Greenbush, Wisconsin
January 27th, 1853

My Dear Sister Margaret,

I write to you from the Wade House, some twenty miles yet from Fond du Lac, where the weather has halted our progress. Snow has fallen without pause these four days past, and the road, though laid with plank, has turned treacherous under ice and drifting. The coachman says we shall depart when the sky clears, though no one here ventures a guess as to when that will be.

The inn is respectable, solidly built, three stories high, with a well-kept fire in the taproom and beds in fair order. Mr. and Mrs. Wade attend to their duties with care. Yet I confess, Margaret, I find little comfort here.

There is a stillness that unsettles me.

It is not silence. The wind presses at the shutters, and the boards creak in the cold. Nor is it loneliness, for nearly a dozen travelers are detained with me. Still, the hours pass in a strange way. My watch, which I wind with care, has twice fallen behind the house clock, though I am certain I set it properly. Yesterday, after supper, I thought the afternoon light lingered longer than it should, as if the day resisted its own end.

The company has grown uneasy. What began as polite talk of politics and rail ventures has sharpened into quarrel. A gentleman from Milwaukee, who spoke with confidence upon his arrival, now mutters that his business may wait until spring. Another walks the corridor at night. I hear him pass my door long after the lamps are put out.

Two mornings ago, I was certain we were thirteen at table. Yesterday, there were twelve. I asked after the missing man and was told he had left before dawn. Yet no one recalls the sound of harness, nor wheels upon the road. The stable boy insists no team departed the yard.

You know I am not given to fancy, dear sister, yet I cannot shake the feeling that this place does not wish us to leave.

The plank road ends almost at the door. One steps from timber into warmth. It is a small thing, yet when I stand at the threshold, I feel I cross from motion into something that presses back. The forest stands close about the house, dark and unmoving, even when the wind stirs above it.

Last night, I dreamt of wheels turning without advancing.

I shall not trouble Mother with such thoughts. The delay has worn on my patience, and I long for the steady sense of forward travel. Yet I hesitate to sleep this evening, for rest here carries a peculiar weight, as though one sinks too deeply.

Pray the weather breaks soon.

I remain, with affection and a strong desire to resume my journey,

Your devoted brother,
Thomas