Eleanor's Response
Richmond, Virginia
September 8, 1861
My dearest Thomas,
Your letter reached me yesterday, and I confess I wept upon reading it. Not merely from relief that you live, though that joy overwhelms me, but from the pain in your words. The Thomas who wrote to me speaks with a voice I recognize yet have never heard—one tempered by fire and marked by terrible knowledge.
Your wounds. Oh, my beloved, how my heart aches knowing you suffer while I remain safe in Richmond's parlors. I have studied Father's anatomical texts on such injuries, particularly Dr. Warren's treatise on facial trauma. Dr. Merriweather assures me that metal fragments near the orbital bone often produce dramatic bleeding while causing less damage than one might fear. Still, I would trade places with you gladly if the Lord permitted such a thing.
Charles is safe. Thank God, Charles is safe.
Sarah received word three days past through Private Hayes—wounded himself but able to travel. Charles emerged from that dreadful battle unmarked, though Hayes spoke of terrible losses among the 33rd Virginia. Your brother fought with distinction, Thomas. Even as my heart breaks that brothers must prove their courage against each other, I cannot help but feel pride in both my beloved men.
Sarah wept when the letter came. Not from sorrow this time, but relief so profound she could not stand. Little Charles grows so quickly—he chatters constantly now, asking endless questions about when Papa will return home. Yesterday he helped Sarah gather eggs, his small hands so careful with each one. Life persists even as we fear it may be torn away.
Your father grows weaker each day.
I write this truth plainly because you deserve honesty, not gentle evasions. Father believes he has perhaps a fortnight remaining, though I have witnessed consumption take men swiftly when the final turn comes. Sarah and I share his care, though I bear the greater portion of direct nursing. She limits her exposure for baby Charles's sake—a wisdom I cannot fault, given the mysterious nature of his condition.
This arrangement has placed me at his bedside for the darkest hours, when his breathing grows most labored and his mind wanders to places I cannot follow. Yet in those quiet vigils, I find unexpected peace. He speaks of you often, especially during his clearer moments, and I believe he finds comfort knowing you follow God's calling even amid war's horrors. Sometimes, in the pre-dawn darkness, he clasps my hand with surprising strength and speaks of "seeing the pattern" in ways that both comfort and unsettle me.
I have asked Dr. Merriweather to employ his connections among Confederate medical staff regarding Charles's circumstances. James—Dr. Merriweather—maintains regular correspondence with physicians serving various regiments. Yesterday he mentioned writing to Dr. Samuel Preston, who serves with Jackson's forces, inquiring discretely about the 33rd Virginia's present condition and whereabouts. I will share whatever intelligence he can provide, though such communications require patience in these uncertain times.
The hospital work grows more demanding as casualties mount from your terrible battle. James has come to rely upon my assistance in ways that extend beyond typical volunteer duties. I find myself preparing tinctures of opium and alcohol for pain relief, mixing solutions of carbolic acid for wound cleansing, even assisting with the documentation of patient conditions for his medical reports. These tasks feel natural to me in ways that social calls and embroidery never have.
Mrs. Patterson observes my expanded duties with visible disapproval. She makes pointed remarks about "young ladies who forget their proper sphere," though I notice she requests my assistance readily enough when difficult cases arise. The other volunteers watch me differently now—some with resentment, others with curiosity about my growing familiarity with medical procedures.
Young Mary Catherine, one of our newer volunteers, remarked yesterday on what she calls my "uncanny instinct" for knowing which patients require immediate attention. "You always seem to know just where to go, Miss Eleanor," she said with admiration I did not feel I deserved. When I directed Dr. Merriweather to Private Collins moments before the man's condition visibly worsened, James gave me a calculating look I've begun to recognize—the same expression he wears when studying the fever cases that so perplex him.
These unusual patients continue to arrive from various battlefields. Their symptoms defy easy classification within standard medical understanding. James has permitted only select volunteers to assist with their care, given what appears to be the contagious nature of their condition. The work requires careful preparation of specialized solutions—silver nitrate washes, zinc chloride applications—and meticulous observation of symptom progression.
I confess the work both fascinates and unsettles me, though I cannot articulate precisely why.
Evening draws near, and I must return to your father's bedside. Sarah will arrive shortly to spell me through the night hours. Each day his breathing grows more labored, each moment more precious. Yet I sense he waits for something—perhaps word from you, perhaps simply permission to rest.
This war will end, my beloved. When it does, we will build something beautiful from these ashes. Until then, know that my love remains constant as the stars that watch over both our prayers.
The rosemary I enclose comes from our garden—the same path where you walked during your Richmond visit. Mother always said rosemary was for remembrance, and I pray its fragrance reminds you of happier days and the promise of their return.
As evening falls, I turn to the words of our shared hymn: "Jesus, lover of my soul, let me to thy bosom fly, while the nearer waters roll, while the tempest still is high." May verse three bring you the same comfort it brings me when darkness gathers.
Your devoted,
Eleanor
Eleanor's Private Journal
September 8, 1861
Late evening, by candlelight
I am frightened.
There. I have written the words I dare not speak aloud. Two years of changes, two years of telling myself these alterations stem from nursing duties and the strain of these terrible times. Tonight I can no longer pretend ignorance.
It began during the autumn of Mr. Everett's illness. Those long afternoons at his bedside in '59, then through the winter months when his condition worsened, continuing through this past spring and summer. At first, merely exhaustion after our sessions. Natural enough—caring for the dying exacts its toll upon the caregiver.
This summer brought new troubles. Light sensitivity that I attributed to taking night shifts with Mr. Everett—reasonable enough when one sleeps during daylight hours and wakes in darkness. The bright morning sun became painful after those long vigils by candlelight. Even now, drawing the curtains against dawn light brings relief I should not require.
But lately, stranger symptoms. Sounds that should be inaudible reach my ears with startling clarity. Yesterday I heard Mrs. Patterson's conversation with Dr. Morrison from two rooms away, discussing my "presumptuous behavior" with crystal precision. This morning, I detected Sarah's footsteps on the front walk while I sat in the rear parlor—impossible under normal circumstances.
When young Mary Catherine praised my "uncanny instinct" for identifying patients in distress, I felt unease rather than pride. How do I explain that I seem to know these things without conscious reasoning? When Private Collins began his decline yesterday, something drew me to his bedside before any visible symptoms manifested. James's calculating expression suggested he noted this pattern.
The fever patients display similar symptoms in their early stages. Enhanced hearing that allows them to detect approaching footsteps from impossible distances. The same sensitivity to light that I first noticed during my summer night shifts. But their conditions progress to something far more disturbing—periods of confusion, strange utterances, an awareness that extends beyond normal human perception.
Mr. Everett shows comparable signs, though his progression follows a slower course. His ability to sense approaching visitors before they announce themselves. His requests for specific people to attend him, as though he perceives qualities in individuals that escape normal observation. I told myself these were merely a dying man's heightened intuitions, but what if they represent something else entirely?
What if my extended care of him has exposed me to whatever mysterious condition affects these patients?
James watches me now with the same scientific interest he directs toward the fever cases. Yesterday he asked my opinion on treatment approaches—not the polite consultation he might offer any educated volunteer, but genuine medical inquiry seeking my assessment. When I suggested that Private Morrison might benefit from elevated positioning due to respiratory distress I had somehow detected, James nodded as though confirming a hypothesis rather than receiving helpful advice.
Does he understand what happens to me? Does he recognize this progression from his study of similar cases?
Each night brings dreams of landscapes I have never seen—ancient stone circles, mist-covered hills that feel more like memories than imagination. I wake sometimes with the taste of copper coating my tongue, particularly after nights spent caring for Mr. Everett during his more restless episodes. The metallic flavor seems strongest when he speaks of "seeing the pattern" or when his eyes hold that strange knowing quality.
I cannot confide these fears to anyone. Sarah bears enough worry with Charles in constant peril. Father would forbid my hospital work entirely if he suspected I might have contracted some mysterious ailment. And Thomas—wounded, struggling with his own crisis of faith—cannot bear the additional burden of my medical terrors alongside his own suffering.
The changes feel gradual yet undeniable. What began as simple fatigue has evolved into something I cannot easily explain or dismiss. I document these observations hoping that understanding might provide some path toward comprehension, if not cure.
Perhaps James can provide answers. Perhaps together we can make sense of what afflicts Mr. Everett, the fever patients, and now myself.
But tonight I am simply frightened. A young woman sitting by candlelight, trying to make sense of changes I cannot control. The familiar scratch of pen on paper should comfort me, yet my hand trembles slightly as I write.
Still. As these words flow onto the page, something shifts in my thinking. What if—what if these changes aren't random? Mr. Everett's symptoms, then the fever patients arriving with similar signs, now my own alterations following the same course. It's almost as though...
No. That's foolish thinking.
But is it? Father always said that coincidence was simply pattern we hadn't yet recognized. Three separate cases displaying identical progression—that suggests something systematic rather than accidental. A process. Something with stages, perhaps even... predictable outcomes.
I should be terrified by this thought. Instead, I find my pulse quickening with something that feels almost like excitement. The same sensation I experienced as a child when Father would explain some medical mystery, showing me how symptoms revealed the underlying condition.
What determines who develops these enhanced perceptions? Why do some individuals progress faster than others? And what—what lies at the end of this strange journey?
When Mr. Everett speaks of "seeing the pattern," maybe he's not wandering in delirium. Maybe he's describing something real, something beyond what most people can perceive. When those fever patients demonstrate their impossible awareness, perhaps they're experiencing the world more truly, not less.
Tomorrow I'll watch more carefully. Document everything. Not just to serve faithfully—though I will—but to understand. If I'm changing, I need to know what I'm becoming.
The fear hasn't left. But curiosity burns brighter now.
Time will tell if this is wisdom or madness.
Entry concludes
© 2025 E.M. di V. - writing as Morgan A. Drake & Joe Gillis. All rights reserved.« Previous | Next »