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august 1861. from mary.

dear tom,

i take my pen in hand this morning to write to you a few lines, as the mail stage will

come soon.

we are well at present but hear that you are laid up in the staunton hospital with

measles. we finally learned about it from letters sam wrote home. not one letter came

from you for about three weeks, and we were sick with worry. i forced myself to

search the newspaper casualty list after manassas, while my hands trembled so i

could barely read the type.

what a relief not to find you there! but then your name was never mentioned in any

letter that came to the neighborhood, and it was not until day before yesterday we got

the news. ma was especially uneasy. you know she always expects the unspeakable. i

suppose you thought it best not to let us know, but please promise never to do that

again. truth is always better than uncertainty. but enough of the measles—i hope that

you’re soon finished with them for good. i reckon when tish had them, and ma and pa

expected us to come down with them next, you never dreamed that you’d catch them

as a soldier. ma says if your eyes are sore from the measles and it impedes writing,

send a message home by someone else.

shortly after, she shared the most grievous news.

tom, the very worst things are happening to folks around here. it seems like every

day someone in the neighborhood takes sick and dies. the roysters’ little tilly,

robert, edward, and sam were all four taken by the pox last week. ma called on mrs.

royster to offer solace for the death of her four little ones, then came home and wept

for hours. the substitute minister at new jerusalem says he has never preached as

many final services for children and old folks, at least two a week. he says he thinks

as many perish at home as on the battlefield. there are so many new tombstones in the

graveyard, mr. bailey, the stonecutter, says he can hardly keep up with demand.

and do you remember mrs. whidbey? both her baby boy and husband died shortly

after she returned from frystown, where she nursed her youngest sister polly

crawford who was down with the fever. her nephew peter was home from soldiering

for a visit with his mother but was not up to the task.

and i heard the most sorrowful news about william rosen, from over toward

leonardtown. his wife, mother, father, three children, and his brother have all died

within the month. it was a blessing that he was home on furlough when they passed

away. ma says the angel of death is overworked in these times and believes these

terrible losses at home are part of the lord’s mysterious doings.

i don’t rightly know what to think, but we are doing our utmost—keeping out of

dampness, drafts, and the like. folks stay to themselves, venturing out only when

necessary, and will barter anything for a little eucalyptus oil to sprinkle on cloths held

to their noses when they do go forth. it takes a funeral these days to get them to

church.

ever your loyal sister, mary

even before our first battle in manassas, sick soldiers streamed by the multitudes down the

valley to the staunton hospital. it was no wonder so many fell ill. we all tented for weeks near

creeks where we washed our filthy bodies and clothes and then drank the scummy water. tens

of thousands of men urinated and defecated nearby daily. our first lieutenant baylor, whose

lexington family ma and pa knew, died of sickness in the early days—without seeing one

serious fight.

august 1861. from mary.

dear tom,

beards is coming your way soon. he has enlisted, and he stopped by the house on

monday before he left for the train. he wanted to tell ma and pa that he’d keep eye on

you. and that he’d be sure that you got home safe soon. pa was grinding at the mill

and tish was visiting aunt ellen, so ma and i invited him into the parlor. i think he is

the handsomest man in the county, but in his uniform, i expect he may be the best

looking in the state of virginia. except for you, of course! don’t get a swollen head

over that compliment.

ma went to the kitchen because mrs. lucas came by to purchase some eggs, and

beards and i were left alone, awkwardly avoiding each other’s glance. “we . . . i will

miss you, jeremy,” i finally said. i confess, tears came to my eyes at the idea of him

going away. it has been so lonely around here without you, and then to have beards

gone as well was too much. when he spied my wet cheeks, he reached out for my hand

so tenderly. it was the first time. “will you promise to write regularly, mary?” he

asked. he looked down, embarrassed to meet my eyes. “i’ve grown so accustomed to

seeing you when i’m visiting tom. i’ll miss you terribly.” he said leaving bethel and

me behind would be the hardest thing he’d ever done. that those many times he came

to see you, he was also hoping to see me. to say such, he must have thought he was

going off to die!

i told him, “i had no idea. but for some time now, i’ve dreamed you would like me

as much as i like you. of course, i’ll write.” his cheeks flushed bright red, and then he

asked if we might be sweethearts when the war is over. my mouth dropped open with

surprise. i must have appeared a moron, and then a rush of happiness triggered more

tears. but he didn’t care. he reached for my shoulders and then hugged me close. of

course, i said yes. he was staring so deeply into my eyes that i was forced to reveal

my feelings. we’d just stepped apart when ma came back into the room. she looked

quizzically at our flushed faces, but i don’t think she suspected anything. now you

need to take special care of beards for me. he’s the sweetest, most thoughtful boy i’ll

ever know. i tell you, tom, i’ve never felt like this before—not knowing whether to be

sad or happy.

while i’ve discovered a sweetheart, ma and pa have lost good friends. mr. and

mrs. hogshead, outright opponents to secession, won’t speak to the lucas’ or the

beards, and mr. hogshead won’t even tip his hat for ma and me. the callistons are

just as bad. reverend mcintyre, who has shocked much of our congregation by

preaching abolition from the pulpit for the past month, has packed up his wife and

children and headed north to stay with relatives in pennsylvania. the priory sits

forlorn and empty these days without the mcintyres. there’s a call out for a new

preacher, but i don’t expect anyone will answer it soon.

please remind beards to let me know how things are going with him. i promised to

write him regularly, but he needs to hold up his end of the bargain too.

your loyal sister, mary