Glasgow, 1864.
My Dearest Melissa,
I feel as if I am embroiled in a world where nothing can be trusted and to be truthful I am not certain if this letter will ever reach you without being tampered with, opened, read, and perhaps destroyed.
In that case it will never accomplish its mission. But I must write as if it does, as if it will.
It is as if I have become a shadow, as if the life I have led up until now has no meaning, insubstantial, and I hunger for one moment that might give it significance.
As if my identity, what I call myself, Jonathen Sinclair, is losing shape. I am becoming…indistinct.
I fear that the fever which struck after Gettysburg is still hectic in my blood and I cannot trust my own thoughts, as if I am being manipulated by someone else who pulls the strings to make the puppet jump.
When I asked Secretary Mallory why he would delegate such an onerous responsibility to a soldier who lacks all experience for such a task, he answered, ‘Because you are an honest man.’
I would have thought honesty to be the last attribute necessary for this damned business.
There is a deadly game of hide and seek being enacted in the docks of Glasgow. Lincoln’s Federal agents know a messenger has arrived with bonded certificates to purchase ships for the South and run the blockade that strangles our Confederate forces. It is their intention, by fair means or foul, to stop me in my tracks.
The British Government is now turning against us and the local Emancipation Societies, no doubt whipped up by the Federals, are delivering petitions to the Foreign Office.
Liverpool and Birkenhead are closed to us now and this is one of our last ports of call.
Our own agents have contacted the shipping magnates but the usual conduits have been forestalled.
They are watched. Known. We must go further afield.
Meanwhile my men guard me like jealous bridegrooms, ring me round to protect that precious honesty.
One of our meetings was betrayed, by whom I cannot tell, and two of our men wounded in the ambush.
I myself shot at the assailants and believe I winged one, or perhaps even killed him, who knows?
Do you remember John Findhorn? I spoke of him when I rode day and night to lie by your side just before that bloody battle.
Remember? I left in the morning and you cried me to fight well for the South. I shouted back that John and I would whip them blind.
It was I who was blind. Blinded by glory.
He died of his wounds, the flies around him where he lay, with the cries of those in agony rising to the sky.
His last words to me were, ‘I wish I was home.’
He was a good comrade and before death claimed him, bequeathed me his revolver, oiled, cleaned and true if the aim was such. His father was a gunsmith and had made it for John to keep him safe.
It was with that I fired in the Glasgow docks. I now have only three bullets left. I have been offered other weapons but I shall stay with my bequeathment. Three bullets should be enough.
I glimpsed my main adversary. He wears a black oilskin cape, a man of sense given the unremitting rain, and goes by the name of William Mitchell.
For a moment our eyes met. I saw belief in his and trust he saw the same in mine. Then I let fire but he ducked back out of sight, the man behind him fell and the rest of the night was spent on the run from our pursuers.
The Federals outman us and are well organised. We rely on our native wits.
It is like a small version of the war itself.
I will send this letter by our next departing messenger and ship. Arrangements have been made for me to move cities. I shall not be sorry to leave Glasgow.
A low place, to be sure.
When I wheeled my horse on the ridge, you were standing in front of the house in the early summer blossom.
I am sure I cut a romantic figure.
If you receive this, think of me kindly. That is all I would wish from you. It is all we can do until this carnage is over and we all come home.
Your husband,
Jonathen
