I scarcely know where to begin, save to say that my heart is heavy with longing. It has been three months since you last rode away, and each day without word from you is an eternity. I sit beneath the old willow tree where we once lay, watching the Susquehanna drift by, and I wonder—do you still carry my ribbon in your pocket, as you promised?
Father tells me I must prepare myself, that war changes a man beyond recognition, and I should not expect the same James to return. But I cannot believe that, nor will I allow my heart to accept such a fate. I know the war weighs upon you, but I beg you, do not let it take from you the tender soul I love.
The papers are filled with news of battles in Virginia, of horror and blood, but I cannot see you in those cold words. I see you as you were that last morning—standing at the gate, tipping your hat, the golden dawn at your back. I fear I shall wear out the memory from my mind by calling it forth too often.
Write to me, James, if only to say you still live. That is all I ask.
Yours always,
Mary
May 3, 1863
My Dearest Mary,
Your letter found me in camp on the eve of battle, and I held it as though it were a relic from a saint, something to be revered. You ask if I yet carry your ribbon—Mary, it is worn and frayed, but it remains over my heart, even now.
The war is not as the newspapers write it. They speak of victory and honor, but they do not speak of the mud, the hunger, the ceaseless cries of the wounded. I have seen good men fall, their last thoughts surely of home, of sweethearts they shall never see again. I do not tell you this to burden you, but so you might understand the weight upon me. And yet, even in this bleak place, your words bring light.
Do not listen to your father. The war may change a man, but it cannot take from him what is already rooted deep in his soul. I am still yours, Mary, and when I close my eyes, I am home. I feel your hand in mine, hear the rustle of your skirts as you walk beside me, and for a moment, I am at peace.
You asked me to write, if only to say I live. I do. And I shall keep living, if only for the hope of seeing you again.
Ever your devoted,
James
July 10, 1863
James, My Love,
You cannot know the relief that flooded my soul upon receiving your letter. Oh, my dearest, how I prayed for your safety! But now my prayers take a different shape, for I fear you will not return to me whole. You write of things I cannot bear to imagine, of sights that no man should ever see. My heart aches to think of you suffering so.
The battle at Gettysburg has left our town restless with grief. Wounded men arrive daily, filling the churches and barns, and I have done what little I can to ease their pain. Some speak of things too terrible to repeat, yet I listen, hoping in vain that one of them might have seen you. I dread every messenger who comes to town, for I fear they may bear ill news of you.
Come back to me, James. I know not when this war will end, but let it not take you from me. I will wait for you, through every season, through every uncertainty. Only promise me that you will return.
Yours, now and forever,
Mary
August 17, 1863
My Sweetest Mary,
How cruel war is, to keep me from you when my heart aches for nothing else. I have seen so much death that I fear I have forgotten the sound of laughter, the warmth of a gentle touch. But then I think of you, and I remember. I hold on.
I was struck in the arm at Gettysburg, but do not fear, my love—it was a flesh wound, nothing more. I have healed well enough, and though I am weary, I am yet standing. If it is God’s will, I will stand before you again.
Mary, if I could, I would leave this war tomorrow and run to you. I would build you the white house on the hill, just as I promised. I would fill it with books and laughter and the sound of our children’s feet upon the floor. I dream of that life, and it gives me strength.
Hold fast to me, as I hold fast to you.
Yours always,
James
October 1, 1863
James, My Love,
The days grow colder, and I wonder—are you warm? Have you food enough? Do you still see the stars above you, or has war robbed you even of that? I wish I could send you the warmth of home, the scent of the apple pies cooling on the sill, the sound of the wind rustling through the wheat fields.
I must confess something, though it shames me. I have begun to doubt. Not in you, never in you, but in the world. I see so much sorrow around me, so many graves freshly dug, and I cannot help but wonder if we shall ever be as we were. But then I remember your words, your promise. You will come home to me. You must.
James, if you love me as I love you, then let nothing—nothing—keep you from me.
Forever yours,
Mary
October 20, 1863
Mary, My Heart,
This war has stolen much from me, but not my love for you. Never that.
The army marches south, and I know not when I shall next be able to write. But hold onto this, Mary—I will return to you. I swear it.
When I do, I will take you into my arms, and all of this—this horror, this war—will be behind us. We will have our home on the hill, and I will wake each morning with you beside me.
Hold on just a little longer, my love. I am coming home.
Ever yours,
James
Postscript:
James Ellsworth was killed in action at the Battle of Chickamauga on November 25, 1863. Mary Whitmore received his final letter two weeks later. She never married. But each autumn, until the end of her days, she would sit beneath the old willow tree by the Susquehanna and read his words once more.
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