Letter to His Wife (1861)
Sullivan Ballou
L |
ove of country is
not unique to Americans, but in a democracy, sending citizens to war requires
far more than a dictator’s fiat. In 1861, men on both sides of the conflict
were willing to lay down their lives for what they believed to be right.
Southerners fought for states’ rights and a society built upon human slavery,
which many considered the natural order of the universe. When the war started,
few volunteers in the northern army marched off to end slavery, but many were
ready to fight and die to preserve the Union .
One such soldier was Major Sullivan
Ballou of the Second Regiment, Rhode Island Volunteers. Then thirty-two years
old, Ballou had overcome his family’s poverty to start a promising career as a
lawyer. He and his wife Sarah wanted to build a better life for their two boys,
Edgar and Willie. And ardent Republican and a devoted supporter of Abraham
Lincoln, Ballou had volunteered in the spring of 1861, and on June 19 he and
his men had left Providence for Washington , D.C.
He wrote the following letter to his
wife from a camp just outside the nation’s capital, and it is at once a
passionate love letter as well as a profound meditation on the meaning of the Union . It caught national importance 129 years after he
wrote it, when it was read on the widely watched television series, “The Civil
War,” produced by Ken Burns. The beauty of the language as well as the passion
of the sentiments touched the popular imagination, and brought home to
Americans once again what defense of democracy entailed.
Ballou wrote the letter July 14,
while awaiting orders that would take him to Manassas
Letter
to His Wife
My
very dear Sarah:
T |
he
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?
I cannot describe to you
my feelings on this calm summer night, when two thousand men are sleeping
around me, many of them enjoying the last, perhaps, before that of death—and I,
suspicious that Death is creeping behind me with his fatal dart, am communing
with God, my country, and thee.
I have sought most
closely and diligently, and often in my breast, for a wrong motive in thus
hazarding the happiness of those I loved and I could not find one. A pure love
of my country and of the principles I have often advocated before the people
and “the name of honor that I love more than I fear death” have called upon me,
and I have obeyed.
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 my many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have oftentimes
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 garish 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 thee, 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. O Sarah, I wait for you there! Come to me, and lead thither my
children.
Sullivan
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