The Calm and the Strife

by David J. Sloat

  Julia gained some control, wiped her eyes and looked up at Wes. “I’m so sorry this all had to happen.”

  Wes, barely able to speak, finally managed to choke out, “Thank you so much for coming. It’s so good to see you.” He studied their faces, as though their presence could somehow nourish his starving soul. He turned to Ginnie. “I can’t believe you’re here. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. I thought I saw you when we went through Gettysburg on the train.” Fresh tears choked him and he couldn’t go on.

  Ginnie said quietly, “Julia asked me to keep her company. I didn’t think she should make this trip alone.”

  He looked at her in wonder, as a person catches a glimpse of paradise at the moment of death. “It’s so good to see you. I’ve missed you so much.” At this, Ginnie began to lose her own composure. Wes, only half aware of what he was saying, mumbled, “Things were so much simpler before I went away. If I could only do it over....” But he could not continue. Julia nodded in agreement.

  “How are Will and Annie?” he asked.

  “They’re both well. Will’s safe. He hasn’t been in any big battles, so far as I’ve heard.”

  “And Papa?”

  Julia’s face fell. “Wes, he passed on.”

  Wes felt as if he were watching himself from outside his body. His face grew rigid and his breath was expelled in a long silent sigh. But the emotion had left him. Somehow, he had known what she would answer. He watched himself nod to Julia, with no emotion on his face. Who was this person who could cry at seeing the girls but shed not a tear at news of his father’s death?

  “When?” was all he said.

  “A year ago. Last June. He wasn’t sick very long.” She wiped her nose with a small handkerchief. “He never got over Mama’s passing, you know.”

  He nodded, then looked at Ginnie who was still standing with her arm around Julia’s shoulder. “It was good of you to come with her.” Ginnie squinted her eyes in a brief smile that Wes remembered well. It still stirred his heart. “I got your letter. I didn’t think I’d see you again, after what you wrote. After what...Jack wrote.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” she said, revealing her discomfort. “The war...well, the war changed everything.”

  “It doesn’t have to,” he heard himself saying.

  “Wes,” she said, moving close to the wire, her voice tense. “It’s too late. It’s over. Everything has changed. I just wanted to come see if you’re all right. I wanted to say thank you for...for thinking about me all these years. You’re a good man, in spite of all this.” She glanced around the prison enclosure. “I’ll always remember you.”

  They were beautiful words, but they were terribly final. His trip north to change her mind had been doomed from the start. He had been the captive of a hopeless cause, and now his pursuit of that elusive dream had made him an actual prisoner. A final desperation flowed through him.

  “But Skelly? Ginnie, please. Think about it. He’s a bully. You weren’t meant to be with him.”

  Ginnie’s face fell, her eyes beseeching him. “Wes, he’s changed.”

  He studied her face. “Do you love him?” he asked quietly.

  She looked at him for a long time before answering. “Yes. I suppose I do.”

  “Then I’m happy for you,” he said. He thought about the fight that had forced him from town. His ribs began to ache again as if to underscore the memory. But there was no point in causing her any more pain. The best thing he could do for her was to let her go.

  “We brought some things,” Julia told him. “The things you asked for.”

  Ginnie reached back and pulled a sack up to eye level. The guard behind Wes came forward quickly. “I’ll take that, ma’am. No gifts for prisoners, that’s the rule.” The women looked upset but Wes held up a hand, quieting them. “It’s all right. They’re for the guards anyway. It will help me get along better here.” They nodded slowly as his meaning registered.

  The guard unlocked the gate to retrieve the bag and said to them, “You ladies will have to go soon, before the captain gets back.”

  They looked at each other and then at Wes. He reached out to Julia through the wire mesh. Her eyes were puffy and full of pain as he grasped both her hands. “I love you, Jules,” he whispered.

  She walked a few paces away from the fence and out of reach, unable to look into his face any longer. Wes watched her, then turned to Ginnie. He could think of nothing more to say.

  “I’m sorry things worked out this way, Wes,” she said. “I truly am.” She looked down at the ground in front of her. “There are so many things I wish could have been different. But we have to make the best of what is.” Her eyes searched his. “Don’t we?”

  “Yes.” His voice was a whisper. She was so close, inches away, but she was as unreachable as if she had been on the moon. She put her hand through the gate, her eyes glistening. He took it in both of his.

  “I hope you’ll be happy,” he said. “We might have had a chance, if the war hadn’t come. But now, you’ll be better off with...him.” He couldn’t bring himself to speak Skelly’s name. He held her hand for a long moment. At length, unable to stop himself, he tried to say, “I’ll always love you.” But no sound came from his lips and he was uncertain whether she heard him. He knew at that moment that this was the last view he would ever have of her.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll always pray for you.” He nodded, then turned to go, unable to endure any more. Even prison would be better than the agony he felt standing here.

  She turned away and walked to Julia. Wes, watching them in spite of himself, saw them wave one final time before they moved off toward the town. He felt numb, as though his muscles had turned to stone. The guard had to nudge him three or four times before he roused himself enough to stumble back to the pen.

  He sat apart that night, quietly staring into nothingness. The others stopped trying to pry information out of him. Initially, they had been jealous of his having visitors but, when they saw the effect it had had on him, they decided to leave him alone. The numbness continued for days. It was a blessing, perhaps, since the pain it masked would surely have destroyed him.

  A week later, the group was rounded up and moved under guard to the train station. Most of the men speculated about whether they were being exchanged. There had always been talk of prisoner exchanges, second- or third-hand stories of cousins or friends who had come back from captivity. Wes paid no attention to the rumors, and life itself was mostly a blur to which he paid little heed. He remembered only snatches, like wisps of smoke floating through his half-conscious mind. There was the cold drizzle of spring, the endless sitting, and then the jolt of the train’s first movement accompanied by groans as the men realized that they were headed north. The ride seemed to take forever, but he spent most of it asleep, or perhaps unconscious – he no longer could tell which. The slow pace of the train matched the dragging rate at which his life moved, and the deadly lack of activity made even time itself slow to a crawl.

  He didn’t remember arriving at their destination, and could not say how many days they had been on the train. He was aware of marching through the mud, his feet cold and wet, of flopping down on a wooden floor which seemed to be rocking. He vaguely remembered being moved to another place one night well after darkness had fallen. He did not know where he was, nor did he care. Most of the others were talking and laughing, exploring their surroundings. Their voices were muffled in Wes’ mind, but he covered his ears with his arm to block out the world.

  When he awoke the next day, he looked about his new room trying to force his mind to make sense of what his eyes saw. One of the other men saw him. “Hey, look. It’s alive,” he called. Men chuckled.

  “Where am I?” a voice asked. It took a moment for Wes to realize that it was his own.

  “Why, you’re on Johnson’s Island, son. Don’t you remember?” Wes looked at the speaker, an older man with whitish hair. Wes had heard the man’s words, but they
didn’t convey any meaning. There was the sound of laughing.

  “But since you don’t look like no officer, they stuck you in this cage. So’s you could have the pleasure of our company!” More laughter. “What’s the matter, boy. Yankees got your tongue?”

  “Just let him lay,” someone said quietly. “Looks like he’s had a rough time of it.”

  Quiet returned and Wes was left alone with his thoughts. He tried to remember the details, but they hung out there just beyond his grasp. He felt hot. He lay back on the floor, waves of heat flooding over him, his muscles twitching out of control, drowning him alternately in seas of vicious fire and icy water. Voices floated above him somewhere.

  “He’s burning up.” “We’d better get someone.” There were other voices, but he couldn’t tell if they were real or not. Then all was quiet. Blackness.

  When he opened his eyes, it was as if he had been asleep for a century, as though he had just been born. He heard a quiet flutter and felt a cool breeze. Someone hummed lightly, a pretty female voice, a tune he did not recognize. It felt as though he were swimming upward through ocean depths. He could hear the sound of water trickling and sense a blessed coolness on his forehead. Wes forced his eyes open, blinking quickly to adjust to the bright sunlight.

  It took a moment to focus on the shadow that moved above him. The humming was coming from the silhouette and Wes watched transfixed as the figure’s hands dipped into unseen water, then moved to replace the coolness on his brow. The person paused for a moment and Wes saw a smile.

  “You’re awake.”

  Ginnie. His mind produced a name that meant something to him. He tried to remember what it was. He squinted at the shadow, finally distinguishing brown hair and a pleasant face. He cleared his throat lightly, testing his voice. His mouth was drier than fall leaves. The woman pressed a glass to Wes’ lips and cool water ran over his tongue and down to his throat. It was the taste of heaven.

  “Thank you, Ginnie,” he managed in a rasping voice.

  A peal of laughter emanated from the form. The sound was delightful, like music. “You’re welcome. But, I’m Rebecca.” Wes pondered the name as the washcloths came and went on his forehead. “We didn’t think you were going to make it for a while,” Rebecca said conversationally. Wes was content simply to listen to her beautiful voice. “You’ve been asleep for a long time, nearly a week. Dr. Starr was ready to give you up.” She paused, then added with a giggle, “But I wouldn’t let you go.” Another pause. “Who’s Ginnie?” she asked softly. “Your girl?”

  Wes tried to think of the answer to this question, but nothing came to mind, so he merely nodded. “I’ll bet she’s a very nice girl. She’s lucky to have someone as faithful as you. You’ve been talking about her all week. And you know what?” she went on, chattering happily. “You’ll be seeing her soon. The army is preparing a big prisoner swap, maybe next month.” Wes nodded again.

  Another week passed during which Wes gradually regained his painful memories, almost making him wish he could forget again. He was amazed to discover that he was in the infirmary of a new prisoner of war camp on Johnston’s Island, two miles out into Lake Erie, near Sandusky, Ohio. He had no recollection of being aboard the boat which had brought him here.

  The talk of a prisoner exchange increased every day, but nothing happened. News from the South told of a pitched battle in which a general named McClellan was trying to take Richmond. Most of the guards seemed to think McClellan would succeed and that the war would soon be over. Wes had his doubts, but somehow none of it seemed to matter anymore.

  In another week, he had regained enough strength to stand and walk short distances and eat solid food. Rebecca spent as much time with him as she could, walking him, her arm lightly supporting his efforts. She chatted easily, keeping Wes’ mind from plunging back into the depths. In time, he was returned to the prisoners’ barracks, weak but certain that he would recover. However, his release from the infirmary meant losing the sound of Rebecca’s voice. To Wes, stripped of everything else, that final loss was the most devastating of all. But he grew stronger and, as the weeks passed, he focused on the one hope he had left: a prisoner exchange.

  One morning, early in August, the captain arrived after breakfast to announce that those who were well enough to walk would be leaving that day. They were to be exchanged immediately. Wes dressed and joined the line heading for the infirmary. After the doctor checked them, indicating who could go and who would have to remain, Rebecca came to say goodbye to some of the men.

  When she reached Wes, she took his hand warmly. “Goodbye, Wes,” she said with her usual bright smile. “Say hello to Ginnie for me. Tell her she’s found herself a true gem.” Wes could only nod. He wanted to thank her, but by the time he had recovered his voice, she had moved on to the next man.

  The trip back south was a succession of rides on different trains and long hours of waiting. When they finally reached Richmond, they were processed by a bored major and a young private who carefully copied each name into a large ledger. When each man identified his regiment, the bored major checked a long list, noting the current location of that regiment, and wrote a note which he handed to the man before dismissing him. Wes unfolded his note and read “Gordonsville.” He had no idea where Gordonsville was or how he was supposed to get there.

  He turned back to the major, who was busy searching the list for the next man. “Excuse me, sir.”

  The major looked at him with an angry expression. Almost shouting, he asked, “Do you want to stay here?” Wes shook his head in alarm. “Then, get moving,” the major ordered.

  After asking a dozen people, Wes was directed to a dirty sergeant who was tying down a load of lumber on an overly full cart. “I’m trying to get to Gordonsville.”

  “Well, ain’t we all, sonny.”

  “Can you give me a ride, if you’re headed that way?”

  “If you don’t talk too much or smell too bad. Because my Nelly,” he said, thumbing toward his white nag who looked as though she had about three miles left in her, “she don’t like it when things smell bad.”

  Wes doubted this assertion since the sergeant himself smelled like something between week-old garbage and dead skunk. But he nodded and climbed up into the seat. As it turned out, Wes didn’t need to work at being quiet since the sergeant talked enough for both of them.

  After a few miles, he no longer heard the man’s chatter; his mind had turned to thoughts of being reunited with his company. When they reached the camp outside of Gordonsville, a few inquiries led him in the right direction and soon he was standing outside the captain’s tent. The new captain questioned him for several minutes before sending him on his way. Wes walked as fast as he could, feeling the excitement building inside him. There was so much to tell, so many things to catch up on.

  Then he saw them, Company B, his friends, his family. Some faces were missing and the rest looked tired and drained. But the men jumped up as soon as they laid eyes on him. Wes found himself looking around, soaking in the sights and sounds that he had missed for so long – the happy shouts of the men, the smell of food cooking, the sight of thousands of gray uniforms. Old Pete welcomed him warmly with a pat on the back. Wes looked around for Charlie and Ben.

  Old Pete shook his head sadly and said, “Charlie’s gone home. Caught a bullet in the knee at Kernstown.”

  Then before he could press Old Pete about Ben, he felt a rough shove against his shoulder. He turned and saw the stern face of his friend. Ben looked older and different, an extra stripe decorating his shoulder.

  “Salute your superior, soldier,” Ben barked.

  Wes snorted, “Well, look who’s got all high and mighty.”

  Ben’s face cracked into a warm grin and he grabbed Wes in a rough bear hug. They embraced warmly, and Ben, his voice choked with emotion, whispered, “Welcome home, Wes. I wasn’t sure I’d ever see your ugly northern face again.”

  Chapter 15

  A SOLDIER’S RETURN
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  Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

  April 6, 1863

  Monday’s mail brought a special treat for Ginnie which she had not fully expected. There was a letter in the mail postmarked Winchester, Virginia. Under her name the address, in Jack’s familiar handwriting, said simply, “Gettysburg, Adams County, Pennsylvania.” She ran her fingers over the envelope, feeling a lump which indicated that it contained something else along with the letter. Smiling to herself, she knew instantly what it was.

  She tore the letter open and out fell what she had hoped for, a carte de visite, a photograph on a small card of Jack in uniform. She picked it up with a surge of joy, studying it intently. He was seated in a chair, his uniform blouse buttoned carefully to the throat, his kepi fixed squarely on his head, his rifle lying easily in his lap, the barrel pointing out past his right arm. She stared at it as closely as she could, drinking in all the details. He had grown a mustache since she had seen him last. In one of his letters, he had told her about it, and she wasn’t certain that she would like it. Now she stared at it, trying to adjust to his new appearance. It made him look older, more handsome, and she decided she liked it. It appeared that he might also be growing a small goatee, but it was partly hidden by his collar and she couldn’t be certain. He looked as though he had lost weight, but seemed to be tan and fit.

  His corporal’s stripes showed clearly on the left arm of his blouse, showing the rank which she knew made him proud, and which he had earned by signing on for a tour of three years. He pointed out in his letters that, out of the more than one hundred men in Company F, 87th Pennsylvania, only ten now outranked him, and four of those were commissioned officers.

  She tried to recall what the real Jack looked like in person. But there was only the dimmest memory of the sound of his laugh, or the curl of his smile. Suddenly self-conscious at the thought of being caught looking at the picture, she slid it into the pocket of her apron.