At least I know what side I’m on.
We dropped out of sight, and the corporal cleared the vent and lit the fuse. Carl yelled, “Play ‘em some chin music, Jack! Give ‘em hell.”
“Old scratch is waitin’ for ‘em,” I shouted back with gusto, unsure of the meaning of my words. However, I got the gist.
“Hell yeah, Able! That’s right,” hooted Corporal Jack as he stepped back from the cannon.
The adrenaline coursing through Able’s body was contagious. The words felt right amidst the hail of bullets and gun smoke encircling the group. The boast had been all I could muster through the acrid fog. I wiped away the sweat on my brow with a blackened sleeve and put it to my lips to filter the ash from the air. It wasn’t much better.
Bullets whizzed by as the Blakely roared, answering the cannons on the opposing hill. I ducked down beside its large wheel as it leapt back another foot, digging deep troughs into the mossy battlefield. It stopped once its claws found purchase. Peering through the large spokes, I watched as the gun’s mouth belched huge clouds of smoke. It collected over the summit, adding to an already dismal field. The cannonball soared through the clouds and fell amongst the roving group of Confederates below. It scattered a large cluster of men where it struck, bouncing through the ranks and flipping end over end, up the opposing slope. It left a bloody trail of bodies in its wake, dismembering everyone in its path.
As the clouds gathered, they blocked the hillside from view. I could see little beyond my outstretched hand and the men around me. Time slowed to a crawl. How can these men stand tall, in full view of the oncoming army, without fear? They looked like a monument to the men of this land and what they fought for. The image etched itself into my mind. They were all perched in position, watching the devastation their weapon wrought on the defenseless men below. The cannon’s discharge spared only one man as it leapt over his head. The infantryman paused, expecting each second to be his last as his gaze followed the unpredictable shell in an arc over and past him. He turned in place, the shock and disbelief evident even at a distance as his comrades were torn to ribbons.
The three of us grabbed the cannon’s frame and hoisted it back into place. We repeated the reloading process and ducked back in wait. I tried to still my hands as the fuse burnt down, but my nervousness could not be quelled. I scanned the long barrel, but was unable to read the words that had been stamped into it. Something had adorned it earlier in its life, a maker’s mark, but it must have been lost over the years. The Blakely spoke again, and I cheered the cannon on, leaping from my position to fulfill my duty. The others beat me to it, so I grabbed the wheel in my hands. Fighting the sweat and ash covering my gloves, I used every muscle to force the wheel back into its rut. Carl had the other in his hands and was doing the same. The effort of his exertions streamed down his face. Rivers of sweat waged their own war with his ash-coated cheeks.
Once the cannon was level, I snatched my rammer from the ground and rose up, but a heavy weight slammed into my shoulder. I looked down in shock as my jacket was sullied. Pain flared in my shoulder, and a dark splotch spread from a small tear in the fabric. I gazed at the wound in silence, unable to give my emotions voice. Another projectile doubled me over and stole my breath. A stream of blood leaked onto the ground.
I turned to the edge of the summit and watched as the first line of gray-coated infantry rose to meet us. Having weathered the storm and rushed over the hill, they had evidently sighted our position and charged. One paused atop the ridge and took aim. His rifle was leveled on my bent form when a surprising thought occurred to me. Is that Higgins? The familiarity of this soldier’s childhood friend flashed before my eyes––memories of them playing in the yard and at school.
Before my train of thought could continue, the rifle hammer flashed. The bullet sent me flying into the mud, behind my comrades and the Blakely. My neck and chest erupted in invisible flames as my friends fought to maintain our position. Wheezing for breath, my eyes settled on someone lying next to me. He hadn’t shaved in a fortnight, and his coat lay open to the elements, its edge fluttering in the damp morning breeze. The emblem of my battalion was stitched across his shoulder, two crossed cannons on a yellow background. He didn’t speak or move, but I knew his name: Todd. He had gone down earlier that morning. His sightless gaze was hollow, and his eyes had lost their luster, along with his hearty sense of humor.
Just last night we huddled around the campfire telling stories of our families and sharing the new supply of brandy. Able’s memories streamed through my mind, enlightening me on his life. Now, Todd lay inert with grim determination cemented on his face, as though he would wear his boots into the afterlife. Other men fell around us in a haze of gray. Jack fought off the few remaining Confederates that made it over the hill while Carl and the rest of the dwindling gun crew pushed against the butt of the cannon, attempting to force it into place for one last shot at the charging soldiers. The lull in the oncoming forces was their final chance.
Summoning the remainder of my strength, I hoisted myself from the muddy ground. Pain coursed through my body with the motion, but I was determined not to fall while there was an ounce of strength left in me. With a grunt, I stumbled over to the Blakely and helped shove it into the rut. It settled in place. Davy grasped the lever as Jack shouted orders. The cannon’s muzzle lowered to face the next wave of gray. I lifted my rammer from the ground and cleared the bore with my off hand, the only one willing to cooperate. Two more men shoved grapeshot down its throat and any metal they could scrounge from the bucket. Death breathed down our necks, and Jack pulled the firing pin.
A dreadful whistle picked up overhead like a steam locomotive bearing down. There was a resounding crash as the Blakely fired an instant before the enemy’s iron sphere smashed into it. The carriage disintegrated under the force of the impact. The artillery and its mangled limber leapt at me in a jumbled mess of wood and iron. The shattered wheel spokes and carriage axle forced me to the ground. After a staggered breath, I let out a strangled scream as the cannon toppled, pinning me beneath. Under the weight of the great gun, I fought a losing battle for air.
“Medic!” I tried to shout, but I felt like a trout gasping under a fisherman’s foot. I tried to force the heap of metal off me, but to no avail. As my pain and muffled gasps dwindled to nothing, the sounds of chaos were replaced with silence.
* * *
I blinked my eyes in the canned light of the museum and reality settled into place. The cannon’s cold barrel lay beneath my hand. I stared at the old gun in disbelief. Its restored condition was not at all what I’d seen. Having outgrown its usefulness, it stood as a testament to what Able had died for. I circled the large weapon and ran my hands along its pitted skin as though it were a long lost friend. Its wheel had been fixed, but still stood out from the one on the opposing side. The older wheel was dark and stained.
“Wow, this was really used!” commented Paige.
“I know,” I whispered, replaying Able’s death in my mind.
I was transfixed by the sight. Tearing my gaze from the gleaming Blakely, I strode over to Paige and looked at the passage printed under the heading: The Last Stand of the Cherished Blakely. Printed at the bottom, under transparent plastic, were the names of the final cannoniers to man the great gun. Private Able Thomas was among them. Private Carl Asburger was the only one to live through the battle, or so the summary said. I slid my thumb over the familiar names and a tear slid down my face.
“The Union soldiers recovered the gun and used it on the Confederates.” Paige caught sight of me and asked, “What is it? What happened?”
I shook my head and turned away from the catalog of dead men I had come to know so briefly, yet so well. The list in my head was growing and I couldn’t bear to look Paige in the eye. I knew she would see through the crack in my armor. What I was feeling was more painful than the drunk’s awkward beatings could ever inflict. Seeing a host of pictures lining the walls opposite us, I stepped
over and perused the black and white photos. I cast my eyes well above the plaques describing the pictures. I already knew too many of them, too well. What I’d seen could fill a book. It would be more than enough to fulfill Mr. Broaderick’s expectations. I scanned the pictures lining the wall and felt a tender hand slip into mine. Her concern was comforting.
“See anything good?”
“Nah, nothing much.”
We meandered along the wall and into the museum. We passed the clear plastic donation box and continued into the dimly lit room. The walls were carpeted to match the floor and track lighting crisscrossed above us, spotlighting artifacts of interest. Others walked through the large room, inspecting each picture, weapon, uniform, and machine with a few muttered words. It was as though we had walked into a shrine. The need to pay homage to those that died began to rise within me. The museum was like a resting place for lost souls, too many to count. The air around us was thick. Goosebumps rose on my skin and with the remnants of the death I’d experienced fresh in my mind, the pull of the enshrined objects drew me forth.
I stepped up to a Confederate uniform like those worn by the infantrymen assaulting the hill. I was careful not to get too close and Paige followed suit, her hand clenched in mine. Unlike those in my dream, this uniform was clean and frayed from age. The cuffs were unraveling, but the collar was yellow with wear. The hat lounged on its stand, sinking in upon itself. Its color had hardly faded over the years. Moving on, we stepped over to a row of small cannons. Each had rusted over time and a few suffered from corrosion. The tag advertised them as 12 pound Napoleons found on the battlefield. I stuffed my free hand into my pocket, and we drifted by. The rest of the museum was packed full of artifacts, weapons, and pictures of men who fought in the war.
Toward the end of the room, we came across a large Plexiglas box. In it were hundreds of spent musket bullets and rifle shells. The bullets were clean, but deformed from when they had crumpled on impact. The label said, Souvenirs, Please take one. I looked nervously at Paige.
“I doubt they’re real,” she answered with a shrug.
I knew better, but a morbid curiosity tugged at me. Glancing back at the transparent box, I lifted my hand and poked through the spent shells. One odd bullet caught my eye. Impact had bent it into a horseshoe. I wondered what stories it held and slid two wary fingers over it. A touch was all it took for the smell to find me like a nostalgic dream.
Soldiers’ Nightmares - 20
I slid into another uncontrollable dream that resembled hell more than anything I knew from real life. Leaves rustled in the trees overhead, but I didn’t stop to listen. I rushed out of the forest, bayonet extended. A line of Union soldiers appeared a few yards away, kneeling with muskets leveled. Another line of men stood behind them, reloading. The uniformed boy ahead stumbled onto them first. Even the soot covering his face couldn’t hide his youthful shock.
“FIRE!” cried a voice from behind the infantry. The troops vanished in a gray fog as muskets answered the corporal’s shout.
Two projectiles thumped into me while my comrades pushed forward. My hip exploded and spots dotted my vision. I stumbled, fell to my knees, then slumped to the ground with the butt of my musket propped in the muddy field. I tried to pull myself up, but a heavy boot slammed into my back, then another, and another. My fellow soldiers pushed forward, trying to overwhelm the Union line. It was too much. With the added weight, my face slammed into the tilled earth and the musket fell from my hand.
“Good bye, my darlin’… Alice. Take care of William.” The words drifted through my clotted beard and disappeared in a roar of shouts and gunfire.
* * *
Blessed darkness soon drifted in, muting the battle around me. But instead of returning home to Paige and the museum, I was cast into a second dream and the thoughts of another man.
* * *
Out of sight from the earlier skirmish, I looked out upon a defensive line of Confederate soldiers. My blade stood perched in the air as charging cavalry sped toward us.
I swept the blade down, shouting, “Fire!”
The world erupted in a cacophony of musket blasts and acrid smoke. Through the roiling waves of currents, I watched horses and riders tumble to the ground, plowing the field with their bodies, yet more emerged through the clouds.
“Reload!” I commanded.
Their counterparts stood up over the spent line and unloaded their rounds into the approaching cavalry. At ten yards, their aim was perfect and more riders were cast to the ground. But momentum carried the horses on, closing the distance to our line.
“Fix bayonets!” The words echoed off my lips, but I knew it was too late.
The charge plunged horses and riders into my line of infantry and trampled the men under hoof. One in three had fixed his bayonet and thrust it at the Confederates with thoughts of survival and death gleaming in their eyes. The blades lunged for rider or horse, whichever was closest. Cavalry swords swept down from above, dismembering and decapitating my men with vigor. I watched the gruesome massacre, speechless and incapable of saving their lives. The death riders pushed through to the second rank, which leapt at the cavalry with blood on their hands. They overwhelmed the riders and pulled them to the ground, only to become pincushions themselves.
Preoccupied by the sight, a second wave of cavalry had fallen on us unseen. They picked off the remaining soldiers in the first rank and broke the second line. The group of mounted soldiers pushed through the ranks and destroyed any chance of survival. I laid waste to the first man with my pistol, but others bore down on me. My sword jumped to meet the approaching horseman, and steel rang as our weapons met, but momentum carried him past. I ducked the next flailing sword, spun, and grabbed him from behind. My grip threw him to the ground. Without thought, I plunged my sword tip through his shoulder blades. His body tensed, then settled to the ground. I pulled the blade free and spun to face my next opponent, but was too late. His horse leapt over a huddled mass of men, and his blade grazed my shoulder, slicing through golden tassels like a knife through butter. He continued toward other targets and left me behind. Too close… too close.
I huddled low, knees bent at the sight of two more raging cavalrymen. They approached in tandem. I fought the urge to flee and instead gripped my sword in two sweaty hands. I focused on the cold steel perched high at my side like a baseball bat and clutched it tighter, as though it were the only thing holding me there. The riders charged. I forced down the growing turmoil in the pit of my stomach and waited for them to come when a thunderous blow rang through my knee. It bent to the side. I ignored the pain and waited for the oncoming men. A second blow struck my lower back. On instinct, I sprung erect as the shot found its way deeper. The action was my last.
The cavalry flew down on me. One sword swept past, gouging my back as the other crisscrossed and severed neck from shoulders. Unable to feel the subtlest of sensations, I watched as the world spun and settled on its side. The chaos of battle swept by. Pounding hoof beats jostled me on the ground, and dust flew into my eyes, but I could no more wipe it away than heft a mountain. Through this immovable sight, I watched my headless body slump to the ground a few feet away. My final minutes were consumed with the massacre of my squad. I knew the cost of my delayed orders, and the shame of it condemned me. Eventually, the glassy shadow of the reaper’s touch stilled my eyes.
* * *
My God! Will this ever stop? My thoughts echoed through the silence. It was becoming harder to distinguish who I was. My own short life was a distant memory to the scenes I was reliving. Other deaths passed by, too fleeting to remember, but their echoes remained. Failed romances and snippets of loved ones appeared unbidden and a longing infused my soul for what would never come again. Women whispered my name… his name… into my ears, and the lips that spoke flickered, altering with each woman until they finally settled on one.
* * *
“Stanley, I love you,” whispered the alluring beauty seated next to me on t
he park bench.
The dusk light peeked over the remaining tree line, illuminating her golden curls in a faint halo. Her deep brown eyes were pools, beckoning me forward. I leaned in and kissed her tender lips, cradling her narrow chin between thumb and forefinger. While my stare lingered in her loving gaze, her pools ran over. Her cheeks drooped, following the stream of tears. Her olive skin mixed with the salty water like mottled paint, its colors swirling until her face became distorted and imperceptible. Other images flashed before me, but disappeared in the same indistinct fashion.
Silvy, I’m sorry I won’t make it home. I had to do it, though. Take care of John and see that he learns to fish proper, like I would’ve shown him. He’s a strapping young lad, and I’m sure he’ll become the man we hoped. I’ll always love you. The thoughts slowed as my mind succumbed to death’s numbing touch, freezing each membrane in passing seconds.
* * *
Differentiating between the soldiers’ lives and my own became almost impossible, but a firm squeeze of my hand brought me home. Darkness enveloped me and left Stanley’s thoughts to drone into oblivion. I opened my eyes and watched my hand fall from the plastic box. Spent bullets scattered across the floor as I plummeted to the ground. The impact knocked me out, and all I saw was black. Vague wisps brushed against my skin and the slightest of touches caressed my back, as though trying to push me up. Ghostly voices carried as though on nonexistent winds. Men, women, and children whispered in a multitude of voices.
A Life of Death: Episodes 1 - 4 Page 12