I realize that this excuse to indulge in my two historical loves (i.e. Hugo-dom and Lincoln's suspensions of habeas corpus) might not strictly count as fic, but I'll defend it on the basis that the narrator, who represents an idealized Hugo, is the most important character in Les Misérables, and Old Vic's presence is certainly felt here. Neener neener.

Copperheads: Anti-war democrats during the US Civil War. Likes: the Union, the Constitution, states' rights, free speech, slavery, melodramatic rhetoric. Dislikes: free blacks, conscription, Abraham Lincoln, you.

(Clement L.) Vallandigham: Outspoken Copperhead-in-chief whose arrest, exile to the Confederacy, and flight to Canada caused a significant political crisis for Lincoln.

Bastille: a popular reference to the Union's military prisons that housed a number of political dissidents during the war. If historical lulz are up your alley, find a copy of John A. Marshall's American Bastile (spelled with one L). Especially enjoyable are the parts where the author compares the Union to France under the Terror and when he says that Lincoln was like Louis XI and Lucrezia Borgia combined only worse. (Yes. Lucrezia Borgia. You read that right.)

Victor Hugo is…Victor Hugo's? John J. Barney is loosely based on a Wisconsin corporal of the same name whose letters indicate that he considered Copperheads very much Not Funny. Will Statford is entirely mine.

"Liberty, in the ear of the American abolitionists grouped about the boat at Harper's Ferry"

-Les Misérables

"I can touch a bell on my right hand and order the imprisonment of a citizen of Ohio; I can touch the bell again and order the imprisonment of a citizen of New York; and no power on earth, except that of the President, can release them. Can the Queen of England do so much?"

-Attributed to Secretary of State William Seward

Captured! Will Statford of the Confederate Army fumed from the corner of a little jail cell that, in a past life, had held town drunks rather than soldiers. Three years of fighting this goddamned war, keepin' my life an' all my limbs, killin' more men than I care to count, and them Union bastards finally got me.

Sure, he might have been careless, but a man – especially a soldier – had to take risks at times or lose his mind. He had been scouting ahead of Breckenridge's army as it advanced back into Tennessee, thinking of home, wondering how his friends back with the main force were faring, imagining how the countryside would look after the inevitable coming battle had ravaged it, when he suddenly found himself at the receiving end of a Union bayonet. Truth be told, it wasn't so bad being bored for a change, not having to worry about being shot, but there was no way he was going to dishonor the Confederacy by letting the Northerners see that he was, at least at the moment, relieved to be removed from the fighting. As such, he stayed huddled in the shadows, silently watching his guard.

He looked to be about Will's age, although his face was largely obscured by his mop of matted sandy hair as he bent forward, intently polishing his rifle with a too-familiar mixture of spit and ash. The man seemed determined to make the barrel glow or, Will smiled wryly, run out of saliva trying. Before he could stop himself, Will idly wondered if that same shining weapon would wound or kill anyone he knew. Knowing there was no use for such dark thoughts here, he began examining the room for any sort of distraction and convinced himself that he was intrigued by a worn book on the guard's table. He sidled up to the bars to get a better look, then felt a little jolt of delight as he recognized it.

"Hey, you readin' that book too?"

The guard gave a start and gently set down his rifle. "What, this book here?"

"Yeah. What other book would I be talkin' about?"

"Erm, this one, I s'pose. Yeah, I'm reading it. Really good one, too."

"Sure is," Will nodded affably. "Say, seein' as you're not precisely readin' at this precise moment, wouldja mind lendin' it to Yer Servant here for a bit? Not much else to do in this little rat hole."

"Why, sure," he nodded sympathetically. "Where are you? This is the fifth volume, but I got the rest on the bookshelf out front if you're not that far."

"Last one's the best, but it don't matter to me. I've read the whole thing – more'n once, too. Me'n my friends – the ones still livin', anyway – we got a copy together an' damn near wore it out."

The guard blushed as he handed the volume through the bars. "Yeah. Me too."

"Say, what's yer name?" Will asked as he accepted the book and began slowly turning it over, feeling its comforting weight.

"John J. Barney. Of Wisconsin."

"Forgive me for askin', John, but I don't understand how a Northern man like yerself could be so fond of this dangerous little story."

"Huh? And why shouldn't I like it?"

"Don't you know that it's a…a… 'rallyin' cry of Southern freedom'? (Or leastways that's what the colonel called it). Why, it's even got our general's name in the title!" He brandished the cover forcefully at John. "See? Lee's Miserables!"

John stared through the bars, utterly nonplussed, before bursting out into laughter. "You stupid son of Dixie! That don't say nothing about no Robert Lee, it's French."

"Well then," Will glared, "how d'you propose sayin' it, professor?"

"Erm. Well, I never studied no French, but I know it's not Lee's. Not Less, neither. Erm. Layz, I think. Yeah, that's it: Layz."

"Layz? Now you just sound like some Georgia boy who can't even say Lee's clear."

"I think it helps if you plug your nose. Try it."

"Well I'll be darned! Layz. …And the second word? Miss-err-ah–"

"Well, I…'Nuff of this," John declared, pulling his chair up alongside the bars and flinging himself eagerly into it, "you were gonna tell me why a Union boy isn't s'posed to like Mister Hugo."

"How can you read it at not want to run away and join the fine Confederate army, or at least not feel shamed of yourself? Every word makes me hungry for freedom from oppression. Makes me want to die for my country. Makes me feel like anyone who would take my freedom away from me deserves everything that fair Dixie can throw at him, an' more!"

"Now wait here…"

"And what do you have in yer North? King Abraham, that's what! 'Honest Ole Abe' who could ring a little bell an' have you thrown in one of his Bastilles forever! No siree, I'll keep my freedom down South."

"Listen…"

He was standing now, pacing back and forth along the bars. "While y'all were busy running Dixie into the ground, she had other plans, you bet she did. She wasn't gonna sell her hair to be yer whore like that poor Fantine, or be forced steal her bread like Jeen Valjeen."

"It's Valjohn. John Valjohn. Like me."

"Naw! Well, I always thought that Jeen sounded a little feminine-like, though I s'pose you never can tell with them Frenchies… Anyway, I'll happily die for my freedom, an' I don't see no difference 'tween a battlefield and a barricade. An' you'd be the one killin' me. What have you to say to that?"

John stood up as well. "First, I'll have you know that I'm no traitor Copperhead that you can make turn against the Union simply by screaming 'Bastille,' and second, what about the slaves?"

"What about 'em?"

"What about the parts where Mister Hugo says slavery is evil? And that America is evil for of it?"

"He never! I've read the whole thing, an' this ain't no Uncle Tom's Cabin."

"Oh?" John suddenly jogged from the room and returned a few moments later carrying a stack of four volumes almost identical to the one that Will was holding. "Here," he cried excitedly, dumping the stack on the table and flipping feverishly through one of them, "listen to this: 'If I do not admire John Bull, shall I admire Brother Jonathan? I have but little taste for that slave-holding brother. Take away Time is money, what remains of England? Take away Cotton is king, what remains of America?' Ha!"

"Lemme see that," Will demanded, and John obliged by trading tomes with him through the bars. "Musta missed this bit…but wait! This is the just the drunkard ravin'! Grantaire! This is liquor talkin', not good, straight sense."

"Fine, but this bit's narration," John countered, flipping through the book that Will had just returned. "For our own part, we prefer martyrdom to success. John Brown is greater than Washington. No arguing that."

"No. No! John Brown greater'n… That ain't – can't – be right."

"See for yourself," John replied smugly, passing the book back into the cell.

"Why, I never! That's…sick." From the expression on Will's face, John could tell that the idea physically disgusted him. He almost felt guilty.

"Y'know, I heard that in the South, they were selling copies of this book with the anti-slavery bits taken out. I didn't fully believe it 'til now, but I'd say you're living proof."

"You mean that my book was tampered with?"

"Sure do."

Will couldn't decide whether he wanted more to glare at his captor or at the tome in his hands. "How d'you know that yer book ain't the wrong one?"

"What?"

"What if the people sellin' Mister Hugo's books in the North are a bunch of lowdown ab'litionists who added those words to trick y'all?"

"I…don't, really."

"Right. An' tell me, d'you really agree? About John Brown and Washington?"

"I can't rightly say."

"I'd say it's not so hard a question: are you a nigger-lover or ain't you?

"I always liked the freesoilers, myself."

"That ain't a choice now an' you know it. Are you a nigger-lover?"

John sighed and scrubbed his hand through his dirty hair. "I trust my president. If Mister Lincoln says we got to free the slaves to save the Union, who'm I to say different? I can't say if I love or hate niggers 'cause I never even talked to one in Wisconsin. I can't say I like 'em much, but…no reason for 'em to be property."

"What we have here," Will said to himself, nodding with sage viciousness, "is a classic example of a Yankee coward. 'The slaves can be free, just so long as they stay far away from me an' don't take my job.'"

"Hold on – I never seen a nigger before 'cause slaves are illegal where I'm from. That don't make me a hypocrite."

"But yer a freesoiler!"

"You said yourself that don't matter anymore! I'm helping free your slaves, so I'm no hypocrite!"

"I ain't sayin' that all freesoilers are hypocrites or that all Yankees are hypocrites – just the freesoiler Union soldiers who say they like this here book. S'far as I can tell, the boys who get themselves killed in this are fightin' for freedom of speech, 'mong other things, but yer dear King Abe the First has built up new Bastilles for men with enough sense to want to end this twice-damned war."

"It's not like that and you know it," John huffed.

"Oh?" Will replied, gripping the bars combatively. "An' what do you think of the Copperheads, then?"

"Traitors."

"Just 'cause they don't agree with you and yer tyrant?"

"'Cause they undermine our ability to fight. It's real hard to risk your life for men who jeer at you."

"So they should be thrown in jail?"

"They should stand with their country, then it won't be a problem."

"As I said," Will gloated, "hypocrite."

"No! It's not the same!"

"How?"

"Look, remember that poet? John Prouvaire? He wasn't the fighting type, right? How do you think that big blond fellow would've reacted if he had announced in the middle of their revolution that they should all put down their guns and stop fighting so they could pick flowers together? Huh? Maybe he'd've laughed, but what about when others started listening to him? He wouldn't've stood for it one bit when the doctors and lawyers refused to fight too. He might believe in free speech, but he sure would've called 'em traitors then. And they'd all've died anyway. There's time to talk and a time to be quiet and fight."

"Don't be stupid. The poet and the others were there 'cause they wanted to."

John flailed his hands in the air over his head. "And I sure as hell'm not stopping the Copperheads from going South! Hell, we tried to pack that old snake Vallandigham down there, and he just ran off to Canada! Who's the traitor coward then?"

"That's diff'rent!"

"How?" he echoed mockingly.

"Look here," Will growled, "I thought you were a decent fella owin' to yer lit'rary taste. Looks like I was wrong. I'm gonna sit and read this book and see what other lies yer crafty Yankee editors threw in it."

"Fine. And I'll sit over here and read and remember why I'm fighting."

"Likewise." He retreated to the back corner of the cell and glared at his guard over the spine of the book.

John could not resist the temptation to have the last word. "I know that Napoleon might like the Confederacy because it lets him stick a puppet king in Mexico, but France will never help you out because the people are with Mister Hugo and Mister Hugo is with us. And you know there's no hope of England helping you neither. You're losing and you know it! If you're gonna lose, why not just give up now and stop all the fighting and dying?"

"Why don't you ask that same question to those A-B-C boys?"

"It's not the same!"

"It is! It is! You just don't ask them 'cause they're dead! They died for their beliefs, just like I will if I got to!"

"As I will!"

The two soldiers stared at each other malevolently for a few moments before turning to their books and sinking into the warm, familiar rhythm of the words that they traced with their fingers as they silently mouthed. By the time a small detachment arrived to take Will farther from the battle lines with a group of other captives, their anger had all but evaporated; novels may rarely change the world, but just a few lines can hold remarkable power over the temper of an individual.

"Think they'll send me to work on a galley ship?" Will joked after John told him that he would be leaving shortly. "I'll grow strong an' get a fierce name an' live like Valjee – sorry, Valjohn – an' then someone'll write a big book about me."

"Would you like to keep it?" John asked abruptly as he filled out some paperwork for Will's transfer. "I can always buy another when this war is over. I don't expect there'll be much else for you to do wherever you are."

"The book?"

"Sure. That volume, at least."

"I much appreciate the offer, friend, but I fear that whoever gets me won't let me keep it long."

"Fine. Then some fine Union soldier will get the chance to read my favorite book."

"Naw. You keep it. I know it's important to you. Plus," Will tried to scowl, "it's the ab'lition version."

"The right version, you mean. The one our free press lets us read."

"Ha! I'll give yer and yer "free press's" greetings to the poor Copperheads I meet in prison."

"And I'll give yours to the slaves we free as we win back the South."

"Off to liberty or death, then?"

"Sure thing, if that's what it takes."

Will smiled sadly as he closed the copy of the novel and handed it back to John through the bars. "Yup. Whatever it takes."