Hard Tack - 1862

Dear Mildred,                                                                                                          1862

What a year it has been. We have begun our descent into the Mississippi, a lane for the Union to split the Confederacy. Surely, this must be the end of the War. Fort Henry and Donelson are already in Union Hands. New Orleans has been taken. All that is left is Vicksburg.
But there is something about this year that is terrible. I would have liked to see another soldier with the slightest possible chance of becoming more homesick than me. I miss our home. I miss our children. I miss your food. Particularly your food. Not that I would have preferred those conditions, but my slave rations were better than our hardtack rations. Exactly as they sound. They are an edible rock. I wonder how my teeth have not fallen out already. I use them for plates sometimes or skipping stones.So stale is it, my saliva evaporates. My body fluids are gone and I am left with a dry flaky sensation, as if my insides had been turned to dust. I choke on my own dryness. It fills. And does nothing else.  Free me from this. I long to eat real food.

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