part 1 chapter

18

o ne spring day in ’63, postmaster jeremiah p. stubbs, a flinty little man with curling

hair that wove itself into a tangled beard, stood in his usual place beside the flap of the canvas

postal tent. his mail sack hung over his shoulder. he solemnly passed out envelopes from a thin

stack to the boys crowding before him on the campground. we hadn’t seen action since

december, which had given the union troops ample time to destroy the remaining rail lines.

lately the sack had flapped almost flat against stubbs’s thigh, and his normally bland face had

become grim. our mess had elected me to trudge to stubbs’s tent to collect whatever mail had

arrived for us. no one had wanted to make the long tramp across the campground to return

empty-handed and disheartened. dread slowed every footstep as i returned to our campfire. i

couldn’t bear to see the boys as disappointed as i was.

beards called to me before i reached our tents. “anything for me?” i shook my head no. the

light went out of his eyes, and his shoulders slumped.

“this is about mary, isn’t it?” i asked. i wandered over to where he sat on a tree stump.

he nodded his head. “i haven’t had a letter in far too long. she’s forgotten our bargain. i was

a fool to think she’d care for me all this time.” his ears reddened and his eyes narrowed. “she’s

too fine a girl for some other fellow not to steal her. i bet that’s what has happened.”

“did she ever give you any sign that she’d stopped caring?” i sat down beside him on a log.

“i know she hasn’t. it’s not mary; it’s the mail. i’m not hearing anything from her either.” i told

him that the postmaster had blamed it on the confederacy. the government hadn’t paid its bills

to the rail company contracted to deliver mail. “the company has quit running its trains. that on

top of the yanks ripping up the tracks.”

he looked at me with disbelief and shook his head. “the part about the rail company makes

no sense. how could such a thing be true? no, it’s mary.” i’d been listening to his growing

doubts about my sister for days. now he’d convinced himself she’d been tending some injured

boy at home who’d won her heart. “well, if she has given up writing to me, i’m sure as hell not

going to lower myself by writing to her,” he said and stomped away. something had gone sour

within beards in recent weeks that had nothing to do with mary.

i continued to write home, even though i knew there was little hope anyone would receive

the letters. for the few minutes that a pencil stuttered across the page, the faces of ma, pa, tish,

and mary were vivid before me, and i found comfort in that. my letter to aunt ellen in may got

through eventually, and she passed it on to ma for safekeeping. it’s the last in the bundle that the

woman unearthed behind the bookshelves.

dear aunt,

i seat myself this morning to write you a few lines to let you know that i am well,

with the exception of being tired out from the terrible suffering we’ve just passed

through.

you no doubt heard news of the battle of chancellorsville before this, and you may

feel uneasy about me. i wanted to let you know i’m safe, with no broken bones. we lay

in the line of battle for three days and three nights after the hard fight of may 3. on

tuesday evening, may 5, it commenced raining and didn’t stop until friday. that

whole time we were forced to lie out or march through mud. this last battle is the

most terrible we’ve had lately. saturday night was spent in occasional skirmishes, and

it was then that general jackson lost his arm, which we all feel to be a sore

bereavement.

the large brick house at chancellorsville used as a hospital took fire and burnt up.

flames killed hundreds of yanks who were already so hurt that they couldn’t get out

in time. their own soldiers wouldn’t help them any. later in the day, the woods took

fire. many more helpless men perished. their burial was no better than their death,

and it was harrowing to view their charred bodies. there were so many that our men

couldn’t dig enough graves, but instead threw a few shovelfuls of dirt over each and

passed on. my comrade zeke joked that if the yankees had stayed at home as they

should have, they would’ve gotten a decent burial. i saw some who had been buried in

shallow trenches and subsequently had the covering clay washed off in the rain. they

were black as charcoal.

i grabbed a button from the coat of a fallen yank and will send it home as a

souvenir when i can. as my paper is nearly out, i’ll close by asking you to excuse all

mistakes, bad writing, etc. give my love to friends and relations, especially uncle

james, and keep a due share yourself from your affectionate nephew, thomas m.

smiley.