There's a bridge behind the ridge of Hancock Hill. It was this very bridge that Joanna Lonewood threw herself off of. Four months of savage searching, fervent frustration and deep despair can drive someone mad. It all began when a telegram came to Mrs. Lonewood on September 18th, 1862.

Dear Mrs. Lonewood,” It read. “It is with great sorrow that I have learnt of the death of your dear husband, and my friend, Master Sergeant Joseph Lonewood, on 17th September 1862 on the ridge of Hancock Hill. Master Sergeant Lonewood joined the army on 19th June 1858 and during his service, he showed courage and ability. He showed great promise throughout this war, especially in his final hours. He was well-liked among his military community and his town community.

In this hour of your profound grief, please accept on behalf of myself and all ranks of his unit, our deepest sympathies and condolences in your great loss.

My Condolences,

Command Sergeant Major Colowell

For two days, Mrs. Lonewood showed no sign of life in her small house. She never came to the door to accept sympathies, flowers, hugs, shoulders to cry on. Light didn't come from her house for a full 48 hours. You couldn't smell her lovely, petite casseroles that she cooked for dinner. It seemed like she had died in the little house. The town gossip even suggested that she committed suicide.

But, on the third day, Mrs. Lonewood came out of the house with swollen red eyes, but her head held high. She talked to no one and ignored the pitiful eyes that bore into her. Joanna Lonewood went to the market for a short time, bought very little and left with out speaking a whisper of a word. The word of her husband's death had spread like wildfire and people accepted her silence.

Her shadowy silence lasted for two weeks. She stayed in her house, quiet and alone. The lovely aromas from her one-person casseroles began flowing from her house again and Mrs. Lonewood began lighting a light one by one each day.

Again, the town gossip suggested sickening things about the grieving woman. That she had already found a new lover, that she was preparing to run off in the night with him and never return to the small, northern Virginia town. Things that soon, people of the town would snap at the gossip group and tell them to quit saying such vile things.

One day, Joanna Lonewood decided to sell her home. It didn't sell for much, but it sold quickly. In fact, she sold almost everything but a few dresses, a suitcase and a pair of shoes other than the ones currently on her feet. The gossip spread, but the town agreed. Mrs. Lonewood was leaving town, with a new lover or not. She had money within a few days and bought a horse the same day she got this money. By dusk, Mrs. Lonewood was out of their small town and the town did not think she was going to return.

Diary Entry #52.

10th October 1862.

It's been three weeks since my husband died. I'm a quarter of a ways into Pennsylvania. I am going to rest in Altoona for two nights and make my way to Bradford. I will make two stops between Altoona and Bradford. They will be at Clearfield and St Mary's. These stops will be quick,short and to the point as I can not ride for ten hours and the horse would most likely die in ten hours. So, I may have to stay the night in Clearfield. So, it could take more than ten hours.

I realize I haven't planned this trip very well. But, you don't always need a plan. Sometimes, you just need to breathe, step back and see what happens. “Forget all the reasons why you and other people say you can't do it and focus on the reasons on why you're actually doing it in the first place.” My father used to say.

So, Mrs. Lonewood rode. On and on, miles upon miles being trekked about. But within three days, she made it to Bradford. She went to the market and grabbed the arm of the first person she could find.

“Where would Hancock Hill be?” She demanded desperately. The man's eyes fell to her hand on his arm then looked back at her face with pity. Joanna Lonewood had not been the first asking where Hancock Hill was, that she knew. But, she would be the first to find her beloved. The man gave her directions and without giving him a lick of thanks, she set off for the crest of Hancock Hill.

Once Mrs. Lonewood got to Hancock Hill, she realized how many people had lost loved brothers, sons, husbands and friends of all ages. Hundreds of people mulled around new graves, mostly all of them unmarked, like the dead had risen. Every once in a while, a scream of utter despair sounded out against the heavy silence as a woman, man or child found their lost loved one. The blue, sunny sky was taunting the mourning people below.
At least a hundred heads turned towards the lonesome, sad woman on the horse. All the faces looked hopeful, which quickly turned to a pity that hung over their heads like the taunting sky. Mrs. Lonewood held her head high and got off her horse, tying it to a tree. 

She began to search, long and hard. Weaving between the crowd of hundreds, going by each grave and staring at it. Mrs. Lonewood supposed they weren't necessarily unmarked; they had names on them. But there were no headstones, no markers, nothing but names chiseled in the rough cement.

Mrs. Lonewood stayed out there for hours, days on end. Weeks began to pass. She would go into town to water and feed the horse, go and get a meal and rest for a little. Then, she would go out to resume her search.

This went on for months. It soon spread to Bradford and many people thought she was dead, as one day she stopped coming into town. A story was made that if you went out to the graveyard of Hancock Hill, you might see Mrs. Lonewood wailing and walking among the graves. They called her the Graveyard Widow.

One day, a married couple was visiting their son's grave when they found a note. It had the word Lonewood written on it in calligraphy.

Dear reader,

I have decided that it is time I must go, for I cannot find my beloved husband, my true love, my soul mate at the crest of Hancock Hill, nor anywhere around it. I've decided that the only way that I could be with my Joseph is to die as well. I knew that this trek might result in my death, but as long as I am with my husband, I will be happy, no matter where I am. Heaven nor Hell will keep us apart.

Every day and night, through dusk and dawn, the hottest moment of the day and the coldest hour of the night, I would walk among the thousands of graves in this field. Hoping that one day all of this hardship would put my husband in a proper, marked grave and give him a satisfyingly happy afterlife. But, it seems I could not achieve this, so I will be with my Joseph to give him some joy.

Every day, my eyes would get a little more blurry, my feet a little more tired and breathing a little harder. I felt as if the ground was opening up and enveloping me in this blanket of despair. Each night, I would count the stars and get the same number. Every night, the same number of stars is what I saw and no new stars would come to show, no hope would come to me of  finding my dear husband.

Death is the collector of my broken life, my broken heart, collecting the shards of this broken life like the shards of broken glass. Death seems to be my only sanctuary to find my beloved. I am tired of waking up every day and going for hours on end, trying to find my love. But, in the end, it looks like I have to take a more permanent route and take my life.

All I ask of you, dear reader, if there is one, to find my beloved Joseph Lonewood. Find his body for me, and give him a proper burial. Give him a headstone, a marker of some sort and bury this letter with him. Tell him I love him. That's all I ask, dear reader. Thank you.

Yours Truly,

Joanna Lonewood.

The married couple kept this note, as they could not find Joanna Lonewood's body. They searched and searched for Joseph's body but did not find it and within a few weeks, gave up. But, they kept the suicide note, just in case.

A couple months after Mrs. Lonewood's suicide, a man showed up to town. A tall, gruff and broad-chested man with blue eyes and a heavy beard. A heavy, sad air followed him where ever he went, like a cloud. The couple, Emily and David Trouver looked at each other from across the market. They walked up to each other, knowing that this was a mad idea and accusation of the man. But they linked arms and walked up to the big man with the big beard with warm, nervous smiles.

“I see you're new!” David Trouver exclaimed.

“What's your name?” Emily Trouver asked warmly.

“Joseph.” He said in a rough, dusty voice. The large man cleared his throat. “Joseph Lonewood.”