Dearest Henrietta

Harold Cranston held the molded plastic figurine and ran the pad of his index finger along its delicate contours. The brim of the Union cap, the ammunition satchel, the bayoneted rifle.

Though he was alone, Harold spoke aloud. “Private First Class Hartigan Smith, I presume.” In the mid-afternoon light streaming through his now-grown son’s commandeered second floor bedroom window, floating particles of dust glowed a soft yellow. The wooden stool Harold sat on creaked as he shifted his weight and reached for the mounted magnifying glass and swung it into position. In front of Harold, arranged carefully on the workbench, were his supplies, paints selected to precisely match the early war uniforms of both the Union and Confederate armies, dark greens and browns and greys for fences and trees and dirt and canvas tents, brushes fine enough to color individual hairs in the mane of a horse upon which a Union colonel might be mounted.

Harold was nearly done with his work. On the floor of the room he had spread a white bedsheet over carefully folded bath towels, hills and valleys on the field of battle. A grove of large oak trees, still with their Sunset Auburn fall leaves, towered over a stone fence, meadow green moss covering its lower third. Against the far wall, rebel forces under the command of Stonewall Jackson were amassing. Canons occupied the high ground and pointed towards Harold’s current position just behind the band of union soldiers, relatively small in number.

From the living room downstairs came the muffled voices of the twenty-four-hour news channel that seemed rarely to be off of late. Otherwise the house was quiet.

“What’s your story, Private Smith?” Harold reached for the small bottle of royal navy blue paint, unscrewed the cap, and carefully poured a dollop onto his palette. He selected a brush from his collection and dipped its tip into the fresh paint. Harold’s hands and wrists had recently become arthritic, but today they felt good. His fingers were limber and unshaking. He peered at Private Smith through the glass and with great care began to apply the color to the lower fringe of the Private’s brass-buttoned Union coat.

“Dearest Henrietta,” Harold said once he had applied the first dab. “You cannot imagine what solace and great consolation it gives me to think of you safe in our home in Baltimore. I trust that you have sufficient firewood to keep you and little Janie warm through this coming winter. I had hoped most earnestly to be with you by now, but I fear that this war is becoming more serious by the day. Yesterday we received word from Captain Frederiksen that the company is preparing to pass the winter months in our current location a short distance outside of the Virginia town of Winchester. Already the nights are frigid. We received our first snowfall earlier this week, blanketing our camp in pristine white. It is quite beautiful.”

Harold’s brush moved in quick back and forths over the figurine’s chest and arms. He blew softly on the figurine to prevent the paint from running.

“I am finding, my dearest, that the coat that the army provisioned me some months ago is no longer sufficient to protect me from the winds that sweep east by night across the Blue Ridge mountains. Some of the men have developed fevers. What blankets are available are reserved for the ill. Captain Frederiksen is a good man, though. He has called for additional supplies to be delivered from Washington. Please do not overly worry yourself on my behalf.”

Harold sat upright on his stool and straightened his back to prevent it from cramping.

“Though I am enduring the hardship and horrors of this war, I am most proud to serve in President Lincoln’s army. I dare not envision a world in which we do not prevail. The men of my company are tasked with preventing the establishment of Confederacy supply lines through the Shenandoah Valley. There is no doubt that General Jackson has designs to take Washington and Baltimore. I must fight, therefore, not only for the future of our great nation, but for the well being of our family and property.”

Harold held the half-painted Private Smith in the now-fading sunlight and appreciated his work. With the edge of his thumbnail he gingerly cleaned away an errant brush stroke of blue from the Private’s left boot. He opened the beige and light brown paints, poured out a small drop of each. With the beige, Harold painted the Private Smith’s cheeks and nose and forehead and hands, and then with the brown paint he turned his attention to the figurine’s beard and mustache.

“Several days ago, a photographer from Winchester arrived in camp and posted a small sign offering to capture on silver tray any man’s image for a fee of one dollar. I hope that you will not be sore when I tell you that I took the man up on his offer. The photograph will be sent directly to you by United States postal service. Please keep it in a safe and dry place. The small cupboard in the dining room is perhaps a suitable storage. Please show it regularly to Janie. I left when she was so young, and I fear that she may forget her father’s face. Do not be surprised by my appearance. This war has taken its toll on me, I am afraid, and I have lost quite a bit of weight. My cheeks are now sallow and covered by a thick beard, which to my surprise is grey at the temples and around my chin.”

Harold selected a shade of light grey paint and applied a thin layer of the color along the figurine’s jaw line.

“It feels like such a short while ago that you and I first met. We were but children, it seems to me now. Now our daughter is four years old and I am most certainly a man of a certain age. It pains me greatly to be away from you for such a long time."

Harold put his thumb on the sharp end of the bayonet and pressed down on it. The hard plastic left a momentary indentation. The last rays of sunlight lingered in the western sky. Harold reached for the switch on the little desktop light with the bendable neck. It cast a soft, green-hued light.

“I do not pretend to know what this war will bring for our country or for me. There are rumors among the men that a sizeable contingent of Confederate forces is gathering not far from my current position. Captain Frederiksen has been tight lipped, but I can see that he is anxious. He paces back and forth outside of his tent for much of the day, consulting with the First and Second Lieutenants and sometimes dispatching a soldier to deliver written messages with what appears to be great haste. If what the men say is true, then I fear that our company could be caught in the openness of this snow-covered field and that we might well be overrun.”

Harold eyed the already-painted Captain Frederiksen, First Lieutenant John P. Bethelford of Newark, and Second Lieutenant Mathias C. James, a recent West Point Graduate from a small village near Philadelphia, standing together in a tight circle next to the Captain’s quarters. Next to them were the remnants of the previous night’s fire, reduced now to a small pile of grey- and black-painted ashes. A few Cadmium Orange embers still smoldered.

He turned his attention back to the figurine. He held his breath to steady his hand, and then, with the most delicate strokes of high gloss silver, Harold painted the bayonet and then the rifle trigger.

“I pray every day for the end of this war. I do so wish to be in your embrace once again, my dearest Henrietta. I think of you nightly. Please give my dear Janie a kiss on the cheek for me and tell her that her father loves her very much.”

From downstairs came Helen’s voice calling him to dinner. The television was off. Harold turned the figurine this way and that and carefully examined it from different angles to make sure he hadn’t missed any spots.

“Harold, your dinner is getting cold.”

He stood from his stool and stepped from behind his workbench. The snowy Shenandoah Valley lay spread out below him. The battlefield was quiet in the settling dusk. Harold carefully placed the figurine towards the outer fringes of hte encampment with a cluster of men of similar rank and age. Then he stood and saluted.

“Good luck and Godspeed, Private First Class Hartigan Smith. May you find your way home safely to your Henrietta and Janie.”

He turned and reached for the light switch on the wall. "I'm on my way," Harold called out to Helen.

The still-fresh snow glistened in the light of the crescent moon.