From Thomas’ Christmas Letters
Near Hall's Hill, Virginia
December 25, 1861
My dearest Eleanor,
On this holiest of days, as the winter's chill settles upon our encampment and the men gather to celebrate the birth of our Savior despite the cruel circumstances of war, I find my heart unexpectedly full. The Lord has seen fit to bless my life by showing me that even amidst this terrible conflict, humanity has not abandoned these blood-soaked fields.
I must share with you a most remarkable providence that has unfolded these past days. Last week, I was summoned to attend the wounded at Georgetown after the Battle of Allegheny Mountain. Among the Confederate prisoners brought to our field hospital was a face I recognized immediately, though it was drawn with pain and fever—William Harrison, who sat third pew from the front during my time in Richmond. The very congregation where I first beheld your face! He recognized me as well, despite my scarred countenance, and tears filled his eyes as I knelt beside his cot.
Though gravely wounded in the shoulder, his spirit remained undiminished. We prayed together, this Confederate soldier and Union chaplain, brothers in Christ though divided by this earthly conflict. He spoke of his family in Richmond, of attending service with his daughters mere weeks ago. When I inquired if he had seen you at worship, he smiled weakly and said, "Miss Caldwell continues her hospital work with uncommon dedication. She spoke of you with great tenderness when we conversed last."
My heart soared at this meager connection to you—like a parched man discovering a single drop of water upon his tongue.
In the spirit of Christmas, our commanders arranged a prisoner exchange with Confederate forces—generals from both sides meeting under flags of truce to expedite the return of wounded captives to their respective lines. I confess I had never witnessed such a proceeding, and approached it with some trepidation.
Yet what I observed there has softened my heart considerably.
These same men who devise strategies to destroy one another met with perfect civility, even compassion, to ensure the suffering of the wounded might be eased through reunion with their comrades.
I stood witness as stretchers were carried across the invisible boundary between North and South, each bearing a wounded soul returning to familiar care. The dignity with which these proceedings unfolded—officers from both armies treating each other with genuine respect, physicians consulting on particular cases requiring special attention—filled me with renewed hope that reconciliation might yet be possible when this terrible bloodletting ceases.
My prayers were answered when William Harrison was included among those to be exchanged. Before they carried him to the waiting Confederate ambulance, he pressed my hand and said, "I shall tell Miss Caldwell I have seen you with my own eyes, that you remain steadfast in faith though marked by war's cruelty."
I entrusted him with no written message, knowing such would be unwise, but our shared understanding of Scripture allows me to believe he will convey my devotion to you through carefully chosen words.
This morning, Christmas Day, we held service in the open air despite the bitter cold. The men's breath rose in clouds of vapor as we sang the ancient hymns celebrating our Savior's birth. One selection in particular moved me deeply—"O Come, O Come Emmanuel." As we sang those verses introduced to me by the Protestant soldiers, I found myself overcome with emotion, for they speak so perfectly to our present circumstance.
"O come, O come, Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel," we sang, and I thought of how I remain captive to our separation, longing for deliverance from this exile of the heart. "That mourns in lonely exile here until the Son of God appear"—oh how those words echo my soul's deepest truth! Each night I retire to my solitary cot and mourn the distance that divides us, sustained only by faith that this trial shall eventually pass.
When the chorus swelled—"Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel!"—the men's voices rose with surprising vigor, as though they too yearned for deliverance from present sorrows. I found myself remembering those blessed days in Richmond when we would walk home from service together, your hand resting lightly upon my arm.
Many times we spoke of nothing, yet I felt so much more than words could ever convey. These precious memories bring warmth to me during this cold winter.
I pray that as Emmanuel came to His people, so shall we find our way back to each other when this darkness passes. Our interrupted engagement hangs like a promise unfulfilled, yet not forgotten—a sacred covenant temporarily set aside by circumstances beyond our control, but ever-present in my heart.
In my pocket sits your ring, awaiting the day when I might properly place it upon your finger. I take it out sometimes during my evening prayers, holding it as a tangible symbol of the future we yet may share.
Though oceans of blood now flow between North and South, my love for you remains as constant as the North Star that guides the wayfarer home.
My wounds continue to heal, though the scars shall remain with me always. The physical pain has largely subsided, yet I sometimes wonder if you would recognize the man I have become. War changes us all, my beloved—reshapes our understanding of God's creation and our place within it. I pray that when we meet again, you will find my soul, if not my face, unchanged in its devotion to you.
I must close now, as the men have prepared a modest Christmas celebration and request my presence. We have pooled our meager resources to create a feast of sorts—hardtack pudding, salt pork, and coffee that barely deserves the name. Yet in the sharing of this humble repast, I trust we shall find echoes of the communion that binds all Christians together, regardless of the divisions men have created.
May the Prince of Peace whose birth we celebrate today guard your heart and mind. Though we cannot share this holy day in person, know that my prayers wing their way to you across the battle lines, carrying all the love my poor human heart contains.
With unwavering devotion and the blessed hope of reunion,
Thomas
© 2025 E.M. di V. - writing as Morgan A. Drake & Joe Gillis. All rights reserved.