Today We Go Home

by Kelli Estes

  “Stay with me, Willie,” she ordered as she propped her against a tree, twisted off the cap of her canteen, and brought it to her friend’s lips. “Drink some water. You’ll feel better.”

  Willie turned her face away and moaned in pain.

  Emily forced herself to look at Willie’s wounds. The one on her head, the one that had likely pushed her to the ground, looked like the bullet had skimmed along her skull. Although blood flowed down the side of Willie’s face, it didn’t look serious enough to kill her. Gently, she poured water from her canteen over the cut to wash out the dirt and debris.

  She turned her attention to Willie’s stomach, knowing this would be the worst of the wounds. Willie’s hands were red from all the blood pouring from her body.

  Emily gently pulled Willie’s hands away from the wound. A hole several inches wide seemed to be pumping out dark red, almost black, fluid. Emily had never felt so powerless in her entire life. “Hold on, Willie. I’m going to find you some help. Hold on.”

  She started to get to her feet, but Willie’s hand clamped onto her wrist. “Don’t go.”

  Emily stared at her friend, whose face was turning a sickening gray color, and the skin around her eyes and mouth a ghastly blue. “Willie?”

  “No use,” Willie managed. “Dying.”

  “No!” Emily grabbed Willie’s shoulders and shook her, hoping it might jar life back into her body. “You aren’t dying. I’ll find a surgeon, and you’ll make it through. I need you to make it. Ben needs you.”

  With obvious effort, Willie tugged at her finger. It took Emily a moment to realize she was pulling off the identity ring Ben had given her at Christmas. “What are you doing? You need that for…” She didn’t need to finish her sentence. They both knew what Willie needed the ring for, and they both knew today would be the day it would be needed.

  Still, Willie pulled the ring off and pressed it into Emily’s hand. “Give Ben. Tell him…” She coughed, a deep bubbling cough that made her struggle for breath. “Love him,” she finally whispered.

  Emily sat and pulled Willie against her. “I’ll tell him,” she promised through her tears. “I’ll tell him you love him. He loves you, too, you know. As do I. You are the sister I never had and always wanted.”

  Willie made jerking movements, and her breathing quickened.

  “What is it?” Emily asked, hating to see her friend in such pain.

  Willie patted her chest. “Handker…”

  “You want your handkerchief?” It seemed like a silly thing to want at a time like this, but Emily was not about to refuse her friend anything. Gently, trying to avoid moving or jarring her any more than necessary, Emily unbuttoned the top button of Willie’s coat and reached to the pocket inside. She felt a piece of paper, which she ignored, and the scrap of cloth she was looking for.

  “Here,” she said, pressing the handkerchief into her friend’s limp hand. “Here’s your handkerchief.”

  Willie would not take it and instead pushed it back to Emily. “Take to…sister. Tell…sorry.” Her eyes were closing as strength flowed out of her.

  Emily’s breath caught, and she fought to hold back the sobs that threatened to burst out. Words failed her so all she could do was nod.

  Willie’s hand closed over Emily’s and squeezed with what little strength she had left. “Thank you...” Her eyes closed, and her hand went slack.

  “No!” Emily squeezed Willie’s hand. “Not yet. Don’t die. I need you!”

  But Willie’s chest refused to lift with breath. Her hand refused to squeeze back. She was gone.

  The sounds of the battle came roaring back so strong they nearly slammed the breath out of Emily, too. She gulped for air. She gathered Willie into her arms and held her, as though doing so would keep her soul from fleeing. With each boom of artillery, she flinched, but she did not move away from her friend.

  She stayed holding Willie for as long as she dared, feeling her warmth drain away. When it was clear that Willie was long gone, Emily laid her friend back against the tree until she could return and give Willie a proper burial.

  Carefully, she slid Willie’s ring onto her own left pinkie finger and folded the bloody handkerchief into a tiny square, which she tucked into her chest bindings alongside her diary. “I’ll take your handkerchief to your sister, Willie. I promise,” she swore aloud. “I’ll tell her your story and how bravely you fought. I’ll make them proud of you.”

  That’s when a sickening realization hit her. She didn’t know Willie’s last name. She didn’t even know in what town in Nebraska her family was from. The only information she had was the three initials embroidered on the handkerchief: ODE. What did that stand for? How could she possibly find Willie’s family in all of the Nebraska Territory when she didn’t know their name?

  Her friend was barely gone, and already Emily had failed her.

  * * *

  With her second promise to Willie burning in her heart, Emily searched the battlefield for Ben. As she left Willie’s body to return to the line, her fellow soldiers ran past her in retreat.

  “They’ve got us in a crossfire!” a man she didn’t know yelled as he sprinted past, his eyes wide with fear. “Retreat!”

  Emily ignored him and kept searching for Ben. She asked every soldier who passed if they’d seen him, but most seemed not to hear her. Others simply shook their heads as they ran. The sounds of battle moved away, and she focused on nothing but finding her brother.

  Dreading the worst, she searched the faces of every dead man in blue that she passed, but none was her brother.

  Suddenly, someone grabbed her arm and spun her around.

  “Where the hell are you goin’?” O’Brien yelled at her, his face black from musket powder and his eyes glazed. “Colonel Hazen’s disappeared. Whitaker has ordered us to fall back to the wheat field and regroup.”

  “I have to find Ben,” she yelled back. “Have you seen him?”

  “No.” O’Brien shook his head and released Emily’s arm. “He’s probably back at the field, where we should be.” He disappeared through the trees, leaving her to her own fate.

  Emily turned to follow him when a bullet whizzed by her so close she felt heat as it passed her ear. She dropped to the ground and reached for her rifle. Terror filled her when she realized she’d left it with Willie’s body.

  With no way to fight back, she was as good as dead.

  She started crawling in the direction O’Brien had gone, doing her best to stay low to the ground. She needed to stay alive. Ben needed her. Willie needed her to fulfill her promise.

  Five feet in front of her lay a dead soldier. His rifle lay on the ground next to him. Relieved, Emily crawled faster and was reaching for it when something sharp jabbed into her spine.

  She froze. Her mind raced through her options: whip over and grab the weapon from her assailant, lift her arms in surrender, lie and wait to be shot.

  “Move and yer dead.” The gun barrel dug deeper into her back. “On behalf of President Jefferson Davis, I take you prisoner of the Confederate States of America.” The voice had a Southern drawl mixed with what sounded like a Spanish accent. “Turn over, Yank, and keep your hands where I can see ’em!”

  Emily did as she was told and found herself at the mercy of a solitary Confederate soldier. Anger tore through her. No! She couldn’t be captured. She needed to find Ben.

  Before the Reb could anticipate her move, she rolled quickly to the side, intending to jump to her feet. But the Reb was faster. Pain exploded on the side of Emily’s head as he bashed her with his rifle butt. “Don’t be stupid, Yank,” he warned.

  Fear seized Emily. She couldn’t die right now. She had to get to Ben. “Please don’t kill me!” she begged as tears blinded her. She didn’t care how weak she looked to this Reb. She just needed him to release her.

  The rifle jabbed he
r in the center of her chest. “On your feet.”

  Emily did as she was ordered and saw that only she and her captor remained in the clearing. “Please, I need to find my brother.”

  “So? We all have brothers.”

  Emily felt an unfamiliar hatred slide through her, and for the first time, she knew she could kill with no remorse. “You’re never going to win this war. You disgust me.” She spit the words at the man.

  The Reb threw back his head and laughed, and Emily realized he must be insane. Only an insane person would find something to laugh at on this day.

  When the Reb regained control of his mirth, he winked at Emily and smoothed his mustache with two fingers. “Think what you want, but who seems to have the upper hand right now?” He winked at her, sending a fresh wave of hatred through her.

  “You there! What’s going on here?” A Confederate officer rode toward them atop a chestnut mare.

  The Reb’s smile dropped. “Got myself a prisoner, sir!”

  The officer stopped beside them, his gaze skimming over Emily. He turned back to the Reb. “Good work, soldier. What’s your name?”

  The Reb stood straighter. “Lieutenant Harry T. Buford, sir!”

  “Take him back with the others, Lieutenant Buford,” the officer ordered. “Then rejoin the line.” He rode off.

  “Yes, sir!” Lieutenant Buford jerked his head to the left, indicating to Emily which direction to walk. With a nudge from his rifle barrel to get her moving, he fell into step behind, the rifle poking at her when she slowed and removing all hope that she’d be able to escape.

  Emily marched where she was ordered, saying nothing more. As they passed dozens and dozens of bodies, she realized that no one knew these men’s names or what had happened to them. No one knew about Willie.

  And now that she was captured by the enemy, no one would know what happened to her either. Ben must be frantic right now, searching for both her and Willie among the regiment. He would find neither.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Present day: Woodinville, Washington

  April 8, 1862: I must write fast before they see me. Don’t know where I am—somewhere in northern Miss., I think. I am a prisoner of the Confederacy, captured by a Reb by the name of Lieutenant Buford whom I burn to hunt down and kill. I’ll write about that in a moment, but first I must write about Willie.

  We fought with honor. We stood shoulder to shoulder with our regiment, and we served our great country as was asked of us. We knew we could be killed. We’d known all along. But I truly believed I could protect Willie and Ben. I truly did. I thought if I was quick enough to reload, if my aim was sure, if my love was strong enough…I could keep them alive. But I was wrong. Willie was killed. Shot in the gut.

  I’ve never been so scared in my life, or so angry. She was the best friend I could have ever asked for. She was going to be my sister. Ben wanted to marry her. We already felt like we were family. But I failed to protect her, and now she’s gone. I didn’t even get a chance to give her a proper burial because a damn Reb took me prisoner. I should have followed orders and retreated when told, but I had to look for Ben. For that I’m not sorry.

  In her last moments, Willie gave me the handkerchief her sister had given to her, and she asked me to return it to her family and ask their forgiveness. I will fulfill this promise if it takes me to my last breath. She had a paper in her pocket with the handkerchief. Did it have her family’s name and address? I will never know. I will never stop looking for them. I would do anything for Willie. She also gave me her ring, which I will return to Ben. Oh, how I dread telling him she is gone.

  Wherever I am, we marched late into the night last night, our hands tied together like hogs for the roast. By the position of the sun this morning, I know we are marching south from the battle. We’ve passed through cotton fields, onion fields, small towns, and past isolated shacks with a handful of children staring at us from the front yard. All the while, I’m searching the faces of my fellow prisoners hoping to find Ben. What if I never find him?

  When I see Lt. Buford, the Reb who took me prisoner, I’m going to kill him.

  But first, I need to find Ben.

  Even though she suspected it was coming, reading about Willie’s death hit Larkin hard, and she had to put the diary aside for several days. She filled those days with research, reviewing each and every one of those 164,500 federal census records from Lancaster County in 1860. She obsessively read each entry, searching for a family with a last name starting with the letter E and a daughter around Willie’s age, and another with a name that began with O.

  At least she now had confirmation that the handkerchief had belonged to Willie. Or, rather, to her sister. Emily had promised Willie she’d find her family and give her sister the handkerchief, but Larkin knew she’d failed because it had remained in Emily’s possession until her death. Larkin froze as another realization came to her. Emily died in possession of Willie’s ring, too. Why hadn’t she given it to Ben?

  Instead of thinking of that, she focused on the handkerchief. It must have tortured Emily to search for her friend’s family and not find them. Nothing, Larkin knew, hurt worse than a broken promise to a friend.

  Like the promise Larkin had made to Sarah to always have her back. Or to scatter her ashes in California.

  Emily may have failed in her promise to Willie, but Larkin could fulfill it now and had, in fact, already started trying. She had modern tools at her disposal. Surely Larkin could find the right people and their descendants.

  As Grams, Kaia, and Jenna visited friends over the holiday break and went to New Year’s Eve parties, Larkin spent nearly every waking moment on the internet, searching for census records, inspecting digital archive records, following leads that always led nowhere, but following them just the same.

  She’d spent half an hour the day after Christmas on the phone with a genealogist in Nebraska who agreed to help Larkin’s research, for a hefty fee, and from then on, emailed with the woman every day, giving her an update on the places she’d looked and asking if there were any new leads. So far, all she’d found was the enlistment record for Willie Smith of the 9th Indiana Infantry. The hometown listed for Willie was not in Nebraska, but La Porte, Indiana. They decided that Willie must have lied about this since La Porte was the town where the three-year regiment of the 9th Indiana was mustered into service. Willie had likely falsified her hometown in order to protect her identity.

  Larkin pulled the ring out of the diary and inspected it, hoping for a flash of insight or a vision from beyond, anything to tell her where to look next.

  No visions came, so she slipped the ring onto her right pinkie finger and decided to take a break. Her promise to send Zach some of the photos she found in Sarah’s boxes had been nagging at her like a toothache, and after learning of Emily’s promise to Willie, the idea of returning items to a soldier’s family member held a new kind of urgency.

  Larkin grabbed a box and set it on her bedroom floor, sat down beside it, and took a deep breath. “Here I go, Sarah,” she told the urn. “Please be gentle on me.”

  She sliced opened the box and smiled at the first item she saw, a woobie. The official name for the blanket was “poncho liner,” but everyone called it a woobie. Made of three-color camouflage pattern nylon with polyester filling, it served as shelter, blanket, pillow, and emotional security while out in the field. Larkin and Sarah and everyone they’d ever served with had loved their woobies. Apparently, Sarah had loved hers so much she’d failed to turn it in when she was supposed to. Holding it on her lap, Larkin felt the warmth it provided and thought back to all the nights one like it had kept her warm. Too many to count. Sarah’s woobie would have a new home on Larkin’s bed.

  As she draped the woobie over her shoulders, Larkin recalled the passage in Emily’s diary where she talked about how her rubber blanket felt like her home. The rubber blanket
must have been the woobie of the Civil War.

  Smiling, Larkin reached for the next item in the box, a stack of envelopes with a rubber band around them. She inspected the top one and was surprised to see it was addressed to Zach Faber with Sarah’s return address at JBLM. There was no postmark.

  Knowing she was probably invading Sarah’s, or even Zach’s, privacy, she pulled the notebook paper out of the envelope anyway. It was dated a year ago November, right about the time their deployment had been announced.

  Guiltily, Larkin started to read…

  Dear Zach,

  It looks like I’m heading back to Afghanistan. As soon as I heard, I thought of you. We haven’t talked in eighteen years, though I saw you at Dad’s funeral. I sat in the back and left early. I don’t know why I went. I guess to make sure he was really dead. To me, he died when I was six years old when he left and never looked back.

  You left me, too. I know you were only sixteen and just trying to survive, like I was, but I thought you’d come see me again. I thought you’d come back and save me from Mom’s abuse. Did you even know how she changed after the divorce? She drank a lot, cried a lot, slept a lot, hit me a lot.

  I convinced myself you didn’t know, or you would have saved me from her. To think you abandoned me the same as Dad did hurt too much to accept.

  Did you? Did you abandon me? Did you think about me at all?

  It took a lot of courage for me to send you and Dad the invitations for my college graduation and Army commissioning ceremony. Why didn’t you so much as send a note? I looked for you that day.

  I don’t know why I’m writing this letter to you. I’ll probably never send it. I guess knowing that I’m about to return to a war zone that not everyone comes home from is making me think of what I’d regret. I’d regret not fixing my relationship with my brother.

  But I’m too scared to contact you. It’s easier not to try than to be rejected again.