“Weasley! Private Weasley!” echoed across the desolate camp grounds. The shout ripped through the quiet of the early morning, having no mercy on the ears of the dozing men. A few pushed their heads out of their tents to ask whoever was shouting to please shut the hell up before they blew another hole in their body. One soldier, however, was scrambling as fast as he could to reach the cursing lieutenant, who was holding a letter in his hand.
“Me, sir,” he said reaching eagerly for the letter. He had been waiting for her to write back for over two months. The mailing system the United States Union used to contact soldiers was practically worthless, considering how long it took to find the unit the addressed soldier was in. Regardless, he snatched it away from the lieutenant’s hand and walked past the twenty or so tents to the dried up lake bed. Sitting down beneath the limbs of an old oak tree, Private Weasley carefully ripped open the letter.
My Darling,
After having read your last letter, I don’t know how much longer I can go without seeing your face again. My days draw out listlessly as I await news that the war is soon to be over…oh happy day, I wish it were today!
Not even my books can help me anymore, for I think I have read every piece of literature my household possesses. Mabel tells me I mustn’t sit about all day worrying over you and that you will be back as soon as our dear President Lincoln has figured out what to do against the bloody Rebels. I told Mabel that I will do exactly as I please, and she was none too happy about that, for she said, “Miss, I’d like to go on and tell your Momma whatchoo been up to, written them silly letters and wot not when ya should be practicin’ your French!” She has become more and more restless with me as the days pass.
Private Weasley smiled, picturing his beloved raise her nose in the air and refuse to abide by her maid, swearing all the while. She was so different then any of the other gals he knew, and he liked her all the better for it. Her fire was something he had always loved about her, and he ached with longing as his mind’s eye brought forth the image of her standing in front of him, her eyes blazing and cheeks hot from passion. Despite the cold and damp, he felt his ears glow intensely.
I hope I am not adding to the headache you mentioned in your last letter, what with all my petty chatter, but it should have passed by now, yes? If not, I declare you should have some rest, since you have no relation and not even a gal to take care of you! Yes, please rest, so I won’t have to worry so hard.
When would he have time to rest? The camp was always on the move, surely she knew that? But again, he reasoned with himself, she was just a well brought up northern girl. She probably didn’t know the meaning of strenuous ache and pains brought forth from tireless work. Even though he was proudly fighting for the Union, he had been brought up a hard worker on his family’s farm in Vermont. He looked back down at the paper in his lap.
What would it take to bring you back home? My dearest friend and my love, how much longer are you to be away from me? I don’t think I can bear having you gone so long. It has now been two years.
Do you remember my last words to you? In case you have forgotten, here they are, from my heart: I love you. Come back home to me.
Hopefully in your thoughts,
Miss Hermione Jean Granger
Private Weasley flipped the paper over, but he saw that there was no writing on the back. How strange, he thought, she usually writes multiple pages to her letters.
Quite suddenly, a wave of nausea washed over the soldier, and he fell to his knees, his throat throwing back up the biscuits he had eaten the night before. He sat there on his boot heels, the letter crumpled into his hand as he wiped away the sickness from his mouth.
The private heard the shuffle of boots behind him and he looked over his shoulder. Walking towards him through the fading mist was his friend Potter, or The Boy Who Lived, as the men in their recruit deemed him. The reason for the unusual nickname was that in their very first battle together, the Battle of Fort Sumter, a fragment of a bullet had caught Potter in the middle of his forehead, slicing his head open. The nearest doctor had been able to sew him up quickly, however, and his friend had survived. The men in their recruit thought it was amazing that Potter hadn’t died instantly, and that there must have been a higher power looking after him. Private Weasley thought his friend had just gotten lucky.
“Alright there, Weasley?” Potter asked, sitting down carefully beside the pale soldier. Private Weasley gave his head only a slight shake, hoping to not provoke his stomach into further contractions. He squinted, trying to find something to focus his thoughts on to calm his roiling insides. He wasn’t quite sure why he had reacted so violently. It had to have been the bloody food. After all this time, he still wished for his mother’s cooking.
The redhead noticed Potter was still beside him.
“I’m fine, Potter. I guess dinner last night just wasn’t agreeing with me.”
“Too little if you ask me, after all the walking we did yesterday,” Potter nodded in agreement. “Those biscuits were a bit on the moldy side as well. But I’m sure you’ll be feeling better by lunch, right?”
Private Weasley shrugged in a dubious fashion, but climbed unsteadily to his feet all the same. The black haired boy imitated him and together they stared out over the dried up creek at the cotton fields that surrounded the camp.
Atop a faraway hill sat an immaculate plantation and Private Weasley swore under his breath. There was a war going on all around them, and yet those bleeding enslavers thought nothing of it as they sat in their regal homes, lapping up their luxury. He pointed over to their right and Potter nodded, seeing two little slave girls walking in bare feet back to their rickety shacks on the other side of a strand of old oaks.
Private Weasley gave a snort of disgust at it all, but he didn’t realize quite how loud it had been until he heard the soft gasps of the little girls, who took off at a dead sprint toward their homes. It had always astounded him that the very people he was trying to secure freedom for were so blatantly terrified of him and the rest of the Union Army.
A tall negro man walked out of the shack the girls had gone into, his burly arms crossed and a stern look on his face. “Whatchoo doin’ then, huh? Scarin’ my little gals?” His voice was choppy, and even though he looked extremely tough, Private Weasley noted the undertone of fear. The man then made a shooing motion. “Git on out of here, ‘for I get my masta! Go on, git!”
Potter nodded his consent, and both soldiers turned on their heels and made their way back to camp. They’d have to tell the other men about the slave’s hopefully empty threats of telling his master. The soldiers had had many a plantation owner tell groups of Rebels where their position was, which ended up in only more walking to a different, more secure spot. And they all hated walking.
Private Weasley allowed Potter to be the one to tell the lieutenant about the threat while he lifted the flap of his tent and crawled inside. Smoothing out the letter he had clenched in his hand, the Private pulled out his one good pen from inside his knap sack and one of the few leafs of parchment he had left. He softly placed the pen to the parchment, but then paused. How was he to begin? What could he tell her, what exactly did he have to write about? Sighing, he started to scribble.
My dear lady,
You have no idea how much joy your letters bring me. I live for the days my lieutenant brings them into camp, for I feel as I read them that you are here next to me. It’s like I can reach out and touch your flowing, wavy hair, and see the way your eyes sparkle when they look at me. I miss you dearly, and cannot wait until I am allowed to return home as soon as this wretched war is over.
Now, Miss Granger, you know you ought to mind Mabel, for she is only trying to help. And she is right, you oughtn’t sit about pining all day long.
Private Weasley gritted his teeth. He didn’t want Miss Granger to sit about, losing her mind and waiting on him, for what if he returned and their feelings for one another had changed? But then again, what if she did exactly as he asked and went out into the world to find a new love? He sharply exhaled through his nose and continued to write.
Forgive my vulgarity; although I said I do not wish you to sit about all day long, the thought of you thinking about me is quite to my liking. I do nothing at all when I am at camp but think of returning home to you and my family. Have you heard from them lately? I haven’t received a letter in awhile from my mother.
As for my headaches, they have faded a touch, although they often return after a long day’s walk. Lately we have done nothing but walking, with very little to eat and no time to sleep. Please inform my mother of this if possible, as I’m sure I could do with one of her pies and bread. My friend Potter needs one a bit more than I do, he’s on the skinny side. I’ve told you about my friend Potter, haven’t I? You’ll have to meet him after the war is over. I’m sure you two would get on famously.
He paused after this sentence, wondering how to close the letter as he saw the camp waking up around him. It was time to begin packing, and he knew he wouldn’t have the leisure to continue the letter later on.
Soon, I hope the two of us will be able to come back home, although my heart is already at home with you.
I will come back home to you. I love you.
Private Ronald Weasley
He folded the letter and slipped it inside a water stained envelope, writing the address neatly so it would not become lost in the crude mail system. Climbing out of his tent, he tromped over to the bag labeled Mail. It was already filled to the brim with letters. He wondered how many other soldiers in his regiment had a sweetheart they had left behind for the bloodstained fields of war. Dropping his letter neatly into the bag, the redhead then turned and headed to where Potter was being doled out a biscuit. Private Weasley claimed one for himself and the two boys walked back to their tent to begin packing up the supplies, the redhead silently pondering how these ‘glories of war’ were really worth leaving the love of his life for.
Private Granger leaned against her bedroll, trying to read by the dreary morning light. No one in camp was awake except for her, and she was glad of it. She would have a hard time explaining if one of her mates decided to snatch her letter away.
Her dark brown eyes swept over a line he had written about her hair, and she almost snorted. Reaching back, she tried to feel for the long, flowing tendrils he mentioned, but was met with only a few wisps on her cleanly kept boy-cut. She had chopped it off nearly two years ago, at the beginning of the civil war. She wondered how beautiful he would find her now, with her hair as short as his. Private Granger felt a shiver run down her spine.
She knew she was lying something terrible. She had shamed her family by acting like a ruffian boy and running off to war. The pure scandal of the situation had bid them lie through their teeth, saying she had went to England to visit her cousins shortly after her début. Private Granger knew she had not been disowned, exactly, but she knew she was not welcome as a daughter should be.
When her love had first mentioned the possibility of being recruited into the Union Army, she had pleaded with him to see reason, and that nothing good could ever come of it. He had insisted though, claiming it was for the good of his country. That the Union needed him, and he would have to answer the call to arms. She knew his pride blinded his senses, and all he could see was the glory of war and becoming a hero. And she began to understand his insistent need. She herself, after a time, was swept away on its seemingly beautiful illusion of nobility and courage created in his hopeful eyes. And she thought, if a man can go off to war to become a hero, then why can’t a woman? The seemingly beautiful picture of it finally swallowed her whole as well, and led her to following in her lover’s footsteps.
Sometimes, on lonely days of nothing but backbreaking walking, she sometimes wished she had talked them both out of this idea. The wonders of war were nothing but pure fantasies, created by a government willing to sacrifice the lives of men for a grand and unreachable peace. On those days, she pictured the way her life could have been. She could be sipping tea in a fancy parlor with her husband lighting up a cigar, cracking a joke to pull her away from an interesting read. They would be quarreling and laughing together, their love shining and blooming with each new day. Yes, if only they hadn’t gotten quite so carried away…but maybe it was for the better. Perhaps she was not supposed to be just another simple lady, wrapped up in an illusion of a peaceful society. Day in and day out, she confused herself with these opposing thoughts.
Private Granger never told her lover of her hasty decision to abandon all propriety and become a foot soldier. Such things were something that could never be accepted. He would probably shun her, just as her family had, she was sure, for that was not the way of a woman. As much faith as she put into their relationship, she would not willingly come forth and try to explain her deeds. They were better left unsaid, unthought-of, not even dreamed about. But as she sat there on the hard ground, surrounded by her fellow soldiers, Private Granger wished for one fleeting moment that the people around her and those she loved would just try to accept her as how she was. Accept her need to be wanted for something, to be a part of something so meaningful. She had listened to her lover’s arguments on the subject of the civil war for so long, they had started to rub off on her, and she understood wholly what he was on about. The tug that she was needed by her country meant so much, and she never wanted to go back to a life where she was just another wealthy daughter of a well to-do family, for she knew she was so much more than that. And she had proven it! For here she was, in a crowded camp of men, making a difference in the world. She was changing the course of history.
Glancing around, Private Granger slowly turned back to her letter. She noted the familiar address of her home, and thanked God that she had made Mabel promise to mail her any letter sent by the youngest Mr. Weasley. The maid was able to slip his letters out of the family’s mail and send them on with a new address written underneath, always scratching out the Miss and adding Private, so as carriers and her lieutenant would not suspect a thing.
She wondered what she would be able to write this time. Private Granger hated herself each time she replied to his heartfelt letters, considering hers were nothing but imaginative lies. Her guilt always hung as a heavy cloud as she sent her replies off. But he was not to know the truth, not until the war was over, or possibly never.
Setting her pen to the page, she bit her lip in concentration.
“Men! Wake up! Get up you bleedin’ fools, get up!” A shout rang through the camp, and soldiers poked their heads out of their tents, bloodshot eyes blinking through the thick and humid air. Private Granger jerked away from her page, eyeing the shouting messenger boy warily. The sun had barely touched the horizon. Whatever news he was bringing would not be good.
“Up out of your tents, lads! We’ve a message reading all regiments in the vicinity to report near Chancellorsville to aid Hooker!” The boy’s face was alive, his voice raw with excitement. “Start packing boys, we’re on our way to battle!”
A shout rose up clear and strong from the group of soldiers, their sleep forgotten. They had the glory of another battle awaiting them, another shot at that hope for heroism.
Private Granger stood with a soft “Blast!” but quickly scribbled down five words onto the paper. She knew she wouldn’t have time to finish writing Mr. Weasley back for days to come. At least she had put down the most important part of the letter. And though she was thoroughly irritated, she could also taste the bubbling anticipation of battle that sparked within them all. She hurriedly collected her possessions before trooping over to the crowd.
She came to a stop beside a boy who still was able to hold onto the fat in his cheeks, even with the little food they were receiving. He seemed to be having a bit of trouble with the tie on his knapsack.
“Here, Longbottom, hand it over,” she said in a gruff manly voice. The sweating boy placed it in her hand, nervously biting his lip. After she knotted it tightly she asked, “Ready for some action, finally?”
He shrugged, mumbling, “I could hold off a bit longer.”
Private Granger shook her head as the order was given to march off. She could practically taste victory.
But the next day she wasn’t so sure. The Battle of Chancelorsville roared around her in a whirlwind of gunfire, cannons, and dying screams. They had entered the fray, sure of their victory, but now…now there was no doubt in her mind that they would all fall. The Rebels were too strong, too quick, and too good with the land.
She heard someone shout her name and she quickly turned to see Private Longbottom running low toward her. She grabbed a hold of him and hauled him behind a tree with her. The whiz of cannons exploding a hundred feet from them had the pair cowering as the earth shattered.
Private Granger raised her head, dirt pouring over her to look at the battle. Union soldiers lay in a blue cloud atop the field, coating it as if in a thick mist. She felt a cry of shock rise within her breast. There were so many…so many lying there, dead.
They were still fighting though, and she knew she and Longbottom could not stay crouched down like cowards. She had to fight, had to go on and show that there was more to a girl than what society expected. She could battle, she could win. She could not lie there, knowing that the man she loved might be just across the field. They had both come into this hoping for something more than they had and she was bloody well going to fight for it.
The private stood, pulling her companion with her. She quickly tore the letter from her pocket that she had never had a chance to finish and kissed it for good luck. She loaded her gun once more. Slinging it into position, she slapped Longbottom on the shoulder, praying he would be alright, and made a mad dash into the thick screen of gunpowder and soldiers.
And for a moment, she thought she saw a flash of familiar red hair and a pair of blue eyes, so like the ones she knew so well. Lowering her gun, she yelled out in jubilee, shouting his name as loud as she could. Then the ground around her shook as a cannon burst.
He could feel the sweat itching its way down his back as Private Weasley stood on the boundaries of a bloodied field, where instead of grass, bodies seemed to sprout from the very ground. He pushed a scorched hand through his hair, revealing his terrified eyes. There was so much blood, everywhere. He saw nothing but red and the blues and browns of fallen soldiers.
He could see the last stragglers of the Union army rushing away from the field, toward where the fighting had moved on. Private Weasley saw someone turn and call, waving in his direction, but he ignored them. Something was holding him here. Potter, that’s what it was, he couldn’t find Potter. Staring listlessly about, he wondered if he should try and find him within the mounds of the dead and dying. Was there any point? If he was dead, he was dead, and there was nothing Private Weasley could do about it.
He would at least try and search, he decided. He began picking his way through the corpses, flinching at every gunshot heard on the other side of the trees. He would have to join them soon, he knew, or be left behind in enemy territory.
Private Weasley saw a head of black hair and rushed over to the man, turning him over. All he received, however, was the face of an angry Rebel. He made to stand, but the injured soldier grabbed his arm, pulling him closer. Private Weasley tried to yank free, alarmed, but the Confederate held fast.
“You,” he wheezed, “and all you…bloody Yanks…will die!” The man tried to laugh, but all it produced was a hacking cough and he spit blood onto his own chest. Private Weasley wrenched his arm free, shaking as the man continued to yell, “I will kill you, you Yankee!” long after Private Weasley had moved on.
Parched for thirst, the redhead found a small patch of ground not already occupied and sat upon it. He pulled his canteen free and took a much needed drink. Lowering his eyes, he looked about him. The dead gazed back at him, and he began shivering. Trying to stand, he accidentally placed his hand down on a cold arm and slipped. Landing beside the stiff body, Private Weasley locked eyes with the soldier.
The eyes that bore into his were a startling shade of brown. Gasping, Private Weasley scrambled backwards onto other bodies. Those eyes so resembled that of his beloved, Miss Hermione Granger. But that was impossible, she could not be here. She was in Vermont at her country estate, learning French and drinking tea. She was not, could not, be here, dead on a battlefield.
But the corpse looked exactly as he remembered her. Reaching out a hand, Private Weasley touched the soldier, and his hand met soft skin, the skin of a woman. He jerked his hand back to him. The body stared imploringly at him, and he wondered if he was going mad. He rationalized he most certainly must be, because Miss Granger could not possibly be here. Leaning forward, he began to chuckle, his laugh sounding like that of an insane man. He was laughing at the pure absurdity of it. He just needed more water, yes that was it. More water. He put the canteen to his lips but found there to be none left. He wondered if he dared to take a canteen from the dead. He reasoned that they would not need one anymore, whereas he did.
There was one lying beside the hand of the soldier with the empty brown eyes. He grasped it, but his large hand was tickled by a scrap of paper inside the soldier’s clenched hand. Private Weasley paused. Would he be as bold as to take that as well? Perhaps it was a letter the soldier wanted to send off to a family member. He could be doing the poor soul a favour.
Opening the cold fingers gently, Private Weasley pried away the piece of paper, smoothing it out slowly. Glancing once more at the dead person in front of him, he lowered his eyes.
Come back home to me.
The private froze as his world shrank down to the letter, him, and the corpse in front of him. And then he began screaming. He screamed as he had never screamed before, reaching a pitch thought impossible. He threw himself to the ground, snaked his arm around the body and lifted it. He pulled the cap off the soldier and looked into the face of the woman he loved. His screams turned to sobs that echoed across the vast field of bodies.
His tears fell like bullets onto her still, beautiful face and he cried out, “Hermione, Hermione,” as if his very heart had been cut from his chest. He didn’t notice the way her hair had been cut, or the smears of blood across her body from the cannon debris, only the way her eyes stared lifelessly into his.
He had thought that as soon as the war was over, he would return home to Vermont, to her, even though his heart had always been with her. Private Weasley’s sobs went unheard as he cursed the war and himself for the loss of his most precious possession, the love of his life. He pressed his forehead to hers and bawled until his throat was raw and aching and no longer able to make a sound. His body trembled uncontrollably as his grief ripped him apart.
He cradled her as he would a baby, but with his right hand he struggled to remove his gun from its strapping he had momentarily placed it in. When he had finally wrestled it from its holder, he placed it beside him and stared into her eyes one last time. Then Private Weasley lowered his lips and touched them to his own. He would go home to her, and they would be together as they had always planned, before the scheme of war had claimed their minds. Oh, how he wished he could take it all back…
Private Weasley heard a heavy breathing sound around him before a shot rang out. And he saw no more.
And the Confederate who had lain dying dropped his gun for the final time.