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.

Ever yours,

J.

July 20, 1862

Greensboro, North Carolina

My Dearest J.,

Your letter arrived as the summer rain drummed against my window, and as I read, I imagined your voice in the rhythm of the storm. I read it once, then again, and then a third time by candlelight, tracing your words as you must have traced mine. I long for the day when we may speak without riddles, without fear. Until then, I will read between the lines and hear what only my heart can understand. Your words are a balm to the ache of missing you, though they also remind me how far away you are. The world continues here much as it did before the war, though it feels empty without you. The orchard bears fruit, the river winds lazily through the valley, and yet none of it seems quite real in your absence. I walked to our place beneath the old willow, and for a moment, I could almost see you there. I pressed my hand against the bark and imagined yours beside it, as it once was. Do you remember that day? How foolish we were to believe time could not pull us apart? I fear for you, J. The papers speak of battles lost and won, of men who will never return home. I scan the lists of names with dread in my heart, praying never to find yours among them. Each night, I ask the Lord to keep you safe, though I do not know if He listens to men like us. If this war ends and you return to me, we will find a way, won’t we? Somewhere far from watchful eyes, where we may simply exist as we are. Until then, I will wait, and I will write, and I will love you in the only way I am allowed.

Yours, always,

E.

September 18, 1862

Sharpsburg, Maryland

My Dearest E.,

I do not know how to begin this letter, for I have seen hell, and I do not wish to bring its horrors to your doorstep. But I must write, if only to remind myself that I am still among the living. The battle was unlike anything I have known. The fields ran red, the air thick with smoke and brutal screams. I have no words to describe the sight of men, friends, falling beside me, their faces frozen in terror. The reaper walked among us that day, taking more than his share. And yet, I remain. I do not know why. Perhaps it was your name on my lips, or the memory of your laughter in the orchard. Perhaps it was the foolish hope that I might see you again. I have no lock of your hair to carry with me, no portrait to press to my chest. All I have is ink and paper, and the love we do not name. But it is enough. It must be enough. I do not know when this war will end, nor what will become of me when it does. I only know that if I have any say in my fate, I will find my way back to you. And if I do not, if I should fall before then, please know that I have loved you in a way that defied the world itself.

Ever yours,

J.

October 5, 1862

Greensboro, North Carolina

My Dearest J.,

I have read your letter a dozen times, and still, I cannot fathom the weight of what you have endured. My heart breaks to think of you in such darkness, and yet, it beats all the same, for you, for the hope that you will return to me. I have spent many nights sitting by the river, watching the water carry away the autumn leaves. I wonder if my words reach you like those leaves, if they drift into your hands, offering even the smallest comfort. I like to think they do. There are whispers here of war’s end, though I do not know if they are true. If they are, will you come back to me? Will you stand once more beneath the willow and take my hand, as you once did? I would give anything for that moment. But if you cannot, if the world is too cruel and our fates too unkind know this, you have been loved fiercely. You have been loved completely. You have been loved without shame, even in silence. Come home to me if you can. If you cannot, I hope to find you in the next life, where there are no battles, no secrets, and no names that must be hidden.

Yours, always,

E.

December 1, 1862

Camp Fredericksburg, Virginia

My Dearest E.,

The war is not yet over, but I write to you with a certainty I have not felt before. I will return to you. I do not know when, nor in what state, but I will find my way back. Keep the orchard as it was. Keep the willow standing. Keep a place for me, even if only in your heart. Until then, I remain,

Yours in war and love,

J.

December 20, 1862

Greensboro, North Carolina

My Dearest J.,

The days have grown colder, and still, I wait. Your last letter spoke of certainty that you would return, that the war would not keep us apart forever. I have held onto those words as one clings to breath itself, repeating them like a prayer each night before I sleep. But the days pass, and no new letter comes. I have searched the papers, scanning the lists of the wounded, the lost. Your name is not among them, but that does little to settle my heart. The war swallows men whole, and the world does not always trouble itself with remembering their names. I tell myself that the roads are treacherous, that the winter slows the post, that your silence is not an end but a delay. And yet, I cannot silence the dread that curls itself around my ribs, tight as a noose. I went to the willow again yesterday. I traced my fingers over the initials we carved into the bark long ago, before duty and war took you from me. The river ran slow and dark, heavy with the weight of the season, and I wondered, if I stood there long enough, if I whispered your name to the wind would you hear me? Would you answer? I do not know if this letter will ever find you. I do not know if I will ever again trace the shape of your words upon a page, knowing they were written by your hand. But I will keep writing, if only to hold onto hope. Come home to me, J. If you can. If you are able, and if you cannot, if the war has taken you from me then know this, I have loved you in silence and in the shadows, in letters and in longing, in ways the world may never understand. I will keep the orchard as it was. I will keep the willow standing. I will keep a place for you, even if only in my heart.

Yours, always,

E.