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Dearest Fluffy,
This will have to be a short letter. I’m taking a break. I’ve been shoveling horse dung for what feels like hours now. It’s hot out today, and I was light-headed before I even started the task. The smell is unbearable. Coming from me, that should tell you something! Porter’s road apples never smelled anything like this. I’m not sure what these horses have been getting into, but I have a strong suspicion someone has been feeding them fried chicken and fried biscuits—fried everything. At least, that’s what their breath smells like.
The sheer volume of what I’ve been handling today is astounding. I’m only tending three horses, but to look at this hillside, it’s as if an entire cavalry company came through here last night and waited just long enough for every last one of their horses to evacuate themselves. I suppose the Union cavalry’s allowed to ride toward the rebels, galivanting along whatever route suits their fancy, but if that’s what happened here, it would’ve been nice if they’d had the courtesy to tell someone the company’s dung mucking private would need backup.
If I complain, it’ll just look like I’m complaining, so I’m stuck with this task, Fluffy. That is, unless you think you can make it to Tennessee to break me out by sundown. I’m kidding of course, but... don’t hold out on me if you can.
The horses seem apologetic, given the circumstances. Occasionally, they’ll trot over and nuzzle their foreheads—all three of them at once—against my back. Then, when they find out I don’t have any apples, carrots, or candied yams, they knock me on my face. Thankfully, I caught wise to their little plan early on, so I’ve been careful where I stand, but they got me good the first time. I had to go jump in a lake and scrub myself down with tree bark. The worst part is that they always whinny and snort at their prank like it’s the funniest thing that ever happened on earth. And I just lie there for a while, reflecting on my life.
Oh, no—one of the officers just stepped in a... heap. I need to sign off now. I’ll write again soon, once I’ve gotten to the bottom of this fried food fiasco.
Your birch bark-cleansed friend,
~ J.J.
***
Dearest Fluffy,
As of this afternoon, I’m hot on the trail of the company’s fried food horse-feeding fiend. I spent the last few days cleaning up the rest of the dung, only to be surprised by the delivery of another shipment. The second load appeared while I was away at breakfast. When I came back, the horses seemed to be in considerable intestinal distress, and I don’t fault them. At this point, I began to suspect sabotage was taking place.
Upon closer investigation of the evidence—of which there was now more than ever—I discovered a bunch of mostly unidentifiable green things poking out of the muck. I made a sketch of these undigested leaves and made a lap through the camp, shouting, “Have you seen this leaf?” That didn’t get me any leads, so I took the drawing over to the cooks. One of them—a gray-haired woman forty to sixty years of age, white, one hundred to two hundred pounds, with no visible distinguishing marks or features other than a big mole on her nose and a single eyebrow—was cackling to herself, stirring a big pot of bubbling something.
I crept up to her and snapped several times to get her attention. She looked up at me with a pair of eyes that must have gone lazy from the woodsmoke long before the war. I showed her the sketch and said, “Old lady suspect, have you seen one of these? What is this? Somebody’s been poisoning the horses, and I’ve got to get to the bottom of it, or I’ll continue to be miserable all the time. Oh, and the horses could die—all of them! If you know something, I’ll... I’ll....” I’ve never been good at making threats. I glanced around for something I could toss into the pot to ruin it. Finding nothing, I leaned down and ripped a fistful of sod out of the ground and held it over the pot, knocking a couple of loose dirt clumps into the boiling liquid in the process.
The woman continued to chuckle under her breath, muttering things like. “Ooooh—this one’s interesting, Susannah! He thinks we know something. But we don’t know anything... right?” Her eyes drifted around the tent. “His clothes are too tight, Susannah.” The woman laughed so hard at whatever the voices in her head were telling her that she began to cough violently.
At that point, a large stocking chose to reveal its presence among the seething pot’s contents, and I realized I had entered the wrong tent. It was an easy mistake. In hindsight, I’m not certain what I thought the cooks were going to do with one of those hand-cranked clothes drying things. Juice fruit, perhaps? It was a regrettable oversight, Fluffy—certainly not one of my finer hours in the army.
When I noticed the stocking, it was practically time for me to eat dinner, so I’ve placed the investigation on hold until tomorrow. Goodness knows the evidence will still be there to greet me. I checked on the horses a little while ago, and they’re still standing upright, so that’s a promising sign. I didn’t see any posses of horse poisoners sneaking around either—also promising. Fluffy, whenever an investigation stalls like mine did this evening, I need to keep reminding myself that things could be much worse. A gang of soon-to-be-punished criminals could be trying to poison me! I could also have just been promoted to the valiant but risky position of front-line flag bearer. Nevertheless, I should probably cut back on taking sweets from strangers until I get one of those military court witness immunizations.
A piece of the puzzle is still bothering me as I sit, penning this letter while thoughtfully scratching my chin. There are much easier ways to poison a horse than feeding it tasty fried food. Doesn’t everyone know that all you’ve got to do is whistle and say, “Come here, horsey! I’ve got a nice big bucket of corn for you!”? That horse’ll be clogged up, foundered, and dead faster than a chipmunk can stuff a bowlful of nuts in its cheeks. That’s how I’d do it. Not that I would, of course! I’m a lover of all animals—even the ugly ones. But, if in some extenuating circumst—let’s forget I mentioned it. Don’t you dare send this to anyone, Fluffy. I’m not getting pinned with this! I can’t go to the gallows. I’m too young and afraid of falling!
J.J. here. Somebody else added that last paragraph when I wasn’t looking. It could’ve been George, but I didn’t get a good look at the person, because I wasn’t actually around when it happened. This horse poisoning mess probably goes much deeper than I previously thought. Moving along....
I suppose I’ll be expected to prove that whatever, whoever—“thatever”?—is behind the poisoning intended to harm the horses and not just play an unfortunate prank gone horribly afoul. As much as I’d love to be the one to lob the heaviest tome from a series of law books at the offender(s), I’ll leave the work of casting blame and meting punishment to the military tribunal some disgusted soul higher up the chain of command is bound to empanel when word of this gets out. At that point, one of the conspirators is bound to tell the presiding officers everything they know. People always start spilling the beans when they’re forced to select a noose preference at the preliminary fact-finding hearing.
Fluffy, I just thought of a wrinkle in all this. What if the officers believe I’m just doing this investigative work to cover my tracks? What if they accuse me of fabricating an elaborate ruse to get out of dung duty? I’m not sure I have any concrete excuses that would place me elsewhere at the approximate times of these poisonings. They might discover that I take breaks from my work when it’s hot and cold out, when I’m tired, if I didn’t sleep well, if I get distracted by a rabbit—it might not be the picture of efficiency I want to project. But never mind all of that. Seeing these horses in pain stirs something within me. I’ve got to help them or be falsely accused trying.
Thoroughly innocent,
~ J.J.
***
Dearest Fluffy,
I renewed my investigation shortly after daybreak. I could’ve done some muck shoveling first, but honestly, I’m over that. If things work out in my favor with this poisoning case, I think I can get transferred to work more suited to my interests—standing around and yelling loudly if rebel prisoners attempt to escape. It’s been a dream of mine to fill that role ever since I found out how little work you have to do. The best part is that, by the time the rebels are under your watch, they’ve already been searched for weapons, so the worst-case scenario is a sly Southerner trying to pass off a gnawed pine cone as a revolver! And even my terrible eyes will be able to tell the difference. Besides, I think I can take a pine cone—even a sharpened one—to the gut and be fine. That’s one time these thick army-issued wool jackets would come in handy.
After reviewing the facts I’ve uncovered so far, I took my sketch of the grass-like vegetation that isn’t actually grass to the camp kitchens. When I entered one of the tents, I was met with intense déjà vu. Judging from the crates and large wooden utensils lying around, I was in the right place. But that old woman from the laundry tent yesterday was there as well. She was sitting by a boiling pot—identical to the one I saw yesterday.
When I approached, she was babbling, “Frances, I’m certain I’ve never seen him before. No, I’d remember.” Those lazy eyes of hers kept flitting around the room.
Pausing for a moment, I tried to devise a strategy for interrogating this crazy woman who’d probably wandered in from the woods and sat down, thinking she was back at home in her great-great-grandson’s kitchen. Just to be sure I was actually in one of the camp’s kitchen tents, I picked up a wooden spoon and stirred the pot. No stockings this time—at least, none that I saw.
I cleared my throat and took a step back from the woodsmoke belching up from the fire under the pot. Stretching out my arm, I threw the leaf sketch in the woman’s face and shouted, “This is your last chance to help me, old woman! I shall not ask a third time. Your cooperation is needed to solve a rash of horse poisonings. The Union will thank you, but you’re not going to get paid!”
The woman choked on something she was chewing. “Yes, he does need to take a bath, Frances. I was just about to say that.”
At this point, Fluffy, I lost my temper. I walked over to the woman, pried open her jaw, and fished out whatever she felt it was more important to chew than help me with my search. What I found shocked me so badly, I stumbled backwards, nearly upsetting the boiling pot. I compared what I’d found in her toothless mouth—a small leaf—with my sketch. They were mostly identical, which was close enough for me.
I leaned back in front of the woman, tears streaming down my face—remember, the fire was smoky, Fluffy. “Where did you get this?”
“He wants to know how to rustle up some okra, Bernadine. Should I tell him?” She sat there, rocking herself back and forth in a chair that had no ability to rock whatsoever. “There’s lots of places you can get good okra, Harriet. I know that, but he doesn’t. What should I ask him to get me for helping him—maybe some molasses? No, that’s right. Hehe, I’ve already got plenty of molasses. Sweets? I know they’re not good for me, but I still want some of them sugar candies if he’s got any.”
I’m not sure if what I did next is admissible in court—even military ones—but I affected my best impression of what I imagine my grandmother might’ve sounded like if I’d ever met her and said, “Oh, yes... friend, you should tell him. He seems nice. And he’s got a smart-looking uniform.”
The woman’s eyes locked hard on me, probing every inch of the parts she could see. She laughed, “Around here, okra only comes from one place.” The woman coughed forcefully, upsetting her chair. She fell to the ground, and even though I picked her up shortly after she landed, the woman was still irreversibly dead.
There I knelt, Fluffy. My only witness was dead. I had nothing to show for two days of skipping out on work but a small bit okra. At least I’d learned what it was called, but this evening, after talking it over with George and several of his trusted confidantes, I made the difficult decision to keep on shoveling the horse muck. By now, the okra bandits could be anywhere, feeding a chicken drumstick to their next unsuspecting equine victim. I’ll keep my eyes open, but I don’t think the matter warrants further investigation.
Instead of seeing my predicament as an obstacle, I’m going to view the increasingly voluminous amount of horse dung I’ve got to clear as an opportunity. Rather than spend my days complaining to whoever pretends to listen, I’m going to reframe my perspective of the situation. Moving that muck from one spot to another a short distance away is exactly the sort of work I’m proud to perform in service to my country. Fluffy, that’s exactly the sort of nonsense that’s going to help me persuade an officer to let me try my hand at being a confederate prisoner watcher.
Wishing all the horses the best of luck and self-control,
~ J.J.
***
Dearest Fluffy,
Well, it happened—dare I say, finally. The band’s gotten back together. I’m not talking about the marching drum corps. Unfortunately, they never disbanded, as much as we’d all like them to. I’m talking about the band I started a while back! We made the conscious, collective choice to take the grudges we nursed during months of practicing, backstabbing, sniping, and impromptu performing and tuck them away, out of sight, in a box somewhere that we can always glance at from time to time if we ever wonder how bad things were in the old days.
Have we resolved the countless issues that caused our band to dissolve last month as the summer sun beat down on us and made us cross? Not really. Did Bert succeed in shoving me out of my own band—or limit me to only instrumental roles? Absolutely not—I’m still keeping a close eye on him. Despite the disfunction, our sound is really taking shape. We might take the act on the show circuit if this war ever finishes up, already! Now that the band’s been revived, I’m trying out a new instrument. Jug was so-so. It didn’t present a technical challenge. It was gratifying musically, but it wasn’t difficult enough to carry my fleeting interest or make me sound like a serious musician—that’s what I’m really after. I found a fiddle, so that’s my new toy. It’s going well so far. One of the dogs that follows our marching column around doesn’t enjoy it, but I’m not going to let that stop me.
Fluffy, I wish you could be here to hear us practice and clap along to the old standards. Do you think you could send a letter to Bert—disguise your writing, just to be safe—to tell him he sings like a buffalo crunching buckshot in its mouth? I already sent a couple of letters anonymously, but I don’t want to run the risk of him finding out they all came from me. He already knows two of them did, because he caught me writing them before practice. But he’s still in the dark about the rest of them—except the one I accidentally signed. I’m on thin ice with Bert right now, so, like I said, I need some assistance. Let me know if you need help coming up with snappy lines. I’ve thought up plenty. I’ve included a few. Obviously, you’ll have to massage them into your writing style. Otherwise, they’ll come across forced.
Bert, you’re so bad at the mandolin, you should honestly consider quitting. (That one could be more pointed.)
Bert, listening to your mandolin music makes me want to take something and rupture one or both of my eardrums. Oh, wait—your playing already did that... to me. Ouch! My eardrum(s)! (That one could be tightened up. It goes on a bit long.)
Bert, your beloved pet turtle has passed away. (That one is intended to confuse him. He never owned a turtle.)
Thanks for letting me vent, Fluffy. I’m sure this won’t be the last time you’ll hear me talking about Sit Still And Sing Awhile—that’s the band’s new name. By the way, I hope you’re still healthy and all. I haven’t asked about that in a while, and I felt I should. If some misfortune has befallen you, I hope this letter is still delivered to one of the other animals, because I really do need someone—I can’t stress this enough, whoever’s reading this—to write those letters to Bert. He’s already formed two strategic alliances. I’ve got to move fast to save the band I love. Sure, while I was farming and staring at clouds back in Indiana, Bert was off studying with the masters—whoever they are—at a musical conservatory. He won’t quit telling me that I’m doing things wrong and suggesting ways I can change to play music “better.” It’s like he thinks I want to hear tips on how to improve instead of plunging right ahead, ripping out some sour notes along the way. If I wanted people to tell me to play like they do, I’d figure out what exactly a musical conservatory is and, then, consider going to one!
You’re a great pet, Fluffy. We’ve been through it all, haven’t we? Time to run through some scales.
Gone fiddling,
~ J.J.
***
Dearest Fluffy,
I’m back on guard duty, but it hasn’t been going well. I do my best—you know that. Every day, I wander onto the job a little late, but that’s just because I like to let my body wake me up instead of trying to force a habit of extra early rising that’s going to make me cranky. Lately, the rebel prisoners have all been a bunch of miscreants. However, I feel I owe it to them to be well-rested and alert. That way, if they do attempt to escape, I can put on a good show of running after them for a while and give them a tinge of satisfaction that they outran a man who appeared to be trying hard to catch them.
Last night, a visitor arrived at the camp. It was an old friend from back home, here to bring cheer and misery, depending on who you ask. (It snowed.) Most of the soldiers were happy for a change in the weather and took advantage of idle moments today by making snow angels in the freshly-fallen powder, staging contests to see who could eat the most snow, and pelting others at close range with snowballs.
The rebel prisoners, on the other hand, were not pleased with the snow. When I showed up to relieve the guard on duty, he told me they’d been thrashing around all morning, viciously biting at their restraints. The second he’d given me that summary, the guard ran off, glancing worriedly over his shoulder several times as he went. When the rebels weren’t attempting to gnaw through their bonds, they were convulsing and spitting out bits of gibberish, interspersed with yelps and hoots when they felt like it. The whole thing freaked me out if I’m being straight with you, Fluffy.
Their crazed behavior must’ve been brought on by the snow. It may be less common down South, but I wouldn’t think it’s a weather anomaly. You wouldn’t know that based on how they were acting. When they’d decided that biting their way to freedom wouldn’t work, the rebels started clawing at the ground, as if to dig a hole and hide themselves far away from any slushy evidence of the recent snowfall.
When my time on guard duty reached its end, and I too was relieved from my post, I began to walk away, but I decided to turn back and confront one of the rebels. I asked him, “What’s got you all so upset?”
The man shouted, “It’s a sign! It’s a sign that we shall die in this forest with you Yanks and your bland Northern fixin’s. The snow—it was sent by yer despot, Lincoln. He conjured it with his stovetop!” I think he meant Lincoln’s signature hat, but I can’t be sure of that.
I patted the man on the shoulder and said, “You’ll live.” He snapped his teeth at me as I jerked my arm out of reach. I was attempting to be encouraging before, but the more I think about it, I may have come across as dismissive of the rebels’ irrational fear of snow. That was certainly lurking underneath. I had no idea it would slip to the forefront like that.
We Northerners may have bland fixin’s, but I can’t recall ever meeting anyone in the Union who becomes overwhelmed with a fit of insanity at the sight of a dusting of snow. Cautious when driving a team of horses through a blizzard? Yes, I know three people like that. Annoyed that their bones always ache in anticipation of snow? Seven people, not counting you, Fluffy. Anxious that they might have accidentally left clothes out on the line after six inches had fallen? Just me.
Speaking of the clothesline, I hope someone cleared it when I had to abruptly leave on this warfighting adventure. Otherwise, someone—yes, you, Fluffy—will be getting sheared when I get back, so I can knit myself new socks to replace the ones that have probably blown all the way to Pennsylvania.
Time to make a snowman!
~ J.J.
***
Dearest Fluffy,
I have great news to relay from near the bloody battlefields of the South! I might be getting a commendation, likely for valor, dedication, and the persistent pursuit of bravery in the face of perilous circumstances! That would look awfully good, embossed on a ribbon. I could put it with the display of prizes you and the other animals won at the fair. Mine would need to be placed in the most prominent spot, of course. I’m not trying to belittle any of your achievements, Fluffy, but even you have to admit that a military commendation is a more significant accomplishment than being born without any visible imperfections or significant deviations from a breed standard.
I’m not sure I’m supposed to know the big news yet, but I couldn’t resist sharing while it’s top of mind. Yesterday, I was given the task of polishing the officers’ boots. Without so much as complaining, I threw myself under the small table they were sitting around, discussing the newest diseases and pestilences to plague the troops and busied myself, polishing their boots. Then, out of nowhere—but, certainly, somewhere—one of them kicked me and told me to get lost. I collected the boots after they turned in for the night and sat there in the darkness, shining them long past my own bedtime. I need to come up with a better system for setting aside the boots I’ve already finished with, because I strongly suspect I polished a few sets of boots more than once.
This morning, during a stroll, I happened to pass one of the officers—I don’t know his name. They’re all “sir” to unsung war heroes like me. He shouted in my direction, “If you keep shining shoes like that, I’ll have to chat with your commanding officer.” Except for his eyes, nose, and a sliver of forehead, the man’s head was completely obscured by hair. I couldn’t make out his mouth, so, whenever he spoke, his bushy beard flopped around wildly. I saluted and thanked him for his candor.
See? Why else would he need to speak to my commanding officer? I’ve got quite the reputation in the camp these days, Fluffy. Tell the other animals to be proud of me. I’m sure they’d do it without asking, but sometimes, they need a shove in the right direction—especially old Grumbles.
When I told George everything that happened with the boots and the hairy officer man, he told me he was happy for me, but I can spot an envious glance from fifty paces just like a vulture who notices a bloated muskrat. There are signs. His eyes twitched. He almost burst out laughing. He smiled a lot. He’s jealous of me, alright. George’s a fine man, Fluffy. I’ll try to put in a good word for him when the next commendation cycle comes around, assuming the war hasn’t ended.
Wouldn’t that be something, Fluffy? Heading home as one of the triumphant victors in the final days of the greatest war of our lifetime—and what’s that in my hand? A commendation, the last of its kind bestowed in the Union Army before peace. I’m sure they’ll forgive my debt at Whitaker’s dry goods store when I delicately toss proof of my many honors on their counter—well, my one honor... for now. They’d have to. How would it look if I went to the newspaper to get a negative article written up about it? I might even be able to appeal the cancellation of my debts to Lincoln himself! This commendation is going to be a great thing for our family socially and financially.
Be on the lookout for anyone lurking around the farm trying to deliver a plaque or decorative paperweight... or an ink blotter. I could really use a new blotter.
Your soon-to-be-commended friend,
~ J.J.
