CHAPTER FIVE

There is no easy road to successful authorship; it has to be earned by long and patient labor, many disappointments, uncertainties, and trials.

~ LMA

Johanna

SEPTEMBER 8, 1863

Dear Miss Alcott,

I am writing on behalf of Mother and myself to thank you for the precious gift you’ve given us in sending us so much bounty—not only the ring Mother had given John upon his departure into the army, but a copy of your Hospital Sketches, in honor of our dearly departed. We count it a blessing to receive one of the three copies you gifted to your “soldier boys.” More than once, Mother has called you an angel—first to our John and now to us.

I recognized your letter right away, for it was the same hand that wrote the last letter John sent to us, received too late.

I read Hospital Sketches aloud to Mother and George for the last four evenings by the fire, not without tears. As you can imagine, it is difficult to hear of our John’s last days, but we thank God over and over again that he was in the tender care of your hands.

Mother has requested I send along her best for your continued recovery from the typhoid. You have served our country as well as any soldier, and we realize the personal sacrifices you have made. I am sorry your service ended too soon for you. My cousin suffered the same illness last year and I know what sorrows it can bring forth. We are glad to hear you are recovering.

You say you are a writer of stories and feared we would take issue for the fictionalization of some of John’s story in your desire to protect his likeness. Please do not give it another thought. We are so very proud of our John’s bravery and will forever treasure and hand down the copy of the book you’ve given us to all the generations that come after.

And still, Mother, George, and I long for more. Though we realize we are being presumptuous, we can’t help but ask for any last tidbit of John you may give to us. Did he tell you of his time in battle? Captain Schrock wrote that he did not initially know how grave his situation, and you confirmed that for us in Sketches. Mother is driving herself mad thinking of possibilities both in battle and in John’s last days, and while I realize the truth may be worse than her imaginings, I have told her I would ask.

Please, Miss Alcott, we realize you’ve already given us more than we’ve a right to ask and yet we boldly ask for more so that we may finally put our John to rest. We know you were with him and took care of him, and for that we are thankful. Do not spare us—tell us all you know so George and I may better honor our dear brother, and so Mother may honor her son. Many times it feels as if memories and stories are all we have left.

Sincerely,

Johanna Suhre

September 23, 1863

Dear Johanna,

I was not certain whether I would hear back from you, and I am so very glad I did. Our Concord company is to return home tonight and the town is in as wild a state of excitement as is possible for such a dozy old place to be without dying of brain fever. Still, I find I cannot succumb to the celebration—won only by the sacrifice of those like your brother—until this letter is off.

Presumptuous as it may be, I confess that your John had become very dear to me in the short time I knew him. I still think of him often. His strength of character and bravery in the midst of the impossible will, I am quite certain, stay with me forever.

His was the best letter I wrote home, for even dying royally, his simple dictation was more heartfelt than the rest as he tenderly bequeathed you and your mother to George.

The reason Hospital Sketches has become so successful is because of John. He is the hero and the praise belongs to him. He is what draws readers—the face of courage in the midst of adversity, unassuming and innocent but full of warmth and nobility. Quite simply, your brother, a common blacksmith from my understanding, was the finest gentleman I’ve ever been privileged to meet.

To go very near death teaches one the value of life. And though I believe wrestling with the typhoid has taught me the immeasurable worth of this, it was in ministering to the wounded souls at the Union Hotel Hospital and of doing the most noble thing one may be called to do in life—sharing another’s suffering—that I have truly come to glimpse the beauty of life, your brother being the highest example of which I speak.

To honor your family—and John—I will recount a more personal story of him for you here. I pray it does his memory honor. I hope it is an accurate reflection of the fine man he was.

The truth is that I was deeply impressed by your brother before ever I laid eyes on his tall form, fine face, and serene eyes. To be honest, I was at first intimidated by this stately looking man. A friend of his, who came in with the first group, could not stop praising him, saying John insisted that others more tragically wounded than himself (as if being shot in the lung were a small thing!) be first evacuated from the field station at Fredericksburg. As a result he came in a few days later than the other men.

Among three or four hundred men in all stages of suffering, disease, and death, your John, my prince of patients, stood out. It was more than the way he silently bore his pain. There was a peace and grace about him. I meant what I said in Sketches—that no picture of dying statesman or warrior was ever fuller of real dignity than this blacksmith. And yet he worried for you, your mother, and for George. When I asked him why he’d gone to war when you all so very desperately needed him, he simply stated, “I wanted the right thing done, and people kept saying the men who were in earnest ought to fight. I was in earnest, the Lord knows! But I held off as long as I could, not knowing which was my duty—my family or my country. Mother saw the case, gave me her ring to keep me steady, and told me to go, so I went.”

I must admit he grew in my estimation another tenfold for his answer. The only time I saw his peace waver was at the thought of you all not being provided for.

John was struck twice in the breast, with one piercing his lung. It was only after you were informed of his whereabouts that the hospital matron found a third wound under his shoulder. I feel as if this is not to your benefit to know, but I do as you request and spare no details. He fought bravely, advancing with his division though the wounded men lying at his feet begged him not to. In the cold dark, he ran out of ammunition. His injuries soon followed.

During the night, squads were sent to recover those who had been wounded, and still the Confederate sharpshooters were relentless. Wounded himself, John ushered a comrade to the gates of eternity with all the grace and peace you can imagine of him.

He was evacuated to the east side of the Rappahannock but gave up his place in the convoys in deference to others. I have an inkling he would have done this even if he realized how grave his injuries were, which he did not.

I felt the most worthy thing I had done during my time as a nurse was hold his hand during the probing, bathing, and dressing of his wounds. He never asked for anything except for me to help him bear his suffering, and even that he did not forthright ask, but only happily agreed to after I suggested it.

Under his plain speech and unpolished manner I saw a noble character, a heart as warm and tender as a woman’s, a nature fresh and frank as a child’s. In some hidden part of him, it seemed he had learned the secret of contentment.

My feelings for your brother are so very tender and complicated. For when I stood by his bed, straightening things up, and when I felt him softly touch my gown, as if only to assure himself of my presence, my heart near overflowed. With what, I am still uncertain. I am not a mother, and yet I felt very much a love I imagine a mother to feel. I am not a wife, and yet I felt very much a love I imagine a wife to feel.

I spent an hour each evening with him and tried to gain a broader picture of his life in his pained whispers.

“Do you ever regret that you came, when you lie here suffering?” I asked.

“Never, ma’am; I haven’t helped a great deal, but I’ve shown I was willing to give my life, and perhaps I’ve got to; but I don’t blame anybody, and if I was to do it over again, I’d do it. I’m a little sorry I wasn’t wounded in front; it looks cowardly to be hit in the back, but I obeyed orders, and it don’t matter in the end, I know.”

My heart near broke in two when he finally asked me the dreaded question.

“This is my first battle; do they think it’s going to be my last?”

I hated to answer, but I could not dishonor him with lies. “I’m afraid they do, John.”

After the surprise settled in, then did acceptance. “I’m not afraid, but it’s difficult to believe all at once. I’m so strong it don’t seem possible for such a little wound to kill me.”

At his request, I wrote George for him then. I knew of his love for you all when he gave George charge of you and your mother. I only wish your response had arrived in time.

The rest I have told completely in Sketches. He only made one cry before the first streaks of dawn ushered him into eternity. He never once loosened his grip on my hand, and in death, he lay serenely waiting for the dawn of that long day which knows no night.

Johanna, I pray this settles your mother, though I am not sure it will. I contend it is better to think on John’s life, rather than the circumstances surrounding his death.

Perhaps you would write them down and recall them—both you and your mother—and share them with me. I admit I am curious to know all there is to know of my prince of patients, this brave soldier who represents the honor for which we all should strive.

Send me your stories of John, and in doing so, we will both reflect on him better, I think, and do his memory the utmost honor.

This has been quite a long scribble, so I will leave you now, in anticipation of your next letter.

Respectfully yours,

Louisa May Alcott

February 18, 1865

Dear Louisa,

It is odd to sit and start a letter without a John story, as Mother and I have come to call them over these months of our correspondence. We truly have racked our brains trying to think of more, but I think they have all been exhausted and have done their duty in bestowing honor upon my brother. Thank you for allowing us to soften our grief in sharing a piece of him with you this past year. Stories most certainly seem to have healing powers, and I wonder if that is not why we are drawn to them?

How does it feel to have a novel published? I admit to being a tad envious of such a wonderful accomplishment and can’t wait to read Moods.

Mother improves with the warmer weather. George courts Mary Little, and I think there will soon be a wedding. I have had no serious suitor—oh, I know, I know . . . “liberty is a better husband than love,” but how can you be so sure if you have not known love? And while you have your writing which at least earns some, I have no means to support myself, save for a meager income with my sewing. A kind boy named Bryant persists in courting me, though I cannot seem to think of him as more than a friend. I do not mean to complain, but neither do I look forward to living beneath George and Mary’s roof. Is it so bad to want to break away? To find a place to belong that sings within my soul?

Enough of that. I am thankful for your friendship, Louisa. Even so, I realize you are busy, and so now that we have exhausted John’s stories, I wish to release you from any responsibility you feel toward our family, including these continued letters. Indeed, you have gone beyond what we could ask or imagine in your kindness.

I look forward to reading your novel.

Your friend,

Johanna

April 18, 1865

Dear Johanna,

I’ve been meaning to write but news of Lincoln’s death has rendered me melancholy for the last few days. I pray we can, as a country, cling to his message all the more. I pray we can indeed go forth “with malice toward none” and with “charity for all to bind up our nation’s wounds.”

It is odd to see such a strange and sudden change in our nation’s feelings, for we were only just enjoying a state of grand jollification over Richmond being taken. I was witness to the great procession in Boston. Colored men marched in it also, one walking arm in arm with a white gentleman, and I exulted thereafter.

On a lighter note, I am happy to report that I no longer wear a wig but appear on all occasions with a fine flowing crop. If shaving my head kept my fever at bay, then I am glad Marmee and Papa allowed it, but admit that losing all one and a half yards of my one beauty was quite a strike to my vanity. But never mind; it might have been my head, and a wig outside is better than a loss of wits inside, don’t you think?

You speak of “breaking away.” If it can be dutifully and wisely done, I think girls should see a little of the world, try their own powers, and keep well and cheerful, mind and body, because life has so much for us to learn and young people need change. Many ways are open now, and women can learn, be, and do much if they have the will and opportunity.

Change of scene is sometimes salvation for women who outgrow the place they are born in, and it is their duty to go away even if it is to harder work, for hungry minds prey on themselves and ladies suffer for escape from a too-pale or narrow life. That being said, I have a peculiar proposition for you if you wish to take flight from the nest.

Due to my nursing experience, I’ve been asked to accompany a young, ailing woman on a yearlong trip to Europe. While I am a bit hesitant, I cannot think to turn down such an offer. With May off to Boston for art classes and often vacationing upon Clarke’s Island, and Anna busy with her own brood, we are in need of some help over here at Apple Slump—ahem, I mean, Orchard House.

Mother can still manage but could use the help. Our little Portuguese girl, Maria, was ill last spring and has not returned to work since. We could pay you a fair sum to keep house, cook, and clean. Perhaps this does not seem a better opportunity than living in your brother’s home. If so, please dismiss it altogether. But if some part of you wishes to come to Concord, perhaps start building your own castles in the air, and you don’t think you will miss your mother and George altogether too much, perhaps you will accept this offer.

Write as soon as possible and I will send fare for your transportation if you are agreeable to this plan. It would be wonderful to meet you, as I’ve come to admire the woman I have known only through letters.

I plan to leave in July and would like to settle things well before my departure, if you find it suiting. The decision is yours. I only think it may be wise to try out your liberty before you try out love.

Yours,

Louisa