Beautifully Dead - Chapter 16
An Immortal Affections serialized novel
Thomas Everett's Diary Entries
From Bull Run to the Massachusetts 22nd
July 21, 1861 - October 1861
Sunday, the 21st day of July, in the year of our Lord 1861
Evening - Near Centreville
The Lord has tested my faith beyond measure this day. The battle at Bull Run has ended in chaos and retreat, and I find myself struggling to comprehend the terrible scenes I have witnessed. Young men—boys, truly—lay crying for their mothers as their life's blood seeped into Virginia soil. The air hung thick with smoke and the metallic scent of carnage that no amount of prayer seems able to cleanse from my memory.
I ministered to the wounded as best I could, offering what comfort a chaplain might provide amid such horror. One of the hardest was Private Morrison from New York, barely eighteen years of age. He pressed a letter to his sweetheart into my hands before the Almighty saw fit to call his soul unto eternal rest.. "Please make sure my Susie gets this," he whispered, “let her know I fought bravely.”
My heart grew heavy witnessing such devastation. The battlefield bore witness to countless souls either claimed by death or clinging to life by divine grace.
I pray Eleanor has not read the detailed accounts in the Richmond papers. She must not know how deeply we have failed here, how many good men paid the price for our overconfidence.
As the battle waged, I searched for my brother. I pray most fervently that Providence shielded Charles from witnessing the carnage that it was. Every fiber in my being hopes that Charles is somewhere safe in the Confederate ranks, and the Lord is watching over him.
August 5, 1861
Stone Church, Centreville
The Lord has seen fit to mark me with more than the emotional scars I was bound to have from this terrible conflict.
As I write these words, my left cheek and brow remain heavily bandaged from the incident at the stone church where we established our field hospital. The day after the battle at Bull Run, while tending to a wounded young man who had taken a musket ball to the shoulder—a Confederate shell exploded directly above us, sending jagged fragments of metal and stone deep into my face.
The pain came as a crushing blow that knocked me senseless for several minutes. When consciousness returned, I found myself lying in a pool of blood, my vision obscured by the crimson flow from wounds above my left eye. Private Collins, despite his own grave injuries, was crying out for someone to help me. The largest fragment had embedded itself deep in my cheek, while smaller pieces had torn ragged gashes from my temple to my jaw.
Dr. Jenkins worked by candlelight to extract what metal he could, but warned that some fragments were too deep and too close to vital structures to remove safely.
The physical agony has persisted without respite these past fourteen days—a throbbing, searing torment that renders peaceful slumber nearly impossible to achieve. My vision is finally returning to its normal state, yet I still have troubles focusing and the headaches persist.
A nurse here, Private Frank Thompson, has been assisting me to walk due to my balance problems. My suffering pales compared to the spiritual anguish of witnessing such carnage among the Lord's children.
The hospital tents overflow with casualties from Bull Run. Many seek forgiveness before they visit their Savior.
Today I held the hand of Private Morrison, who asked if God would still love him if he’d killed men.
By what means might one respond to such an inquiry when one's own faith wavers under the weight of witnessed horror?
September 8, 1861
Georgetown Hospital
The infection in my face shows no signs of improving despite Dr. Jenkins's best efforts. This morning I attempted to look in a mirror for the first time since the operation and was horrified by what I saw. Angry red flesh surrounds the reopened wounds, and the most horrible smell that follows me wherever I go.
Dr. Jenkins told me that he feared the infection may spread to my brain if it did not come under control. He suggested that he should try to cauterize the wounds with a heated iron. I agreed and he will perform the procedure in the morning.
Yet even as my own body fails me, I continue to witness the extraordinary courage of our wounded soldiers. Today I sat with Private O'Malley from Boston, whose both legs had been amputated above the knee. Rather than despair, he spoke with fierce determination about returning home to his wife and children.
Although I was there to comfort him, he was the one who comforted me. "We've both been marked by this war.” he said, “ The question ain't whether we'll carry scars—it's whether we'll let them define us or refine us."
His words moved me deeply. Here was a man whose limbs had been forever taken from him, offering comfort to me in my vanity about facial disfigurement.
This afternoon brought devastating news. Sergeant Murphy from the 5th Massachusetts died from wounds that had seemed to be healing well. The surgeon attributed his death to "hospital fever". As I performed his funeral rites, I wondered if my own mortification might claim me similarly.
"Tell my mother I died for something that mattered," Sergeant Murphy had whispered before he passed. "Tell her this war ain't for nothing, even if it takes everything."
How does one convey such messages to grieving families? How does one explain that death has meaning when it appears so senseless?
I attempted to write to Eleanor tonight but found my handwriting has deteriorated badly. The swelling in my face affects my vision, and the constant pain makes concentration nearly impossible. Yet I must maintain correspondence with her, must continue to offer hope and comfort even as my own faith wavers.
The knowledge that she is but four days' ride from here torments me. In my fevered moments, I imagine abandoning my post and riding to Richmond to see her face once more before this horror, putrefaction claims me. Yet duty binds me here among these suffering souls who need whatever comfort a broken chaplain can provide.
October 20, 1861
Centreville - Massachusetts 22nd
My transfer to the Massachusetts 22nd has been completed, and I now serve as chaplain to four hundred men from my home state.
The chaplain taking over for me at the hospital brought me the most precious gift—a letter from Eleanor. I had nearly given up all hope of hearing from her, yet I was blessed enough to receive it before we left.
It brought both joy and anguish. She wrote of both my brother and father. Relief swept over me as I read that Sarah had received word that Charles was alive. But that sense of calm was lost when I read that my father was growing weaker each day. It has been over a month since she wrote her letter, so I am not even sure if my father is still with us or not.
It saddens me to think that he might have moved on by now. However, I imagine that if that is the case he is having the most glorious reunion with my mother right now. I know he missed her so dearly.
Charles was fighting with 33rd Virginia. Part of me wishes we could have crossed paths, another part of me is glad we did not since most of the Confederate soldiers I encountered were nearing death.
After all I have seen, I am just glad that Charles was unharmed and that Eleanor remains in good health.
My own injuries progress toward recovery with maddening slowness. The burned flesh has begun to form thick scars, creating a patchwork of textures across the left side of my face. Dr. Jenkins believes the worst of the corruption has passed, though he warns that injury to the nervous constitution may be permanent. I can barely feel sensation in my left cheek, and my smile, when I attempt one, appears grotesquely lopsided.
Yet I am alive, and Charles is alive, and Eleanor continues to write letters that somehow find their way to me. For these mercies, I offer daily thanksgiving.
© 2025 E.M. di V. - writing as Morgan A. Drake & Joe Gillis. All rights reserved.