by Stephy Smith
****
Thomas
Thomas held his breath. The Yanks crouched within feet of his hiding spot. He fought to control the pounding of his heart. Possibilities of the enemy hearing it sent fear rushing through his veins. How had he put himself in this position? The commander’s orders had been to get as close to the other side as possible. Now, here he lay on his stomach, trapped within range of the enemy.
If I make it out of here without getting caught, I shall wrap my hands around that man’s throat and squeeze the life out of the commanding officer. He sent me into this mess without any one to lead them to my body should anything happen to me.
Footsteps crunched the debris near his head. His breath caught in his chest, and he clamped his mouth, hoping no sound would escape. He couldn’t tell how long he lay there before the footsteps faded. With a surge of newborn courage, he raised he head and peered through the shattered and intertwining branches that concealed him in the bush. Crawling forward, he was finally able to stand and scramble back to the commanding officer to report his finding.
They would wait out the enemy for another night. He sought his pen and paper for solace and began to write in his diary.
1862
The battlefields are littered with bodies like every other day. The life-sustaining blood seeps into the soil, staining the meadows and mountains alike a dark crimson. The feel of spirits in the air as if they are searching a place to rest, yet there isn’t a peaceful valley, crevice or woods where the war hasn’t been or won’t be. The never-ending screams take over the air like a flock of birds heading south for the winter. No matter what we do, we cannot hide from the hideousness of the noise. It haunts us even days after the battle, while we march or sleep. When we eat the laments still punish our minds. I don’t think they will ever stop their mettle.
Men beg our commanders to be removed from our circumstances with much reprieve and threats from them. There isn’t a corner of this world where we could hide from the scenes entrapped in our minds or the screams echoing in our heads. We aren’t allowed to stop and help our wounded who lay baking in the sun or freezing on the fields waiting for the ambulance wagons to pick them up. Instead, we are forced to move on and leave the poor souls to battle the environments until help arrives. I pray for an end but an end has not arrived, though we thought it would be a short battle. A battle we will never get used to and, for most, will never be able to accept or forget.
I fear those memories will live with me for the rest of my breathing days upon this earth. I look forward to the day it all comes to an end for me. I am ready to hear the soft voices of the angels accompanying me on my journey far into the heavens without the conflicts of war.
Chapter Ten
Izella
Izella paced about the kitchen. Pots and pans clanged together, and the cook swept past her without a word. Noting that she was only in the way, Izella walked into the study—Lewis’s little piece of heaven where he’d always gone when he had problems.
Inside, she waited for his voice to beckon, but silence greeted her with open arms. Heaviness suspended her heart. Tears flowed down her cheeks.
“Lewis, what am I to do? The girls are at each others’ throats. The servants walk around sniffling and wiping away tears. We are all at the mercy of the Lord, for we know no other to turn to,” she whispered to the empty chair behind the desk.
She had taken to working in the fields to soothe her soul. The ache in her back stiffened her spine. Her hands became cracked and calloused from wielding a hoe against unrelenting weeds in the cotton. Working side-by-side with the slaves, letting her tears mingle with the perspiration dripping down her scorched cheeks, replaced the fears of war until day’s end.
Letty continued her tirade over Izella as she rubbed liniment on her sore muscles. “Miss Zell, pardon my saying so, you need to let the men do this work for you. That’s what they’s here fo’.”
“It clears my mind. Besides, a little hard work is good for the soul.”
****
Maggie
Clutching her arms around the tiny bundle of magic she’d waited so long for, Maggie allowed the tears flow. Amanda’s tiny arms and legs waved in the air. “If only your father was here to see you. He would be so proud. I wouldn’t be able to wipe the smile from his face. What can I tell you about him? He is the handsomest, kindest man I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. His red hair sparkles of spun gold. One day you will see his eyes, the color of clear blue water, soft and refreshing. Dimples adorn his cheeks when he smiles and his straight, white teeth gleam.” She purred softly to her daughter.
“Oh, and I can’t forget…he has the strongest, warmest hugs in all the world. When he comes home, you will feel them and never want to leave the comfort of his embrace. He always speaks kindly to everyone he meets. A fine specimen of a man, I would say. I love him, and miss him more than anything, my dear little Amanda.”
Gazing into the angelic face of her daughter, her heart twisted into a familiar fear. Her daughter’s face reflected a small version of Robert. What if she never got the chance to experience her father’s arms holding her tight against his chest? Tears welled in her eyes as she thought of Amanda missing out on the hugs and kisses, his broad shoulder to cry on when she had problems. She herself missed his laughter, gazing into his eyes and the way the indentions in his cheeks sent goose bumps across her skin. The torment was too much to bear. She wiped away the tears and snuggled with her sleeping child.
****
Grace
Sick and tired of the politics and shouting, Grace shook her head. Politics was for men, and should be kept behind closed study doors or in the barn where women weren’t allowed. Too many of her friends shared their views on what was going on between Abraham Lincoln and Jefferson Davis. She didn’t care. All she wanted was to know the men were doing well, sleeping in comfort and out of the weather. She prayed they were eating nourishing meals and that the war was ending. But no one could answer those questions for her.
There were a few men who didn’t go to war, yet they all had opinions of what was going on and how to handle the situation. She, on the other hand, had the knowledge coming from her father and brothers of what they were going through. Speculation from the men choosing to talk politics became boring. She’d come to consider them gossipmongers.
A recent conversation she’d had with Richard Quinn popped into her mind. His brother’s friend’s cousin was in the army.
“How is he faring in his part?” she’d asked.
“He has no complaints.”
“Where is he located?”
“I don’t know, but my brother says there has been talk between the armies of ending the war.”
“Am I to take your word on this?”
“I assure you, my word is as good as any.” Richard straightened his shoulders. “The North is willing to surrender.”
At the absurdity of his comment, she released a hearty laugh. “Well, my dear Richard, I would do more checking on the facts before spreading gossip. You make a mockery out of the brave men pummeled by rain, sleet, snow and hailstorms. There are men who plunge waist deep in water and muck. Some of them sleep on the ground with no blankets to shield them from the cold. Talk of your politics to someone besides me, for I am not interested in that part of the war.”
She turned and left his side, refusing to seek out his company for the rest of the night. He was possibly the only eligible bachelor in these parts, but she was sure others would come back at the end of the war—if the war ever ended.
****
Mittie
Mittie took tea in her room. Pink walls dull against the dark red curtains, the room opened up into a large hall. Another swipe of the rag and Mittie removed all the streaks from the window, and then peered through the glass at the lush garden below. A desire to take a stroll through the fragrant bouquet of flowers sunk to the pit of her stomach. If only she could wander outdoors, wipe the ashes and soot from the surface o
f the world to see the landscape, breathe in fresh air and feel freedom again. The daydream shattered, crashing like a cannon ball against stone.
“Why did the war have to interfere with my life?” She slumped in a carved wooden chair next to the window to watch smoke billowing across the sky as if it were a gray winter’s day.
“I cannot answer that my dear, Mittie.” Grace shook her head.
“I do not understand the meaning of this charade. Our men are fading from our lives. Our towns and homes are being destroyed, and our families and friends ripped apart.” Mittie glared at her sister.
“I hope it will soon be over. It has been going on long enough. Besides, I miss my beloved Robert.” Maggie sat in the corner with her needlework with Amanda resting in the cradle at her feet.
“At least you have a husband to miss. The way this war is going, with men dropping dead every day, there will be none left when my time comes to wed.” Mittie tossed the rag on the bed.
“If for one moment, you think it is easier for me, knowing my husband could be killed at any given time, Mittie Abigail—then, you are mistaken.” Tears welled in Maggie’s eyes.
Without considering Maggie’s emotions, she had disregarded the fact that her sister had more to lose than she did. Mittie’s heart plummeted with the cracking of her sister’s voice. She glanced at Grace who stood before Maggie, resting her hands on her shoulders.
“Mittie did not mean to imply you have nothing at stake.” Grace cradled her sister in her arms.
“I’m sorry, Maggie. I just meant we would not have the opportunity to know love like you. I believe Robert, Father, Willie, Sam and Tom will be home as soon as this thing is over.” Mittie hurried across the room and hugged her sister.
A certain amount of doubt flittered through her mind. Far too many farms, homes and towns were being destroyed. She feared for her sisters and mother more than for herself.
Walking across the room to the window, she gazed out. More smoke, cannon fire and the never-ending gun blasts continued to fill the air. A shudder ran down her body.
Most sleepless nights the women gathered in the parlor to talk. Servants were dismissed with the order to bury or hide anything of value. War had an unusual affect on every living soul in the area. While the servants never uttered a word, most could have left during the confusion and noise, but they didn’t. Mittie refused to think of a life without her dark-skinned companion who had been assigned to her at the age of three.
Mittie was positive Ruth would stay long after the South won the war. When Ruth was but ten years old, Mittie had been placed in her care. They’d become friends with a mutual understanding of which lines to cross and which not to. Still, Mittie told Ruth more than she should have at times, but Ruth never betrayed her secrets. They both held a mutual respect for each other.
Although Mittie loved her sisters, she missed the talks she had with Ruth.
More times than not, the discussion shifted to the type of husband they each desired. With the war in place, their dreams would be lost. They would surely have to re-build houses, farms and lives with all the destruction radiating through the area. What a sad waste of lives and livelihood. Mittie shook her head.
The plantation house stood unaffected by the ravages of the war, except for the ashes and smoke that collected on the outer walls. Many windows overlooked the manicured grounds. Spring was in the air, and the hopes of Sander Cross Plantation should rise according to Mittie’s thoughts. It should be a special time of parties and balls to attend with the intention of finding a bachelor or two to choose from.
More and more families fled to the West as the war destroyed their crops and homes. Wagons loaded with furniture, clothing and children passed the plantation weekly. They would stop just long enough to rest weary horses, mules and slaves, and bring news of the war.
Izella held her needlework in her lap. “We need to have a ball,” she said, her eyes glittering with excitement.
“Mother, we cannot afford to have a party. How on earth do you expect to serve a company of folks?” Grace dropped her hands to her lap and stared at her mother.
“Each family could bring enough food to feed their own. Just because there is a war going on around us doesn’t mean we should lie down and wait for it to take us.” Izella’s eyes grew defiant.
“That is a splendid idea, Mother.” Mittie said, relishing the thought of a party. “I will set to ready the ballroom. Ruth, come along, keep me company.”
Ruth followed Mittie into the hallway and up the staircase. In the ballroom, Mittie pivoted to face her servant. “Have the other servants polish the banister, mantels and floors. We will need to beat the dust from the curtains. This is going to be so much fun, Ruth. What do you think?”
“Miss Mittie, with all due respect, I’m not sure. There is far too much danger for travel, even for a short way, in the dark. Ambushes and the sort have set up all across the South.” Ruth shifted her black eyes to Mittie.
Mittie stepped to the middle of the room and twisted her body to face Ruth. “Visitors could travel together and spend the night. Do you think if they traveled in darkness the dangers would be far worse?”
“Miss Mittie, from what the other servants tell me, it is a huge danger to travel at any given time. The Yankees will stop at nothing to control the South.”
In respect of the families, Mittie knew the words Ruth spoke to be true. How could her mother pull off such a party without endangering lives? If the Yanks got wind of a party, her mother would be accused of conspiring against the North and tossed into prison. Rumors ran amuck of hangings and such happening to women.
Her breath caught in her throat and her heart pounded against her ribs. She shook the vision from her mind of her mother’s body swinging from the gallows.
Chapter Eleven
Lewis
Lewis waited impatiently for his opportunity to send a letter to Izella. His heart sank more as time passed without her by his side. The piercing question of why he’d left in the first place clouded his vision. War was for young men, and he was far too old to freeze in the cold, drown in the rain and do without all the other luxuries the war failed to provide.
A rattle in his chest also burned his throat when he coughed. His hands shook as he tried to hold the pen steady. Heat produced sweat on his forehead. He closed his eyes for a few moments and willed his heart to steady before taking up his pen again.
My loving wife,
I fear this campaign is a lost cause. Even if we win the war there has already been so many lives lost it is a no-win situation for the North and the South. Rumors of state politics have changed into the freeing of the slaves. I don’t believe any of the men on the battlefields know what we are fighting for anymore. Days all run together with more time spent on resentment and fury than it takes to sort out the problems at hand. Our boys are maimed and battered, twisting the faith of the South into a hate-raged group of mercenaries who are inclined now to fight for the mere sport. Our commanders have turned into beasts refusing to acknowledge we are at a disadvantage with no weaponry or skills to continue the pursuit of the Union. They continue to throw about their orders to the tired, sick and hungry to stand and fight when there is no fight left in the stringy bodies of bones and skin.
Will these days ever end or are we destined to live the rest of our pitiful lives in bitter confusion? I cannot tell you of the horrors I have endured these years of being away from you, the girls and the plantation. Words fail to ease the heartaches accompanying this outrageous campaign in which we are embroiled. We have swooped down upon farms of lonely widow women trying to provide for their children and ravished their gardens, eaten the livestock and left the families homeless. If I ever come home, I swear Zell, I will never leave again. You can hold me to my word, as I am still a man of honor.
I love you forever, Lewis.
****
Robert
Robert began his letter home. Guilt lay heavy on his mind. Bad rumors floated a
round the infirmary from other prisoners being held outside of the hospital walls, complaints that the food, sleeping arrangements and treatment were lower than those sick or wounded. Warnings to take his time healing were tossed quietly his way.
The uncomfortable tick barely covered the hard wires of the bed frame and cut into his skin as if someone had lashed a whip across his back. The pillows were so sparse his head sunk into the square of the springs and refused his neck movement so he couldn’t glance around the room.
Pain from the wound no longer existed to unbearably torture him, but the bed caused plenty of hurt. His secret disgust hid behind his guilt for lying to his wife. He pulled out the pen and paper.
My dear wife and sweet daughter,
I am still in the prison. Things here are not as terrible as one might think. The doctors who work on us are doing their best. Guards, doctors and nurses are overwhelmed by the amount of men brought in each day. I haven’t met any of our friends and I’m confused if I should feel good or bad about that. For now, I am safe. Too many arrive daily and I’m in the infirmary with others with more life-threatening injuries. Their moans and screams keep me awake at night. Yet, there is a sort of peace knowing we don’t hear much of the gunshots or cannons. Little news of the war filters in to us. Rumors of the end dominate the perception of the war. I regret not hearing word from your brothers and father. I worry with each load of prisoners they bring in. I have yet to meet anyone who can inform me of their whereabouts. I pray they are all good and safe.