Dearest mother, I write this letter knowing I shall not send it. This is then, I suppose, a correspondence between my self and God. Perhaps I simply seek to assuage the feelings of mental infirmity which I feel upon the cusp of. A month ago I was an officer in the Union Army, a position that I held with a degree of pride. Could it be that sin which God has chosen to punish me for with he bizarre course of events I've experienced in this short time? I do not know and the nature of God's works have always eluded me, I am no Taylor or Edwards, as I am sure you are aware. I hope to relay, with all my artless faculties, the happenstances of the strange adventure I have been unexpectidly set upon, so that should the unfathomable occurrences be as I've come to fear, a sickness of the mind, there will at least be a record of my fall.
As I have said I was an officer in the Union army and was as such engaged in combat with the traitorous Confederates at Gettysburg. The war to that point had been long and I am bereaved to say I saw many good men, some of whom I considered friends, killed. Those, who by virtue of their genius had been given the highest ranking positions, informed us all that this would be the decisive encounter. Once this battle was won, it was argued, the Confederacies insurrection would be all but broken. It was with a grim elation that I saw the battle turning in our favor. I'd taken my horse atop Breed's Hill to observe the company from a better vantage point when I heard the whistle of a canon ball. Unfortunately my horse had heard the noise as well and in a panic the animal threw me from the saddle. I know not what happened next, as the next thing I remember is waking in a barn.
The family which had brought me to the Barn, the Huberts, claimed to have found me not to far from Breed's hill. Being good Christian sorts they nursed me back to health in their barn, no doctors being present at the time. When I inquired about the state of my company, and the battle, I was told the most frightening of news. According to the severe Mr. Hubert the Battle of Gettysburg happened exactly a year ago to the date, to my sorrow it was a complete Confederate victory.
Convinced as I was that the Huberts where playing some nefarious joke at my expensive I took my leave of them and found a handsome tavern some ways down the road. Speaking with the patrons of the establishment only confirmed that the Huberts where right. The Union had lost Gettysburg exactly one year to the date, and it was the undoing of the Union. Many at the tavern where there to commiserate that very fact.
It took me some time to accept this horrible news as apparent truth, though I'd managed to be taken on as a hand at the Huberts farm. It was here I met the Huberts son, a fine lad a few years younger than myself, who'd been just a few years shy of having joined the Union army himself. Young Mr. Hubert and I learned we had much in common, a sense of patriotism, an abolitionists soul, and a taste for cider. It was over one of the many cups of cider we shared that Young Mr. Hubert informed me of his nightly goings on. I had at the time noticed him take long leaves, which he excused him self for under the pretense of preforming "geological surveys". Young Mr. Hubert informed me, with both the sincerity and passion brought out in good men after a long days works and a few drinks, that he was involved in a conspiracy to undermine Confederacy control in Pennsylvania and at large.
When Young. Mr. Hubert offered me a place in this conspiracy, so called "The Children of Hodgenville" I accepted gratefully. My work at first was of a minor sort, moving caches of arms and supplies to hidden spots in the trees. But soon I showed, once again to my pride, an aptitude and passion for the clandestine work. Soon I was brought into the inner circle of the conspiracy and learned of my part in the great plan.
I know I shall not send you this letter, dearest mother, for I feel I may not be your son. In the truth the horror that perhaps another man, living or dead, who has the same face as I may be your son. I do not know if this is the case but am to frightened to risk it. As for now we prepare our masks and our pistols, tonight we kill the pretender president. Tonight we put a bullet in the head of Jefferson Davis as he attends the theater.
-Jonathan Cook, 1864