Catch the Wind: My Journey with Caroline

The man explains that since his badly burned hand can’t hold a pen, he’d like me to write a letter for him to send home. I tell him that of course I’ll help.

A crate near the man’s cot holds a few sheets of paper, a quill, and a small bottle of ink. I settle onto the floor beside his bed. The slatted ground is rough, but at least it’s firm enough to write on. My first touch of the quill to the page leaves an inkblot, and I apologize. He brushes it off, admitting he’s never gotten through a page himself without blotting at least once.

The man dictates slowly enough that I can keep up. After a couple more smudges, his opening lines finally take shape on the page.

Stunned, I look up. He left home without even saying goodbye to his own family? I’ve been dreading my goodbye to Mom, but at least she isn’t vanishing without a word.

I ask him outright whether he really left for the war without telling his family where he was headed. He looks away and insists it was for the best. I have to fight down the urge to frown at him.

I point out that if he has a daughter, she probably would have wanted to know he was leaving. He flushes, admitting conversation doesn’t come easily to him, but writing lets him work out exactly what needs saying. I agree that a letter is sometimes the easier way to say what you mean, then pick the quill back up so we can keep going.

He wraps up the letter by assuring his wife the neighbors will help see the harvest through, telling the children to behave themselves, and promising the boys a fishing trip upon his return. And as for his daughter, Julia, he’s picked out a handful of feathers to bring home for her.

When he’s done dictating, I offer to mail the letter for him. I don’t know the first thing about how mail works in 1812, but Caroline surely does. I also ask for an extra sheet of paper so I can write a letter of my own.