Work Text:
September, 1917
Heath awoke with a start, heart pounding. He hadn't had one of those dreams for a long time, years in fact. Glancing over to see if he had disturbed his wife, Heath was relieved to see Katey sleeping soundly, her breathing deep and regular.
Heath slipped out from beneath the covers and his muscles protested as he slowly stood. Sliding his feet into the waiting slippers, he left the room, quietly closing the door behind him. He knew exactly why the dreams had come tonight.
Turning on a light, Heath walked over to the side table where the letter still rested. So many memories he thought were gone and buried, brought back by one single sheet of paper. When President Wilson declared America was joining the war in Europe, James was one of the first to enlist. Heath asked him not to, but James just gave his father a crooked grin and said, "You fought for your country, now it's my turn."
Now James was off, probably halfway across the Atlantic Ocean according to the letter they just received. Heath blinked his eyes. He was too old for tears, even though he feared for the life of his son. Now he understood how his mama must have felt, knowing her boy was willingly placing himself in danger. But in his case, it was more real, since he'd seen the elephant and heard the owl, as he once put it. James was thirty, older than he had been when he enlisted, old enough to make his own decisions, but Heath knew that didn't make any difference where a parent's love was concerned.
Holding the letter tightly, Heath made his way to the attic and his joints protested at having to climb the steep stairs. He fumbled a bit for the light switch; the single bulb lit the room dimly and he walked to the far corner where an old trunk sat. Kneeling cautiously, mindful of the stiffness in his right knee, Heath opened the trunk and careful sifted through its contents until he found what he was looking for. Taking the bundle of letters, he relatched the trunk and went back downstairs to sit in a chair where the lamp provided enough light to read by.
He hadn't looked at the letters since they were written, even when he discovered them in the trunk of his mama's Hannah gave to him before her passing. They were from the past and he deemed that part of his past was best left buried. But the memories the letter from his own son stirred up wouldn't be easily laid back to rest and Heath gently untied the faded ribbon holding the yellowed papers together. Picking the top one, Heath carefully removed the aging letter from its envelope and started reading.
Staten Island, New York
June 16, 1861
Dear Mama,
I am sorry it has taken me so long to write to you, but a lot has been happening. When I signed up to join Col. Matheson's 1st California Regiment, I had no idea we would be traveling all the way to New York. I can hardly describe it, Mama, so different from the hill and rivers of Strawberry.
But I am glad to be here. Col. Matheson seems to be a good leader and we all have high hopes the war will be over by the end of summer. Our regiment is joining the rest of the Army in a few days, likely marching to Washington. Imagine that, I am going to see our country's capital.
The paymaster assures me my pay will be sent to you, but please send me word so I know you have received it.
I hope my letter finds you well. Please give my love to Aunt Rachel and Aunt Hannah and of course, to you.
Your loving son,
Heath
Heath smiled as he remembered the almost festive atmosphere of those days and the certainty the war wouldn't last. He sobered as he then recalled the crushing Union defeat at Bull Run and the bloody battles that followed. Heath pulled out another letter at random and a small photograph fell into his lap. Picking it up, Heath looked at the face staring back at him. Was he really ever that young, that innocent? He read the letter and then the next one.
Washington, DC
February 23, 1862
Dear Mama,
I was very pleased to receive your letter the other day. Yes, it is cold out here, but on my leave time I was able to help a local woman stock firewood and she paid me by knitting me the warmest of hats and mittens.
I have enclosed a photograph taken of me. An army of photographers seems to follow us around and I thought you might like to have one.
We were treated to a grand supper last night and after supper there was dancing for the young folks. The musicians were all Germans and they were very good, a clarinet, one double bass, and something called a tuba were played – it was an enjoyable time.
They have just sounded the tattoo for lights out so I shall have to end my letter here by saying how much I miss you and always hold you close to my heart.
With love
your son,
Heath
Harrison's Landing, Virginia
July 19, 1982
Dear Mama,
We finally have a chance to rest and most of the regiment is taking the time to put pen to paper as I am doing.
I do not know if you have heard of the battles that have been taking place, but rest assured I am well. After weeks of marching and fighting in swamps, I must say I am longing for the dry hills and bright sunshine of home.
My tentmate has been trying to teach me to play the harmonica; if I ever learn how I will be sure to play for you when I return.
I am glad the money I am able to send home let you hire someone to fix the roof on the house; it makes being so far away more bearable to know that my pay is making your life easier.
Say hello to Aunt Rachel and Aunt Hannah for me, you are all continuously in my thoughts and prayers.
Love,
your Heath
Heath laid the letters in his lap, remembering the events he wrote about to his mama and the events he didn't write about as well. In his mind's eye, Heath saw the lanes and fields littered with dead and broken men and heard their anguished cries as they called out for someone, anyone, who could relieve their pain. He recalled the men moaning in the beds of the infirmary as camp fever and other illnesses claimed more Yankee lives than the Rebs did and the screaming of those unfortunates undergoing the brutal mercy of the surgeon's saw.
Heath couldn't hold back any more; the tears started to fall as he pictured his son living and fighting in the trenches he'd read described in the papers, his own flesh and blood living through horrors no man should have to experience. He prayed that the war would be over soon and James would return home safely.
Heath hoped his son knew how proud he was of him and how much he was loved. Going to the desk, Heath pulled out paper and pen and started to write.
Dear Son….