by Stephy Smith
****
Samuel
Samuel continued to take out his ledger and write when he had a spare moment and could keep his eyes open. If there was a place to escape to even for only a few hours of silence, he had no idea where it would be. Others chose to drown themselves in games of chess, cards and by whatever means they could find. All he wanted was peace to enjoy the sun beating its burning rays upon his face in a refreshing manner instead of baking in the heat under such horrid conditions.
The pages of his journal grew wrinkled and curled up as he wrote his accounts day after day to conceal the real war within its pages. He tucked the diary between his sheets to prevent others from toting it away. It was his little way of placing the wickedness away from the reach of others.
In 1863 he wrote as if he were writing his mother. Although he did not want her to know of the sins they committed along the bloody trails.
As we move along with our tents following the battles, we turn people out of their homes. We take over their barns or any kind of crude structures to lay our patients in. Flies and mosquitoes feast upon us and the victims brought in with nasty wounds. Blood pools at our feet as if we were standing in the middle of a river. Scores of arms, legs and other parts pile in a corner buzzing with insects until the burial crew can dig the trench to bury them in mass graves. Men litter the grounds outside, dying while in wait and then tossed in the trench with no markers or respect. Their names will be written in history as unknown upon the heap of dirt piled on them.
Stern orders come to our camps in a fertile intent to boost the morale of the South. We all know the North is going to win the war and yet the impotent minds of the commanders will not concede to surrender. We are greedily eager to destroy every man and his family for the cause. Mother, I ask you what kind of vile and humiliating revolt this campaign has turned into. Death is an unpleasant fact, but to take the lives of these brave and courageous young men from this earth is as sinful as one could possibly encounter. Officers march in and command the men to take their crutches back to the battlefield. Diseases are spreading throughout our camps, killing our men at a notorious rate. Vengeance is the mastermind, sympathy is the underdog beaten into a bloody pulp in the name of this collapsed country.
****
Thomas
Tom cringed behind the solid rocks. His heart beat with ferocity until the cannonball shot out with a fiery glow, propelled from the cannon gleaming in the sunlight. The solid round mass hurtled toward him. He clenched his hands over his ears to muffle the sound. Shivers slid down his torso in unquenchable disregard to the destruction caused upon impact.
The torrential volley of gunshots rained through the sky as if it had opened up. Gray clouds of smoke drifted with ease on the slight breeze, slowly making its way across the battlefield. Wildflowers drooped in the heat surrounding the new men sprawled across the ground. The battle raged for two hours. To him it seemed as if it had lasted weeks before the battlefield quieted into eerie moans.
He fell back with his unit as they took refuge under a small cliff. He leaned against the solid wall and slithered down it to rest. Clinks from the lids of canteens rattle on the chains. The men around him sat with empty eyes and hushed breaths. Out of habit he removed his writing materials and set forth his view of the day’s event upon the empty sheet.
Hiding behind boulders, trepidation surrounds us as if it were our best friend. It latches itself to us as if we breathe life into its thirsty lungs. Dread chokes our courage until nothing stands between us and the enemy except apprehension drifting between the two lines. We seldom know what or who is on the other side of the rocks or in the deep, dark crevices filled with the cold clutches of death. Whether it be foe or friend, we keep vigilance by watching over our shoulders in animated suspense.
Running through woods, hearing footsteps nearing…the unknown is worse than gazing into the eyes of the devil. Oh what have I done coming into something I should never have got involved in? Such a catastrophe and mockery this fatal war has become. Our men are dying from malaria and other such diseases. The North continuously assaults us as if we were a bounty placed before them to devour. Their men are impeccably equipped with new supplies, food and medicine. They come in numbers much larger than ours and are well-rested when they prey upon our pitiful men. If you have ever seen an animal attack another for its sustenance you would know how the North is preying upon us. They are likened to hungry vultures, ripping our men in their greedy claws.
We are tattered and torn until there is nothing left but skin and bones. They have cut off our supplies and overrun our railroads and set up blockades so we no longer have medicine to treat our own. Some days I wonder if it would be beneficial to surrender and go to one of their prisons for just a few winks of rest. Oh what a treat that would be for our war-ravaged men.
Chapter Twelve
Izella
The Yankees stormed down upon the plantation with lack of restraint, taking anything that wasn’t nailed down and, what they didn’t choose, they crushed and destroyed with no observation of remorse.
Izella kicked and wriggled to break free of the strong hands holding her back. Orange flames turned to dark smoke filling the air as slave shacks burst into charred ruins. Blue coats scattered amongst the fields, touching tips of their torches to the crops. The world around her burnt with rapid pops and embers spraying into the sky. Cries of the slaves blistered her soul as she glared in horror at the Yankees who forced them to leave the plantation at gunpoint.
Men and women alike turned toward her, shouting. “Please Miss Izella, don’t make us go. We wants to stay here with yo’ family.”
Her heart rent with disgust and sorrow at the brutality the men in the blue coats poured upon the people as they pushed and prodded with the tips of the bayonets. Her friends from the fields were herded farther from the plantation in awkward protest. Children fled to the nearby woods at the urging of their mothers. Colossal pandemonium swept over the homestead with such determination they had no time to prevent the occurrences.
Never in her life had she witnessed the humility and mistreatment of her slaves. Not one time had she or Lewis ordered lashes to one of them and now the Yanks stole them as if they were nothing more than fishing worms dangling from hooks to be cast into a sea of the unknown.
Her heart sank for the people. When other whites found out her workers could read and write as well as any white folks, they would be punished for their accomplishment. She feared they would be beaten down until they were destroyed. Tears slipped down her cheeks and pain swelled in her chest as mothers called to her to take care of their babies.
****
Maggie
Maggie couldn’t stop the tears rolling down her cheeks. The Yankees held her by both arms, forcing her to watch the plantation burn. Heart-rending screams filled the air as one of the older women yelled out a chant that sent shivers down her spine. The woman’s crippled fingers drew pictures in the air and Maggie was sure she was casting a spell upon the men as they dragged her from the security of her flaming home.
Her mind raced to her small daughter being held nearby. Amanda cried, grasping the thin air, leaning toward her mama, but the man holding her wouldn’t let her go. Maggie fought, scratching at the men, trying to release their hold so she could go to her frightened child. She kicked out with all her might to make contact with the shins of the brutes, sliding her hard soles down the legs of the men as they yelled out in pain.
She continued to fight to reach her daughter to no avail. The men laughed in her face and the stench of their breath nauseated her. Bile rose in her throat and she prayed to expel the putrid liquid upon one of the men who refused her access to her child.
****
Grace
Grace couldn’t hold her tongue any longer. The evil the soldiers were forcing upon her family angered her. If she was going to die it would be tonight and she couldn’t care less as long as her family was safe from the beast wreaking havoc on the
entire family of women.
Her mother’s tears scorched the soul of her being. She watched in sheer hatred as the inconsiderate men trampled and destroyed the kitchen garden—the only place her mother spent time alone in to deal with her feelings of the war.
When Grace opened her mouth words spewed out as if they had been locked in a vault for fifty years.
“I demand that you release my family. What gives you the right to come into our home and destroy our lives? Cowards! That’s all you are, a bunch of cowards intimidating women and children. You men obviously do not have what it takes to fight soldiers since you are here where we have no men other than the help.” She stiffened her back and opened her mouth once more, but the men’s laughter drowned out her words.
Hatred burned in her soul. She glanced as her mother and sisters fought to free themselves. Amanda screamed, begging for her mother. Grace was now at war as she fought harder to free herself from the disrespectful men clinging to her arms.
Her heart pounded with fury as the cries from the children penetrated the air. Soul wrenching cries from mothers driven from their families and homes by the hands of uncaring men echoed over the plantation as a lament at a funeral.
****
Mittie
Mittie wriggled loose from the soldiers grasp. She picked up a large rock and swung with all her might. The man went down and she ran to the barn. Picking up the pitchfork she jabbed at the men who followed her. “Get off our land!” Her voice sounded pure evil.
She shoved the pitchfork in the face of the nearest man and caught his cheek with the tine, sending him into a screaming frenzy. Another one neared and she stabbed at him. One after another, the men backed away from the barn. She continued the assault until she reached her mother’s side. As the men released her mother, she lobbed the weapon at their feet. The fork sunk through the flesh of one man’s foot and pinned the screaming man to the ground. She had to yank hard to free it from the earth below.
Then, with her mother in tow, they made their way to Maggie. The soldiers glared until she neared and the commander called the men to retreat. Grace’s captors shoved her to the ground and Amanda was tossed on top of her.
Mittie ran after the men, wielding her weapon. At seventeen years old she could outrun most of the boys in the county. Gaining on the last one, she threw the fork into the back of the Yank. Two others came back and dragged him by the arms until they were all out of sight. She walked to the discarded fork and lifted it from the ground. Her rapid breathing tightened her chest and a pain in her side sprinted across her abdomen.
Her legs wobbled as she struggled to make it to the burning structures. She tossed the fork aside and joined the line passing water and empty buckets to and from the well. The women and children that had run to the woods returned to take their place in the fire line. Buckets full of water were tossed on the flames. The women worked hard to save as many of the building as they could. The scent of burnt wood invaded their nose and smoke stung their eyes.
Slave women and children continued to moan out the loss of their families. They stayed planted to the earth during the squelching of the fires. With the last of the flames extinguished, Mittie hugged the helpers and expressed her deepest sympathies to the ones left behind.
Her shoulders slumped as she followed her mother and sisters back into the mansion. She shook her head at the mess before them. Her mother swiped debris from the chair and fell into the cushiony seat.
Chapter Thirteen
Lewis
Lewis couldn’t bear his burdens alone. The last thing he wanted to do was bog his wife down since she was having her own problems at the plantation. He wrote his letter and contemplated whether he should post it or not.
My loving Zell,
Please forgive me for the things I have done and observed my sweet Zell. I don’t know how the boys are dealing with their inequities, but as for me I hope I can leave all this behind on the battlefields. You and the girls should not be victims of the memories from this war. There is no victory in killing young men. Boys the age of ours are frightened, scorned and tortured if they run for not accepting what lies ahead of them. What a sad day for all of us as we listen to the mournful songs of the dying and wounded begging to be pulled from their torment.
Izella, I cannot impress upon you enough to be thankful for the life we had. When I come home, I want you to know I have changed. There are nightmares, terrible torments you should be aware of. Things I cannot shake from my mind. A sense of garbled interference embedded in my soul. Sorrowful torment threatening to deliver a final blow to my core, which has me believing there is no one to turn to, no place to hide or no forgiveness deserved on my part.
Sam can relate to the things I mention. If he survives the war, assurance of surviving the mind is far less likely, for he is faced with the tragedies non-stop in the field hospitals. The weather still pummels us with all it can muster. Heat without shade, cold without blankets, water tainted with blood, oh Zell, what mind was I in when I dragged our sons into the middle of a squabble we will relive for the rest of our days. Their feeble minds might be ruined for eternity after fighting for a cause we no longer understand. The girls will never comprehend the devastation we men have to face with each breath until our dying days. Our grandchildren will never know the goodness that once existed in our hearts. You, my dear, will be frightened when I scream out in horror in my sleep and you are jostled awake by my thrashing about. I beg your forgiveness now for the future I am afraid will follow me home.
Your loving husband, Lewis
****
Robert
Robert passed his spare time writing home. Too much devastation in the prison would be ingrained in his mind for years to come, but there was no sense in letting Maggie know the full extent of the restrictions put upon the prisoners.
My dear sweet Maggie,
Talk of moving some of the prisoners has filtered into our tent. So many men who sleep under the elements are dying in droves. Maggie, this place is full of malaria and dysentery. It would not suffice me to give you an estimate on the number of bodies buried in the mass graves we dig. Being on the crew gives me something to do besides wait for my own death. The Yanks won’t let us put up markers or know the names of the men we bury. For the most part I wonder if they know any of our names at all, for they are distancing themselves from the reality just the same as we are.
The survival of war is a hard stone to try to swallow. The Yanks want it all to end just as we do. The reports we receive are no more encouraging than the ones coming from the front lines. One guard informed us they are winning the war, as do the prisoners they bring in each day.
Our men are worn, tired and beaten. Clothing and boots are missing from their attire. Frostbitten feet wrapped in shreds of material dominate most of the captured men. Constant pain is co-existent with every step they take. Young men walk as if they were a hundred years old. Some have no toes as they have rotted and fallen off. It’s a terrible sight to look upon the blackened feet of the soldiers. I have no words of encouragement for the men who continue to fight for their lives. I cannot help but sympathize with them, for their outcome appears to be bleak. Their defeat is worse than mine, for to lose your ability to push forward in such circumstances has no promise of a healthy life. I pray for these men, and you should also ask of the church to join in the deep prayers for their families.
****
Samuel
Samuel found a small amount of comfort in writing in his diary. The real world had become a distant past. Sanity could only be regained once the war ended. He trod cautiously each time his eyes opened. Fear of crossing the line into insanity threatened his daily routine. His best friend had become the secret passages he shared with his journal.
1864
Sleep is a thing of the past. I fear I will never rest again as I endure the horrors of this war. Doctors that work in their cozy hospitals are not as pampered as one would like to think. They still see their share
of the wounded. They still hear the men begging to die.
The pain is so great tears cannot flow. My heart conceals the revolting outrage of disaster forming around me. My world has become a brilliant source of hatred and fertile with contempt. This cause we are fighting has twisted its vile fingers into a gaudy sense of self–preservation of which I am ashamed. I crawl inside myself and glare at the wound and not the men sporting such scars, never connecting them as a man who bravely marched into battle and earned the right to be called a hero. Rejoicing the end of the war will only benefit those who were not privy to the catastrophe. Victory will follow only to those standing on the sidelines without ever seeing battle. Oh, how I envy those souls.
****
Thomas
Thomas stood in the trench, shivering in the rain. A single shot rang out and he leaned against the muddy incline, his rifle aimed at enemy lines. The drum of his heart never ceased to echo in his mind. The continuity of the war brought him down.
He swiped the rain from his face just as a massive round of shots echoed down the ditch. He squeezed the trigger and sent his bullet volleying into enemy lines.
Repeatedly, he reloaded as the exchange battered back and forth between the North and South. After a few hours, the air fell silent and smoke lifted from the sod. Men lay scattered before him, next to him, and on either side, bringing a twist to his heart as if a bayonet had been plunged into it.