Beautifully Dead
Chapter 10
Letter from Thomas to Eleanor
Near Centreville, Virginia
August 17, 1861
My dearest Eleanor,
I pray this letter finds safe passage to your hands, though I fear many of my missives may now be intercepted as postal routes grow increasingly unreliable. The Lord has seen fit to test my faith most severely in recent days, and I find myself clinging to His promises even as the terrible weight of war presses upon my soul.
By now you will have read accounts of the battle near Bull Run creek. The battlefield was a vision of hell itself. Never could I have imagined such suffering, yet there I was, watching it happen before my eyes. I ministered to young men barely beyond childhood as they lay dying, their bodies torn asunder. Their cries for mothers shall forever echo in my ears, a terrible chorus that invades my prayers and disrupts my sleep. The scripture speaks of Rachel weeping for her children, refusing to be comforted. Now countless mothers North and South weep likewise, their grief a terrible monument to our national sin.
Most of our troops were volunteers—eager patriots who responded to President Lincoln's call, but citizens rather than soldiers. Their bravery could not overcome their inexperience. Adding to the confusion was the fact that many soldiers from both sides wore the same color as those they were fighting, creating terrible confusion amid the smoke and chaos of battle.
Our retreat was humiliating beyond words. What began as an orderly withdrawal became a chaotic rout as panic seized many of the soldiers. The five-mile march back to Centreville was a parade of exhaustion and shame from a battle that left most of the men demoralized.
This war makes brothers into enemies—not merely Charles and myself, but all sons of our once-united nation. When I offer communion to the wounded, I am struck by how these young men—Northern factory workers and Southern planters' sons alike—all partake of the same bread, the same cup, their blood equally red upon the trampled Virginia soil. The Scriptures teach us "One Lord, one faith, one baptism," yet bullets fly between those who once knelt at common altars.
Sadly, the day I had been dreading came true in the first battle I joined in. It hurt my soul to think that Charles might be among those firing upon us in the Virginia's 33rd Regiment.
He has not answered my last few letters. Part of me wanted to see him on the battlefield, just to know that no misfortune has befallen him. Yet, that was also the biggest fear. As I rushed to help those in need, I found myself scanning the bloody battlefield to see if my brother was among the dead or injured. My heart grows increasingly troubled for his welfare and for dear Sarah and little Charles.
The night before the battle, I dreamt of our boyhood games, and how we would divide into armies with sticks for muskets. We faced off as children, much like we find ourselves doing as adults, when I stepped into a rabbit hole, twisting my ankle. I cried out in pain. With no hesitation, Charles hurried to assist me. He always had a way of making me feel good, even in moments like that. While examining my foot, he lightened the mood by saying, “You appear to be fine, but that rabbit you stepped on has seen better days.” Of course, I had not stepped on a rabbit, so the younger version of me found it to be quite hilarious. That dream held my spirits high until the battle tore it away.
I find myself questioning much that once seemed certain. When I entered the ministry, the path of righteousness appeared clear before me. Now I navigate moral darkness, seeking God's light. Yesterday I performed last rites for a Confederate soldier. As I prayed over him, he clutched my hand and thanked me for my kindness to an enemy. I told him firmly that in Christ's eyes, no man is enemy to another, though our earthly allegiances may divide us temporarily. As he slipped away, I wondered when I might see my beloved brother again. Will we be forced to face off with each other on some other bloody field? The thought haunts me beyond expression.
The field hospital where I now serve is overwhelmed with the wounded from Bull Run. Dr. Jenkins, our chief surgeon, remarked yesterday that he has never witnessed such grievous injuries in his twenty years of practice. I assist where I can—holding limbs during amputations, writing letters for those who cannot, praying with men as they pass from this world to the next. Nothing but the grace of God and a right appreciation of the great cause in which they nobly fought and bled could reconcile them to such suffering.
My sweet, Eleanor, I write to you with a face half-bandaged, though I beg you not to distress yourself unduly on my account. While tending to a wounded Massachusetts volunteer in the stone church at Centreville—a Confederate shell exploded nearby, sending fragments of metal and wood into my left cheek and brow. The surgeon assures me I will be fine physically, though I shall likely bear some mark of it. I consider it God's mercy that my eyes were spared, allowing me to continue reading Scripture to those in need of comfort.
The physical pain is nothing compared to the anguish of spirit I endure as I continue to see the Lord’s children killing each other. Forgive my somber reflections. I do not mean to burden your gentle heart with such darkness.
As for my emotional pain, I struggle with the knowledge that you are but a 4 days ride from here. Knowing that I could enjoy your company, speak to you, look upon your face within less than a week. Alas, I must push these thoughts away. For I know with all my heart and soul I know that the Lord needs me here to guid my fellow brothers need. Each day brings fresh sorrows to console.
Yet, I must confess, that I would give nearly all I possess to feel your comforting embrace. Were it not for my duty to God and the immortal souls in my care, I would gladly traverse whatever fields of carnage might lie between us, just to hold you once more.
But I know that is selfish of me. I know that your grace is needed to help those around you.
Thinking of you and your good work, I cannot refrain from asking after my father's health. Your medical insights, gleaned from your father's instruction, have often proven more illuminating than the physicians' formal reports. Has the summer heat worsened his condition? The consumption that afflicts him shows no mercy, yet I have faith that our Lord may yet grant him relief. Please share what you have observed during your visits—your keen eye misses nothing of medical significance.
I continue to send letters to Charles through every possible channel. Please enlighten me about his situation. I implore you to tell them of my unwavering brotherly devotion, regardless of the conflict that divides our nation. The bonds of family transcend these temporary political divisions. Perhaps you might employ your father's medical connections to convey such a message? Dr. Merriweather's travels between jurisdictions might provide an opportunity for such communication.
Each night, I read from Paul's letter to the Ephesians, where he writes of Christ breaking down the dividing wall of hostility. I pray fervently that such reconciliation might be possible for our divided nation, though the blood already spilled makes such hope seem increasingly distant.
The captain calls for all correspondence to be collected. I must close now, though my heart has much more it wishes to express to you. I carry your last letter close to my heart—literally so, as it rests in my breast pocket alongside my small Testament. When the cannons roared at Manassas and men fell all around me, your words provided comfort equal to the Psalms.
Remember me in your prayers, as I remember you in mine. Though enemies surround us, we shall yet dwell in the secret place of the Most High, under the shadow of the Almighty.
As Jacob labored seven years for Rachel, so do I endure this separation.
With abiding affection and steadfast faith, Thomas
P.S. The pressed lavender you sent in your April letter has lost its fragrance, yet I cannot bring myself to discard it. Like our nation's temporarily faded unity, I believe its essence remains, waiting for the proper season to bloom once more.
AUTHOR’S NOTES
Well, it turns out that things didn’t go so well for the Union in the first major battle of the Civil War. It was interesting reading about The First Battle of Bull Run (the South called it First Manassas). Hey, they couldn’t agree on slaves, so it made sense that they couldn’t agree on something as simple as a naming convention. The Union named the battle after the stream, whereas the Confederates named it after the closest town. Which was a better way? I am so not going to step on that land mine. The one thing I’ll say is that I love research.
When Morgan and I first came up with the story, I geeked out knowing that I was going to get to combine two of my loves on this book: research and zombies. I’m the type of person that researches things and tries to make them correct, even when writing ridiculous things like Post-Apocalyptic Joe in a Cinematic Wasteland. So it makes sense to do it for a more serious book, right? I can tell you that Morgan and I spend a ton of time working on making things as correct as possible, but—and this is a big but—we are writing an alt history situation here.
As far as I know, there weren’t any zombies in the Civil War, so things can’t be 100% accurate.
However, I will tell you about something cool I found while researching this particular battle. Turns out that a female named Sarah Emma Edmonds served in the Union Army as a man. It’s not the first time this has ever happened (yes, the plot of Mulan is not that ridiculous). Nope, there have been plenty of wars, pirates, etc. where women pretended to be a man to either serve or try and change their circumstances—and the limitations set by her sex back then. What was most interesting about Sarah (AKA Franklin Thompson) was the fact that she claimed to serve as a nurse and a spy.
I would wager that Thomas ran into her at some point during his hospital stay, since she was a field nurse during the First and Second Battle of the Bull Run. Either way, you can read about Sarah’s adventures in her book “Nurse and Spy in the Union Army.” I’m pretty sure she doesn’t mention Thomas in her book—since alt history and all—but I’m sure you’ll enjoy it nonetheless.
Until next week,
Joe
© 2025 E.M. di V. - writing as Morgan A. Drake & Joe Gillis. All rights reserved.« Previous | Next »