I have recently been engaged examining the history of my family. I am descended principally from three lines: the Deals from Rheinland-Pfalz, Germany; the Littlefields from Exeter, England; and the Engles from Alsace-Lorraine, France. But each of these families came to the United States long before there was a United States. Each of them committed their sons and daughters to the American Revolution as well as the American Civil War and saw many killed.
All at once their sacrifices enrich my love of family and give me pause for the frightful cost of patriotism.
Each man so desperate for honor in war should be roundly rebuked. There can be no argument, no romantic employment that does not impeach the virtue of fame and glory. And yet the wicked bill of nationalist fervor, patriotism, and freedom, costly though it was, built the bulwark of freedom much of the world now enjoys.
All that aside, the price that my family and countless others paid is ultimately closer, more personal, and deeply heart rending. There is an American Civil War letter that brings the purpose of war and its ultimate cost into keen and agonizing focus. I hope you will take the time to read this letter. It is eloquent, beautiful, and haunting.
July the 14th, 1861
Washington D.C.
My very dear Sarah:
The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days—perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write you again, I feel impelled to write lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more.
Our movement may be one of a few days duration and full of pleasure—and it may be one of severe conflict and death to me. Not my will, but thine O God, be done. If it is necessary that I should fall on the battlefield for my country, I am ready. I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in, the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans upon the triumph of the Government, and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and suffering of the Revolution. And I am willing—perfectly willing—to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt.
But, my dear wife, when I know that with my own joys I lay down nearly all of yours, and replace them in this life with cares and sorrows—when, after having eaten for long years the bitter fruit of orphanage myself, I must offer it as their only sustenance to my dear little children—is it weak or dishonorable, while the banner of my purpose floats calmly and proudly in the breeze, that my unbounded love for you, my darling wife and children, should struggle in fierce, though useless, contest with my love of country.
Sarah, my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me to you with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me irresistibly on with all these chains to the battlefield.
The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when God willing, we might still have lived and loved together and seen our sons grow up to honorable manhood around us. I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me—perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar—that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battlefield, it will whisper your name.
Forgive my many faults, and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have often been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness, and struggle with all the misfortune of this world, to shield you and my children from harm. But I cannot. I must watch you from the spirit land and hover near you, while you buffet the storms with your precious little freight, and wait with sad patience till we meet to part no more.
But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the brightest day and in the darkest night—amidst your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours—always, always; and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath; or the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.
Sarah, do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for me, for we shall meet again.
As for my little boys, they will grow as I have done, and never know a father’s love and care. Little Willie is too young to remember me long, and my blue-eyed Edgar will keep my frolics with him among the dimmest memories of his childhood. Sarah, I have unlimited confidence in your maternal care and your development of their characters. Tell my two mothers his and hers I call God’s blessing upon them. O Sarah, I wait for you there! Come to me, and lead thither my children.
Sullivan
Maj Sullivan Ballou was killed one week later at the first battle of Bull Run, Manassas, Virginia.
The letter may never have been mailed; it was found in Ballou’s trunk after he died. It was reclaimed and delivered to Ballou’s widow by Governor William Sprague, either after Sprague had traveled to Virginia to reclaim the effects of dead Rhode Island soldiers, or from Camp Sprague in Washington, D.C.
{ 6 comments… read them below or add one }
They did have vivid prose in the day. Being they had no other form of expression, the writing of language had a much greater gravity than it does today. Its a vast pity in my opinion. I seek to incorporate some of that archaic style in my writings now and then.
How very sad! However, I kept going back to the way he spoke. I think there is just something so beautiful about the words and phrases people used back then.
Good luck with your family history search. I hope you find all sorts of interesting things!
Thanks for stopping by Theresa’s Mixed Nuts!
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Dean, Happy Holidays!
Can you resubscribe me so I get an email when you publish? My new email is lindaamedrano@att.net. Thanks Hon!
I KNEW you were part English, I KNEW it!
That letter is so beautiful. this is where you must get your poetic gene from!
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Beautiful letter Dean… but so sad! I often read historical accounts like these and have the urge to go back into time and change it all.
At least you’re delving into your origins/roots. All I know is that I am a thoroughbred mixed-breed… Irish, Persian, French, Indian, Portuguese, Arabian… the list goes on.
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This beautiful letter made me cry. Patriotism is difficult to deal with the night before a year long deployment. I hated that my husband was going, but I loved him for doing what he thought was right. Sometimes, I felt like “But what about me?”. Selfish? Yeah. But oh so human.
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