April 17, 1865
Dearest Mother,
It is with great anxiety and deep regret that I write to you now from the battlefield of Appomattox. I am well, but the war wages on and it seems that there is no immediate end in site. Verily, I long to be back home once again, waking up to a full plate of your flapjacks before a long day of fishing in the creek behind our homestead. As this war trudges on, each day seems to slide by slowly like a drip of your delicious molasses from a jar.
The reason that I write to you today is a difficult one. They say that the greatest tragedy of this war is that it pits brother against brother. I unfortunately now see just how true that statement is. Yesterday I shot Jonathan.
I can hear in my mind clear as church bells what you are probably saying. “For goodness sakes, Peter, you and your brother are both fighting for the Union Army! How is it possible that you could have shot him?”
Well, wet my whistle mom, you know I’ve never been any good around guns! And unfortunately the generals of the Union Army expect everyone to use a rifle even if you are the best slingshot shooter in the whole great state of Vermont. You’d figure decent Christians with an understanding of the Old Testament Scriptures would realize how useful the slingshot can be! Oh well.
Jonathan’s not dead. I just remembered I should clarify that. I reckon I should have wrote that right quick at the start of the letter, but you know how fiery I get when I start talking about slingshots.
We were leaving the battlefield to recamp when I heard a rustling in bushes to my right. Thinking that it was a dirty reb waiting for an ambush I fired. The poor woodchuck never knew what hit it. As I was cleaning up the remains of the woodchuck, I was startled by a tap on my shoulder. It was then that I shot off Jonathan’s hand.
It was an accident, so I can’t say that the Civil War pitted me against my brother. Nonetheless, you know as well as I that Jonathan has father’s temper and it is safe to say that he has now pitted himself against me. This war has done terrible things. It has separated me from my slingshot. It has separated me from my brother.
Your Dearest Son,
Peter