On the road to Chattanooga, October 27, 1863

Dearest:

We are on the march in Tennessee, following the disastrous battle fought by Rosecrans (of whom you have heard me speak disparagingly before) at Chickamauga last month. The men are pleased to be on the march, though they are terribly under supplied, the country hereabouts having been long relieved of most material of war and peace. "General," said Lucius to me on the first day of the march, "Anything to be out of Vicksburg".

I wish to speak of what you know I pledged to accomplish, if the manoeuvres allowed, and God be praised, I was able to route our march along the road of indelible memory. I was unable to recognise any landmarks until we passed by the Indian camp that you may remember, long abandoned; and Lucius went off in search of the old woman's house, but either our memories were askew, or – and you will not laugh, I know – perhaps one day she simply raised it up into the air and moved it to some other location.

We came along the road, past where Willis and I had that horrible death struggle with Hartung, that ended that valiant friend's life. Lucius and I were quite overcome, and we ordered a rest on the march, and the two of us went forward with the sentries along the road. I had not noticed at the time what beautiful country it was, though I remember that at the brief service we held that Gus said something about the view. I did not have the heart this time to take out my pencils, nor do I need to, for the scene is burned into my brain. We passed the places where so many died in defence of liberty – it is strange to say this now, when I have seen so many thousands die, to say such a thing as "so many", but they were the earliest glimmers of this terrible blood red dawn, and I think of them, Gerald, Samuel, and Willis, as a host, a holy host, morning stars.

We came up to the hill where we so hastily buried them, still fearful of what might happen, not knowing that the rest of the journey would be so uneventful (except for that last night over the Ohio). We unpacked the stones, and cleaned the wild ground around them, plucking the weeds that had grown over them. As I had pledged in that wild moment, I then buried the rifle I had promised Willis . My adjutant smiled, as he had often wondered why I carried two rifles about with me; and now he was answered. I also buried the piece of paper Millie gave me, with the drawing of the angel, the Christmas tree, and the Big Dipper, so long a symbol of hopes -- some realized, some left here along the river. I also buried your letter and ribbon for Samuel beneath his mound; and you will smile to know that I wthe shoes found a blessed rest at last. They were in better shape than those some of my men are wearing.

Eventually I waved them all away, and I sat and spoke with Gerald. I thanked him, as I have done every day since then, for you, and for showing me what I should do with my life – can there be greater gifts? – and my sorrow that his guidance should also have been entangled with his death. I told him about the war, about the dark days, and of the glimmers of light at Gettysburg and Vicksburg, and my belief that we are at last coming to grips seriously, no more playacting, with the evil that has cost so many their lives, and my belief that we will win in the end – though when that end will come, only God knows, and He is, as usual, being irritatingly opaque.

It is a fine spot, and I watched as our troops began to march up that cursed road by the river – how we could have used them then – but that is passed. I got up, and we moved off, and as always, I carry Gerald's memory with me.
Your most recent letter to me (he does take his sweet time getting to my letters, I hear you remarking) fills me full of concern, and happiness, both at the same time, but such is the way with old married couples, I suppose. I hope and pray that Bessie is over her fever; heaven knows it must have been trying for you, with so little help. She is so tough (like her mother) I cannot imagine any fever that would not abandon the assault on her fortifications after the first attempt. I laugh at your suggestions for bringing peace on the other home front. How can I adjudicate between two such fighting youth as William and Gerald, if you cannot? They will be at each other – I am only glad that they are still too young to be part of this war: I pray that it will end before either are old enough. Of course, that is selfish of me: they would terrify the enemy off the battlefield in the first day. I leave them to you.
The happiness, of course, is the deeply selfish pleasure of your news about the selling of my picture at the Exhibition. I can only hope that it was sold to the nation not because I am a General, but because of its artistic merit. They little know what a wrench it is to sell such a talisman, even if we do need the money so desperately. I know how sad it was for you to have to take it off the walls. Is it any comfort to say that you are more beautiful now that you were when I painted it, so long ago? I ride along, and even the memory of it, how fine the tints and forms coalesced as if by magic – and only you know what magic I speak of – fades before more recent memories of your flesh.
I particularly recall that last afternoon in Baltimore, after we met Adam and Harriet, before I set out once more on this cursed war, little expecting it would be so long that we are apart; in that hotel, where you looked out at a passing troop marshalling towards the railway, and you firmly closed the curtains and turned to me and said: "Enough of that." At which point, I firmly close the curtains.
I will write to you from Northern Tennessee. As ever, Lucius and I send our love to Millie and Gus, and Lucius, as ever, reminds me to send his undying troth to his beloved damson, and you can assure Esther that you are the only other woman in his life.
For me, may God bless you and the children, and when you see Mr. Lincoln again next week, be more gentle with him, though I know you will not cease to press him for the good cause. Mr. Douglass and you are formidable generals in your own right, but remember he is only a mere President, and where would we be without him! And where would I be without you,
my beloved Elizabeth,

your Tom