December 14, 1862

Dear Diary,     

On this cold winter’s day, my heart feels heavier than it has ever been. I can feel the tears building up in these eyes o’ mine, waiting to trail down my frail cheek, but they are not dropping. These past two years have been the longest ones of my life. First, with the secession of South Carolina and then the six other states almost exactly two years ago. I can’t help but think that this war is only a rich landowners’ revolution. Or at least it started that way. The Battle of Shiloh earlier this year raised my spirits none. My husband was among the 40,000 soldiers led under General Johnston who attacked the Union encampments near Pittsburgh Landing. From what I have heard from soldiers that had fought with my husband, he survived the first attack against the Union. Our soldiers did well that morning, killing and wounding many Union soldiers. They tried to continue to push, but the Union army had regained its bearings and were not budging. They acquired reinforcements the next morning. The Union’s 50,000 soldiers easily overpowered my husband and the rest of the 30,000 remaining soldiers, and he died during the pushback of our army by the Union’s. My husband was among 23,000 killed on both sides. Everything was hard at first, but I got over my grief and hardship to successfully raise my daughter. I tried to avoid the war as much as possible after that, but yesterday, I saw something I will never forget.

The Battle of Fredericksburg in Fredericksburg, Virginia, where I live, started three days ago, and has been raging on. The sounds that came from the battle had been keeping me up at night for two days before I decided that I needed to see it for myself. I will never forget what I saw. Bodies upon bodies lay on the ground atop blood-stained earth, limbs spread awry. The smell was horrifying, and I wanted to run right then. However, I heard a soldier cry out for help. He had blood all over his face, and a giant hole in his leg, ripped pants dyed red. I could tell he was going to die. I walked over to him cautiously. When I came close enough, he asked of me one thing: for me to kill him. He wanted his pain to end. He was a Union soldier, I could tell when I got closer, but I would not let him suffer. I grabbed a nearby gun from a dead soldier’s hands, shuddering as I did so, and shot him in the head. I saw him fully crumple to the ground, releasing his previously taut muscles. I prayed for a while after that, for the soldier and for myself, hoping God would understand. I will never forget what I had to do, and the animals that war makes of us. I hope this war doesn’t last much longer.

Sincerely,

Linda Johnson