A Letter Home

April 30th, 1838

Dearest Ma and Pa,

I hope this letter finds you well. Thank you, truly, for the wool socks and jerky. A soldier couldn’t ask for a better birthday gift from his folks. But, the greatest gift would be to come home to you and never leave the farm again. 

If there would be one regret in this life, it would be leaving home. Out here with the Army, I’ve seen so many beautiful things. Mountains higher than any man could climb, forests greener than you could imagine filled with all kinds of critters and waterfalls of clear blue water. But I’ve also seen how ugly mankind could be. 

A month ago, I watched a little boy die, and I did nothing to stop it. We were riding up and down the line, keeping the Indians in check while we continued on through the border of Alabama to Mississippi. My superior officer, Captain Henry James was riding with me and saw a woman and her son walking slowly towards the back of the line. “Hurry up, b---” (forgive the language, Mama). The woman was holding a baby as still as stone, looking straight forward as she nudged her son to walk faster. The boy must’ve been about 4 or 5 and he was holding something tight in his hands. Capt. James demanded the boy show him what he held but he wouldn’t let go. I begged the kid, I truly did, but he refused to give it up, even after I was ordered to put to his head. His mother begged for his life. “Shoot the whelp and get on with it,” Captain James yelled over the mother’s weeping. 

I swear to you, Mama, I didn’t mean to do it. I had to follow orders.

When the boy’s body hit the ground, Capt. James told me to check his hands and pockets. The pockets were empty, but in his hands he held a single blueberry. A starving boy was killed over a blueberry.

Since then, I’ve been in Hell. The nightmares are too much and everywhere I look, I see the boy’s dead eyes and hear his mother’s screaming before she was put down too. We were ordered to march on, leaving them like so many others on the side of the road as we continued west. They weren’t the first and I know that they are far from the last…

 I’m sorry, Mama, but I can’t live with what I’ve done. I’ve only ever wanted to make you and Pa proud. Enclosed you’ll find my last paycheck and the watch Papa gave me before I left. My pension should be paid to you in the coming months.

Your loving son,

George