A Letter Before the End Sullivan Ballou’s Last Words of Love
A Letter Before the End: Sullivan Ballou’s Last Words of Love
In the quiet before battle, when the world held its breath, one man wrote a letter that would echo far beyond the battlefield.
In July 1861, Sullivan Ballou, a 32-year-old Union officer and devoted husband, sat down in his tent to write to his wife, Sarah. The American Civil War had just begun. He knew that within days, he might be dead.
What he left behind was not strategy or commands—but one of the most haunting and beautiful letters ever written.
A Farewell Full of Grace
“If I do not return, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I loved you… Nor that when my last breath escapes me on the battlefield, it will whisper your name.”
Ballou’s words were not filled with fear, but with love—steady, unshaken, eternal. He wrote of his devotion to Sarah and their children, and of his sense of duty to his country. It’s the voice of a man torn between love and responsibility, fully aware that he might never come home.
“I cannot describe to you my feelings on this calm summer night… but something whispers to me—perhaps it is the wafting of angel wings—that I shall never see you again.”
He was right. A week later, Sullivan Ballou was killed at the First Battle of Bull Run
The lettre itself
Here is the full text-
Camp Clark, Washington
July 14, 1861
My very dear Sarah:
The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days—perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write you again, I feel impelled to write a few lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more.
I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American civilization now leans upon the triumph of the Government, and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and suffering of the Revolution. And I am willing—perfectly willing—to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt.
But, my dear wife, when I know that with my own joys I lay down nearly all of yours, and replace them in this life with cares and sorrows—when, after having eaten for long years the bitter fruit of orphanage myself, I must offer it as their only sustenance to my dear little children—is it weak or dishonorable, while the banner of my purpose floats calmly and proudly in the breeze, that my unbounded love for you, my darling wife and children, should struggle in fierce, though useless, contest with my love of country?
I cannot describe to you my feelings on this calm summer night, when two thousand men are sleeping around me, many of them enjoying the last, perhaps, before death—and I, suspicious that Death is creeping behind me with his fatal dart, am communing with God, my country, and thee.
I have sought most closely and diligently, and often in my breast, for a wrong motive in thus hazarding the happiness of those I loved, and I could not find one. A pure love of my country and of the principles I have often advocated before the people, and “the name of honor that I love more than I fear death,” have called upon me, and I have obeyed.
Sarah, my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me irresistibly on with all these chains to the battlefield.
The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most deeply grateful to God and you, that I have enjoyed them so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when, God willing, we might still have lived and loved together, and seen our sons grow up to honorable manhood around us. If I do not return, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I loved you, nor that, when my last breath escapes me on the battlefield, it will whisper your name.
Forgive my many faults, and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have often been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness, and struggle with all the misfortune of this world to shield you and my children from harm.
But I cannot. I must watch you from the spirit land and hover near you, while you buffet the storms with your precious little freight, and wait with sad patience till we meet to part no more.
But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the brightest day and the darkest night… always, always. And when the soft breeze fans your cheek, it shall be my breath; or the cool air your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.
Sarah, do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again.
Why We Remember
The letter was never mailed. It was found among his personal belongings and eventually delivered to Sarah. Since then, it has been read aloud at memorials, featured in documentaries, and printed in countless books.
What makes it unforgettable isn’t just the beauty of the language—it’s the intimacy of a man facing death, choosing to write not for history, but for the person he loved most.
In a world that moves fast, Ballou’s letter reminds us what endures: sincerity, vulnerability, and the written word.
Sometimes, the most powerful messages are not meant for many—but they end up touching everyone.
