Mississippi July 4th, 1863

My Dearest, Lynnwood,

It is hard to reconcile the fact that July 4th has already arrived. Has it really been nearly a month since we saw each other last? As I lay here, I distract myself with thoughts of your astounding bravery and strength and of the stories that will be told of the courageous Massachusetts 54th regiment that so boldly challenged the Confederacy at Vicksburg. If the Confederacy was to lose Vicksburg, and all the various supplies they procure from here, the clock would begin to tick on the Southerners’ rebellion.  

 As I write this letter, you must be fighting for your life. However, my life at Kuhn Hospital has been quite pleasant, in stark contrast to my other experiences here in Warren County, Mississippi. I remember the deafening sound of rifles firing bullet after bullet. The stench of death was thick, seeping from bodies, several days dead. I remember pouring the gunpowder into the barrel of my rifle and removing the ramrod to push the bullet down against the powder before cocking the hammer and preparing to fire. The rifle-fire was like thunder, fraying my nerves as I hurriedly repeated the process over and over, the wellbeing of my fingers taking second place to my life.  Now, I feel worse knowing I am useless, while my love fights alone under the guise of a nobler cause.

With idleness, comes the ghost of violence, whispering of the horrors I have witnessed and inflicted. Every word whittles away at the remaining humanity I have managed to hold, but I have taken to seeking comfort from my fellow patients. We play card games when we can find the strength to endure the pain of our various injuries and illnesses. So many people have stories. There are tales of loved ones and children, but also stories of blood and grief. These stories make us feel human again, a reminder of the pain we have endured and of the others who have endured the same pain.

I suppose this brings me to the reason for my letter to you. My time is running out, and there is nothing that can be done.  The amputation was successful but an infection set in soon after the surgery was completed. As I lay here, I think about the way that this war has affected our lives. I can not even console myself with the notion that all of this suffering was for a noble cause. It was, and continues to be, prideful people taking advantage of the hardships of other people in order to justify their violence. Even the few noble victories that managed to be achieved were trailed by the foul odor of death and anger. By the time this letter reaches you, I most likely will have succumbed to my illness, but I wish you to know something. I love you, Lynnwood Henderson, with all my heart.

Your most loving partner, Jonathan Moore