A well-educated doctor from up North, Wilkens moved to Jocassee Valley to retire. He still practices, but mostly prefers to stay in his cabin and read. He began playing harmonica shortly after the war; a gift he never was able to give his son.
Born in Baltimore Maryland in 1832 to English immigrants starting their family late in life, he would inherit his father's practice at an early age. He felt powerless watching his father die. Never feeling like he had enough time with him.
When the Civil War broke out in 1861, he found new purpose and a sense of pride being able to help the injured soldiers. Though he fought against it, the pride went to his head. He felt godlike. Able to save anyone. Until the day the Confederates invaded his home. History would label it the Battle of Antietam, the bloodiest day of the whole war.
The overwhelming carnage of the battle overtook him. Dulled his senses. He felt powerless again, surrounded by death. All he could see in the dead and dying was his son's face, years from now killed by some other man's son. He prayed that the war would end before his son came of age. But fate did not agree.
The end of the war would claim his son and the grief took his wife soon after. He was grateful for the few years he had with his mother before she passed away peacefully. Then he was alone in the world. He lost himself in his practice and his faith and prayed that time would heal over the wounds. It got better, but memories and death still surrounded him everywhere he looked.
So he made a plan for retirement. Into the South, he thought. Take part in the Reconstruction after the war. There he could be a part of something bigger than himself, help heal the wounds of the country. And try to heal himself.
