Eleanor's Christmas Letters
Richmond, Virginia
December 25, 1861
My beloved Thomas,
I write to you on this most sacred day from Sarah's parlor, where the morning light streams through frost-painted windows and little Charles builds castles from wooden blocks at my feet. The Christmas bells have fallen silent across Richmond, and for the first time in months, the city rests in something approaching peace—a blessed respite from the harsh winter that has gripped Virginia these past weeks. Dr. Merriweather mentioned yesterday that Confederate command has agreed to honor the postal truce through the New Year, allowing safe passage for civilian correspondence through official military channels during this holy season.
Oh, Thomas, how my heart both soared and ached when I learned of your cunning in securing passage for your December letter! To think you entrusted it to a dying Confederate officer—such courage, such faith that Christian charity might bridge even this terrible divide. When Lieutenant Morrison's personal effects reached Richmond in mid-December, his captain was puzzled to discover correspondence addressed to a Richmond lady among the belongings. The captain deemed it would dishonor their fallen comrade's memory to destroy a letter he'd died carrying, and arranged for its delivery during the exchange of correspondence permitted by holiday truce.
I have read your words a dozen times, drawing strength from them during these longest nights of winter. Your description of the hospital horrors grieves me deeply, yet I understand the calling that drives you to such places. We serve the same God in tending His broken children, even if we do so on opposite sides of this cruel war.
Your father grows more lucid these past few days—a Christmas blessing for which I thank Providence daily. Yesterday he spoke your name clearly for the first time in weeks and asked specifically when you might return home. I told him of your faithful service as chaplain, and his eyes filled with such pride. "My Thomas," he whispered, "following God's path even through the valley of shadows." Sarah sat with him this morning while I attended Christmas services, and she reports him bittersweet but smiling, when little Charles showed him the wooden soldiers you carved for the boy last Christmas.
Charles remains safe, praise God.
Several letters arrived together just this week—bundled correspondence that had been delayed for months by the postal disruptions, but bearing November and early December datelines.
He asks after you constantly, Thomas. Each letter contains some variation of "Tell Thomas I pray for his safety" or "Has Thomas received word of Father's condition?" The war has not diminished his love for you, only renders its expression more difficult.
The arrival of the missives was truly a blessing for Sarah’s spirits, as I know the separation weighs heavily upon her more and more every day.
Little Charles has grown so remarkably— four years old this autumn and possessing the endless energy and curiosity of his age. He chatters constantly, only yesterday he asked why couldn’t we all have a Christmas feast together, instead of fighting.
From the mouths of babes…
I confess, my darling, that this Christmas finds me reflecting often on what should have been. We planned to exchange vows this winter—December 20th, you said, when the snow first falls and the world grows quiet enough to hear our promises to each other.
You spoke of how we would have our wedding feast by candlelight, with Sarah playing your mother's hymns on the piano and your father offering the blessing despite his failing health. Instead, I sit in Sarah's parlor wearing no ring but the simple gold band that belonged to your mother, which you placed on my finger before departing for war "until we can exchange proper vows before God and our families."
I feel myself part of your family in all ways save name, Thomas. Sarah treats me as the sister she never had, and your father speaks to me as a daughter already claimed. When little Charles calls me "Aunt Eleanor," my heart swells with a joy so profound it almost makes this separation bearable. Almost.
The Lord has been gracious to me in these dark months. Dr. Merriweather continues to entrust me with increasingly important responsibilities at the hospital. Just yesterday he invited me to observe his consultation with the chief medical officer regarding expansion of our fever ward.
They speak of constructing an entire separate building to accommodate the growing number of special cases—patients requiring the most careful isolation and treatment. That Dr. Merriweather would include me in such professional discussions fills me with pride. He says my scientific observations have proven invaluable to his research.
The winter air has been kind to my constitution.
You remember how poorly I fared during those humid summer months? The cooler weather has brought remarkable improvement. My energy returns, my appetite normalizes, and I find myself able to work longer hours without the headaches and the fatigue that plagued me through autumn. Dr. Merriweather attributes this to the reduced strain on my system and the excellent nursing experience I've gained. He speaks often of how pleased Father will be with my development when he returns from his travels.
Speaking of Father, I received a brief letter from Baltimore, where his work with Secretary Benjamin's medical reorganization efforts continues. He writes that the Confederate medical department's expansion has extended his advisory assignment indefinitely, but he expresses confidence that Dr. Merriweather's guidance serves me well in his absence. I confess his extended absence grieves me more deeply during this Christmas season, yet I try to focus on gratitude rather than sorrow. We are blessed to have such dedicated men guiding our medical understanding during these troubled times.
I must close now, as Sarah has promised to show me her mother's recipe for Christmas pudding, and little Charles grows impatient for his afternoon walk.
I pray this letter finds you safe and warm, surrounded by the fellowship of good men who share your burden of ministry. When you kneel for Christmas prayers tonight, know that across these battle lines, our prayers are joined though distance divides our mortal frames.
Until this terrible conflict releases us to claim the life we've planned, I remain faithfully and completely yours,
Eleanor
P.S. I have enclosed sprigs of holly and pressed winter jasmine from the garden outside Sarah's window. Place them in your Testament where you keep my letters—a reminder that even in winter's darkest hour, life persists and hope endures.
Richmond, Virginia
December 25, 1861
Dearest Papa,
Your Christmas greetings reached me yesterday via Dr. Merriweather's professional correspondence, and I hasten to reply while the holiday postal truce allows safe passage for civilian mail.
How grateful I am to know your work with Secretary Benjamin's medical reorganization proceeds so well, though I confess your daughter misses your steady presence more acutely during this sacred season.
My mentor—though I hesitate to use such a presumptuous term, despite his kind insistence that I consider him as such—continues to exceed every expectation as both colleague and guide, providing the paternal guidance I so desperately need in your absence. His confidence in my abilities grows daily, and I find myself entrusted with responsibilities that would have seemed impossible when I first began our medical work. Just this week he invited me to assist with his consultation regarding the new fever ward expansion. They plan an entire separate building to house the special cases requiring isolation—a testament to his innovative approaches to treatment that I know would meet with your professional approval.
His methodology fascinates me, Papa. Where other physicians treat symptoms, my mentor studies patterns.
He maintains detailed records of each patient's progression, noting correlations between dietary preferences, environmental factors, and recovery rates.
Yesterday he showed me case studies spanning several years—a body of research that could revolutionize our understanding of contagious fevers. I have learned to prepare his preparations of iron and document the precise effects of various courses of remedy. That he would share such groundbreaking work with someone of my limited experience speaks to his generous spirit and confidence in my discretion.
I hope it brings you satisfaction to know your daughter's scientific education under your guidance has prepared me well for such advanced study. Dr. Merriweather often remarks on the thoroughness of my observational skills and my ability to recognize subtle patterns other assistants might miss. He credits your early training in analytical thinking for my aptitude in clinical matters.
My health continues to improve remarkably with the cooler weather. You will be pleased to learn that the fatigue and appetite difficulties that concerned you when you departed for your assignment this autumn have resolved almost completely. Dr. Merriweather attributes this recovery to the excellent conditioning I've gained through our medical work, combined with the reduced environmental stress of winter temperatures. My energy levels now allow me to work extended hours without the exhaustion that previously limited my contributions.
I have decided to move my residence to Sarah's home, as this arrangement benefits us both: she gains companionship during Charles's absence, while I enjoy the stability of a proper household. I hope you find the arrangement suitable.
Little Charles brings such joy to our daily routine, and Sarah's gentle nature makes her the sister I never had. Thomas's father has shown increased lucidity these past few days—another Christmas blessing for which we give thanks. I haven’t told Sarah, but I know to be ready, if this is to be the end, I am happy he had a last holiday amongst loved ones.
As you can imagine, Richmond itself bears the strain of war more heavily each week. Supply shortages affect even basic medical necessities, yet the season seems to have lifted everyone’s spirit.
Do you remember our first Christmas after Mother passed—how lost we both felt that year? You had worked so tirelessly through her final months that when the holiday arrived, neither of us possessed the heart for celebration. Yet on Christmas morning, you surprised me by setting Mother's best china upon the table, lighting her special beeswax candles, and declaring that we would honor her memory by maintaining the traditions she so treasured.
"Your mother believed Christmas was about bearing light into darkness," you told me as we shared breakfast. "The greatest tribute we can offer her spirit is to continue creating warmth and joy, even when our hearts feel cold."
That morning, as we read scripture by candlelight in the parlor where her portrait watched over us, I first understood that love persists beyond death, that the principles she instilled continue to guide us even in her absence.
Now, as I apply those same principles in service to our wounded, I feel both your presence and hers guiding me still. Though we are separated by duty, your influence shapes every observation I make, every comfort I offer the afflicted.
I must close now to help Sarah with Christmas feast preparations.
I write this by the gentle glow of beeswax candles, blessed this morning during our Methodist Christmas service—their light a symbol of Christ's presence even in these dark times. Please write when circumstances permit, and know that I think of you daily with love and gratitude for the love and opportunities you have provided.
Your devoted daughter,
Eleanor
Author's Note,
The First Wartime Christmas (1861)
The "Christmas postal truce" described in Eleanor's letters reflects not a single, formal agreement but rather the reality of the Civil War's first winter. Unlike the famous 1914 Christmas Truce of World War I, there was no universal holiday ceasefire in 1861. What did exist were localized pauses in campaigning, flag-of-truce exchanges, and occasional acts of courtesy that allowed mail, prisoners, and even the personal effects of the fallen to cross the lines.
By December 1861, both Union and Confederate forces had settled into their first winter encampments. The Virginia cold was harsh, roads were often impassable, and supply chains struggled. These conditions naturally slowed large-scale fighting. Amid this lull, and with the Christian sentiment of Christmas fresh in men's minds, officers sometimes permitted small humanitarian gestures. Letters or keepsakes found on the dead might be delivered across enemy lines; families occasionally received news by way of an opposing officer's sense of honor.
Civilian doctors and other trusted figures sometimes acted as intermediaries in these exchanges, their professional neutrality making them acceptable messengers when military channels were strained. Such practices were always informal and dependent on the discretion of individual commanders.
The winter of 1861–62 also marked a sobering shift in morale. What many had expected to be a brief conflict now showed signs of becoming a protracted war. Against this backdrop, Christmas offered families a brief moment of connection, fragile and fleeting, before the bitterness of the struggle deepened. By the following Christmas, such courtesies had become far rarer, as both armies hardened against fraternization.
M.A.Drake
© 2025 E.M. di V. - writing as Morgan A. Drake & Joe Gillis. All rights reserved.