He heard a train whistle, and an engine and a line of cars—much like the ones that had brought them to Columbia—came into view. The train was heading north. Tim watched until it disappeared among the trees at the edge of the city and the last bit of smoke blew away. As he turned from the window the whistle sounded again, this time far away.
He sat on the floor below the window, reached into the inside pocket of his blouse and pulled out his billfold and a couple of dog-eared pieces of paper. He fumbled in a pocket and brought out the stub of a pencil. The other men were all asleep. Red was slumped in a corner of the room, sleeping peacefully with a ghost of a smile across his face. Tim smoothed out a piece of paper against the surface of his billfold. Red must be dreaming of home, he thought. He sharpened his pencil against a brick, licked the point and began to write:
Richland Jail
Columbia, S. C.
July 12, 1863
Dear Mother and Father,
Yesterday I was taken prisoner and today I find myself in jail. It seems I will be here for a spell.
Surely through no fault of yours, I have had no word from home since May. It might be worth a try to write me at the old address at Hilton Head, hoping that when the Colonel learns our whereabouts our mail will be forwarded here. I have heard of mail being taken to prisons by way of Port Royal Ferry. The Rebels are often kind in such matters, as we have some of their boys too.
My health is good and I am cheered by the presence of my friend Lieutenant Kelly. I have mentioned him in other letters. Of course I am hoping we may be exchanged, but we have no word of the chances for that.
If you can send a box, I know that books will be a special want, and paper and pencils and a change of underclothes. I have some money but more would be useful, if it can be spared. I don’t know if a sutler comes to this jail, but I imagine that things can be bought somehow.
I long to see your faces more than ever now. Love to the twins, and when you see Kate in church ask her to send that long-awaited photograph.
Your loving son,
Timothy Bradford
Lieut. 7th Ct.