August 10, 1861
Dear Billy,
We got word last week about Manassas. What’s become of this country? The disaster at Sumter was one thing, but if Lincoln’s losing battles to these rebels, it seems we’re in a whole new world.
Not sure whether you made it down in time for the fighting. I hope you did. At least you’d be having a bit of fun. Not me, old friend. I’m still stuck up here on Pig War Island, far beyond the reach of where Lee or Davis or anybody would bother to send some action.
No action here, no sir. It’s just me and ninety-nine of my closest chums playing dress-up, putting on a show for our English counterparts 15 miles up the road. Boy, what I’d give for a Johnny Reb or two to poke with my bayonet. I’ve just got tea-drinking Lord So-and-Sos over there, and, would you believe it, they were here last month celebrating the Fourth with us? Fair’s fair, we wandered their way a couple months earlier to toast the Queen! They’re not bad fellows, to be truthful, but that’s the trouble, Bill! I wouldn’t want to shoot at ’em if I was ordered to. I’d much rather mount up with you and march against those Southern traitors.
But, alas, this is my lot. Penning my crony as I sit, lonesome, in the American Camp blockhouse, wondering if you’ll even get my letters. Bet it’s a rip-roaring camp, too. Not here. Something about the cloud cover in Washington Territory, or maybe it’s the pointlessness of our mission, but nobody and nothing’s much fun in San Juan.
I miss home. I miss the old days, dreaming of adventures with you, Billy. Sword fighting and swashbuckling and saving the maidens and killing bad guys. Glad one of us got our wish. I haven’t forgot our plans to build you a house on my daddy’s land, so we’ll always be pals forever, ’til we grow old and all our teeths fall out. When we’re home, we’ll do it. We’ll be grown by then, real men. Not boys. And my folks are gone, and it’ll be just like we schemed.
Send my love to your Sally and little Samuel.
’Til next time,
Rupert
October 22, 1861
Dear Billy,
Too soon to expect anything back from you, I know. I’ve just got nothing better to do than write.
I read the rebs took Kentucky. Some of the boys up here wonder if Lincoln’s better off giving the secessionists the damned South. Up here, we find a way to get along with the Brits.
I’m up in the blockhouse again, staring out a loophole toward the water. It’s cool today. Fog off the strait settling in the pines. Makes a fellow contemplative. Was getting ready to write when I spotted, of all things, a bird’s nest wedged up against the roof of my tower. Explains all the chirping I’ve been hearing this morning. Hard at work, building a future for their brood.
I’m sure you’re hard at work, too, Bill. Can’t imagine you’ve much time to write, and when you do, I suppose you’re writing Sally and your boy first. That’s alright. Just wanted to get some thoughts down. Give us something to talk about when next we see each other.
Say, speaking of birds—remember those times as kids we’d climb the old oak together? Racing to get up first? Then we’d settle into the tallest branches that could hold us and just talk about nothing, for hours.
I got nobody here to do that with, Bill. Not that climbing trees is befitting a Private. Guess I’ve got my post up here in the blockhouse. But ain’t nobody racing me up to the top of it.
When we were boys, we thought the army’s how we’d see the world. Remember? I guess we were right. Only, I guess I never knew the world was quite so big.
Hope you’re giving the Rebs what for.
Stay safe.
Rupert
December 18, 1861
Dear Billy,
Thought I might’ve heard from you by now. I suppose you’ve got your hands full. I’m back up in the garrison again, trying to hide from the wind whipping ice off the water. Not sure where you are. You might prefer a shiver to what you’re up against. Thousands dying, the papers say.
Wasn’t supposed to be like this, Bill.
I told you about my birds last time. They must be settling in for the winter. They used to chatter all day, starting early and never stopping until nightfall. Like we used to. I hardly hear them chirping anymore. Quiet. Like you.
Say, I don’t mean that. You’re in the thick of it, Billy. You’re living it, everything we schemed together. I’m just pretending at the life we envisioned for ourselves. Putting on the costume, parading up and down the shore.
I worry, Billy, if I’m being honest with you. Lots of boys dying down your way. Sure hope that’s not why you haven’t written. Sure hope.
Bad times, Bill. I’m bored, drunk, and homesick. I’m hanging on to that day in the future, when we’re both home, living next door again.
Write me? Tell me you’re all right. Give me hell for loafing and whining while you’re busy fighting and covering yourself in rebel blood and Lincoln’s glory.
Merry Christmas, Billy.
Rupert
February 4, 1862
Dear Billy,
At this point, I guess I’m either writing to a ghost or I might as well be. I can’t decide whether to hope you’re alive and ignoring me or just plain old dead. Obviously I don’t want you to be dead. So I suppose I hope you’ve got something better to do than write me back.
Billy, I’m not trying to be sore, really, but I am getting worried, and I think it’d be nice to give an old chum some reason to hope. Doesn’t have to be much. Just a hello Rupert I’m doing fine would suffice. Maybe a sorry I haven’t written I’m too busy killing southerners but I miss you too, Rupert. That’d be just fine.
There’s just nothing here, Bill. My unit’s a big batch of sore-bottomed saps, and my bottom’s the sorest of them all. I’ve got not a target to shoot at and not a mission to complete. They sent us here and forgot to tell us any reason, Bill. Something about diplomatic relations, but that ain’t what a garrison of American soldiers is for. Know how I know? Because all the top brass who used to be up here in charge were shipped back east for the real Army business! By the by, if you come across old George Pickett, you give the fat bird a plucking for me, do you hear? Son of a gun was up here Generalin’ us American troops ’fore he turned tail and went to fight for Lee. And I tell you what, Billy? I never did like him. Honestly, I don’t like much of anyone up here.
I like you, though. I like remembering the old days. This life ain’t what we dreamed about. Maybe yours is. Or maybe was. But not mine.
I miss you, Billy. Wish we could be together again.
Rupert
April 15, 1862
Dear Sally,
I was real sorry to hear about your Billy. This blasted war’s stolen our very best.
I don’t know how you all were getting on before they sent Bill south, but I can’t fathom it’ll be easy now. Hope Lincoln takes care of you, but I’m given up trusting the government.
So, here’s why I’m writing, and it’s more than just to share a kind word. Look, Sally. Billy was my best friend, and that makes you and Samuel family. I’ve got some property my father left me. Old house and a bit of land. It’s yours. Deed’s in the envelope, signed over to you. You can knock down the house, build your own, I don’t care. I’ll never see it all again and it’s not worth preserving a memory that’s got nobody left to remember it.
I got one request, and I won’t be around to make sure you honor it, but here goes. There’s a big old oak on the north end of the land. Couldn’t miss it if you tried. Perfect for climbing and you’ve got a boy and, well, anyway. Will you let her stand?
I got no use for the land anymore. I’m not coming home. This’ll be the last letter I write. To anyone. I told Bill about my bird’s nest, how these little wonders tried making a home here. Well, Spring’s come, and the poor devils didn’t make it through the freeze. I think that’s that.
Listen, this isn’t fair to put on anyone, but I’m halfway done drinking myself to death as I write this, and it seems pretty darn sure these will be my last real set of thoughts before I finish the job, so I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
It’s just, Sally, you know, life was simple when me and Bill were pals. Wasn’t perfect. No. But we had each other, and we had the endless summers of youth and the endless futures that came with them. We could sit up in that big oak, lallygagging like a pair of fools, just shooting bull and dreaming and daring to believe there was something waiting for us in the great wide world worth doing.
Well. There ain’t, Sally. Maybe there was then. Maybe Billy even found it. I like to imagine that’s true. I’d like to believe it. I hope you do. But then, and I’m sorry and I hope you’ll forgive me, then I can’t help to think what was all that even for? All these boys fighting and dying and leaving good women like you behind, and kids, and for what? Who’s better off if the damned Union falls or not? All about a buncha rich bastards wanting to make money off the backs of someone poorer ’n themselves. And a buncha other rich bastards didn’t like it, so they sent poor boys like Billy down and made him die to stop the first bunch. But ain’t that how it’s always been? Ain’t that just the way the great wide world works?
Sorry Sally. He died for something. He did. But I won’t. Oh, I’ll die. I’m about to make damned sure of that. I’ve got a ball all polished up and loaded to make damned sure of it. Funny thing, Sally? Funny thing is it’ll be the first shot I’ve fired since I got shipped up here to this godforsaken fog-drenched rock.
Well now I’m getting morbid, and I said I was sorry already for puttin’ it on you, and then here I go. I suppose that that’ll be quite enough moanin’ from me. Sorry again, for the burden. I’ll quit, I promise.
Don’t bother writing back, Sally. Just let Samuel climb the oak. When he’s big enough. His dad used to love to, and so did I. Back when we were small, and the world was still so big.
So long.
Private Rupert O. Ross