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The thoughts and observations of Twilight characters at strategic points in their existences.

Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight or any of its wonderful characters. So sad.

1. Jasper

Rating 5/5   Word Count 1037   Review this Chapter



March 13, 1863

Moral is very low of late. Even as I write this, men are outside my tent, complaining very audibly about… the lack of food. What else is there to complain about? An army marches, fights, lives on its collective stomach. Wait— I’m complaining about complainers. Idiotic. Let me start again. This is a brand new journal.

Hello, my name is Jasper Whitlock. Major Whitlock, to my men. As of last week, I am officially a Major in the Confederate Army of the Confederate States of America. I’ve heard my men grumble about this; they think I’m too young for the post. And I am young—20 years. I won’t lie, though: I am a bit nervous.

This war, this civil war with the Union Army and the United States, is raging far beyond what anyone could have ever dreamed. So many young men being lost and a lonely sweetheart at home for every one of them, I suppose. Oh, listen to me. Rambling on like some poet. I have to start over. Again.

Two months ago, President Lincoln of the United States (damn bastards) issued his “Emancipation Proclamation”, so now we have slaves running north as if hell itself were behind them. The Union declared that all slaves in their army were to be considered free, so their numbers swelled—trouble for us, as you might imagine. And just this week the Union declared that all able-bodied men between 20 and 45 years of age had to fight. Perfect. We’re running low on everything, mosquitoes are sucking our lifeblood from us like little winged wraiths, and malaria is spreading around the camp like wildfire. It’s the melons that those doctors gave to us, I swear. Everyone knows that melons cause mal-

Damn it all! I hate mosquitoes! Hellions they are, forever biting and sucking, biting and sucking! What could ever move a creature to drink blood is beyond me. Pardon me for my sudden written outburst, but there was one of the above mentioned demons on my cheek. I swatted it, so now there’s ink on my face.

Hm… I hear horses. Time to move out again. Until later.

Major Jasper Whitlock

March 16, 1863

I’m back from another mood-lifting talk with my men. Kind souls from a local town, bless them, gave us some extra provisions. Some of my men were in dire need of medical attention as well as quinine, so I managed to talk some of the townsfolk into lending us their church. I’m writing this from the little bench behind the pulpit. Just a minute—my second-in-command is coming.

Dear Lord. Jonathan, my second, is heinously injured. Mauled, more like. A Union bullet shattered his leg. He’s only nineteen and he needs to have it amputated. Just the thought of the saw… horrible. Jonathan doesn’t think he needs to have his leg parted from his torso, but I’ve seen what happens to limbs that are left untended like that. Maggots, rotting, etc. I’ve seen everything in this horrible war. Oh—the doctor. He’s here.

Doctor… Smithfield, I believe, is cleaning his knife as I write this. I calmed Jonathan enough to persuade him to part with his beloved left leg. I don’t know why it is, but persuasion comes quite easily to me. Back home… my heart aches at the thought for my farm… back home I could easily talk my sister Sarah into doing anything I wanted. Sarah always blamed my hair – honey blond, she called it. My friends said I’m just charismatic.

Oh. It’s time.

I never want to see someone in that much pain again. It’s strange—I’m a fighter. I truly am, but I can’t stomach seeing my friends in pain. Perhaps it’s because I have fairly few friends to begin with. I’ve always been more of a scholar; books and the written word are my true friends. Sarah always accused me of being “stuffy”; her word, not mine. Serious? Sure, I’d give myself that. But I wouldn’t say stuffy (stupid slang word, in my opinion). I’m not much for humor anymore, though.

Even when my men sneak off to carouse with locals in taverns and pubs, I can never lift myself from my few books and many letters. I write in this journal to practice my hand, sloppy as it is.

Oh, not again. Duty calls. Until we meet again…

Major Jasper Whitlock

March 20, 1863

We are on the move, currently encamped in some woods near some sort of river/large creek. The wildlife is truly amazing here. Wild flowers and vines that I’ve never seen before. I’ve made a few sketches in the back of this journal. Nothing very fancy, as I can’t really draw.

Major Jasper Whitlock

March 22, 1863

I have a confession to make: I broke my vow. I vowed to use this journal to chronicle the doings of this war, but writing down my true thoughts and observations is somehow more pressing. Just today, in fact, a lovely young lady in a town we went through tried to give me a felt hat. I must tell you, she was a vision. Even with the heavy clouds, her pale skin seemed to radiate. Her eyes were obscured by shaded-glasses, but I’m sure that they were as beautiful as the rest of her. If it weren’t for my current preoccupation and the fact that I’m nowhere near home, I might have courted her.

Anyway, I insisted on paying her for the hat, using “that look” that Sarah said I can make, and the young woman giggled and curtsied, and nearly danced away. It was all very surreal. As I watched, she went into the nearby woods. Her house must be in there.

I’ve just looked over these last few paragraphs, and I can only come to one conclusion: I’m deranged. Listen to me, going on about a girl that I only talked to for 30 seconds. But I can’t get her off my mind. I don’t even know her name! Surely someone in town knows. The sun is down now, but I know the way. I thought I heard some of the men talking about going back to town. They left a little while ago, but if I go through the woods, I can catch up with them I’m sure.

And maybe I’ll even meet… her.

Major Jasper Whitlock