April 20th, 1876 - Johan

Dear Luna

Where but in my last letter I needed my work to distract me from lacking your presence, now it is you who keep me  sane. When adversity faces me, I think back to all of our happy times, the stolen hours in the pastures, the secret meetings by night. Those were the best days of my life I realize now. 

These, however, are not the best days of my life. I will be blunt. Until a mere week ago I was miserable. The running to which I referred to in my last letter was but a taste of what was to come. For the first week our schedule was as follows. We were woken at dawn. With only a short inspection as to the crispness of our outfits (black woolen trousers of poor quality, drab grey tunics of a military cut and strange, folded cloth caps which have been named 'recruit covers'), we are then sent marching for several hours, without breakfast! After that we are fed, a stringent ration of tasteless gruel. We are then given lessons for a small while afterwards, almost as tedious as the marching, for we are being taught basic algebra and our letters, both of which I already know. After that it is more marching, followed by exercises focused on building strength. A week strait of such things is more than enough to drive a man to his very brink, and has done so for many here. I know not the exact numbers, but the totality of our group has dwindled a noticeable amount, though what happens to those who fail, I do not know.

Our living arraignments are unpleasant. I share a tent with nine other men, my 'Squad' as we are called. As if by divine providence, who should two of these nine be but the two Cornishmen that I took the trip over with! Their names are John and Collin and they are brothers. I have become steadfast friends with them, for they are capital fellows. The rest of my squad are more or less fine persons, though there is one, a rotund, runtish fellow of the most despicable qualities. Often, when one mistake is made, our entire squad is punished, and not a day goes by when this man, Isaac his name is, does not cause trouble upon our heads. For t he first, he is a lazy, slovenly man, prone to not waking at the cock's call. Secondly, he has a loud mouth and often talks back to the sergeant.

And the Sergeant! What a man! I can say with the utmost honesty my love, that I hate him more then I have hated anyone in m life, though I know to say so is a sinful act, however I cannot believe in a god that would send a man to hell for hating our Sergeant. He has no name. He is simply the Sergeant. He is a bald man, with a massive handlebar mustache, and I suspect him to be of german descent. His horridness has reached near mythic proportions to my fellows and I, for he seems to possess of a single minded sadism that allows every action of his to harm some one, be it physically or mentally, for simple assault would be to simple for him. I have never seen anyone able to point out one's flaws as well as him, including dear Mr. Blackworth! The details of his villainous nature are so calculated, so defined that it one must almost respect it. Why, just the other day we were marching, as usual, when he stopped us in the shade to rest, for 'doing such a smacking good job!' as he put it. Well, of course, we are overjoyed at the opportunity to do so, and begin to rest. He, the blackguard that he is, lies down! And within several minutes, is snoring! The rest of us, unsure of what to do, mill about and take advantage of the rest. Not ten minutes has passed, when wakes up, harangues us for lazing about, and as punishment, forces us to cary him for the rest of the march, a distance of several miles! So he sat, going from back to back, screaming obscenities and lashing out with a riding crop as we marched, all the while being carried as if he were a babe! It is an experience I would never like to repeat in my life, for when it was my turn he took great joys in directing me hither and thither as if I were a horse, and when he screamed he would do so with such force that he would leave the back of my head dewey with spit! 

Life is hard my beautiful rose, and I suspect it shall only get harder, but this is of no surprise to me. Do not pine over my absence, and do not pity my difficulties, instead, for me, stop for but a moment in your day and think of me, for you may be assured that your lovely visage fills my mind at all times of the day.

Your truest love

Johan B Hackworth

April 7th, 1876 - Johan

My Dearest Luna

Your absence from my life has taken a toll heavier then I could ever express. Nightly do I dream of you, the soft curve of your cheek, the scarlet flush they get when you smile, the sparkling green of your eye. Often I will sit in my bunk and simply think of single aspect of you. The timbre of your laugh. The softness of you hair. To be without you is torture. If I was not kept so busy, I might go insane. 

However, my sanity is kept quite stable in that respect, for I am worked nearly to death here. When I joined the Legion I expected hard work, and having been raised to be a Blacksmith's apprentice I am no stranger to it, but the training exceeds anything I could have expected.

When I left off we were just arriving to the train. Having never left our small village, I know you have never seen one and perhaps it is better that you have not, for your delicate female sensibilities might have been terrified were you to. They are hulking mammoths of steel and iron, all abuzz, everything moving, spouting steam as a dragon might spout fire. The platform was all chaotic for it seems this train was commissioned specifically for recruits of the Legion, and it seemed there was thousands of us. My three traveling companions I quickly lost in the crowd, and very soon I was terrified that I would miss where I was supposed to be and become crowded onto the wrong car, or even the wrong train! Luckily, a massive brute of a man wearing military dress shepherded all the men in my area onto one car, fastidiously went through and checked our papers, ejected those who did not belong and kept those that did, all the while bellowing such obscenities as would most like strike Pastor Victor deaf upon hearing them. 

The train ride was unpleasant, but no more so then the carriage. In my car (for that is what the sections are called my love, car's, each linked together and pulled by an engine) was perhaps fifty men, though if you had asked me before hand I would say the space was meant for twenty. I was lucky enough to get a seat, and spent the majority of the trip asleep, attempting to ignore dreadful scent of fifty young men stuffed into a wooden box in April. 

The journey was begun mid-afternoon, and continued into the night, with bread and water handed out so as to keep the men from rioting. We arrived in the morning to Camp Boyle. The location of Camp Boyle is still somewhat a mystery to me. The general consensus seems to be several miles south of London, but I see no indication of the great city being any where near by, and when I inquire as to why this is thought, none can give a definite explanation. 

Upon arriving, myself and the other forty nine of us (for my estimation was correct, there was exactly fifty of us in the car, not including the burly military man who shepherded us) were herded out of our car, marched with unsettling brutality and speed to a large and open field, and then arrayed, by hight, into five rows of ten. The sight of this group of men, all in civilian dress, being treated as soldiers might be, bewildered and confused, was one I will never forget, though I look at it with hilarity, and melancholic resentment, in turn. 

When the whole train had been arrayed and organized like this (there were six cars, and, assuming that there was fifty men in each car, something I still do not know for sure, so in total, three hundred men) we proceeded to wait. And to wait. The military men, who I discovered to be sergeants, marched up and down the lines, jabbing, slapping, and berating any man who slouched, coughed, moved, looked around, picked his nose, or attempted to talk, which, being all civilians and almost entirely young men, there was quite a bit of. Finally, a large and imposing man on a magnificent horse made his way from a nearby thicket to the front of our arrangement, hurrumphed, and began to yell. 

It is to my greatest regret that I could not comprehend a word of it, for my group was near the back, and the man's voice had a wheezing quality that made it impossible to understand, though quite possible to hear, at a distance. Later I discovered that the speech more or less explained as follows. That we were to be the third battalion of the fourth army, of the first legion, and that we had quite a bit of tradition to live up to, so would we kindly not besmirch the reputation of this fine institution that this old man had apparently been a part of since it's inception back in the thirteen hundreds. I suspect that the man who conveyed this to me might have colored it with his own viewpoint. 

After that we were taken to a large set of tents that I have come to realize is, in its entirety, Camp Boyle. We were made to all strip naked, dump our clothes into large bins, where I suspect they were burned, given physicals (the details of which I will avoid so as not to offend your delicate sensibilities), then forced to run for the rest of the day. On my word, I have never run so long in my life. It seems that the Legion is very keen on running, and I suspect that after this I shall be able to run the length of our great island if it keeps up the way it has. 

I have much more to tell you, my beautiful flower, but I have not the time, for the night grows old, and I suspect we shall be rising early tomorrow for more running. Life is difficult my rose, but I expected it to be so. The greatest challenge though, has been my absence from you. 

Yours, wholly and completely

Johan B Hackworth

April 3rd, 1876 - Johan

Dear Luna

We have been away but several days and I already  miss you. As I write this, the carriage is on its way to train, where I will be carried to the coast, and onwards to adventure. The Lord in all his grace only knows where that shall be. I beg you , in all of your beauty and perfection, to forgive me if my letters come far apart, as one can not be sure of the reliability of post in such far off places as Munanijihabad. 

I must admit that, while excitement and steely resolve fill my heart, I cannot deny that part of me feels trepidation, and already the comfort of home tugs at me. It is unnecessary to say I do not miss father, and the blacksmiths apprenticeship that doubtfully would have me in its grips had I not taken this opportunity, but I long to see your smile, and hear your voice, and I would be lying if I said that mother's Meat Pie's have not lingered in my mind, for the food in these road side taverns that the carriage has stopped at have been abysmal, at best. It can hardly be worse then the carriage however! I know that father was unhappy with my decision to join the Legions, but I am saddened to learn that he is taking it out on my rear, for this carriage is of such an old design, I suspect that it was carrying passengers during the reign of Henry the VIII. The cloth laid down on the benches provide such little comfort that the other, baser passengers (of which there is three) have taken to bunching their coats as cushions, and hold no suspicion, they are needed, for if I had not seen them with my own eyes, I would assume the wheels to be squares!

The driver, too, is a curious figure. Hunched over, I suspect him to be either of great age or a hunchback. To tell which is impossible, however, because at all times he wears a great and soiled cloak of a unidentifiable color that shadows his body, and a bowler hat, pulled so low on his face that it is a wonder he can see at all. I suspect, as well, that he is consumptive, for he has a hacking cough that is of such strength and venom that we hear it through the sounding board and into the carriage its self, even over the clashing racket that all such conveyances make when in motion. 

My four companions are an odd group. Two are Cornishmen, bound, I suspect, for the Legion, like myself. They are of little means, and travel even more frugal then I, eating only bread and water, and sleeping with the horses when possible. This has made them unpleasant traveling mates to be stuck with in the small, wooden box that is our mode of transportation, but in all other senses they are polite enough, though they tend to jabber to each other in what I suspect to be their native dialect, only speaking in English when spoken to, and even that is difficult to understand. 

My third companion is an curiosity, to be sure. His clothes were once fineries, and he has the air of a gentleman, however I suspect that, if he was one, he has fallen upon hard times, for though his coat is fine and well cut, it has seen much wear, and while his gloves appear to be kid-skin, there is not a few holes in them. He speaks not at all, and feigns sleep when I attempt to start conversation with him. Where he is bound, and what his purpose is, I can only guess. 

The carriage is slowing down, and I must cut myself short, for we close on the train station, and I have much to do when we do arrive. 

I await your response with the thirst of a thousand deserts.

Your love

Johan B Hackworth