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Dearest Fluffy,
I know I just said I was going out for a few things at the store and that I’d be back in time for dinner. Well, it’s been about a week now, and I’m sure you’ve noticed that never ended up happening. I was over in Lebanon doing a couple of things that I don’t feel it necessary to explain. A person walked up to me and shouted in my face—he seemed nice enough at first. (To be clear, it was a friendly, boisterous sort of shouting.) The man said, “Well, hello! My name is Bar-tholomew.” I greeted him politely and continued down the street, heading to another stop on my parade of errands I don’t have to tell you about.
I kept looking over my shoulder, and thankfully, the man didn’t choose to follow me. However, when I crossed back through town on subsequent personal business later in the day, he stepped back up to me and shouted, “I see you’ve reconsidered my offer!”
Judging from the way he clutched his hat and gave me a squinty sort of smile, I figured he was trying to bait me. I’m a sucker for a good deal, so I heard him out.
“Well,” he said, “There’s a war on with these Southerners.” Of course, I knew there was a war going on. It was in all the newspapers. Ministers were preaching about it. People were singing the old war songs from their home countries. That was all old news, but what he mentioned next wasn’t. “The Union needs you.” He pointed at me and consulted a crumpled-up page of what must have been a hastily-written script. “Do you struggle with sleep deprivation? Having trouble with the missus? Have you ever wanted to walk around, well-armed for a living? Grab a gun and join us!”
I replied, “What’s that have to do with sleep deprivation?” He stared down at his notes and moved his lips silently as he read them over again.
“Cannons are a wonderful sleep aid. You will never”—he wagged his finger to emphasize that part—“ever have a better night of restful sleep than you will in a government-issued state-of-the-art canvas tent alongside thousands of your fellow soldiers!” He paused to take a few breaths.
“Is this a paid position?” Fluffy, I can’t say I was interested in his proposal at this point, but I do have trouble sleeping sometimes, and I’ve heard that multiple streams of revenue result in more of it, so I decided I’d learn enough to make an informed decision about my options.
He proceeded to fish out a small piece of paper from his hat and shouted, “Thank you for your interest. To hear more, you will have to sign!” He handed the paper to me, along with a short, dull pencil. I snatched it and signed without caring to glance at the faded letters printed on it.
When I’d finished, I handed the supplies back to the man and awaited further details. He stared at me for a long time, squinting again. I should’ve been concerned at this point, Fluffy, because it wasn’t very bright out that day. Those squints spelled deception. I asked again, “What’s it pay?”
“I order you to report to duty—”
“Excuse me, but we’re not through—”
“In two hours! The men leave at dawn. You will be expected to make arrangements—”
“But, Bar-tholomew, I haven’t signed up to go to any war yet, let alone the southern one!” I roared those very words back at the man, who was now sweating and appeared to be concerned he’d left something flammable by the hearth back at home. He seemed to be the non-confrontational type.
The man raced through the rest of his speech in a low murmur. “President Abraham Lincoln and the federal government of the United States thank you for your service. Goodbye now.” Then, he ran off shouting, “I got one!”
In that moment, Fluffy, I was left with one choice—to flee to the meadows and hills, preferably to a cave or hollowed-out tree trunk where I could lie low until the war blew over. But, sadly, I was spotted trying to leave Lebanon in an improvised disguise. Curse this small-town, country living! One of the courthouse clerks ratted me out. An ill-tempered officer I’ll be reporting to threatened to lock me up if I refused to follow the terms of that contract I’d foolishly signed, so I decided to play their game for the time being.
The last week—my first ever as a soldier or anything close to it—has been largely uneventful. I was outfitted with a uniform. The wool jacket was a surprising choice, given the humidity, but they didn’t allow for any substitutions or alterations. I did eventually discover that I’ll be compensated for my service. It’s not much, but it’ll be enough to keep me entertained until I get back.
I’m counting on you and the other animals to keep the farm going until I return. I know you’re up to the task. At the very least, keep the grass mowed. And make sure the pigs take a bath now and then in something other than dirt or mud. I’ll write you again as soon as I can.
And if something terrible should happen to me, like if I end up captured and held captive in a damp and desolate corner of some southern swamp, just know that I care about all of you—some, admittedly, more than others—and I’ll never forget the good times we shared as I languish in rusty shackles, awaiting my gruesome demise.
Your hoodwinked and might-as-well-have-been-conscripted-because-that’s-sure-what-it-felt-like friend,
~ J.J.
***
Dearest Fluffy,
My ears practically bled as we began our meanderings south toward that mysterious land of cotton and peaches. We—we being the men in my company—were lined up at dawn, milling and drilling, the beginning of what has become our daily ritual. However, today, we were told to fall into a marching column and do the very thing we most dreaded, the part of soldiering where you have to walk through all forms of inclement weather for many miles each day, regardless of whether you’re tired, and you’d like to rest, or you’ve got a bad cramp you desperately need to stretch out.
Somebody somewhere blew a bugle. That’s how everything starts around the camp. It was much too early in the morning for any bugling, I can tell you. My ears started to ring soon after, and they’re still ringing! The blasting of that infernal bugle even upset my stomach so badly, I almost asked if I could fall out of the marching column and catch up later next week by train or carriage or, maybe, if my health never improved, I could just act as a sort of war liaison who does nothing and never has to get shot at but still gets paid the going rate for soldiering, because, after all, desk work is hard work too, and it’s not like I wouldn’t much rather be marching among the men, doing the good work—nay, the great work!—of preventing the dissolution of our beloved Union.
When the bugles had ceased, my ears faced an even more formidable foe—our company’s drum corps. Until this morning, I didn’t know we had a drum corps, and based on their first performance, I don’t think the members of the corps knew of its existence either until five minutes before their debut. I’m not musical, Fluffy, so I have little room to critique the finer points of their playing, but even I know that these types of ensembles normally play similar notes and keep common time. One drummer appeared to be in charge, because he kept shouting things like “speed up” and “you’re holding the stick the wrong way, private” and “yes, my hands are tired too—keep playing, soldier!”
The result was a marching column shaped more like a pear—narrow near the front where the officers could glance over their shoulder to ensure the lines were tight and wide further back where me and the rest of the company had spread out to give everyone ample room to stumble and lurch around as the drum corps’ frenetic beats rolled haphazardly toward us.
It was an exhausting ordeal. I’m not sure we made it ten miles during the entire march. The pace was slower than I’d expected, but given the fact that the drum corps’ beat relaxed considerably when their arms grew weary and their backs began to hurt, I suppose we should be glad we made it as far as we did. One benefit of such a leisurely march is that the men were able to speak along the way. Drilling doesn’t offer many opportunities to banter and build the friendships that, in due time, could save one’s life. Marching, however, is the perfect venue for asking other men’s thoughts on the weather and the state of the crops nearby compared to those back home this time of year.
Tonight, when we’d made camp in some grumpy man’s pasture, badly flattening the meadow grasses in the process—but that’s hardly our fault—I asked one of the officers if there will be an open audition for membership in the drum corps. He asked if I had past musical experience. I told him I didn’t, adding that none of the corps seemed to have had any considerable experience themselves, and I didn’t feel that should be a disqualifying factor. Sadly, Fluffy, it turns out that officer has been training the corps for the last week, so my simple observation wasn’t welcomed. Judging by the creases filling his face and the tired look in his eyes, the officer has suffered greatly for his art, as have the rest of us.
I’m disappointed that I won’t be joining the corps, but I suppose it’s out of my hands at this point. The officers keep telling us that, throughout the course of our service, we’re going to learn a lot about ourselves and the world we live in. This evening, I figured I might finally find the answer to the burning question of whether I was born to beat the drums of war. I believe I got my answer. It’s just not the one I wanted.
Drumming forever in my dreams where they can’t exclude me,
~ J.J.
***
Dearest Fluffy,
I’m pleased to report the company’s drilling practice is starting to bear fruit. We look less and less like a gang of warfighting amateurs with every passing altercation from the officers. I understand their frustration. It comes with the commission. They’ve been handed the impossible task of herding hundreds of men who’d rather be a thousand other places than here doing any number of activities besides walking around at a slow gait in formation with others—some who haven’t properly bathed since all this started. I’m starting to wonder if the non-bathers are staging a form of protest. If only they knew the pain they’ve caused their fellow men, perhaps they’d reconsider. No matter how ripe they get, Lincoln won’t be able to smell them. But we will. We can smell them, Fluffy.
Today, during our march, some of the men behind me were discussing something I never thought I’d hear anyone consider while the war was still raging elsewhere. Before I continue my gripe, Fluffy, I’ll remind you that I don’t think we’ve left Indiana at this point. We haven’t fought in any battles. We haven’t even heard that signature Southern twang people always talk about. Our days in this fight have been few. With that context, I can continue. The men marching behind me spent the better part of the day attempting to pin down the proper cadence for veterans’ reunions. (They decided they should be held regionally every year with grandiose nationwide celebrations every five years.) These guys went so far as to make bets about who was going to still be able to walk by the fiftieth reunion—fifty years, Fluffy! I just hope I’m still alive in twenty years. You’ll be lucky if you make it another ten. Then, they focused their mental energies on deciding which one of them would be the last veteran to pass away. The entire time they were debating behind me, I kept marching, wondering if I should say something to bring them back to the war at hand. I’m not the type to butt into the affairs of others, but there’s something to be said for getting a couple of battles under your belt before dwelling on what type of catered dinner you’re going to have at a fifty-year slate of reunions where you’ll honor your fallen friends—people who, at this point, are still alive! It’s preposterous.... Isn’t it?
Rather than dampening their spirits today, I decided to follow a different strategy. I turned around at one point and enthusiastically asked if I could be part of the planning committee. They were glad to accept my offer, and they’ve scheduled a meeting for later this month to discuss the finer points of the first reunion. This is all part of my plan to foil their efforts from the inside. I’ve got every intention of going to that planning meeting and the next and the next, but I won’t be helpful. I’ll just sit there and hem and haw about every decision they attempt to make. This reunion business is going to take off like a chicken with one of its wings clipped. It’ll lurch into the air and then come crashing back to the reality that there are some bridges best crossed when no one’s shooting at you.
I hope you don’t think of me as an obstructionist, Fluffy. I doubt I’ll have the power of veto in this planning committee. Ironically, I was once in a similar position. When I was just starting out at the schoolhouse back home, some of my classmates and I formed a reunion planning committee, anticipating our eventual graduation. I don’t think any of us made it. When I get back, I should get the group back together to discuss a reunion of all us one-room misfits. I wonder how many of them are still up and walking around?
But enough about the wonderful opportunities I’ve been afforded to busy myself in wartime! How is the farm? Is it still afloat, or has the river receded? Have any of the vegetables I planted in the garden sprouted, or did you gorge yourselves on the seeds the second I was late in getting back from town? I miss the life of a lackadaisical farmer. It’s so much calmer than the life of a soldier, ever on the move and getting yelled at. The officers don’t always shout insults at us, but they do always shout. I wish I had the chance to wander around the countryside near our encampments. This war may be my only chance to travel widely, and I don’t want to squander it. I should get back to drilling. The officers are bound to wonder why it took this long for me to put my shoes on.
Tired of feet,
~ J.J.
Member At Large, War Veterans’ Reunion Planning Committee
***
Dearest Fluffy,
The first meeting of the veterans’ reunion committee came to order at a time that I forgot to note down. I’m going to have to improve my secretarial skills, or they threatened to boot me out of the group, and as I expressed in a previous letter, that can’t happen. I’ve got to stay in the loop, so I can impress my will upon the others through well-timed—and, I’ll admit, downright manipulative—questions like “But will that work?” I’m a persuader, an influencer, and a darn good committee member, Fluffy. I don’t understand why no one back home seemed to recognize that.
The meeting met the requirements of quorum, because we don’t have any bylaws or governing documents establishing one. I believe, in situations of that sort, mob rule reigns supreme. At least, that’s the understanding we’re operating under for the foreseeable future. We’re just planning a reunion, after all. It’s not like we’re trying to run a local government into the ground or anything that serious, although the other committeemen are evaluating minor details for these reunions as if they’re picking out a gift to give to a picky foreign dignitary they’re desperately trying to impress—a gift so grand and utterly unexpected that the dazzled bigwig would end up knighting them on the spot.
I successfully steered conversation in a useless direction for a while by throwing the group a juicy bone in the form of the following question: “Which one of you do you figure would look the best on a statue?” They shouted over each other for a long, long time while I sat in contented silence. When things started to calm down, I added, “But which pose would be the best for that statue? Standing? Crouching? One hand placed gently on a plugged-up cannon?” That got us to the end of our meeting’s allotted time, concluding my monthly committee obligation.
Fluffy, you’ll be proud to know that I was given a research task for the next meeting. I’m supposed to sketch up a design for the little ribbons they’ll give out at the seventh, eighteenth, and forty-second annual reunions, but I’m going to make a prediction that things in my professional life around the camp are going to pick up considerably over the next month, and try as I might, I don’t think I’m going to get to any of it, and I’ll probably forget to mention that to anyone until someone asks about it at the next meeting. But that’s just a prediction... until it comes to pass, that is.
I’d forgotten how exhausting it can be to sit in meetings like that one, waiting for a chance to wrest the conversation away from the one or two people who have the most to say but the least to valuably contribute, if that makes sense, Fluffy. I’m sure when your clan of sheep get together to make difficult decisions, you encounter the same sort of issues. No matter how boring it gets—even to the point of falling asleep while I apathetically record the minutes—I’m determined to stay the present course, even if there’s a headwind. Yes, I’m going to keep my finger firmly on the pulse of this reunion committee—hard enough to stop circulation entirely... eventually. I suppose you could say I’m an organizational tourniquet, and I’m proud of it.
How are things at home? I hope you’re drowning in pastoral tranquility in Indiana. I miss being able to sit on the farmhouse porch, wishing I possessed the carpentry skills necessary to make one of those swings people put on porches. Today, I’ve had to settle for sitting on an old Southern stump—and those aren’t comfortable, Fluffy. Moss doesn’t make it any better. It just makes things slippery.
Another thing I miss is the way the old barn creaked, settled, and, sometimes, collapsed a little during the night. Whenever the trees start to squeak and groan around here, I have a terrible time falling asleep, because I can’t shake the nagging fear that those dying trees are going to fall on my tent at night and crush me. At least the barn always creaked from a safe distance away, unlike those scary trees.
I’ve got to sign off, Fluffy, so I can eat something and head to bed. Take care and don’t get too close to any trees you don’t trust.
Watchful of the treetops... and the trunks—I’m not worried about the roots... should I be?
~ J.J.
***
Dearest Fluffy,
For some reason—I’m not complaining, though—we had a special speaker that took the place of our second daily drilling period. He was an elderly man dressed up in a tattered, rumpled uniform, as if he’d slept in it every night since his discharge in the last century. I’m going to include as many chunks of his presentation as I can recall while it’s fresh in my mind. It was interesting stuff—maybe a little short on application steps for us, but I’ve heard much worse.
“Men!” He clapped his hands. “Attention! I’ve missed that. I wish I was still one of you. I miss the thrill of camping out under the stars on the night before a battle. It’s those little moments you’ll remember most as you look back on your term of service. That and the looks on the men’s faces you’ve shot. You’ll never know if they pulled through and are wandering the earth, searching for you to exact their revenge. Thoughts like that are facts of war, and they’ll plague you, but they don’t have to consume you. I recommend talking it through with somebody—someone wise.
“I’m here because I wrote a book. This one.” He held up his book, Fluffy. It looked... long. I bet it’s killed thousands of spiders in studies and front parlors across the country since it was first published. “It’s all about the glory of Patience.” He kept emphasizing that word, so I will too. “Yes, Patience! It’s through plentiful patient pauses, waiting for the high-impact moments of war—the chances for valor, courage, bravery—that true soldiering takes place. You have to Wait well, men.” He kept emphasizing that word too. “Those moments when the smell of gunpowder hangs heavy in the air, and you’re finally able to shoot that musket you keep cleaning—they’re nothing but sand falling through an hourglass compared to staying patient, preparing, learning, and building character as a soldier.” He slammed his book down on his hand. “Nothing!” He waved his hand in front of his book again.
“I knew men like you. They were in the war back whenever that was—I can’t recall now... the year. They couldn’t stay Patient, and I’m sure most of you won’t be able to either. They ran around, looking for action and seeking to bring attention to themselves. More times than not, they were the first ones who were laid up with a musket ball lodged in the hip. All because they couldn’t bring themselves to Wait, as they’d been counseled. I say it again. You’d do well to be Patient... but stay watchful, because, when the moment you’ve patiently awaited finally arrives, you must leap”—he hopped—“onto the foundation you’ve built all the wonderful Waiting while, prepared to make the Union proud.
“I once knew a soldier—this is a personal anecdote, men—who refused to practice Patience. He could have waited—oh, yes. But he refused to pause as he’d been told. He’d heard all the speeches and had books waved in his face just like all of you. It didn’t make any difference to him. He thought those people didn’t know what they were talking about. What were they Waiting for? Why not just run from skirmish to skirmish until the war was over, or both sides had run out of soldiers? This man I knew was shot eleven times, because his company couldn’t keep him away from the battlefield. He was like a mad dog, pulling and tugging at its lead. That was me. I was the mad dog in that story. See? Personal anecdote.
“When you’re laid up on a soiled field hospital cot for the eleventh time, all because you rushed into battle, intoxicated with a misguided bloodlust, trying to get your face put on a silver dollar or other special edition currency, you start to think about the decisions that put you in that bed, riddled with musket balls that no sane doctor would ever be willing to remove, no matter how much you offer to pay them for the surgeries or waivers you assure them you’re prepared to sign. It was then that I realized it’d been my own impatience and that blasted decision to avoid taking peaceful, Patient breaths that had laid me low. I was angry with myself for forty-two years. That anger inspired me to write this book, so every last one of you could spare yourself from making the same mistakes I did. I’m here today to be a catalyst, to get you thinking about Patience long before you get anywhere near a battlefield and grow restless. The regular pursuit of Patience will save your life. I’m certain it saved mine—also, my medical discharge.
“Wait right here. Wait over there. Wait up high. Wait down low. Wait in the meadow. Wait in the snow. Wait, then Fate. Wait, Fate, Wait. Rhymes like that one will help you pass the time as you Wait for the rebel armies to trot into view.” He looked down at his notes, presumably to see if he’d missed anything. “Wait! Here it is. Yes, that’s all I have for you, men.”
I thought he made several fair points. I’m not sure I was the target audience, though, because I don’t struggle with running carelessly toward battlefields. However, based on some of the conversations around the campfires tonight, the Union will be handing out an impressive stack of medical discharges very soon. I suppose it could be said, Fluffy, that the men did take away some valuable information from the lecture.
Patiently waiting... for now,
~ J.J.
***
Dearest Fluffy,
Has it been cloudier than usual at home? It sure has been down here in the swampy wilds of the South. Sometimes it feels like I haven’t seen the light of day for weeks now. I’m already losing my tan, which is a shame. It was one of the only benefits of spending so much time marching out in the open. Around here, white fluffy clouds, in particular, have been in short supply. We either get the wispy ones or the big, billowing type that make the hair on the back of my neck stand up when I spot them on the horizon. I hope the thunderheads aren’t an omen, Fluffy. Things around here were just starting to settle down, and I want it to stay that way, at least until everything starts to get predictable again.
I guess you could say I put my foot in my mouth earlier today during one of our drilling sessions. The men had assembled and were waiting for further instructions. Usually, in moments of dead space like that one, the men take turns trading humorous potshots at the rebels’ expense. It’s sort of a morale booster, and some of the soldiers take it so seriously, they write up a fresh list of wisecracks every night. It’s a fun time. Normally, I don’t participate, but I drafted a few lines recently that I’d worked up the confidence to share.
Saying I was nervous was an understatement. I’m not going to send any of my jokes to you, Fluffy, because I’m not sure they fit with your sense of humor. Also, they’re pretty dirty. Anyway, a couple of lines in, a man started shouting at me, “That’s not funny!” Nobody came to my defense. That stung a little.
I tried to keep going, but I was rattled. Speaking of that, another man in the audience kept muttering, “Oooh, he’s rattled!” That threw me even further off balance.
Still, I mustered the courage to continue as sweat poured down my face. “Did you hear the one about the rebel who confused a biscuit for a muffin?”
“That’s not funny! My brother’s fighting for the other side, but I still love and respect him.”
At that point—I’m not proud of this, Fluffy—I snapped back, “Oh, yeah? Why should I care?” Thus, began an unfortunate volley of Things That Cannot Be Unsaid.
“My brother’s twice the man you’ll ever be. He’s fighting for his country, and I’m fighting for mine. We’re serving different ends of the compass—that’s all. None of that makes him a denigrating stereotype. You’ve never even met him, and you’re lumping him in with yokels. He’s a person. Everyone down here is. But you must be too dumb to see that, with all your elitism and a superiority complex as big as your nose.” The man’s face was turning beet red. Thankfully, he hadn’t started to walk over to confront me up close.
I waited for him to finish before erupting, “Sounds like you’re a rebel too, if you know so much about them! And, hey—I’ve got a brother down South too, and he’s five times the man you and your brother will ever amount to, even if you go to college or open a law practice or something. You’re a stupid, stupid little man. And I bet your brother is even shorter and more simple-minded than you are with... with... shaggy eyebrows that he thinks look good, but they don’t, and everyone has a good laugh about them whenever his back is turned! You and your brother... listen, my brother and I are actually closer than brothers. We’re thick as thieves—no, we’re thicker than thieves could ever hope to be, unless they’re conjoined. Did I mention we’re twins? You have no idea what’s funny and what’s not, so I don’t care what you think about my jokes. You know what? You can’t even dress yourself right. Your hat is pulled down too far over your ears, and I bet you didn’t even realize it was like that. Are you going to go hide and cry in your tent now?”
This shouting match between us lasted so long that my company’s drilling session was postponed until it wrapped up and both of us calmed down. The officers must’ve wanted to know how it was going to end, because delays in our routine rarely happen, unless someone steals a cooling pie off the sill of a confederacy-sympathizing family’s kitchen window. I’m not sure that other guy and I will ever be able to bury the hatchet after that ugly mess, especially because it might involve me admitting that I don’t have a twin brother—or any brother. Also, I’ve never met any thieves, so I don’t know what they’re like, and I probably shouldn’t have compared myself to something I know nothing about. Anger does strange things to us. I’d like to rapidly move past this, but I’m not sure it’ll be that easy.
Hoping it’ll be that easy,
~ J.J.
***
Dearest Fluffy,
I’ve been thinking a lot about this conflict of late, mostly because I’ve been hiding around in my tent, sleeping in instead of drilling, pretending I’m sick with explosive.... I’m pretending I’m badly sick. Ready for my insight? War. Is. Bell. I came up with that the other day. It’s been on my mind a lot, since I have nothing else to do. When I’m bored—which is often—my mind drifts back to that simple phrase. It won’t end up in a primer schoolbook, but I think there’s plenty of truth packed in it.
When this war thing started, people were running around, excited about the opportunity to quash the rebels’ hopes of seceding from the Union. They were finally gonna get the licking they deserved, etcetera, etcetera. The heavy hand of justice was going to slap and throw the book at them—simultaneously. They kept on shouting all of that in stores and churches, on street corners and in the back fields. What’s the news about the war? We licked those rebs yet? Ding-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling—rattling that bell, the bell of war, Fluffy.
But the war dragged on. People got slightly older. Their hair got a shade grayer, unless they were still young—the lucky souls. But none of us, even the young, are quite as young and innocent as we were at the start of this war, except for the newborns. Like a church bell rung at a funeral or the schoolmaster’s bell that signals the end of a lunch pail brawl, this war has tolled the end of peaceful existence. The things we see down here—even though I haven’t been near the front lines, I’ve seen my share of misery—will never leave our minds. We’ll forever hearken back to them in quiet, idle moments—ring-a-ding-a-bong-ding-clang.
Someday, I hope there will be a third sort of resounding clamor from this great Bell of War—the sort of peal that can be heard in every corner of this nation, again reunited. It will be the sound of freedom bursting the eardrums of the South and those who seek to divide this country and enslave anybody. The Bell will speak of the end of a painful rebellion. It will ring the loudest it has ever rung... for peace. Then, I hope the mold will be broken, and the bells that before tolled only for war will be beaten into plowshares. (I want one if there are any extras.) I pray we will achieve peace for a time at that time—in my time—just in time. THUD. THUD. THUD. (That was the former bell, now a plowshare, hitting a stone in a field.)
I hope things are well with you, Fluffy. Have any of my relatives asked about me? I suspect they have. They’re probably shocked I haven’t written them. I never know what to say to them. With you and the other animals—well, some of the animals—words come easily to me, but for some reason, I have trouble conveying my thoughts with the people in my life. I should really work on that. Do you have that issue? I bet you don’t. You’ve never known a stranger, at least, not for long. I’ve known strangers my entire life. There’s a guy over in Lebanon who I see every time I’m in town—every time, Fluffy. I don’t know his name or anything about him. Whenever I see him, I nod and smile. He does the same, and we’ve gone on like that for at least fifteen years. I wonder whatever happened to him. He could be around here somewhere for all I know. I hope not. Sometimes it’s nice to keep your strangers separate from each other, lest they discover bits of information about you from someone you actually know. That’s the sort of thing that keeps me up at night.
Some days I wish I was more like you. I don’t mean for this to be blunt, Fluffy, but at that point, I usually remember you’re a sheep and that, other than being able to make a mess wherever you want without anyone getting too mad at you, there aren’t many perks to living life as a sheep.
Your shy and unassuming warrior,
~ J.J.
***
Dearest Fluffy,
I met an odd man today. He was wandering through the camp. I’m not sure why someone let him past our well-guarded perimeter. If it’s that easy for Southerners to waltz into the camp—likely in disguise, I’m not certain how we’d root out spies. They might be able to catch a glimpse of a map that’s got stuff written on it or, perhaps, overhear a conversation where a high-ranking Union officer shares an embarrassing personal story. Just think of the damage one mustachioed spy could wreak!
Anyway, Fluffy, this man was carrying around a box packed with small bottles. He was yelling, “Potions and elixirs! They’ll help your aim be true. They’ll keep you lucky and get you home to your kids!” Now, I’m not the type of person who usually coughs up a week’s worth of rations to purchase whatever a peddler’s presently promising. I’m sure you remember how notoriously tight I get with my money when salespeople are spotted in the area. Don’t forget what I taught you. Keep a silver button handy and throw it into a corner if a salesman tries to block your escape. Then, run, run, run as fast as you can, or they’ll be in your will. That’s what happened to my great-aunt.
The man wandered around for hours. I kept a close eye on him, because, even though I did have military matters I was supposed to be attending to, this felt more interesting. That man and I exchanged several quick glances. He eventually took a swig of dark liquid from a flask and hobbled over to me. He smelled terrible, Fluffy. I don’t exactly smell like wildflowers—more like pine needles, but I still stand outside during light rain showers now and then.
The salesman held out his hand and said, “Put ‘er dare.”
I yelled, “No, you shall never get your hands on money, you brute!” I threw a punch his direction. Regrettably, he had just raised that flask to his mouth again, so I ended up striking the flask, sending it careening into his jaw. We both ended up in pain, but I guess that was sort of the point.
That’s where things took a surprising turn. He offered me a job! He just breathed hard in my face, squinted, and said, “Tha’ took guts. I like guts. I’m Scottish. That’s wha’ my Momma tol’ me. You ever get over to Cha’anooga, and I’ll set you up with a grea’ bi’”—he hiccupped—“job! You gonna be rich, my frien’—maybe even richer ‘n me someday. Do you wanna buy an’thing while I’m standin’ here, or should I go find anoth... anoth’r...?” His eyes began to cross. “Affluen’ customer.”
I shook his hand, thanked him for the opportunity, and steered him on his way. I told him I’d look him up if I was ever in that Chattahooey place. I’m sure it’s a wonderful town, full of enterprise and criminals—a sure sign of a bustling metropolis. It’s always nice to hear that people are interested in paying you to perform vague duties for companies that hopefully exist. It made me feel wanted, and that’s not a bad thing to feel sometimes, Fluffy. Are you pursuing any new employment opportunities around home? You should. When I get back from the war, I’m going to be making some changes. We also might be moving to that Chattanuget place. Keep an overnight trunk packed just in case. And pack one for me while you’re at it, would you? I’m practically glowing!
Always open to new opportunities,
~ J.J.
***
Dearest Fluffy,
I can’t sleep, so, as I lie dangerously close to the dim glimmer cast by my only candle, I’m penning this letter to you. I’ll have to hurry. My arm’s already starting to fall asleep. Several factors are at play in causing my tragic insomnia—I say tragic, because I’ve got to be up at dawn to run a message for an officer. I’ve got to deliver it to one of the other Union encampments near here. I already read through it, but there wasn’t anything exciting to note, just who’ll be standing where if we end up in a battle. It’s a standing chart, Fluffy, and I’m the sap with flat feet who’s got to carry it the whole way. They’re insisting I run, but I might still walk. Who’s going to know?
Cannons are booming off in the distance. That’s part of my sleep trouble as well. I’ve heard those damnable cannon blasts thousands of times by this point, but I still can’t get used to them. Then, there’s the rebels. They’ve been sitting out in the woods nearby, hooting and hollering at us all night, every night. We occasionally fire some warning shots into the dark forest, but that hasn’t seemed to dampen their spirits. Our spirits, on the other hand, have continued to sag, especially after one particularly zealous attempt to perforate the banshee rebels left Private Derek, a well-liked man around the camp who enjoys sitting silently and taking late-night walks in the woods, with a permanent lead tattoo on his leg.
I’m sure I won’t do justice to the maddening sound of the rebels’ yells, but I’ll try. “Yip-YIP-wooooooooooooooo.... HUCK-yub! JAM N’ BISCUITS! HOW-HOW-bibble-KA-RACK. SWAMPY! Hoo-hoo. SWAMPY! Guh-RITS! Biiiiiig MUDDY!” That’s the gist of a regular rebel refrain. Now you see why someone as calm and mild-mannered as Private Derek could be provoked to violence.
There they go again, shouting more of their gibberish! I honestly don’t think these rebels know how much they’re ruining our lives. They’re the ones who started this mess. I’ve got half a mind to write Jeff Davis about it. Do they think any of us wanted to march all the way down here from Indiana on foot? We just finished draining most of our swamps, and here we are, mucking around in someone else’s. I’d rather be home, asleep in my bed. At least there, when I’m startled awake in the middle of the night, it’s usually just a thunderclap or coyotes screaming.
Some of the men camped around me are getting restless, so I’ll have to wrap up this letter. They keep shouting, “Would you put that light out? Hey. Hey!” It won’t be long now before they throw a bucket of something
into my tent to extinguish the candle. Oh, and there goes my arm! Don’t worry, Fluffy, when I fell on the candle just now, I only singed my uniform.
Otherwise unhurt,
~ J.J.
***
Dearest Fluffy,
We managed to march at least twenty miles today, which is a long time to be traipsing around unfamiliar forests that all look the same. Every once in a while, groups of locals will gather and stare at us as we pass. I’ve never heard them shout anything at us, which is probably a wise choice on their part. I bet there’s often an old family matriarch sitting in a creaky caned chair out of sight behind them, muttering, “Stay silent, my many descendants. Keep those pesky feelings of anger and resentment locked away deep inside—that’s how I got to be this old. Also... hide the livestock.”
It’s never easy to approach local farmers who have next to nothing—just like us back at home—and force them to hand over most of their livestock, food, and useful, valuable, or novel possessions. That’s why I never volunteer for plundering duty. Seeing the children react would be the hardest part. Even though most of the men around the camp, myself included, don’t have any children, they at least know of children, and they were children themselves not long ago. It only plays into Southern propaganda. I can just hear some gray-clad confederate drawling, “Little Sally, did the mean Union soldier steal your bunny rabbit? That’s terrible! You know he went home and ate the bunny, right? I’m as sad—nay, sadder—than you are! Now that we’re both buddies, could you do me a favor and pick up that loaded musket? Good job, Sally. Now, fire it at those blue ants on the hillside over yonder.”
I understand why we’re taking almost all of their food, because, otherwise, we’d starve, but it doesn’t feel like an honorable thing to do. To put it another way, we’re robbing Peter to fill our own stomachs. Paul’s poor too, in his own way, but that’s not the Union Army’s fault. I just hope we win this war. Otherwise, I’m not looking forward to little Sally marching a group of children all the way to central Indiana to take back a cash equivalent of what belonged to her... plus interest for pain and suffering.
The march today may have been long and boring, but there was one fun moment. I was strolling along and saw a tail flop out of the satchel carried by a man in front of me. By the striped markings, I could tell it was either a raccoon or a skunk that had been painted to look like one. I shouted, “Psst!” The soldier turned to look at me, and I pointed to the tail. He hurriedly stuffed the tail back into the satchel and threw a “Thanks” back over his shoulder. Nobody else seemed to have taken notice of the animal in his bag.
After the march, I asked the man about his pet. He told me the raccoon’s name is Warner. I asked if I could see him, and he danced around the question, so I left the matter alone for now. I understand his apprehension. We’re not really supposed to have animals around the camp, because they might distract us from the war at hand or be used against us in a confederate interrogation, should we be captured. I sure hope I never end up getting captured, Fluffy.
I wonder how many other men sneak pets around with them. I wish I’d known I could’ve brought all—or, at least, a few—of you along to the war with me. You could’ve had a front row seat to the greatest conflict of our generation. Well, I wouldn’t have let you take a front row seat. Maybe a seat with me about halfway back near an aisle, so we could make a hasty exit if we needed to, in case the war got violent. Have any interesting traveling shows come through town recently? I hope you’re still trying to mix a bit of culture into the animals’ routine like I did.
Sorely yours,
~ J.J.
***
Dearest Fluffy,
If campfire chitchat is any indication, this war will be over shortly. I’m sure I’ll be back by next Christmas at the latest. I might stop to visit a handful of places along the way. I’d be a fool not to while I’m still in the area. The way everyone’s painting these rebels, they won’t put up much of a fight against our superior weapons and drilling techniques. I’m not even sure they have any firearms of their own. I bet the ones they’ve got are old and outdated like Grandpa Abner’s blunderbuss. Their uniforms are threadbare, and none of them have teeth, apparently. I don’t have any insights of my own yet, because I haven’t seen any rebels, but I can’t think of any reason why the guys around here would embellish their comments about the Union’s extra-toed foes. What good would spreading propaganda do? I’m already here to fight them, aren’t I?
The most terrible thing about these rebels, based on what I’ve been overhearing, is that they can’t carry a tune. I often find myself in the same boat, so I’ve got to be careful not to sing in the company of other Union soldiers, or I might end up being confused for a confederate. Quelling that side of me will be no easy task, because, after a long day, snippets of lyrics often well up within me, and I end up bursting into song before I remember to look around to see if I’m in the company of others. I miss singing with you and the mockingbirds, Fluffy. Those mockingbirds could sing anything. I’ve always envied that about them. The worst part about singing in the camp—worse than being mistaken for a rebel—is that I’ve got no one here to sing the low parts when I go high.
Did your cousin ever get hitched? I’ve never heard of a sheep with commitment issues as bad as your cousin’s fiancé’s. If they did end up making it through the ceremony, would you mind providing a reasonable excuse for why I couldn’t make it? I’ll pay you back if you get them a present for me. Just tell them the truth. It’ll make things easier, because I always forget about the webs of lies I’ve spun until I walk straight into them. I’m busy being a hero and couldn’t be bothered to set aside the matters of war and victory and being shot at and proper care of my musket and counting my share of the spoils to attend a wedding ceremony or pick out a gift. But remind them that I did find it in my heart to pay for the present. That part is critical. Otherwise, I might come off as selfish. Don’t get something too expensive. I don’t know them that well. Sure, your cousin lived a mile down the road, but that doesn’t necessarily make us neighbors. It wasn’t even the same side of the road, and there were trees and fences between us, so we might as well have been living in separate states.
If you’ve got some free time on your feet, maybe you could just make them something instead of purchasing a wedding gift. How’s your drawing? I’m decent, but they don’t know that. You could always sign your drawing from me, and they’ll be none the wiser. Don’t bother getting them anything if they never got married. It could be ten more years before there’s any progression in their relationship. They’re comfortable, I suppose.
It rained today, Fluffy. My clothes were still soaked from the last time showers doused the camp. My tent’s damp too, but I’m thankful that my stationery kit has remained bone dry... until I opened it to grab what I needed for this letter. Apologies for the water stains that have gotten on the letter. The skies are dark out, and the occasional drop is still falling, keeping the men on their toes and in their tents. I hope they don’t have cyclones down here in the South. War and cyclones—what a rotten combination that’d be! That’s the sort of thing they should have the recruitment team mention before they start shoving enlistment papers in your face. The Union Army could use a couple of well-time cyclones to clear the rebels away between here and Richmond. I don’t want them to be hurt or anything in the process of being sucked into the swirling whirlwinds—just moved. Out to sea, perhaps? But not drowned, obviously. Simply marooned somewhere until all of the treaties have been signed, surrenders were amicably brokered, and I’d uneventfully mustered out and made it safely back to the farm.
The river appears to have changed course to include my tent, so I think it’s time to pack up my possessions and move to higher ground for the night. I’m sitting ankle deep in water that I’m not quite sure I’d want to wash my socks in, let alone splash my face with. Farewell for now. Good luck getting that cousin of yours down to the stile... and over it.
Wishing them only the best, as long as it doesn’t break the bank,
~ J.J.
***
Dearest Fluffy,
Are the apple trees blossoming yet, or did I miss that again? I always loved sitting under the apple trees in our neighbors’ orchards until the pollen overwhelmed me, and I had to leave or risk choking to death from their beauty—but mostly the pollen. I still see fruit trees occasionally during our marches, but whenever we make camp, the officers see to it we’re never idle for long. Once, while marching, I turned to glance at a pear tree. I ended up throwing off everyone behind me, so I guess keeping us cooped up and far from the simple joys of enjoying nature may be warranted. Apparently, those men further back saw me jerk my head to the side and figured it was part of some new formation mentioned in a directive handed down from Union command that they hadn’t been able to read. Honestly, Fluffy, I don’t know the exact reason they followed my lead, but that explanation sounded reasonable as I penned it just now.
George mentioned something interesting to me the other day. He has the impressive gift of sketching. He’s got a little pack of charcoal pencils in his jacket that he sometimes uses to sketch tableaus of camp life, marching life, and drilling life. Most of them just depict groups of men, standing around waiting to get orders, but a few of them are pretty interesting. After I wore him down, George agreed to sketch me doing something heroic sometime, probably thrusting a bayonet into a tree trunk or something—but he can take some artist’s license and turn that tree trunk into a rebel soldier or a horse or something. I don’t really care as long as it’s a good likeness of me. That’s the sort of memento of war my family will fight over long after I’m dead and gone or alive and forgetful.
Learning about George’s until recently hidden talent made me wonder what sort of artistic abilities I’ve got, lying just beneath the surface, rife for commercial exploitation. I managed to find some small chunks of charred firewood and tried my hand at sketching scenes from home. Most of them aren’t quite finished yet, so I’ve only included one of my recent sketches in this letter. You can keep it Fluffy, as long as there’s no one in the area who offers a large sum to purchase it in support of a starving artist gone to war to starve elsewhere.
I’ll warn you that my sketching technique is very new and very bold. It’s probably not like anything you’ve seen back home in one of the magazines. I take my subject, and rather than portray it exactly as it exists in life, I distort the features and lines to make pieces I feel will set me apart from the rest of the Union’s artistic community. It’s a style, all my own. Anybody with at least one eye, a steady hand, and plenty of free time to practice can make a sketch that closely-resembles any person or object—as long as the face of the person pictured is obscured. (Faces are pesky, Fluffy!) Don’t be surprised if everyone back home tells you my sketch is terrible and that you should burn it as an abomination, but don’t believe them. I really think I’m on to something here. I may have just struck gold!
I’m sure, even through my artistic interpretation, you can tell that the sketch is of you and me. I captured the moment when we will someday be reunited. You’re kicking me—did you notice that? It’s because I’ve been gone to war so long. And don’t pretend like you’re not going to kick me. Please just be gentle when you do it in real life.
While I still have a bit of light, I’m going to go sketch a team of oxen standing by the medical tent. What the heck—I’ll throw in that sketch too, so you can get a better sense of my range.
I just finished my oxen sketch, Fluffy. I felt truly inspired and wove in a heavy amount of symbolism. I’ll let you try to figure it out. It’s like a riddle with pictures. In drawing it, I was influenced by period Georgian—my friend, George’s—line work, but I feel it unobtrusively draws from the shading patterns best captured in portions of my early portfolio.
I’m so glad I walked up when George was showing those soldiers his most recent drawing. Otherwise, I would’ve never discovered this incredible knack of mine. I’ll write again soon, Fluffy. The campfires are dying down. This is my best chance to stock up on art supplies before our march tomorrow.
Artfully,
~ J.J.
[The sketches Hippolhite described have not yet been found in the source material made available through cooperation of the Hippolhite family, namely via that dumpster they pitched all of it in.]
