Author's Note: In the Civil War, Les Miserables was a book widely popular among Confederate soldiers, who saw their situation similar to those within the book. Please research for more information. This one shot was written in one sitting, and was something I came up with on the spot in order to write something for a prompt a friend had challenged me to write. Here you go. Reviews would be appreciated, as I would like to know if this story is as messed up as I think it is.

He never wanted to die. Not really. None of em' really had gone to the battle intending such. The boys marching beside him all shared similar tales. All farm boys lying bout their age. Most of them couldn't even grow a beard. Joseph unconsciously felt of his chin, and grinned.

Made shaving easier, that was for sure.

Mama was upset when he left. He figured she'd be, but he hated it when girls cried. Made him feel squirmy and the like. Papa was real quiet about it all. Just looked at him with that long, steady gaze of his. "Don't you go getting yourself killed." "I don't plan to." Indeed.....he never had planned to.

Where were Mama and Papa now? Occasionally Joseph found himself thinking such, but then he had to stop himself. It didn't matter anymore, long as they were safe. Still.....when Papa taught him how to shoot a rifle long ago, Joseph never thought he'd be using it against men. Even Yanks were men, he figured.

Didn't matter none. The Yanks were thinking they could just go about the country, doing as they pleased. It wasn't right. Seemed to Joseph they were just doing what the Brits tried to do back in his great grandfather's day. Pompously trying to rule people in a land they didn't understand.

That's what Joseph fought for. Every single day he grabbed his rifle, shined it up real good, and boasted about his aim in good humor with his comrades. Every day he trudged along, convincing himself that he could stand walking barefoot a little while, if it meant his little sisters would never stop smiling.

And whenever the memory of his sisters' smiles began to fade, General Johnston would appear before him and restore his senses. He was not the best General perhaps, for he was not particularly in favor with President Davis....but he was a determined one. He was always walking about, ensuring that everything was in perfect order and that the men were doing well. He always seemed to be planning, as if to prove himself to the men that he would not lose any more battles or let their lives be taken in vain.

Johnston made him hope. All of the soldiers had come into the war thinking such, but the general had made him believe in it. He was a simple man, whose wit often cheered those around him. Fighting under a fine soldier such as General Johnston, Joseph could firmly believe that the war would end within the year. He could hope that he would live through the war, that he would live to settle down after it all, and maybe marry that Preacher's daughter.

All because of Johnston, Joseph could hope. He could let himself believe that what didn't kill him, made him stronger. The Union had fine shoes and warm clothing through the winter, true, but the Confederates were tougher for going without them. The winters of Tennessee were not that bad, Joseph reasoned. Calloused or bleeding feet? Didn't matter, they'd whip the Yanks anyway. Shooting drills in the rain? It made little difference, after making it through the winter. A little fall of rain couldn't hurt him now.

It no longer rained, but remained quiet. Rumors floated about....a surprise attack. It was the only reason they would've risen so early in the morning. Rumors spoke of how the Confederates had been trailing the Union for a couple of days now, but no one knew when the moment of battle would come. Now, with only a residue of moonlight to reveal his presence, Joseph marched.

Joseph had fought battles before, and he admittedly didn't like it. Didn't like the screaming, the yelling, the numerous amount of buddies he'd seen with missing limbs......it wore on him after a while. He clung to the hope that within the year, he'd be gulfin' down his Mama's good cooking again, instead of the meager rations given to him here.

But this......this was different. It felt like an average early morning, yet it felt as if it was much more than that. Grant and Sherman both, for goodness sakes! Maybe one of em' would die, maybe that idiot Lincoln would see that the war was as useless. Maybe, but most likely not.

Still, there was something odd in the air. Perhaps the mysteriousness of walking through fog, or perhaps the excitement of knowing they were about to launch a surprise attack against two of the Union's greatest generals. They had been worn down by the yanks before, and by the lack of resources. They had been worn down, but they rose up again for the liberty that had supposedly been theirs since 1776. It was spring once more, and as the green rose upon the trees, their spirits rose as well. No, a little fall of rain couldn't harm him now. General Grant himself couldn't harm him now! Not with General Johnston by his side.....and certainly not with his good ol' southern fellows by his side!

The yanks had been completely taken aback with surprise. Rumors were that Grant had been paranoid enough to suspect something was up, but Sherman wasn't. The Union folk were easily driven back, and as gunshots rang through the air, so did the voices of the Confederates. Their voices, if not heard by the government, would certainly be heard by the soldiers.

Joseph fought viciously along with his fellow men. The Union boys held longer than expected, but were continuously being driven backwards, towards the local church. On the opposite side there was some trouble, the Union holding out pretty well at an old sunken road, but Joseph could not care. His voice rose with those beside him, growing louder in volume until it was naught but a scream.

It was then, as the battle came to a halt, that the screams became ever more apparent. Bodies of gray and blue alike were littered about he ground, some crying out for their mothers and others for God. Some were crying not at all, only lying about with their eyes looking wide onto the heavens. Joseph could not let himself stop to look at them, but only look forward into the mass of blue fabric.

One man was forever with him, from the moment the battle began until the moment it began to halt. General Johnston stood among the men at the front, giving direct orders and fighting alongside them upon a horse. Whenever Joseph felt weary or felt his hearing fade along with the cries of his brethren, the sight of General Johnston would restore him to his senses, reminding him to shoot.

Aim small, miss small, those were the words of his father. They echoed within Joseph's core, laying the very foundation that kept him going. Shot by shot rang out, and occasionally, Joseph would see whether his bullet had hit its target. There was someone that kept reloading his gun, and there was someone who kept firing it. It was not Joseph, for it was not a boy who could scarcely yet shave. No....it was someone automatic; someone who moved on his own while soldiers beside him froze with shell shock.

It was automatic, but it could only last so long. Slowly, but steadily, Joseph felt himself tiring. He began noticing the bullet holes that littered about the church in front of him, and wondered wearily whether any of those gaps had been created by him. It was then, staring upon the wounded church, that he felt alone. Men screamed beside him, yet he had not suffered a single wound. The church's wood bore the holes that should've littered across his body. What was normally a sanctuary had transformed into a hell.

Joseph no longer found himself firing, but merely staring ahead, as if he were one of those bodies that lay upon the field. The Union soldiers had been driven past the church, but at the sunken road on the opposite side, the Yankees buzzed about like hornets. Ironically, it was when Joseph was staring at the Hornet's nest that he felt a sting in his left leg.

He hissed in pain, stumbling onto the ground. He could not see the wound, and he cared not to. There was one figure he could not see amongst the mass chaos, and that was the figure he had looked to for hope. Where was his horse? Where was his general, to give him hope when he lied bleeding beside a church?

General Johnston never came. The Hornet's Nest, Joseph reasoned, must be keeping him busy. The battle at the church was easier than that of the hornet's nest. He would hold out until the end, he told himself. Even as he was shot to the ground, even as his blood mixed with that of Union soldiers, he would hold out. For his mother's cooking, for his sister's smiles, and to hear the Preacher's daughter's hand piano playing once more, he would hold out. For the hope he would live through this blasted revolution, he would hold out.

Despite these thoughts, Joseph could not help but think that he was way in over his head.

When he had fallen, so had his weapon. The gun lay limply as he did, just out of his reach. Joseph crawled forward, grasping the cold iron in his hands. He was startled to discover that his grip was slippery, for he had not realized until then that red liquid was on his hand. Had he been shot again? No, he had not; it was blood from when he had gripped his wound. His leg was bleeding kinda bad.....but it didn't hurt much. A little bullet couldn't hurt him now, not when he had marched barefoot through the cold of winter.

He wiped his hand upon his coat before grippin his gun once more. Lying upon the ground, he took aim and fired. He reloaded, before standing up. He walked oddly, with a strange gait due to his injured leg, but he'd manage. His Papa had told him time and time again about when he had mucked out stalls only hours after breaking his leg. "Rest when you can", Papa would tell him, "But when you can't, keep on going. If ya think about it, you'll only get yerself hurt worse."

And so Joseph marched forward.

He was no longer as giddy as he once was. He still marched on, shooting the yanks as fast as he could. As he continued forward, what hope he had slowly faded, with sheer terror arising in its stead. He suppressed it, reminding himself of his father's words.

If Joseph had not glanced backwards, perhaps the overwhelming sense of fear would've worn away. But he did, and as he did he finally saw his figure of hope, being drug away from the battle and towards the ravine. He was a poor pitiful, his face pale as chalk, and even paler in comparison to the blood pouring down his leg. Even a leg wound, Joseph knew, would not shed that much blood unless an artery had been hit.

Joseph let himself be torn away, slowly becoming aware of the growing pain within his own leg. Along with the gunshots and screams, he heard laughter. The laughter grew in volume, tinged with hysteria. The laughter was his, and it only grew louder at his knowledge of it. There were holes in what few shoes there were to be had. There were holes in his clothing. There were holes in his socks. There were holes in the church. There was a hole in every single one of the corpses upon the ground, and there was a hole in General Johnston, who was faint enough to look as if he were one of the dead. And now, there was a hole in his leg. There were holes everywhere.

"Joseph!" He heard his name being called, faintly at first, but then with increasing volume, just as he had heard the laughter. It was a soldier that he had conversed with from time to time, one that had lived in the heart of Dixie just as he did. He seemed frightened, disturbed even. Joseph felt a hand upon his shoulder.

"Your leg, Joseph! Get a medic, for Christ's sa......" BAM. Shot. Drawback. Begin to reload......

"Ain't good to curse God on a battlefield beside a church, Nathan....." Reloading....reloading......

"I'm not sure if I believe if I believe in God anymore....what sort of God would let all those men lay dying, cryin out for their Ma's?" Finished reload. BAM. Shot. Drawback.

"Way I figure it, every time God sees men cryin, gray or blue, he cries a little himself." Hands shook, making it hard to reload. Reloading, reloading......

"Seems like I've heard that before....that in the bible?" Reloading....got it. Take aim. Steady. Aim small miss small.

"Nah. In a book my older brother liked. Gave it to me as a parting gift, 'fore I left to join up. Brainy type, rather read a stinkin' book than he would shoot a yank." Fire. BAM. Missed, he knew he missed. His aim had been all wrong. Why were his hands shaking so much? Bloodloss? Maybe Nathaniel had been right.

"My leg hurts real bad.....Nate, I'm gonna...." He paused, looking around. Nathaniel lay dead beside him, a bullet through his head. Joseph blinked for a moment, unable to finish his sentence. He stumbled backwards, a stone dropping to the pit of his stomach, sending a cold chill through his trembling fingers. Nathaniel had been one of the few soldiers that he marched with since the beginning.

It was a miracle that Joseph made it further back without being shot himself. Those Union boys were putting up a fight. They were no longer fighting in moonlight, but in sunlight. Late afternoon....maybe even evening. Had it already been so long?

Behind the lines, wounded lay in mass piles, some bandaged, some not. Doctors and medics tended to the wounded, but there seemed to be an endless line. What General Johnston had meant to be a quick surprise attack had turned into a long, tedious battle. There had been a plan in place when they had marched into the Union camp, Joseph was sure. The plan had just....been forgotten in the battle. It was not General Johnston's fault, Joseph assured himself. The general would not have allowed things to be this disorganized.

They were being driven back, Joseph realized. The battle had come to a draw, but slowly the yanks were winning. Both sides sported great casualties, but the Confederates had tired, hunger and weariness striking them down just as much as the Yankee bullets. The field hospital that had been set up was large, with surgery being performed on the spot. All seemed worn, and all seemed weary.

"He's dead....."

"Shot in the leg at Hornet's nest...."

"Kept fighting, even as he was bleeding to death....."

"Please, do anything, don't cut my leg...."

"Finally had to drag him away......"

"Died right there at the ravine....."

"No one knew what to do....."

"Oh, my arm......"

"What do we do?"

Dead. Joseph knew, without asking on question, whom it was the whispers spoke of. General Johnston was dead. What did it mean? What did they do? What could they do? Tears dripped down the young man's face, his chest shaking with sobs. Unlike the laughter, they were soft, and unlike the laughter they were thoroughly defeated. What was he? A soldier? The good lord help him, he couldn't even shave. What was he doing here with a gun in his hand? When would this end?

The end. It was something he had told himself he would fight to, yet he never really thought he would. He had been indifferent to thoughts and fears of death until he saw it for himself. He was just a farmer's boy, who joined because he thought he would be a part of a revolution. Was this revolution?

Someone took him by the arm, but it barely registered in his mind. He sat upon the hard ground, his chest shaking with sobs and his hands with fatigue. How had he gotten here, so quickly? Nathaniel had died hundreds of miles away, how had he gotten here so quickly? Now he remembered....his memory was blurred by death as his vision was by tears, but he remembered. He had ran. He had ran away in the face of the enemy, as a coward.

And now he found himself upon the hospital floor, quietly watching as sun lowered. He smiled deliriously, amused. He had felt blood flowing from his flesh, he had smelt it in the air, and now the very sky itself bled, waiting for negotiations between the Union and Confederacy to cease. That was the rumor, anyways. Grant had been winning, but wished to stop during nightfall in order to tend to the wounded and bury the dead. Joseph snorted. It mattered little.

Joseph's predictions became true. By the next morning, the yanks gained ground and captured the Confederate field hospital. At last, at defeat, all was quiet. The church, still littered with holes, remained standing. The Battle of Shiloh was over, the Union had won.

Joseph had never wanted to die. Not really. He had lied about his age and joined the Confederates. He had jumped into war, excited about the revolution, and excited about doing what he thought was right. He had been in over his head, yet he hadn't been discouraged. Up until Shiloh, he had remained optimistic, even when threatened death. Death was not so frightening when it had not yet been seen.

Joseph had long seen death. He had, after all, seen other skirmishes before Shiloh. But none at such a large scale, and none that changed him so. He, just as before, could not shave, but he was no longer a boy. His leg was removed before he could share the same fate as his beloved General. He was no longer a boy, no longer had a leg, and though breath still flowed through his body, life did not. He was, in almost all sense of the word, dead.

He was kept as a prisoner for a war for a while, but was later released and returned home. Dixie was not as he remembered it. Though Alabama had not yet seen the Union army, she had still faced hardships. When Joseph returned home, he found his family grim, and his sisters scarcely smiling. They were frightened by him, and by him missing leg. His mother's good cooking filled his stomach, but he could not taste it, and he did not care. The preacher's daughter, Mary, was the only one who stirred him. Her piano music brought him to tears one Sunday. All within the town turned away, attempting to spare his dignity. Within days, the tale was about the small little Alabama town.

It was nearly a month after he returned home before Joseph willed himself to open his soldier's pack. It held a few things. A pocket knife, a bible, a pen or paper here.....and a book. Joseph held the book and stared at it, a sadly amused chuckle rising within his throat.

Upon the very book his brother had given him was a hole. He checked his bag; two bullets lay innocently at the bottom. One hole within his bible, and one hole within the book given to him by his brother. Both bullets, had they not pierced the paper bindings, would have struck him in the back. God had been tortured along side him that day, yet he had spared him. He had spared him. Why did he do such? Why did he spare a stupidly ignorant boy life only to let him die within himself?

Joseph fingered the bible's binding once more before returning to the other book. He found it enormously funny, and enormously tragic. Although it was Joseph's brother that had given him the book, General Lee had the book distributed to many Confederate soldiers, and it was growing popular amongst the troops by the battle of Shiloh. Joseph's fingers slowly moved, until they hovered above the engraved lettering. Les Miserables.

The bullet hole went through the binding, almost dotting the I. Joseph fingered through the pages awkwardly. He never really had been much like his brother when it came to reading. He couldn't make a hill of beans out of some words, and had some of the soldiers explain the meanings to them. But there he was, exfarmer, exsoldier, fingering the pages of a book that contained over a thousand pages.

The bullet hole stopped near the end of the book, and it appeared that the bullet had fallen from the page and into the depths of his bag. Joseph squinted carefully at the page, trying to read its words, and trying to recognize the scene. Surely it wasn't waterloo.....dear Lincoln, that had been boring.....no, it was too far into the book for that. Where was it?

One word struck out to Joseph.

Barricade.

At with that one tragic word, Joseph found himself heaving with laughter. Was it tinged with hysteria, as it had once been at the church of Shiloh? Maybe, maybe not, Joseph could not tell, for his thoughts were absorbed with the irony.

As he stood there beside his bed, laughing, there was knocking at the door. His older brother peaked in, a look of concern written about his face. When Joseph came back, he found he wasn't the only one that changed. His brother was plumper due to a wife, but more than that he was worn. A scholar was rare within a farming family, and a successful one was far rarer. The war had not only affected Joseph's dreams.

"Joseph, are you ok?" Joseph said nothing, but only remained laughing, finding the whole situation hysterically funny.

"No, Thomas, not really....." He could say no more, for his whole body shook with the hilarity of the situation. The look upon Thomas's face, as his eyes recognized the book and the hole upon it, was priceless. While Joseph laughed, Thomas could only stare in amazement, gears working within his head what had occurred.

"Is that....?"

"Yes. It is."

Joseph hadn't wanted to die. But he had. There had been holes in his shoes, holes in his clothing, and holes in the church. There had been a lethal hole in General Johnston's leg, a hole within Joseph's leg, and a whole within his very own heart.

Legend tells us different tales of his end. Some say that he married the preacher's daughter, and the holes within the books healed the one within his heart, and that he remained content until both he and his wife were killed during Union raids near the end of the war.

Others say that he remained in Alabama as a cripple, never able to recover from the anguish of Shiloh. He stayed there, his missing leg making him unable to help surviving family members, and leaving him to wallow in self pity and wake through the night dreaming of Nathaniel's body, laying limp with the bullet still in his head. This particular tale tells of how he died with a broken heart in his old age, with a strange obsession over a book given to him by his elder brother, long ago.

How Joseph physically died is unknown. But there was another time, a time when he lost his leg, that he died within himself. Whether he lived once more or remained dead, his eyes staring as if one of the corpses upon the fields of Shiloh, is up to you.

Either way, Joseph had never really wanted to die. Not really.

We may be indifferent to the death penalty and not declare ourselves either way so long as we have not seen a guillotine with our own eyes. But when we do, the shock is violent, and we are compelled to choose sides, for or against... Death belongs to God alone.

-Les Miserables-