where we once sat. The wildflowers still bloom each spring. And I have loved you all my life.

They say the dying see clearly. I wonder if I'll see you waiting, still youthful as I remember you best, still wearing that lopsided smile. I wonder if you'll ask me to dance, and if in that other place, you'll finally have mastered the waltz.

I like to think you will. I like to think you've been watching over me all these years, proud of the woman I became even in your absence. Perhaps you guided me somehow when grief threatened to consume me. Perhaps it was your voice I heard in the wind by the creek, telling me to live, to go on.

When I'm gone, these letters will remain—a testament to a love that death itself couldn't diminish. I've asked Mary to place them, along with your violet and unfinished letter, in my hands when they lay me to rest. What better companions for that final journey than the words that carried my heart to you all these years?

Until we meet again, my darling. Look for me by the creek.

I have loved you all my life, Your Nora

[Found among Eleanor Whitmore Reed's possessions after her death on April 13, 1913. Buried with her, as requested, were letters spanning fifty years—all addressed to a young soldier who never came home.]