September 22nd, 1862

My Dearest Maria,

Times have been tough here in Maryland. Five days ago, I had finished my work mending another one of James Pardoe’s shovels when I decided to go out for a drink. I suppose I must have stayed rather late, for when I came back the sun had nearly risen. Sadly, when I got back to the shop, it was nearly burnt to a crisp. I had to extinguish the rest of the fire using water from the nearby river. Surprisingly, not much damage was done to the interior of the building. However, there was nothing there to be burnt. Every last item I had was completely gone, robbed by the Yanks, including the picture I have of you and little Lucy. Do you remember James Pardoe, the farmer? Well, he died in the Battle of Sharpsburg, along with twenty-three thousand other men.

As for me, I have been forced to join the very thing us Quakers have tried to avoid. The army gladly recruited me, seeing that they had been drained to nearly nothing. Yet, I did not last very long. My leg was amputated just yesterday, cut off right below the hip. The doctor says that it is rare for those who are amputated below the hip to survive. I fear I will never walk again, but it would not matter seeing that the wound has been infected. The medics have tried all they possibly can, but there is no denying that I will soon pass. The working conditions are no help either. 

This camp is filled to the brim with dirt and grime. Everything you touch, dusty. Everything you eat, dusty or moldy. Everything you put on or take off is completely dusty. The only thing that has not been soaked in our blood and sins is the spirit of these brave men. Whether it is a blessing or a curse, they will not give up. Though they long for their loved ones as I do, it is those very people that they are fighting for. Forgive me, but I am rather surprised with how they have lasted this long. Most of the men here are either half dead or have half a body, sometimes both. 

Rest assured, I will die a happy and prosperous man. No man could be as blessed as I to have such a loving and devoted family. I am deeply sorry that I cannot send you more money, for being a soldier is no high paying job. You will find that within this envelope, I have equipped seven dollars, my first and only pay that I will ever receive as a soldier in the Confederate army. This war has taken a truly terrible turn, one that I am almost happy to escape.

Tell the children I say goodbye,

Sincerely,

Jonathan Smith