by Iris Penn
The list of prisoners taken at the battle filled almost two pages, and Melinda knew that the Union Army was taking most of them to Ohio, more specifically, a prison on Johnson’s Island out in one of the great lakes. As she wrote her letter, she grew more frustrated with each word, until she either had to end the letter immediately, or throw it across the room into the fireplace.
April meant rain, and a lot of it, and the next morning the fields and gardens were virtually underwater. At first, she thought it was good sign, that the rain would help speed along the growing, but after two more days of downpours, she suddenly worried that everything would be washed away.
When the rain broke enough for her go out, she pulled on an old pair of boots and her trousers and walked out into the garden, though she felt her feet grow heavy with the caked mud and if she stopped for too long in one spot, she could feel herself sinking.
Most of the tomatoes were gone, and the corn stalks, little as they were, were underwater. Worried by this, she checked her watermelon hills and found them crushed and gone. She blinked back tears of frustration. What would her father have done? Planted some more, except there were no more seeds, and the prices in town were crawling higher each day. As she stood there, hopelessly looking around her field, a crow squawked and landed nearby. It was a bold move, and it told her the crows no longer feared her.
“I’ll show you,” she muttered as she reached into the mud and found a good-sized chunk of rock. Before the crow could move, she hurled the rock at it. It struck the bird on the side, and a few feathers fluttered away. The crow cackled and jutted around in a daze, as if trying to figure out what had just happened.
“You want another one?” asked Melinda. “Here!” She threw another rock at it, and another, until a barrage of stones was flying at the bird before it could process what was going on. Most of them landed wide, but when one hit, the bird would let out an angry caw, until another rock hit it square in the beak.
The crow fell over in the mud, and Melinda paused with her arm in mid-swing, about to let another rock go when the bird stopped making any sounds at all. She dropped the rock when she realized the bird was dead. It was not only dead, but she had killed it, and she had done it with a viciousness that surprised her.
She slogged through the mud back to her house and didn’t even bother taking her boots off before going inside. Trails of mud followed her throughout the house, and as she passed the letter on the table with its pitifully few lines, frustration overwhelmed her. She grabbed the letter and crumpled it. There was not enough on the paper. Not enough words to express what she really wanted to say. She flung the paper into the fireplace and watched it burn.
***
SHE MADE ANOTHER TRIP to the Johnsons’ farm later that week. It was early May, and the peach trees had all been in full bloom for a while now. The peach blossoms fell around on the ground like soft snow, but Melinda did not see any beauty in it. She was somber, thoughtful, and the absence of her father was like a knife had carved her heart out.
With her father in prison, it might be years before he came home. She didn’t think she could make it. Deep inside, she was terrified of the thought, and when she had tried to reset the plants and find what little seed was left, she realized it was going to be a long and lonely road.
Joan Johnson was sewing a pair of trousers that had ripped along the seam when Melinda came up to the house. Joan had not seen Melinda since she and Frank had gone into Gallatin a few weeks ago, and the change in the girl was painfully apparent.
The sparkle in Melinda’s eyes was dead. It was like watching a living corpse shamble up the road. There was no lightness to her step. Now she walked like an old woman, not caring where the next step was going to take her. The hollowed out circles under the girl’s eyes were like shadows that refused to leave, no matter how much light you poured on them. She was still pretty, Joan decided, but it was a beauty ravished with deep and resounding pain.
She wasn’t even smiling. The girl managed a half-grin as she greeted Joan, but it was nothing compared to the girl who had skipped over just weeks ago.
“You have seen better days, my dear,” said Joan as the girl sat on the porch steps. “Have you been eating? You look thin as a post.”
“Seeds are all gone,” said Melinda. “The rains washed away most of the things I planted, and I don’t have anything left to plant.”
“Poor dear,” said Joan, putting her sewing aside. “Frank will let you have some, I’m sure.”
“Why has there been no message sent to me?” asked Melinda. “Surely the army or somebody would send me a letter telling me what has happened to my father, wouldn’t they?”
“Well, these things take time. With the war going on, things are different now. People have changed.”
“The war, the war,” Melinda murmured. “I’m sick of the war. Sick of the whole Confederate mess. They took my father, and they owe me for that.”
“There’s not much we can do, dear,” Joan said, trying to comfort the girl. “We can’t change the way things are. Your father will be home before too long, you’ll see.”
It was like Melinda was in a different world. She had a vague notion of things happening out there. She wasn’t quite sure where out there was. It was more of a concept, than an actual place. She would stay on her farm cut off from the rest of the world while things continued happening out there and without her participation or knowledge. Her father was one of those people out there. She grew afraid, even with Joan’s gentle words trying to sooth and calm her.
“I should have gotten a letter from the army at least,” Melinda said under her breath, as if speaking to herself. “I shouldn’t have had to read about it in the paper.”
Joan rocked in her chair and mindlessly plucked a stray thread from the pants. “You should come stay with us until all of this is over,” she said, still rocking. “At the very least you would have something to eat.”
Melinda couldn’t tell from Joan’s tone whether it was a sincere offer of help or just made out of pity. She was not a child. She could manage on her own. Melinda almost started to say something harsh to the woman, but stopped before the first words came. What was happening to her? Two weeks ago, she would have never even thought such things. Of course, Joan was offering out of kindness. She had known her all her life, and practically thought of her as she would her own daughter if she had one. Still, she couldn’t take her up on the offer. There was enough food canned and preserved to last at the very least until winter, and then she would be able to put away all the things she would grow over the summer.
She started to say no, but then more thoughts came. There were no more seeds, and the rains had wiped out many of the things she planted. Then there were the crows, and if any corn managed to survive the summer, it might not be enough after it was picked. She didn’t have the money to buy more.
No, she was determined not to be a burden on the Johnson family. Frank Johnson was a good farmer and had things well planned, but with the war, the unknown factor figured in heavily. It might all be gone tomorrow.
“Thank you, Mrs. Johnson,” she heard herself say. “But I can’t. I’ll be fine, and I have more than enough food put away. Don’t worry about me.”
Joan smiled, but said nothing. Melinda knew the look Joan was giving her. It was the knowing look of a mother who had listened to her child and knew she was wrong, but decided to let her experience her mistake for herself. It would be one of life’s lessons well learned.
“I’ll be fine,” Melinda repeated, as if trying to convince herself. “I’ll be just fine.”
***
JOAN HAD ENDED UP giving Melinda some more paper from an old blank journal she used to write recipes in sometimes. Now, as Melinda sat at her table again, pen in hand, all that came to her was the sight of the blank paper in front of her. Although she was determined to say all the things she wanted to say, she could not get past the greeting, and the ink dripped from her pen as she held it poise
d above the page.
She had eaten some tomatoes out of a jar retrieved from the cellar, but she was still hungry. Melinda wanted to save the meat for later in the season, but Joan was right: she hadn’t been eating much, instead, she tried to conserve food whenever she could. She had always been thin, but now she could tell she had lost more weight. The combination of working out in the gardens every day and eating as little as she could get away with was taking its toil. Now, what fat she had was being dissolved, and bones she hadn’t realized she had made their presence known as they began to protrude in sharp lumps beneath her skin.
It was crazy. She decided she was not going to live like that. There had never been any reason to conserve food when her father was there, and now should not be any different.
That decided, she went back to the cellar and hacked off a large piece of salted pork and selected some onions and potatoes from the boxes holding them. She realized that it was the last potato, and she hadn’t planted any more that year. For a long time she stood there holding it in her hand and debating whether to eat it.
Her stomach answered for her, and soon she was enjoying grilled ham fried in the large iron skillet with cooked potatoes and onions. As she ate, she looked again at the blank paper that refused to let any words be written on it.
Okay, she told herself. This is your father you are writing to, not some boy you have a crush on. It should be very easy.
In the end, she began writing, and the words suddenly sprang forth in a rush, and she was very sad when she reached the end of her pages and found she still had more to say.
The next letter will have the rest of it, she wrote at the bottom of the last page, just before she signed her name.
Now, she had to take it to Gallatin to send it off. Hopefully, Mr. Johnson could take her tomorrow. As she washed her plate from her dinner, her full stomach made her feel better she had in quite some time. She decided not to deprive herself anymore.
She didn’t have to.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“SON,” COLONEL WILDER OF the 5th Tennessee Cavalry Company said. “We’re going to have to do something about that leg of yours.” Rain streamed off the brim of his hat. He had the stern look of a brimstone preacher as he sat on his horse with his saber drawn.
Colby clutched a double handful of his horse’s mane and tried not to double over in pain. If he let go, he would fall, and if he fell, it was unlikely he would be getting up anytime soon. His leg was inflamed, streaking red in sharp bursts up throughout his entire body. Colonel Wilder had halted the entire company just north of the Hardin County line as the rains began to pelt them.
The company consisted of ninety men: sixty regulars and thirty more pulled from the train wreck near Savannah. Colby and his fellow former prisoners had stepped up when Wilder called for volunteers. They had been armed with the rifles from the dead Union soldiers and mounted on the horses roaming near the tracks.
John Holcomb watched with concern as Colby tried to mount a horse. It was apparent that Colby was desperately trying to hide how much pain he was in. He had his leg sticking out stiff, away from the horse’s body as it moved, trying not to knock against the horse’s flank.
They pushed north with surprising speed considering most of the soldiers from the train were not trained as mounted cavalry, but the majority of them had grown up in Tennessee, and they had practically been raised on horseback.
The troops made their way through a backwoods network of logging roads and foot paths, plunging through thick groves of trees at an almost full gallop. The company’s banner flapped in front: crossed golden swords against a stark white field.
They continued moving with speed, and with each step his horse took, Colby felt a lightning flash of agony. It was a blur of movement, and Colby felt his head go light until Colonel Wilder pulled them up to a stop. The rains came in a torrent, and most of the men welcomed a chance to stop for the night.
Colby shivered against his horse’s neck as he leaned against it. He could feel the fever beginning to take hold of him, and the infection from his leg was a red arrow shooting straight into his head.
The company regulars gathered around Colby and formed a semi-circle with Colonel Wilder nudging his horse closer to the sick man. He had his saber out, and as he spoke, Colby had a vision of the colonel taking a swing and severing his leg in one swift motion.
“Going to have to do something about that leg, son,” Wilder repeated. “Going to slow you down, and my boys like to move fast.”
“Sorry, sir,” Colby whispered.
“We’ll take care of it for you,” Wilder said. “Sergeant Beard!”
A stocky man dismounted in the mud, his boots sinking into the wet ground. He came up to the colonel and saluted.
“Sir!”
“Sergeant Beard here, Private Dalton, is a famous man. He’s renowned for his surgical skills. In fact, he was assigned to the medical corps, but he requested a transfer so he could ride with me. I was flattered of course, but I realized how useful a man of his skills and talents could be with all of our dangerous undertakings.”
“Let me take a look at your leg, Private,” said Beard, stepping up beside Colby’s horse. He pushed the trouser leg up and whistled at the sight beneath. “It’s infected and turning green,” he said. “Gonna have to take that leg off.”
Colby heard the sergeant’s analysis, but was in too much pain to protest. Beard walked over to his horse and removed a small box from behind the saddle.
“Take care of it, Sergeant,” ordered Wilder, swinging himself off his horse. He moved off into the rain where the rest of his men were trying to set up their tents for the night.
John Holcomb came up beside Beard as the doctor walked back over to Colby. Colby was slumped against his horse’s neck, his eyes closed, and water streaming across his face.
“Is this really necessary?” asked Holcomb. “Do you have to take his leg?”
Sergeant Beard barely acknowledged the man beside him. “Colonel’s orders,” he said. “Doesn’t want anyone slowing us down. Have you seen his leg? It’s a mess, no question. Help me get him down.”
Colby felt hands lifting him off the horse, then he was stretched out beneath a tent of some sort. Through a haze, he saw Sergeant Beard cutting away at his trouser leg until he felt the cool night air biting into his wound. He moaned a little, and he noticed Holcomb was there, holding a flask of some kind.
“Rum,” said Holcomb. “Drink some.”
The bittersweet liquid ran down Colby’s throat, sending a strange burn throughout his body.
“Do you have morphine?” Holcomb asked as he watched Beard open his box and pull out a small bottle.
“No,” said Beard. “It’s chloroform.”
The sergeant uncorked his bottle, and Holcomb grew dizzy as the scent filled the tent’s interior. A small amount of the liquid was poured over a cloth rag.
“Rest easy, son,” Beard told Colby. “This will make it better.” He pushed the rag over Colby’s nose and mouth. Colby’s arms flared out in sudden alarm, then he felt himself drifting away into a hazy sleep that was very comforting. From somewhere out there in the darkness, he heard the faint hiss of a metal blade being drawn out of its scabbard and a scream he thought might have been his.
***
WHEN HE AWOKE, HE thought the doctor had changed his mind and decided not to chop off his leg. In fact, it still felt as if he had it, and there was a faint itch somewhere down there around his foot. As he reached for it, his hand met empty air, and his eyes flared open.
He saw Holcomb’s concerned face sitting beside him on the cold ground. Colby was lying on a blanket, but Holcomb sat in the grass, flask in hand. From the angle Holcomb held it, Colby figured it was empty.
“My leg.”
“Took it off and buried it,” said Holcomb, voice edged with the drink. “Colonel Wilder said they were riding out, but they left me here to watch you.”
“What?” Colby felt grainy a
nd tense, his head throbbing from the chloroform. It hadn’t worn off enough for him to feel the pain of his missing leg.
“Yep,” said Holcomb. “Said they had to push on toward Nashville. Asked for volunteers to stay with you, because the Doc didn’t know when you’d be ready to go. Wilder said you were a rock chained around the leg of his horse, and decided to leave you.”
Colby groaned and closed his eyes, wishing he could drift away again. His leg kept itching, and he kept trying to touch the space where it used to be. It was a strange feeling, like he was unbalanced.
“They brought us a wagon and left us two horses,” said Holcomb, tipping up the last of the flask to his lips. Colby wondered how long he had been sitting there drinking.
“Where exactly are we?” asked Colby, though his mouth felt stuffed with cotton and tasted of old leather.
“South of Decatursville,” said Holcomb. “Nashville’s to the east, and Savannah’s to the south. God’s in his Heaven, and I am here.”
“I’m thirsty,” said Colby, his eyes drifting toward the flask, but Holcomb offered him a canteen of water, which was warm and stale tasting. He looked at what was left of his leg. They had taken it just above the knee, and his slim thigh ended in a bloody stump capped with what looked like a leather patch. He didn’t feel the pain. Not yet. But he knew it was coming soon. He could already feel it around the edges, a gradual heat growing hotter with each passing minute.
“Thank you, John,” he said. “For staying.”
Holcomb looked at him, his eyes flushed and red and watering. Colby knew Holcomb would probably regret his decision very soon, but for now, as long as the rum had lasted, Holcomb seemed content to stay where he was.
“Do you think they did me a favor?” Colby asked, his voice hazy from the chloroform.
“I think they probably saved your life.”
“I wouldn’t have done it. I’m a farmer, and now what am I going to do?”
“Marry into a rich family.”
Colby cracked a brief smile. “People will stare. They’ll whisper to each other after I’ve passed by and some will ask me how I lost my leg.”