All My Love, Buford McClaine

July 4th, 1861

To my Darling Rebecca,

Not a day goes by that I do not think of you. Right now, I wish with all my heart that I could be there today at your uncle's plantation. My mouth waters at the thought of all I will be missing at that barbecue. I can smell the pit now, with those hogs all dressed and sizzling away on it, just about ready to eat. Were I not a gentleman, I might insist that you try to save some for me, and send it up here in a basket. The mail around here is awful slow lately, however, and some of the boys running it get powerful hungry. If you ask them, though, they will blame the half-open care packages they give us on mice. Such was the fate of that sponge cake you tried to send me on my birthday, which I am told was delicious.

If I am being completely honest with you, what I regret most about missing that barbecue is seeing you in your new dress you had custom ordered from New York City. You talked about it so much before I left, that I can almost picture you in it if I think real hard. And, if I may be so bold, I imagine you look prettier than a peach blossom in all those yellow ruffles and bows. I hope you decided to wear that pink silk ribbon in your hair with it, the one I bought for you in New Orleans. I still remember the smile on your pretty face when you picked it out, and how nice it looked woven through your molasses curls. Perhaps, when I come back home, you can wear that dress again just for me. That is, if the weather permits and it hasn't gone out of style by then.

Speaking of the weather, it has been hotter than I expected here at camp. After hearing all those stories my mama used to tell me about Virginia, I assumed there would be snow on the ground all the time. They say we will be marching further north toward Manassas in a few days' time, so hopefully it will be cooler up there. All I know is that I cannot wait to face those lily-livered Yankees on the battlefield. General Beauregard is certain they will all turn tail and run at the first gunshot. The sooner they do, the sooner this so-called war will be over, and the sooner I will have you in my arms again. I have to stop writing now, because my tentmate - Dennis - says it is time for dinner. Probably beans and rice again, if I had to guess. Beans and rice is all Dennis knows how to cook. I'll just pretend it is barbecue for tonight.

All my love,

Buford McClaine

July 25th, 1861

To my Darling Rebecca,

I apologize that it has taken me so long to write again. I injured my hand on a Yankee soldier's bayonet during the battle, and holding a pen has been difficult ever since. Please do not worry about me, though. Physically, I am otherwise unharmed.

The battle at Manassas was different than I expected. We won, thank the Lord, but many men from my unit sadly passed away. My ears still ring with rifle shots and cannon fire. Sometimes, I still hear them whenever I fall asleep, which is not often lately. The ground here is very cold and rocky, a far cry from the feather beds at home. I miss feather beds, almost as much as I miss hearing your voice.

I am not sure where we are headed to next. Some of the men say we will be going west toward Missouri, while others suspect we may stay in Virginia a little longer. From what I hear around the General's tent, we have a good foothold here against the Yankees. Frankly, I have no druthers either way, so long as we do not go into battle again anytime soon. My hand is aching very badly again, so sadly I must stop writing now. I hope you and your family are doing well.

All my love,

Buford McClaine

August 31st, 1861

My Darling Rebecca,

It is raining today, and the weather's starting to turn colder. Dennis had the bright idea to pitch our tent at the bottom of a hill, so we spent the better part of the morning bailing rainwater out of our bedrolls. We moved our tent to a much more strategic spot, but I fear our bedding and clothes will not be dry by nightfall. At the very least, my writing set was spared so that I may continue my correspondence with you. Please forgive me in advance if the ink is a little fainter than usual on this letter. I believe it has become a might water-logged.

It feels as though we have been marching non-stop these past few weeks. I have blisters upon blisters and the soles of my boots are wearing thin. From the way the other men in my unit grumble, they appear similarly afflicted. We have been promised new boots soon, however, but it is unclear how soon "soon" shall be. I hope to the Lord that it will be before winter sets in fully. Walking through snow and icy mud in worn boots does not sound very appealing to me.

In other news, we have received word from troops coming in from North Carolina. According to them, Fort Hatteras has fallen to the Yankees. There are rumors that the Yankees are attempting to cut off supply routes all along the Carolina coast. I pray that they do not travel farther south toward Savannah. Please advise your father to guard his ships carefully, and to be on the lookout for Yankee spies lurking around the ports. My heart would break into a thousand pieces should anything happen to you, Rebecca, or any of your kin.

It appears the new location we have chosen for the tent is not as strategic as we thought. Mud and fresh rainwater is seeping into my boots as I write. Forgive me, Rebecca, but I must end this letter here before it finds its way into our rations.

All my love,

Buford McClaine

September 19th, 1861

My Dearest Rebecca,

Please forgive me for neglecting to send you any letters over the past fortnight. Since my last correspondence, I have come down with a fever that has kept me confined to a cot in the medical barracks. Even now, my fever has not yet broken fully, but I could not bear the thought of you fretting over my unexpected silence. Once the pains in my chest and head cease, I will most likely be moved back to my regular tent with Dennis. If I am honest, I do not look forward to it in the least. This threadbare cot is no feather bed, but it is much preferable to sleeping on the ground. Regardless, I know it is beyond selfish for me to continue occupying it.

They bring in more soldiers every day to this farmhouse turned hospital, and there are not enough beds to hold them. I hear their screams and groans every waking moment and all through the night, begging for their Savior to come and take them to their Heavenly reward. I will not describe their condition, out of respect for your delicate sensibilities. What I will say is that the majority of the men they bring through here no longer resemble men, and very few ever leave.

Oh, Rebecca, there are no words to express my longing for you, and for my home in Savannah. I imagine it will be harvest time there soon, if it has not already begun. With no trouble at all, I can taste the first batch of pickled peaches and baked apples from your uncle's orchards, with a slab of warm, buttery poundcake on the side. The only thing my heart aches for more than you is the sweetness and softness of cake and fresh bread. All we get that even resembles bread is hard tack, most of which is riddled with worms and other unspeakable critters.

The nurse says I must rest, and - although I would love to keep writing - I admit that she is right. I am so very tired, Rebecca. I wish I could come home this very minute to be with you. Perhaps, if my condition grows poor enough, they will allow me the luxury.

All my love,

Buford McClaine

October 12th, 1861

My Darling Rebecca,

The concern you expressed over me in your last letters warms my heart, but I beg you not to worry. I have been much better in recent days, with nary a touch of fever in sight for weeks. The only remnant of my illness is a small, persistent cough, although I admit difficulty catching my breath at times during long marches. Dennis has become an invaluable asset to me since my fever broke, offering to carry the bulk of our supplies when we travel. He may be a fool, but he has proven himself a strong and loyal ally.

I write to you now in good spirits, and with good news. Two mornings past, I awoke to find a fine dusting of snow outside our tent. The first I have ever seen with my own eyes. It came as silent as a whisper in the dead of night, and it left as soon as the sun rose past noon. Of course, I realize this does not bode well for the unit as a whole, as we are slowly moving northward again towards Leesburg. Even so, I confess myself delighted by the sight.

The general plans to set up our next campsite near the Potomac river. He says it is an ideal spot, well fortified against the Yankees. As we march, I am certain I have seen Yankee spies sneaking through the trees like bandits. Perhaps the fever has affected my mind more than I realized, and these are nothing more than phantoms. My unit has been fortunate to see more marching than bloodshed, but all good things must come to an end eventually. I only hope that end does not come for a while longer.

All my love,

Buford McClaine

November 1st, 1861

My Dear Buford,

Your letters bring a smile to my face every time I receive them. I am glad to hear you are doing well, and I wish you good health throughout the winter. Your friend Dennis seems a kind and good-natured fellow. It is good that you have someone like him to keep you company.

I will try to keep this letter brief, as I do not have much time to write it. The carriage will be here any minute to whisk me away to the chapel. Oh, Buford, I cannot contain my happiness a moment longer: I am engaged to be married to John Calhoun. I am sure you remember him, from the postmaster's office in Atlanta. We are to elope and be wed this very evening, although my heart may burst with joy before then.

Thank you again for keeping in touch so diligently. I do miss you dearly, as you are the closest thing I have ever had to a brother. If I am able, I will try to send you a piece of wedding cake along with this letter.

I can see the coach at the top of the hill from my window, so I must go now. Please be safe Buford. Take care of yourself, and come home soon.

Love always,

Rebecca Jones, soon to be Mrs. Rebecca J. Calhoun