Beautifully Dead - Chapter 36
An Immortal Affections serialized novel
Thomas Everett’s Personal Journal
Fortress Monroe, Virginia
March 30, 1862
It has oft been said that God shall not burden His children beyond what they may endure. Though many quote this as Scripture’s promise, I find upon examination that the Apostle Paul speaks of temptation rather than suffering in 1 Corinthians 10:13: “God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability.” Would that His mercy extended equally to grief? Today I find myself wishing with every fiber of my wretched being that such promise extended to all manner of suffering, for I have received word that has shattered whatever remained of my faltering spirit.
My beloved Eleanor lies critically wounded. One of the afflicted patients at the hospital—those cursed souls I have witnessed in their terrible transformation—attacked her whilst she performed her merciful duties. Sarah’s letter reached me this morning through the quartermaster’s bag—three weeks delayed by the chaos of our travels. My hands trembled so violently I could scarce make out her words. Sarah received notice from Dr. Merriweather himself. As I read the news from Sarah, the letter trembled in my hands. The words blurring through tears I could not contain.
The trials visited upon my family may exceed what strength this poor vessel retains. First my father, called to his eternal rest whilst I remained unable to attend his final hours. Now Eleanor—my light, my hope, the very reason I resolved to survive this unholy war—lies between this world and the next.
I turned to Scripture as I have always done, seeking solace in the familiar passages that have sustained me through countless nights of doubt. The Gospel of Matthew, chapter 5, verse 4 came first to mind: “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” How many times have I offered these words to grieving soldiers? How many letters have I penned to bereaved mothers and widows, inscribing this very promise as balm for their wounded hearts?
I confess here what shames me utterly: I cannot find comfort in these holy words. They ring hollow in my ears, empty vessels where once they carried the weight of divine truth. I have counseled so many suffering souls with these Scriptures, assured them of God’s faithfulness, of His tender mercies that endure forever. Now I feel myself the fool—a blind guide leading others toward a light I can no longer perceive.
I fear He has forsaken me entirely.
I have ushered countless soldiers toward their salvation, kneeling beside them as their life’s blood seeped into Virginia soil, whispering promises of heavenly reunion. I have written to families beyond counting, informing them of losses no words can adequately convey, always including those blessed assurances from Scripture. “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” The ink has scarce dried on dozens of such letters bearing my hand.
And now I discover I believed not what I preached.
I want to cry out to the heavens, to demand of the Almighty why He would permit such cruelty. Why take a soul so pure, so devoted to His service? Eleanor, who nursed my father through his final months with such tender devotion. Eleanor, who ministered to wounded soldiers regardless of the uniform they wore. Eleanor, whose faith remained steadfast even as mine crumbled beneath the weight of witnessed horrors. Why, Lord? Why would You allow one of Your most faithful servants to be struck down whilst performing the very works of mercy You commanded?
The silence that answers my desperate prayers grows more terrible with each passing hour.
I confess I know not whether I can survive without her. The future I had envisioned—our reunion when this war concludes, the vows we planned to exchange, the life we would build together in service to God and one another—all of it now hangs suspended over an abyss of uncertainty.
Worse still, I confess what damns me further: I am not certain I wish to survive without her.
After the attack upon the road, when those afflicted creatures fell upon my escort and I stood alone facing death, I discovered within myself a desperate will to live. For her. Only for her. If she is taken from me, what purpose remains in this mortal existence? What calling could compel me to continue when the very light that guided my path has been extinguished?
God forgive me these thoughts. I know they constitute grievous sin—to question His providence, to doubt His goodness, to contemplate the surrender of the life He granted me. Yet I cannot purge them from my heart, try as I might through prayer and supplication.
May the Lord, in His infinite wisdom beyond all human understanding, preserve my Eleanor and restore her to health. You raised Lazarus from death itself—surely You can deliver her from this affliction before it consumes her. Grant her strength to endure. Let her suffering be brief.
And if she is taken from me—grant me grace to bear what I cannot now conceive bearing.
I am afraid. Mortally afraid. Not of death, but of this life without her in it.
Entry concludes
© 2025-26 E.M.V. - writing as Morgan A. Drake & Joe Gillis. All rights reserved.