A Soldier’s Keepsake: A Fireside Conversation with Mr. James Calloway and Miss Sarah Whitmore
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By Miss Sybil Whitlow, for the Winter Issue of The Wisteria Almanack, 1871
It was a golden November afternoon when I arrived at the Calloway homestead nestled just beyond the rustling oaks of Lancaster County. The porch creaked sweetly beneath my boots, and the scent of hearth smoke mingled with autumn leaves. I had come, dear readers, to speak with a couple whose story had stirred hearts from Virginia to Vermont—a tale not of grand gestures, but of quiet faith and a single red bloom pressed close to a soldier’s heart.
They welcomed me kindly—Mr. James Calloway with his firm handshake and steady eyes, and Miss Sarah Whitmore (soon to be Mrs. Calloway) with a smile warm enough to outshine the fading sun. We spoke in their modest sitting room where a kettle simmered and the shadows grew long across the floorboards.
Miss Whitlow: Mr. Calloway, your journey from the fields of war to the peaceful soil of home has touched many. Would you speak to us of what gave you the strength to keep going, even in the darkest moments?
James Calloway: “Ma’am, it was her.” (He glanced at Sarah with such affection I dared not interrupt.) “I carried her flower in my coat—Sweet William, they call it. Meant gallantry and devotion, I was told. In truth, it meant breathin’ through the cannon fire and remembering there was a world beyond it. A world with porches and tea and the sound of her laugh.”
Miss Whitlow: Miss Whitmore, what was it like waiting, day after day, unsure if he still walked this earth?
Sarah Whitmore: (She touched the locket at her throat—a simple oval with a dried petal tucked inside.) “It was like trying to catch light in a bottle. Some days I could feel him—like wind stirring the curtain—and others I’d be sure I’d never hear his voice again. But I lit a candle every night, and I told myself the flame would guide him home. That, and the letters. I wrote them even when I didn’t know if he could read them. I needed him to know I hadn’t forgotten.”
Miss Whitlow: Was there a moment, perhaps on the battlefield or beneath the stars, where you nearly gave up, Mr. Calloway?
James Calloway: “Reckon there was. A morning thick with gunpowder—I’d been shot clean through the shoulder. Couldn’t see straight. Thought maybe that was it. But I reached for that wax paper and found her flower still whole. It smelled like home. Like hope. And I said to myself, ‘Not today.’”
Miss Whitlow: Do you believe, then, that love can keep a man alive?
James Calloway: (without hesitation) “I believe it’s the only thing that can.”
Miss Whitlow: Miss Whitmore, when you saw him on the road again, arm in a sling, heart still intact, what did you feel?
Sarah Whitmore: (Her voice softened, eyes glistening.) “Like I could finally exhale. All those nights I’d been holding my breath, praying, doubting, hoping—and then there he was, dirty and limping, but alive. And smiling. Lord, I’d missed that smile.”
Miss Whitlow: What did you miss most, Miss Whitmore—of him, I mean—when the letters stopped coming for a spell?
Sarah Whitmore:(She looked toward the window where the last of the light played on the sill.) “His way of speaking plain, even when the world wasn’t. And his handwriting—sharp and steady, just like his way of being. When the letters stopped, it was like silence had weight. I’d set the table for one, but I still spoke to him out loud, just in case he was listening somehow.”
Miss Whitlow: And you, Mr. Calloway—what do you cherish most now, in the quiet rhythm of life returned?
James Calloway: (He leaned back a bit, gaze drifting toward the kitchen where Sarah’s apron hung.) “The sound of her humming when she bakes. The way she touches my shoulder without thinking. The garden we planted out back. It’s not just the Sweet William. It’s everything. I wake up to peace now, and I know what a privilege that is.”
Miss Whitlow: Do you still keep the Sweet William, Mr. Calloway?
James Calloway: “Yes, ma’am. Pressed and faded as it is, it lives in a little case on my bedside. But Sarah grows fresh ones in the garden now. I reckon that’s better. We’ve planted a whole bed of ‘em—one for every year I made it home.”
As our conversation came to its quiet close, the room filled with the soft clinking of china and the murmur of wind in the trees. I took my leave with a bouquet of Sweet William in hand and a story etched deep in my heart.
Their love, dear readers, is no sweeping opera—it is a candle in a window, a letter from home, a crumpled bloom that outlasted war. And it reminds us all that devotion, like flowers and faith, may bend beneath hardship, but need not break.
With grace and gratitude,
Sybil Whitlow
Editor, The Wisteria Almanack
If you missed James and Sarah's story, please click here or below.
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