A New Home For A Broken Face

A letter home from a member of the 23rd Michigan Volunteer Infantry Regiment

Grumpy expression gains cat a forever home

“The 2-year-old cat was picked up as a stray by the New Hanover Sheriff’s Department Animal Control and introduced on their Facebook page: “This intense fellow is looking to find his forever family! We're not sure he's really thrilled with us at the moment because when he came to us he was really matted so we had to shave off his fur. Once his fur grows back, we think he'll be feeling more like the Persian royalty he knows he is!”

Later that day, workers made his photo into a meme that said, “I’m making this face until someone adopts me” and the photo took over the Internet.”

“He looks like one of those old guys in Civil-War era daguerrotypes.”

Dearest Mother,

It has been some time since I was last able to write to you and though I wish not to burden you with the unyielding and ghastly somberness of campaigning, I feel it my filial duty to inform you of the circumstances of my long lapse from correspondence.

I will spare you the particulars of our march with Major General John Schofield , as they curdle my own battle-thickened blood, but I must report that in the rebel state of North Carolina, during the Battle of Wilmington, a bullet from Johnny Reb's guns found purchase in my flesh and laid me low upon the field of conflict. A fever took me and, as I was far a-flank from the main column of General Schofield's army, I soon found myself in the company of Confederates.

Our Lord Jesus Christ must have been on that bloodied field that day, for I was taken in by a cohort of women, women who cared not for the color of my tunic, but only for the color of my spilled blood. They were to become my saviors in the long, fevered days ahead. They took me to their home, a modest house on the banks of the Cape Fear River, cleaned and bound my wounds and shared with me the broth that filled the small domicile with the scent of human decency.

Mother, I must say that in the days that followed, as I could smell the acrid smoke of the Confederate general, Robert Hoke, burning the great stores of tobacco and cotton and my heart was filled with rejoicing, as that was surely a sign of Rebel desperation and defeat. But no matter how high my spirits, my body was still laid low and I had no idea of the extent of my wounds, nor how grave they were.

I have spent many hours of trepidation and despair struggling with writing you this letter Mother, for my face is no longer the one you remember. The bullet has put upon my visage a permanent grimace of pain and anguish, that no elixir nor salve can change. I fear that I shall live the remainder of my days as a living cenotaph to the cruelty of the the Battle of Wilmington.

But I do not wish you to take despair or upset in my words, dearest Mother, because this letter is a gospel of salvation and love. For the youngest of the women who took me in has captured my heart and I hers. The family, who lost both their patriarch and their only heir to the abomination of Bull Run, have welcomed me into their hearts and their home.

I am most pleased to tell you, my dearest Mother, that I have wed my savior, the former Amanda Cribb of the Cape Fear River Cribbs, an honorable family of rivermen. My only dismay is that I was unable to arrange passage for you here in time for the blessed nuptials.

I hope that this letter gives you relief from worry and joy that your son has found a place to call his own, among open-hearted, Christian people who are Good Works incarnate. I fought to save the Union, but fate has seen fit to save your son as well.

Give my love to my sisters and pass on the news of my matrimony.

Your faithful son, Abraham Comstock, Corporal, 23rd Michigan Volunteer Infantry Regiment (retired)