DEAR PROFESSOR,――I am writing to you the last words I shall
ever say, the last thoughts I shall ever think, the last
farewell to all I have ever known and loved. To-morrow, at
daybreak, I am to be shot. There is nothing that can possibly
prevent it,――this is my last night on earth. Am I resigned to
my lot? am I willing to lose my life? I cannot tell, it seems
so like a dream. It is terrible to me to think that this is
the end of all my youth and hope; and you will understand me
when I say that I do dread and fear death. Yet I am calm and
self-possessed. I am half dead already, indeed, for my end
seems inevitable; and I do not suffer so much as I wonder. I
seem to have lost all volition, and, as it were, to have gone
out of myself. A little while ago I wound up my watch; and then
the uselessness of that performance struck me, and I said,
half aloud, “Poor Ned!” and then laughed at myself for doing
it. As my laugh died away, there was a cold silence around
which chilled me through and through. Yes, I must be half dead
already. It is only when I think of Tom that the life seems to
rush back again; and as I believe this sort of torpor is well
for me, I dare not trust to myself write to him. Besides, he
must get well; and so you must try and keep my death hidden
from him for a time. You can tell him, better than I could,
that my last thought will be of him, and that I cannot trust
myself to say farewell to him. Even now, I have this cruel
uncertainty about his health, and I do not know but what you
may lose us both.
Stonewall Jackson is a hero. I never thought that I could say
that of any rebel, but I am glad that I have known him. He will
work us more terrible injury, I fear; but I am sure that he
will not live long. The excitement of this war is killing him;
and here, when I so thoroughly admire him, I have to rejoice
that he is doomed. How strange war is,――stranger and stranger
now than ever! Oh! if I could only see the end,――if I could
only know whether we shall gain our country by all this blood,
and if Tom will live, I could die perfectly contented. There is
Tom again, you see. I have to think of him in spite of myself.
When you tell him my story, you can give him this letter, if he
wants it, as perhaps he will.
And now good-by for yourself. It is not well for me to
write,――it brings me back to life too much; but I cannot die
without telling you something of my feeling for you. Do you
think that I have not fully appreciated all your sympathy, all
your kindness, all the wealth of intellect and culture which
you have laid before me? I always have had a sort of hope, that
some time, when I should win some great honor, and the world
should applaud, I could say, “Look here; here is the man to
whom I owe all this; here is the man who advised me, who guided
me; the man with the strong soul and the woman’s tenderness,
who loved youth and beauty, and sympathized with sorrow. You
take off your hats to me; but I kneel before him.” But all that
is over now, and you have only a numb good-by from a man who is
to be shot in a few hours.
My body will not be sent North. When I am dead, I am dead; and
here or there, it matters not where it is buried, to me nor
to any one else. But if you ever want to think of me, and to
feel that I am near, walk through the yard at Harvard, over by
Holworthy, in the lovely evenings of the spring weather. It was
at such a season, and at such a time, that I last saw the dear
old place; and, if I ever can be anywhere on earth again, it
is there that I should choose to be. Ah, if I could only see
Harvard once again! God bless it forever and forever! I wonder
how many visions of its elm-trees have swept before dying eyes
here in Virginia battle-fields!
Ah, well! there is only good-by to say once more. When he
asks for me, tell him that I constantly think of him, that I
am well and happy. Don’t let him know the truth until he is
clearly out of danger, and then tell him all. It is not so very
hard to bear; and I am sure now that I shall never be forgotten
by him, and that nothing can ever come between us now. Tell him
the only thing, after God, worth living for and worth dying
for, is our country,――our noble country. Oh! she must be strong
and glorious and united, at any cost. I feel it and I know it.
And now good-by, once more and forever.
He sealed and directed the letter; then, throwing himself on the
blanket in the corner of the tent, fell into a deep, refreshing
slumber. He woke to feel the grasp of a hand upon his shoulder, to see
a file of men beside him. Without a word he rose and went with them.
They led him out a little from the camp, where it seemed quiet. He saw
them stand before him; he heard one preliminary order given, and caught
the flash of rifle-barrels in the early morning sunlight. Then there
was a noise and disturbance in the camp beyond, and a voice cried out:――
“It’s an attack by the Federals!”
Ned turned involuntarily. And with these words, in one great sweeping
flood, his life came back. No more numbness, no more indifference; but,
in that one instant, every drop of blood in his veins seemed charged
with electric power, and the morning air was like nectar. He stood
there, strong, like a man; and then there was one report, and he fell
dead,――dead in the dust of the Virginia soil.