PEANUTS

Dearest Fluffy,

I know something about someone, and I think I may soon come to regret it. I’m sending this letter to explain everything that I know so far to ensure that there’s a record—well, if it makes it home.... I’m sending this letter to ensure there’s a marginally better chance a record will exist to back up my side of this terrible tale.

Over the last week, I’ve been tailing a soldier who I believe is a rebel informant. This all started during a drilling session a few days back. I was standing there, doing my best to keep up with some of the new moves the officers are introducing. It’s step, step, arm thing, step, and reverse step. Or did I get that backwards? Remind me, and I’ll show you sometime if I can still remember it. Anyway, during drilling, I caught a whiff of salted peanuts. That’s when I began to get suspicious, because I don’t know many people who could’ve made it through several weeks of marching and drilling far from home without depleting their secret stash of peanuts.

Peanuts are a delicacy—a comfort food. They’re not the easiest treat to come by back home. That’s why my sense of smell was so heightened. It’s not an aroma I’m accustomed to encountering around the camp. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one to smell the peanuts, but no one else said anything. The next day, the smell of peanuts was back. At that point, I was determined to figure out who exactly was living high on the hog, so I could get the name of his supplier. I’m flush with Union greenbacks, Fluffy, and there’s a good chance they’ll be worthless sooner than we’d like, so I’m trying to transfer them into physical assets as fast as possible—purchasing peanuts, for example.

I spent several hours rooting around the camp, following the lingering scent trail of those salted peanuts. After more than one clash with angry soldiers who didn’t appreciate my interest in what their breath smelled like, I came up empty. In my defense, Fluffy, I always asked before I got close enough to examine them. However, I didn’t ask permission from the livestock. Other than an ox licking my head, everything checked out on that front.

Then, yesterday, when I was standing around, wondering if I should call off the search before it cost me any more campfire buddies, I saw the peanut eater. He was a man of middling height with dark hair. I’m telling you that, so you can go to the proper authorities if something should happen to me as I investigate. With one sly movement, I watched as he slid his hand into his jacket and snatched out a handful of nuts that he proceeded to pop into his mouth without even offering to share with the other men milling around him—hard-working men who occasionally deserved something better than our dull rations. I suppose I can’t be sure they were peanuts. I was standing a considerable distance away, but at least now I have a suspect to keep an eye on—hopefully, from a closer distance next time. While I continued to snoop, I saw the man wipe his greasy, salty hands on his jacket before going about his business—no doubt to snack on peanuts at a later time when hunger once more nagged at his gut.

Meanwhile, Fluffy, the rest of the men and I allow that hunger to drive us to be the best soldiers possible, drilling daily like mad men, so, someday soon, we can strike a rapid retreat out of the South, back home to our beds—if they’ve been made while we’ve been away, our livelihoods—assuming they’re still there, waiting for us, our families—see previous concern, and our homes—which I hope you remembered to tell the raccoons needs a new roof.

I’ll keep you abreast of any new information I discover about the man with the bag of peanuts. Even after seeing him in a convincing uniform, I’m not entirely sure I buy his “I’m a Union soldier, yes indeed—a Yankee, through and through” act. It all seems a little too convenient to me. For all any of us know, those peanuts could still spell disaster. I wonder, if that precious bag of his fell, and the peanuts were scattered, what exactly they’d spell. My greenbacks are still on disaster.

Ever on the hunt,

~ J.J.

***

Dearest Fluffy,

Lately, I’ve made it my business to learn everything I can about the peanut-chomping man I wrote about in my last letter. The guy’s wily, and he may be on to me. Again, we must proceed with extreme caution, Fluffy. These letters could’ve already been intercepted. I might be on the run as you read this, hiding out deep in an unfamiliar wood from that greasy-fingered fiend and his fellow peanut peddlers.

I’ll start with the basic facts. Nobody remembers that man hanging around before last month. And, if that’s not incriminating enough, most of the soldiers get nervous when I bring the guy up in conversation. It’s as if he holds some sort of power over them. Nobody seems to know his name, or if they do, they don’t feel like sharing. When I asked one soldier, he managed to get out, “Oh, you mean B—” But before he could finish, another soldier ran up and put a hand over his face, dragging him away from me.

To throw me off his scent, I have reason to believe the peanut eater has been bathing with lye soap. Thankfully, not many soldiers can afford to bathe with soap of any kind, so following that scent instead of peanuts has been a fairly simple adjustment in my tailing tactics. I think he knows I’ve been following him, because, sometimes, when he turns corners, he waits there out of sight so that, when I turn that same corner later on, I find him standing there, eating peanuts and nearly jump out of my skin. He’s never gone so far as to threaten me with physical harm, but that may be the next step in this dance we’re staging. At times, I’ve felt like someone slipped him the footwork notes in advance. However, I’m not deterred. If I can anticipate and dodge the blows of livestock, I can handle this guy, even though he is taller and in far better physical shape than I am.

Speaking of physical conditioning, back at the farm, there were always sack races to be run, barrels to be rolled up hills, and heavy things to be placed in attics. Here, there’s nothing to carry around but a musket and a small pack. The workouts are starting to bore me, Fluffy. I’m not sure what to do. Maybe I could offer to carry one of the other men around when we’re drilling. I need a challenge. My arms are practically wasting away from lack of use, and that’s saying something, because they weren’t anything to brag about before the war started.

If it comes to fisticuffs, I think I can get in a few good jabs at my potential peanut assailant, holding him off long enough for help to arrive. Although, based on the way the other men have been acting when he’s brought up in conversation, most of them will likely stay out of it. I can’t stand secrets, Fluffy. All my classmates from the old schoolhouse would tell you that, I’m sure. Whenever secrets were being whispered in the schoolyard, I made it my business to know all of them, even when it made things awkward. But, this time, the preservation of a nation I happen to like could be at stake. I shall not rest until I’ve overheard every stifled whisper and interpreted every look and gesture. That man, Buh, will be exposed for the fraud he might be.

Obviously, Fluffy, I hope he’s just a wealthy Union soldier who happens to have connections and the ability to summon bags of shelled and salted peanuts at will. It’s a possibility I can’t rule out entirely, but I’ll eat any hat—anywhere, anytime—if that’s the truth. Please, Fluffy, if it comes to that, don’t pick a beaver pelt hat. How about a plain little cap?

Searching for the truth,

~ J.J.

***

Dearest Fluffy,

The state of my personal affairs took a terrible turn late this afternoon. (I hope these letters get to you in the proper order. Eh, you’ll figure it out.) He’s confronted me now, Fluffy. I was sitting in my tent, minding my own business for once—I know, it’s not like me. I’m not sure what I was thinking. I should’ve been out, eavesdropping! I let my guard down for one moment, and then wheels started to turn in ways that I never expected them to, forcing my destiny in a direction I dared not previously think possible. Oh, that I could go back to the day when I caught that first whiff of peanuts and choose to do nothing about it! Curse my sensitive nostrils and those newspaper mystery serials! They had me believing I was just like those legendary investigators. Only, I’m not British or independently wealthy. I blame the editors. They said the stories were based on true events, but the scare I received this morning has made me question everything I’ve ever been told about reporting the evil people in one’s life to the nice men who wear little metal badges and carry clubs.

Sadly, time cannot be made to run in reverse, and I have a part to play in all this, Fluffy, whether I like it or not—and I don’t. To preserve my life, I must play my part shrewdly, lest I be mortally disfigured before we even make it near a battlefield. The Peanut Man—Buh something—wants to do me ill. Put more simply, he and his posse don’t want me to be ill. They want me to coincidentally fall off a mountain ridge somewhere, near a lot of jagged rocks.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. I’ll start back at the beginning. I was sitting in my tent, as I said. It was drizzling outside, so nothing much was happening around the camp other than a few men having a mud fight. I was sitting there in my tent, trying to stay warm, because it was chilly and overcast from the rain. I was just nodding off to sleep, when I saw something poke into the canvas cloth of my tent next to me—it was mere inches from my head. Before I could shout, someone’s shoe slammed into the tent, striking me in the head.

I heard a smooth whisper outside that said, “Hippolhite, this”—the person poked the tent again with that stick-like object—“this is a gun. And it’s loaded.” I believed him, but in hindsight, I really do think it was just a stick—an intimidation stick, but a stick all the same. “You need to quit your snooping into stuff that doesn’t concern you. I know what you’re after. If you don’t leave well enough alone, you’re going to end up floating face down in the river with a rutabaga in your windpipe.” At that point, the man and his “gun” disappeared, almost as quickly as they’d come—a little slower, though, because of the growing puddles. I heard some soggy-sounding footfalls leaving the vicinity, but I didn’t try to catch a glimpse of the person. A few tears took a stroll down my cheeks, and I sat there in shock for a while.

As hard as I tried, I wasn’t able to gather much from the man’s silky whispers, but I think it was Peanuts. Who else could it have been? I don’t owe much money to too many people. Sure, I’ve got unfinished business with half the camp, but doesn’t everyone? I’ve gotten empty threats—I’ve made empty threats. It’s all part of this wartime lifestyle of marching through unfamiliar territory, fearing the rebels will pop out of the treetops at any moment to shower us with cannon fire and stale pecans. Tensions flare high around here, higher than the widow’s walk of a stately manor at times. As far as I can tell, Peanuts is the only man I’ve met who’d want me to think he had the ability to shoot me without finishing the job.

Fluffy, I hope no one with a gun has threatened you or the other animals lately. Did that incident with the man who stole our watermelons ever go to trial? I suspect the evidence has all rotted away in the judge’s chambers by now. As much as I’d like to rehash why you were bullheaded for declining to settle out of court, I won’t end this letter on a low note. After all, it could be my last, assuming today’s events are a sign of painful rutabagas to come.

I wish you all the best in life, Fluffy. I’ve been honored to call you a friend and a member of my household—even if the census taker refused to make that last part official. You’ll always be Fluffy Hippolhite, age: eight, occupation: sheep, place of birth: nearby, property value: priceless... to me.

Fearfully,

~ J.J.

***

Dearest Fluffy,

I’ve been doing my best to lie low and leave the peanut man to his own mastications, but I think he’s attempting to bait me into resuming my snooping. A few days ago, I felt something itching my scalp. When I took off my cap, I found crushed up peanut shells in it. I’m not sure how he got them in there, and as much as I’d like to ask, so I could use that as a parlor trick back home, I don’t think I want the answer. Then, the day after that, I thought I had a rock in my shoe, but that was no rock, Fluffy! More shells. Yesterday, I found a heap of peanut shells in my tent. This is getting personal, as if it wasn’t already.

You’ll probably disapprove of what I’m about to say, but I’ve already started to write it down, and there’s no stopping me now, because I’ve only got a finite supply of letter writing materials, and I can’t afford to scrap this draft and start over.

I was strolling around the camp sometime between drilling and waiting and drilling again later on—our usual schedule—and I spied an unshelled peanut sitting on the ground. Naturally, I picked it up and examined it. That section of the camp was deserted, and the sun had almost completely buried itself behind the treetops as if it didn’t want to have anything to do with what was about to happen. A couple of feet away, I noticed another peanut, so I picked that one up too. This pattern of events repeated itself dozens of times until I was at least two miles outside the camp in an unfamiliar part of the woods. By that point, it was almost completely dark. If the moon was up in the sky somewhere, it was shirking its duties, because I was lost and alone, and all I had to show for it was a pocketful of peanuts. As you’re reading this, Fluffy, I can imagine you’re bleating at the page, “It’s a trap!” In hindsight, I’m inclined to believe you.

Rather than risk wandering behind enemy lines, I sat down with my back to a large tree, hoping none of the screech owls would give me away. I managed to nod off for a while but was brought back to consciousness when a boot kicked my leg. In my groggy state, I was unable to fight back against the handful of people who grabbed, bound, gagged, and blindfolded me. They pulled me through the woods by the scruff of my jacket, causing me to trip over what felt like every tree root between wherever we were in that moment and wherever Mississippi is. My feet will be black and blue for weeks.

After a while, I heard three or four voices speaking in hushed tones, and my nose detected the growing stench of peanut breath. I was shoved onto a log, but I missed and ended up on my back like a turtle with its feet tied. Someone pulled me into a sitting position and tore off my blindfold. I was in a small clearing. In front of me, about ten men were seated around a campfire. They were staring at me intently which caused me to gulp loudly—the best I could manage while gagged. I honestly thought that’d be the end of J.J. Hippolhite, Fluffy. Either that, or I was being inducted into a secret society that just so happened to involve peanuts as a form of arcane symbolism, which I decided was unlikely.

To my left, sat the great peanut peddler himself—Buh. He was smiling at me, which caused the skin around my bonds to crawl like a spider who knew someone’s curled up newspaper was intended for it. For some reason, they’d stopped whispering amongst themselves when my blindfold was removed. As my eyes adjusted to the firelight, I noticed several large sacks labeled, “Peanuts,” sitting in piles around the clearing. Before I could stop myself, I whispered, “So this is where they’re coming from.” But, since I’d forgotten I was still gagged, it came out like, “Seww zees ist vore stair cumin frome.”

One of the men—someone I hadn’t seen before—came over and pulled the gag out of my mouth, causing me to involuntarily spit several times and open and close my jaw reflexively. Everyone turned to look at the person sitting across the campfire from me. Their face was obscured, but I could tell they were staring right at me. The firelight was reflecting in their eyes. A voice shouted from that direction, “Why you he-yah, soul-ja?” His voice twanged like a fiddle that just had a string snap.

The circle of men turned back to me. I heard my voice stammer to life as my brain flailed desperately to come up with any plausible explanation. “I wanted to go for a walk, and I happened to notice the peanuts along the way, but I wasn’t following the peanuts or anything—why would I do something like that? I just so happened to be going the same direction as the peanuts for the entire length of my journey, and I picked them up along the way in case I found any woodland animals starving out in the dark wilderness, and they happened to need food, because they hadn’t eaten yet today, or even if they had eaten today, maybe they were still hungry, because they were with child. Sure, at one point, I was naively interested in learning more about how peanuts were getting smuggled—that’s the wrong word... brought, that’s what I meant—into the camp, but that threat I got the other day shoved any curiosity I had out of my mind, and the only reason I was curious about the peanuts to begin with was that they give me a sort of rash. Well, it’s not really a rash. It’s more like goose pimples all over one of my legs, but it’s not always the same leg, so I was just trying to figure out why that kept happening.... And if you don’t believe any of that, then... I was always told—and I’ve never mentioned this to anybody, so I won’t be able to get anyone to back me up on this, unfortunately—I was told as a child that my entire extended family was annihilated in a tragic peanut-fueled feud with another family, but both clans were entirely wiped out and buried in unmarked graves, and I was the only one who made it. How was that? Do you feel any sympathy for me now?” I leaned down and threw my elbow hard into the log I was sitting on. “Ow! How about now?” I was obviously grasping at river reeds, Fluffy, but I had no idea what else to do. Various parts of my life began to play in my mind, and I didn’t like most of them, which didn’t do my emotional state any favors.

The men’s heads swiveled back to their firelit leader as he considered my statement. By the sound of it, he was also munching on peanuts. After a while, he said, “I’m gon’ make you a deal. Buh—till him.”

I fell to my knees—closer to the fire than I would’ve liked, so this next part happened as I choked on woodsmoke. “Oh, please.” Hacking fit. “Please, let me—” Hacking fit. My voice rose an octave. “I don’t want to be tilled into the earth like last year’s pole beans.” I jerked myself back to my feet and withdrew from the fire, finding my old seat close to where I’d left it.

Buh stood to his feet and began, “It’s a business strategy, plain and simple. We give you peanuts, and you sell them. Easy enough, right?” He held up a pamphlet. “This is our simple-selling guide, full of tips and tricks about how to push those peanuts. All you have to do is put five weeks’ salary down as a deposit with us today, and we’ll get you your first shipment of peanuts. You can stop the shipments of peanuts at any time by sending a letter to headquarters—note that it can take up to two years to process these letters, given fluctuating volume and mailroom employee turnover. The program is not responsible for acting on lost, misplaced, or poorly-written letters. We do not give refunds, and any peanuts that happen to be in your possession at the time your subscription is canceled are, to put it in plain terms, your problem. Now, for the testimonial.” Buh—if that wasn’t some sort of codename—motioned to another man in the circle and sat down to applause from his business associates.

The testimonial man stood and said, “Hello, my name used to be Mudd, but now, I’m a new man—Mr. Mudd! I was able to use this effective and proven peanut selling program to rebuild my life on a foundation of legumes.” He held up his own tattered copy of the program’s sales guide and waved his hand over it. “Since I started using this program six months ago, I have sold thousands of peanuts, and I now own a spade. I am currently recruiting a network of my own peanut distributors, and one day, I hope to purchase a second spade in the country. Thank you.” The man smiled and sat down. He was also showered with applause.

On cue, the men’s heads twisted back in the direction of their fire-obscured leader. He cleared his throat and asked, “Wha’ do-yah thank? You een?”

I swallowed—still difficult, even without the gag—and replied, “I’d like to talk this over with my wife. It’s a big decision.” The leader snapped his fingers. Before I could think to dodge, Buh leapt to his feet and struck me with his sales booklet, but there must have had something blunt rolled up in it, because the blow knocked me unconscious. I woke up this morning in my tent back at camp with an unshelled peanut placed on each of my eyes.

I’m not sure if this means that I’m in or out of their scheme. Their pitch sounded so familiar. Oh, now I remember—this is just like the time that pushy guy stopped by the farm and wanted me to sell bird seed as part of a sky-high-yield, low-risk, totally-legal investment he was sharing with me only for a limited time. Our neighbors always wondered why I kept that old bull at the farm. He did come in handy from time to time, especially that time.

After all this, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to choke down a peanut again, and I certainly won’t be following any trails of them.

Still reeking of woodsmoke after two baths in the creek,

~ J.J.

***

Dearest Fluffy,

It’s been a week since I tailed my last peanut, but Buh’s kept right on bugging me. The first time I saw him after the eventful night I spent in the woods with him and his business associates, I wasn’t able to stifle the scream of panic that hopped out of my throat—like a frog’s when it realizes it’s being boiled alive slowly. I clumsily threw out the explanation that it had nothing to do with... the woods. Buh didn’t say anything for a while. Instead, he just stared at me, picking stray bits of peanut out of his teeth. When I was about to sidle away from him, Buh took a step forward, jabbed a finger in my chest, and whispered, “Y’all should reconsider the offer.” He disappeared and so did the remaining strength in my knees.

This has happened over and over now—same actors, identical setting, slightly different dialogue. Every time, he struts up to me like he owns the camp and every peanut between here and somewhere further east of here—I’m good at remembering people, but I’m bad with places, Fluffy. Today, I decided I’d had enough of Buh’s bull, so I did the bravest thing any man has yet done in this war—at least, from my sorry company. I marched up to the captain and told him everything.

The commanding officers have these imposing tents they can sit up in. It’s one of the few perks of an otherwise thankless and dangerous job. Stature factors greatly in being an officer of our exceptional and well-armed Union. The officers’ tents are taller than those of their subordinates. Ours are short and leaky. They ride into the battlefield on horseback. We walk there on sore feet. In general, the officers tend to be tall men. We trend dumpy. Personally, I’m satisfied blending in with the soldiering masses. That way, I stand the same chance of being hit by rebel musketfire as the next man. Don’t spread this around, Fluffy, but the odds of survival actually tip slightly in my favor, because I’ve intentionally developed a habit of stooping.

Captain Bowman is a friendly man. Have I written you about him? Sometimes these letters blend together. I should’ve made copies to consult, but I suppose that’s all behind us now. When I arrived at his tent, Bowman was seated inside at a small table, staring at a stack of papers with an air of determined indifference. That was always the captain’s style. He heard me knocking on his tentpole, but he didn’t turn around. He called out, “What is it?”

I don’t know exactly why—I suppose it was all the pent-up frustration of Buh bothering me for a week—but I sort of exploded. “There’s a man in the camp. They call him Buh. He works for a man who likes to sit close to a fire—maybe he’s sick. I didn’t get a good look at him, but he and his cronies live out in the woods, and they’ve got about a thousand bags of peanuts sitting out there, maybe more. They keep making threats that they’re disguising as a business opportunity to sell nuts for them in return for gardening supplies. I told them, ‘I’m a soldier! The duties of my role require me to dedicate my full professional energies to the career path that I was hoodwinked into. Get those nuts away from me!’ But they won’t stop, Captain Bowman. I don’t know what else to do. I think they’re selling peanuts to half the camp. Everywhere I go, I smell salted peanuts. I bet it’s attracting raccoons and squirrels. I’ve seen more squirrels lately—I swear I have. Haven’t you? Please, please help me. I don’t feel safe around here. One of them’s got a spade, and I bet they’re going to use it to dig me a shallow grave. And, if that spade happens to break while they’re digging, he’s about to get his hands on a second one. I need you to protect me. I found peanuts on my eyelids, Captain!”

Bowman stood and cast the papers on his desk. “Sit here, boy. I live for moments like this. Those bad, bad men will never trouble you again. I was fooled by one of those scams once—birdseed, I think. No, it was cornmeal. They took everything I had, right down to my shoes. At least they left you your shoes, boy—cheer up. One hundred, twenty-three bags of cornmeal. That’s all I was left with, and even that went bad after a while. If this war hadn’t started when it did, I would’ve never dug myself out of that pit. Wait here.” The captain stormed out of the tent, and I sat as I was told. A few minutes later, I heard a group of horses galloping out of the camp in various directions. Bowman returned and did his best to help me calm down.

Roughly three hours later, the horsemen returned. Captain Bowman asked, “Are you up to facing the devils, boy?” I nodded, but I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to make it through the encounter without giving them an excessively-wordy piece of my mind and a couple of punches to the gut. When we rendezvoused with the horsemen, I noticed a pile of bound men off to one side. I recognized backs of heads that looked familiar. Sure enough, it was half a dozen of the peanut dealers.

The lead horseman relayed his report to Bowman, “Three or four men got away. We tried to pursue them, but they’ve disappeared. The contraband peanuts are being brought back to the camp now.”

Bowman replied, “Good, make sure the peanuts are destroyed. Throw them in the river or leave them out in the open for the chipmunks. I don’t care what happens to them, just as long as the men aren’t eating them. They could be laced with some sort of anti-theft precaution.”

I glanced around at the growing crowd of men standing nearby, watching all of this unfold. My eyes narrowed, my jaw clenched, and my hands tightened into fists when I spied Buh among them. “Captain Bowman,” I cried. “That’s the man who started all this. Don’t let him get away!” Of course, Buh attempted to escape. I’d do the same thing if I was about to be gagged and thrown on top of a pile of my co-conspirators. George ended up being the one to trip him up. Once he’d been restrained, Buh was dragged, kicking and hollering, before Captain Bowman. His face was bloodied, and he spat out what could’ve been peanuts, teeth, or a bit of both.

At this point, I received assurances from Captain Bowman that these men would be prosecuted to the fullest extent of martial law, which, in the case of peanut running that was undoubtedly bankrolled by the confederacy, would probably be a slap on the wrist for harassment and being a nuisance to the Union’s slow slog to victory. That sounded good enough to me, so I parted ways with Buh for what I hope is the last time. When he’d been thrown onto the pile with his fellow peanut distributors, I couldn’t resist walking over to them, slapping Buh on the back, and crying out, “Well, gentlemen, I’ve thought over your offer at length, and I’m finally ready to give you my answer. It’s going to be a hard pass. I don’t have the credit!”

They didn’t make any attempt to reply which was fine by me, because I’m not good at coming up with snappy comebacks on the spot. The only loose thread still drifting through my mind is that time someone poked the stick “gun” into my tent a while back. Now that I better understand the peanut people’s motives, I don’t think that was them. That’s not good.

Concerned,

~ J.J.