With An Ever-Heavy Heart

My dearest, most loved, Annalise,

My darling, I despair so fondly towards yourself and our two children despite our great distance, knowing just how long I've waited to once again gaze upon your beautiful face and hear your voice, so soft in your even tones and so strong in your lovely singing.

I, with a pain-filled mind, now know that my deepest wants are now for nothing, my darling.

The general from Virginia, who had been put in charge of this land not too long ago, had placed me at the head of a battalion -oh, what joy!- and that we'd be the leaders on the march to Princeton. We, the battalion, marched for eight days and nights, others keeping watch as the wagons softly moved through the country space and the roads.

The battalion itself was comprised of about fifty men, my wife, with many of those men simple workers -not soldiers! I worked alongside four teenage boys, all of whom would be the age of Tim, and they all had an abundance of courage and fervor for this revolution, as they dare to call it. There were also clothiers and shoemakers, cooks and cleaners. Why, darling, I even saw Old Man Porter cleaning off a musket just a few eves ago, and he looked as healthy as a newborn ox!

We passed by your mother in Boston, dear, and she wishes so deeply to see you and our little children. I'd forgotten that she'd never gotten the chance to meet them -not a single one! Not little Tim nor fair Lucy, and that it'd been simply ages since the poor woman had heard from either of us, what with the quartered troops that searched through her post. And I know that you are with child, my darling, and so I apologize for the tragedy that has befallen me.

Darling, I will not return home over the course of the winter.

My battalion -headed by John Rutter, Henry Winterforte, and myself- was ambushed just yesterday, as we were heading down to the watermill for warm food and nightly shelter. A troop of British regulars spotted our pyres from many yards away and they besieged us in the dead of the night, when the moon was high and the stars were twinkling above us, taking four men prisoner and killing three. I knew one of the three who had been killed -his name was Jonathon Mankin, one of the teenagers of whom I previously mentioned, and his dream was to become the most well-known hat maker in all of South Carlonia, where he had come from. John, my partner, did not make it, and neither did Henry, but I managed to escape with a grave wound: a bullet, just below my rib cage.

Darling, this is written for me, as my own hand is too shaky and weak to hold a quill, I must tell you of how much I adore you and our children -even the unborn infant in which you carry. I do not have the heart to keep all of these wants and needs to myself through my death, for doing so would be a grave sin against you, my dearest love.

I shall greatly miss little Tim; watching how he'd run and hug my knees every time I walked through the door, how he'd help me in my office by playing his music to calm me, or by how he'd let me tussle his hair and bring him new clothes from my sister's home.

I shall tenderly miss fair Lucy as well, and I do so solemnly cry at the knowledge that she shall grow up without a father to lead her. She will grow to be just as beautiful as you, my fair wife, and she shall know who her father was, as I hope you can only describe me in the best of ways.

Our unborn child, as wonderful as they may be, I do sob at the thought that he or she shall never know myself -that I'll be a missing voice and face in their daily lives and activities. Tears stream down my face at the thought of the little one not having a father to turn to or not feeling able to speak of matters with yourself, as there are some things that only a father has the proper place to speak of.

Most of all, my darling, I apologize for not returning to you. I am agonized at the thought that I will never gaze upon your lovely face again, never to see your golden hair nor your fair pink lips. I shed tears at the thought of the pain you will go through as you receive this letter, knowing that it was not written by my own hand.

Darling, continue to be the kind and just mother to our children. Continue to teach and to take care of each of them as you always have. My brother, Rupert, will care for you up in the countryside -he can provide for you as family, as he has never married nor thought to marry.

When you hold our child for the first time, know that I shall always be watching. There will never be a time, dear, when I am not holding your hand or gazing upon your love. I hold you gratefully in my heart, Annalise, and I do hope that you shall always remember me for who I was when we met: a simple farm boy with a dream for freedom and a hope for a family.

My love, I am quickly running out of time. Though this letter is written by another man and is orally made by myself, I tire, and I can feel the thread of life slowly becoming eroded and frayed. Dear, my time is sadly running out, and I shall no longer hold you in my arms when you are upset, nor shall you do the same for me.

I am so apologetic to you, my love, that I could not help you to create a better, stronger life by your side.

I'll see you on the other side, darling.

With all of my ever-heavy heart, James Bartholemew Hackleroy iii.