“Yours indeed,
“K. F. Peddicord.
“I am well, but at this moment very cold from writing. Write often and longer.
“Frank.”
“Fort Delaware, May 3d, 1865.
“My dear Mother:
“My last to you was dated 23d of April, being a response to brother’s of the 16th inst. Knowing a kind mother’s anxiety for her children, I have concluded not to wait longer for intelligence from home.
“Many startling and sad events have happened since I last wrote, enough to chill one’s heart. Our feelings can only be imagined by those who have had the like experience, or, if they could escape without sad and sore hearts, they would not be human beings. The bravest and firmest spirits are depressed with the mournful facts that have stared us in the face, facts which, at first, could hardly be realized. But the crisis is over, the last vestige of hope has disappeared and passed into oblivion, and we think of it as a word of no meaning. The inconstant world is a cheat, life is a shame.
“The struggle with self has been most trying; and self-respect has left me within the last few days; nothing but the man remains, but a dejected form or counterfeit resemblance of a once proud spirit.
“In the privates’ barracks there were over six thousand; in our quarters there are over two thousand officers; all of the former consented, several days ago, to take the oath of allegiance when the roll was called and it was offered. Four or five hundred consented yesterday, myself included, and about one hundred remain yet who have not consented. The majority will yield, I think, in a few days. It could not be expected we would change so long as we had an army in the field; but when the last army had surrendered we knew our last hope had expired. Still, to change so suddenly was ‘marrying too soon after death.’