Yours in War and Love
July 3, 1862
Camp Richmond, Virginia
My Dearest E.,
The candle flickers as I write, and the hush of the camp settles over me like a heavy quilt. Though I sit among men, sharing fire and rations, I have never felt more alone. The only company I crave is yours, and yet you are farther from me than the stars overhead. Your last letter arrived tucked beneath a bundle of provisions from home, your careful script hidden within the folds of a psalm book. I traced your words with my fingers as though they were the soft curve of your cheek, and for a moment, the war ceased to exist. If only I could keep you near me in the flesh, as I do in my heart. The men speak often of their sweethearts of the letters perfumed with lavender, the locks of golden hair tied with ribbon. I say little, for I have nothing to offer in kind, save the truth that dare not be spoken. But what is love, if not an ache that knows no proper name? You are my home, my solace, the place to which my soul returns, even as my body marches onward into war. The fighting has been fierce, and though I would spare you the worst of it, I must confess, I have seen things no man should. I have held a friend’s hand as he took his last breath, whispered a prayer I was not sure would be heard. And yet, even amidst such ruin, the thought of you keeps me from despair. If I return, it will be for you. If I do not, know that I go with your name upon my lips. I pray for a world where love such as ours need not hide in the shadows, where I may stand beside you without fear. Until then, we must write in careful words, in ink that vanishes should prying eyes seek to understand what lies between us. But you will know, won’t you, my dearest? You will know what I mean, even when I do not say it.
