Dearest Abigail,

We've done it! Our campaign to the foothills of the Rockies was a success. We leave Colorado Territory one step closer to our ultimate goal of unconditional surrender.

The men are elated. Such jubilation! We are weary but eager, relieved but anxious. Our work is not done. This we know. So after the briefest of celebrations, we now assemble our packs and attach the caissons for the march to Foxborough. We shall show them who has the right to be called true Patriots!

Herron, a young man who joined us from Ohio, was a most useful adjunct on the field this day. We were without the useless Alabaman, as circumstance forced us to leave him among the reserves. But Herron carried the day, bursting through the Orange Devils' barricades. The men have taken to calling him "Boom" for he wrecks all the destruction of a field howitzer aimed and steered with such precision and ferocity. Oh my, what ferocity!

We lost but a few. And the old sawbones were quick with the amputations and handy with the laudanum. I dare say I've had an extra slug of the stuff myself for this one. Victory heals all wounds, and years from now the only thing the lads shall never have to worry about is forgetting these triumphs in a fit, according to what the good men in New York City tell us.

Contributions came from all of our ranks. No charge went uncontested, and most were turned away with ferocity. I dare say the lads were half feral; they fought like Irish dogs over the last potato. The mothers and wives and aunts and fathers of Indiana can stroll proudly through the streets tomorrow whilst they seek the week's ration of mayonnaise.

And so we are on to the frozen meadows of New England. For now I must conclude my missive. There is more rye and more laudanum awaiting us for the ride home.

Your memory comforts me at every moment, and I rather look forward to seeing your smiling visage with my own eyes in a few days time.

Onward!

Sincerely yours,

Brig. Gen. Andrew Luck