I would write more but feel wearied even with this, and mother, who has propped me up in bed, threatens to take away my paper.
Our love and kisses to dear father. Johnnie sends his little love to papa.
As ever your fond
Carlotta.
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Camp near Gettysburg, July 3d, 1863.
My Dear Wife:
I write to-night, because I know you will be uneasy when you read the telegraphic accounts of to-day’s fight. I am grateful to say that I am well, and cannot even boast a scratch, though I have been to-day where a thought of life seemed folly. The hardest conflict of the war has taken place here, and even as I write the very air seems burdened with the groans of the wounded and dying. The loss of life has been fearful indeed, as the reckless courage of our soldiers drove them into the jaws of death. Our great commander and our men did all that human strength could do, but the position of the enemy was impregnable, and all our efforts to dislodge them were futile. To-morrow we retire, though we are not whipped, and if Meade dare leave his mountain entrenchments we will put him to utter rout. Would to God our retreat were all I must write, but the old proverb about the plurality of misfortune is but too true. Last night Ned, my dearest friend, died, and to-day father was taken prisoner by the enemy; he was at the head of our company, in a charge which was repulsed with heavy loss, and when we fell back, in some disorder, he was left within the Yankee lines. We trust that he is not wounded or hurt in any way, as, when last seen, he was standing erect, waving his sword, and calling on his men to rally. He will, I hope, soon get a communication through the lines to some of you. Even if he is sent to Elmira, or Point Lookout, he has so many personal friends at the North that he may make his situation comfortable. Help mother to bear up bravely, for she will need help. Prison life, however, is not so bad if one can get funds to purchase comforts, and you know the gentleman who is now holding father’s property for him in New York will attend to that as soon as he hears that he is in prison. But, oh, darling! how my heart bleeds to write of poor Ned’s death. You remember he came on to Virginia soon after we did, but his company was placed in another regiment, so that he was in yesterday’s fight while we were not engaged. Last night, about dark, he sent for me to come to him, in the field hospital. When I reached his side I found him in a stupor, from which he roused only enough to recognize me, and faintly call my name, when he again sunk into that ever deepening coma that seems like the very mantle of approaching death. He had been struck in the breast with a fragment of shell, and his lungs were completely torn to pieces. The surgeons, seeing his hopeless condition, had given him an opiate and left him to die, turning their attention to those who could be saved. He was breathing with great difficulty, and with long intervals between the gasps, as I sat down by him and took his hand in mine. His pulse was scarcely perceptible, and I felt that his life would not last through the night. You, Carlotta, who know how I loved him, know how deep was my grief as I saw him slowly dying, his poor torn breast pouring out its life-blood with every labored breath. I sat, watching him in silence, ‘till midnight, when he opened his eyes and attempted to sit up, but was too weak; he then commenced talking, in a confused strain, of angel armies he had seen marching all night, in white battle lines, over the blue sky, and of how they had formed a hollow square around his cot; and how their commander had approached and laid bare his bosom, that they all might see his wound, and how they had sung a song of triumph and filed back up the blue vault, out of sight. He then seemed to become conscious of his condition, and pressing my hand feebly, said: “I can’t last much longer, John, but I am ready to die, thank God! Tell mother I said so. And, John, let me be buried under the old pines at home.” He closed his eyes and was silent for an hour or more; when he again opened them there was that strange vacancy in their look that is Death’s signet, and the tone of his voice was husky and cold, as he murmured, “The white army—has come—a-gain. I must—go. For Heaven, forward!”