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Extract

Dearest Lucretia,

 

I thank you for your kind condolences, so
sincerely offered. I am sorry that you had no opportunity to know my Amelia as the woman she once was, so steadfast and energetic, but saw her only in the frailty of old age. This has been a most difficult winter for me, as I have also suffered the tragic loss of my good friend Mr. Freeman Clarke. It is with deepest gloom that I now consider the rapidly evaporating years left before me.

 

Oh, but I can almost hear your deep sigh as you read this. No doubt, you believe that you are about to be subjected to an old man’s litany of aches and pains, sorrows and woes. That is in fact the furthest thing from my mind on this gray afternoon, because I abhor, above all, the pity that invariably garners an old man. Instead, I wish to broach a subject which has nothing to do with me, although I confess I had some small involvement in the story. Over fifty years have passed since these events, and in truth, I’d almost forgotten about them entirely. But this past Wednesday, I discovered an old news clipping that has been tucked all these years in my ancient copy of Wistar’s Anatomy, and I realized that unless I speak of it soon, the truth will almost certainly die with me. Your grandmother’s passing some twenty summers ago has left me the only remaining survivor of the tale. All others are now gone, and nearly every month brings the death of yet another old friend, another colleague, so I feel a sense of urgency, knowing that my time is limited.

 

You are only twenty-eight, and perhaps you think that a tale told by an old man holds little interest for you. But this concerns the very blood that flows in your veins. Had your father survived the war, he would no doubt have told you the story himself, but you were so young when he died at Chancellorsville. If you already know this tale, do not hesitate to tell me, and I’ll not bore you with it in letters to come.

 

But I suspect that you do not know it, certainly not in its entirety.

 

You may find the details shocking, and they are indeed. But there is nobility in this story, and heartbreaking courage as well. You may not have considered your grandmother endowed with these qualities. No doubt she seemed no more extraordinary than any other gray-haired lady whom one passes on the street. But I assure you, Lucretia, she was most worthy of our respect.

 

Worthier, perhaps, than any woman I have ever met.

Now the hour here grows late, and after nightfall, an old man’s eyes can stay open only so long. I thank you again, most affectionately, for your kind thoughts about Amelia. For now, I enclose the news clipping, which I earlier mentioned. If indeed the subject of your grandparents holds any interest for you, at my next opportunity, I will once again pick up my pen. And you will learn the story, the true story, of your grandmother and the West End Reaper.

 

With fondest regards,

 

O.W.H.