Past Lives

by Chartier, Shana

  “You are a wild Irish lass, you know that?” he said affectionately, his Irish brogue coming out of its secret hiding place. I continued to frown at him, the pretense being that I would possibly never see him again. He gave me another fierce hug.

  “Don’t be fearing for me now, J. We’re survivors, you and I. We’ve made it this far, haven’t we?” he asked, his attempt at consoling me seemingly successful. I heaved a heavy sigh.

  “Well then, make it quick, and be back for it. You realize that you’re fighting to protect the entrapment of slaves,” I finished pointedly. He winced.

  “You know I have no choice,” he said, almost in a whisper. No one knew better than I that he had no choice. I placed my hand consolingly on his arm.

  “I know, brother. Just…come back to us,” I whispered hoarsely. He gently kissed my forehead, and it was clear I was still a small child in my elder brother’s eyes. I gave him my best look of encouragement, and we squeezed hands before he crept right back out of my room and into the darkness. I had been waiting for his visit, and now that it had passed I slowly crept back to my bed and pulled out the sharp piece of glass. Pulling my night braid to the side, I began to saw at little pieces of my hair, knowing it would be ugly and uneven. Hopefully no one would be the wiser. When it was done, I stared at the black pile on the floor, shaking my head left and right in awe of the lightness of it. There was a sort of freedom that came with cutting off my hair, but it was also a final seal. There would be no going back now, no matter the consequences.

  I put on Jack’s baggy trousers and shirt, taking care to bag the shirt out a little more underneath my breasts. Luckily, I wasn’t voluptuous, much as Jean liked to proclaim, and I was very grateful for that now. Having to wrap my chest down every day would have been a daunting task, and I didn’t know how much privacy I would get. I slid on my only pair of sturdy socks and my work shoes, and then I blew out the candle and sat on the hard floor by my bed, waiting. Another hour or so should be late enough to sneak into the wagon, I thought.

  Time passed slowly, silence permeating my entire world. I thought about what it would be like, marching about and shooting muskets. In a million years, I never would have seen myself in such a state. Finally, I decided to make my move. I crept to the door and slid out into the hallway, my eyes well-adjusted to the pitch black of night. I winced at every small creak in the servants’ staircase as I made my way down painfully slowly, my heart pounding at the thought of being caught. Finally, I made it to the outside door, the world a glittering sheen covered in fresh rain, dancing in the light of a muted moon. I crept silently over to the wagon, lifted myself in, and curled up under a pile of blankets Bastian had thought might be useful.

  The wagon smelled of oiled metal and horse. I tried to find a comfortable spot, splintered wood digging into my side seemingly every way I turned. Finally, exhausted at the hint of first light, I passed out well hidden under a pile of battle supplies. My dreams were wrought with shouting, and suddenly I was being tossed about in an angry ocean. I was back on the immigrant ship from Ireland, the stench of human bodies and bile piercing the air around me. Suddenly a monster yelled, “Look out!” and I hit a brick wall, knocked straight into consciousness.

  The canvas surrounding me in the wagon was backlit by a bright sun, which heated the small space enough to make it hot enough to suffocate. My body was drenched in sweat, clothing sticking to moist skin. Slowly, I peeled back a hot blanket from my face. No one sat inside the wagon, though I watched as numerous shadows made their way to and fro alongside it. Hearing voices approach the open back side, I tucked my head back under.

  “This is right kind of you, Mister Liddell,” a man said, and I could hear him poking around at some of the supplies closer to the entrance. Please don’t come any further, I prayed.

  “We’re happy to help, Robert. Anything we can do, you just let me know.”

  “Much obliged, much obliged,” he said politely, and then suddenly he was yelling.

  “Johnny! Get this wagon over near the supplies, and move it fast!”

  My head banged against the front of the wagon bed as the horses jerked forward, and I realized very quickly that I was going to have to find a way out of the bed without looking like a thief. Rubbing the hurt out of my head, I waited until the wagon came to a complete stop again, drooping and lifting with the weight of the man who had driven it as he made his departure. Holding my breath, I slowly crouched, wrapping my sack behind me, the strap sitting comfortably across the front of my body. I carefully untied the two pieces of canvas holding the front of the wagon bed together, peeking out at a thankfully empty supply area. I slipped out as quickly as I could and dropped down to the ground, landing heavily on my bottom, a cloud of dust erupting around me.

  Afraid of being caught, I scrambled through some trees until I saw the enlisting tent, a long line of men waiting to be registered and prepped for departure. This was it, I thought. Either I got caught for the fake I was, or they miraculously believed me to be a young boy with a desire to fight for his country. I hunched over a bit in an attempt to keep my chest hidden and made my way over to the long line, keeping a wary eye out for my brother and Bastian. They were nowhere to be found.

  There wasn’t a blade of grass to be seen in the encampment, and everyone was covered from head to toe with dust from the thirsty ground. If it had rained here last night, there was no way to tell, and I breathed in the scent of campfire smoke and leather. I made every attempt not to make eye contact with anyone, to completely disappear, and I kept it up as the line slowly snaked forward into the tent. Men chatted nervously with one another, firing each other up with the passion of their beliefs. My belly was on fire with hunger, and the scent of biscuits and some kind of meat hit my nostrils, fueling the uncomfortable ache.

  Still, I was used to being uncomfortable. I watched as some men around me shifted from foot to foot, trying to relieve themselves from the pain of standing for hours at a time. Then there were the rest of us—the workers. We were used to standing, sometimes for days on end, and we stood silently waiting our turn. When I finally made it into the tent, a brown bearded man in a gray military uniform sat at a wooden table on a small stool. He didn’t look up. His face was drenched in sweat, and he ran a swift kerchief over it.

  “Name,” he said, probably for the thousandth time that day. His voice was gravel on cobblestones.

  “James Sullivan,” I said, my fake name falling off my tongue with practiced ease. At the high pitch of my voice, however, the man looked up. I hoped my panic didn’t show.

  “Age,” he said in the same monotone timbre. He was looking at me as though he already knew the lie that would come, and I gave him my most desperate pleading glance, and told him the truth.

  “19, sir.”

  He continued to stare. It was a battle I could see play out across his face. Did he let a child into the military, or did he send the boy home to his mother. I decided to give him reason for me to stay.

  “If I could sir, I’d like to be with my brother’s regiment and fight by his side. His name is Jack Sullivan, sir,” I said, lowering my voice as much as possible without being too obvious about it. The man’s expression changed from skeptical to understanding, and I felt elated that my trick had worked. He scanned his quill down a very long list until he found my brother’s name and pointed.

  “Head over to this infantry tent then, and welcome to the Confederate volunteer army. Please sign your name here,” he said finally, and I gratefully looped my initials before being herded over through a supply line. Hefting my new musket over my shoulder, I was also given a small choice of supplies, and I grabbed a pan for cooking, a cartridge and some bullets, a blanket, a canteen, and a tin cup. Last but not least, my grey soldier’s uniform was handed over in the smallest size they had. I placed everything in my bag and strolled over to my new infantry unit, mindful to keep an eye out for my brother so I could keep a reasonable distance.

  “Hey you!” an
angry voice yelled out, and I turned, afraid I had been caught for being a woman. What would they do to me if they knew? I wondered frantically. A large man in an officer’s uniform came storming up to me and he began to bark orders inches from my face, spittle flying across my mouth and nose. I stood still, trying not to think about what just flew onto my tongue.

  “What are you doing here, you idiot!? You should be dressed and prepared for training. NOW!”

  I wanted to tell him that I had literally just gotten out of line, but instead ran over to a group of tents, frantically looking for an empty one to change in. I found one a couple rows back and slid in, tossing my clothes aside and pulling on my ill-fitting uniform, all the while casting nervous glances at the tent flap, just waiting to be discovered. I rolled the starched pant legs and sleeves as much as I could, grabbed my heavy musket and set off at a run toward a long line up of men.

  It wasn’t hard to spot Jack and Bastian…I had known them my whole life. It helped that Bastian had the bearing of one who had been used to being treated with respect, and he held that even as I watched an officer spit on his dusty boots. I sidled in next to another smaller guy in the back and stood straight, knowing that in the thick, oversized uniform, no one would take me for a girl. We all watched as the officer berated Bastian in front of the whole unit.

  “I don’t give two shits where you came from, soldier. You are a member of the Confederate army! You have all officially fallen into the same class. If anyone forgets himself in this regiment, they can expect to have a word with me—and believe me,” he finished maliciously, lowering his voice an octave. “You won’t like it.”

  “I want eight miles from all of you—NOW!” he screamed, a lower officer leading the group toward an outer trail. We all began to jog obediently, my shoes rubbing uncomfortably against my ankles. They weren’t made for running—and neither was I. After about three miles my breath came up in gasps, my hot uniform heavy, weighed down even further by the massive gun I was carrying. By the fifth mile men were stumbling—many of them didn’t have shoes and caught a bramble or stubbed their toe on rocks. And still we ran. I could see Bastian and Jack toward the front, leading the pack, and cursed them silently. They would be at the front, with all the nonsense they still got into at the plantation.

  By the time we came up on our last mile, I was pouring sweat and minutes from fainting. The only thing keeping me going was the knowledge that if I fainted and had to go to a doctor, I’d be out of the regiment the minute he looked under my clothing…assuming they did that. When I could see our head officer once again I nearly cried in relief. As we realigned ourselves in our previous positions, I watched in disgust as several men vomited, and to my dismay, I began to dry heave. There was no food or water in me to release, so my body simply convulsed until it was quite finished.

  When I looked up, bleary-eyed and beyond exhausted, it was to see a pair of gray clad legs standing right in front of me. With dread, I rose to a standing position once more, and gazed up into the cold hard eyes of our commanding officer. For what seemed like forever, we both stared. I didn’t dare give up eye contact, though all I wanted to do was run away screaming into the late afternoon sun. Finally, still holding my gaze, he smiled…the kind of smile I had seen a million times on the face of Miss Jean. The kind of smile that meant you were about to get whipped, and weren’t you lucky?

  “I want 50 pushups from all of you, and then you’ve got one hour to rest up before dinner and evening training,” he said, yelling the call for us to drop down. I saw spots, my vision fading to black as my arms screamed with each pump. The men who fell to the ground were swiftly kicked in the stomach for their lack of discipline. When it was finally over, I fell on the ground, believing that I would never be able to get up again. A whistle blew, and I heard water splash.

  Glancing up, I saw a crowded water pump filling one canteen after another, and whatever resolve I had left lifted me up to that place. I waited in a daze, no longer fearing what others may think of me. No one could see outside of their own misery. After my canteen was filled I stumbled back to my small tent, grateful to see that I hadn’t gained a roommate yet.

  Once I got inside and out of sight, I gulped down as much water as I could, stopping myself half way through so that I could savor the rest. Although I hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before, I had no appetite for anything but rest. Unfolding my small blanket, I lay down and rolled my arm over my eyes, as though that would somehow make this new world dissolve. I didn’t move from that position for the precious hour that we had, groaning when I could hear the other men rousing and making their way back to our training area. My body already ached, and it was only the first day.

  Strapping on all my gear, I headed back with the others, taking up my place toward the end once again and sneaking glances at my brother and Bastian. They both seemed tired and serious, but certainly better off than the others. We were then all led as one to a dining area, which was comprised of a bunch of wooden tables set up before large pots of food…and yet another long line of men. Sighing, I took my place in line, careful to stay out of sight from anyone who might notice me. When I finally made it to the front, I was given a small bowl of something sloppy and brown with some dry biscuit before I was herded away for the next group of men to get their meal.

  The tasteless slop was indiscernible, though I didn’t much care at that point. I ate it all, wiping up any leftover juices with my dried biscuits and drinking gratefully from my half-filled canteen. I glanced victoriously at the water pump line as I did, grateful for my own level of self-control. I knew then that it would be the only thing keeping me alive from that moment on. After dinner we were given some training on how to load and shoot our weapons, though no bullets were wasted in the process. When darkness fell, the men were so exhausted that no one made merry, but rather everyone fell into a tent and was unconscious by the time their head hit the ground.

  By that point three other men had rolled into my tent and placed their blankets side by side. Uncaring and exhausted, I rolled over and over on the hard ground until my body relinquished comfort for sleep. This was my introduction to life as a Confederate soldier.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Duty Calls

  The next three weeks pretty much went exactly the same. There is a monotony to military life that can be maddening, and it’s made worse by the fact that your free will is taken from you. You do what you’re told, when you’re told, and if you fight back, you are punished and publically shamed. We spent our days learning basic drills and weapons maintenance, with some fighting technique thrown in. From the conversations around the dinner tables, other regiments weren’t even getting that far. It all depended on the knowledge of each leader…some of whom knew only the basic methods of survival. I tried to feel lucky even though my life was completely miserable.

  After the first week, the stench of sweaty, odorous men was overwhelming. The summer heat penetrated our clothing, our tents, even our water. Everything was a cesspool of heat and sweat, the warm water barely refreshing our parched bodies. Great cheers went out when a group of men stumbled upon a creek during one of their runs, and everyone stripped down and jumped right in, splashing each other like idiots. I watched for a brief minute, blushing at the hairy men’s bodies that I had always been forbidden to see…and rightly so, if you ask me. I carefully traced my steps back to our camp, and then waited until the chorus of snores erupted to sneak off and take a dip in the warm, now dirty water of the creek. Still, it was a lot cleaner that I had been in far too long, and I scrubbed every inch of myself, marveling in the dark at the new tone of my body, the leanness of my muscles.

  As camaraderie grew among the recruits, the men began to whip out cards and sneak in liquor at night, and the cursing, spitting, and derogatory jokes about women were atrocious. There were so many times I nearly spit in a man’s face that I began to bite my tongue until it bled. It was on the last night of our third week in training that I came face
to face with the need to defend myself. In hindsight, I’m surprised it took even that long—I was scrawny and an easy target. A few of the more pious men sat quietly reading the Bible during all the male bonding time, and I had managed to borrow one for the night. Reading quietly, I had found a tree just at the edge of the dining area and leaned back against its rough surface, curling my back to stretch out my wiry muscles.

  “Since when did they start letting children into the army?” a slurred, masculine voice asked. I looked up to see a bear of a man stumbling his way over to me, and I froze. If any trouble was caused on my account, I could be out in a heartbeat. I had worked so hard to go unnoticed that I simply shrank back into the tree and hoped he wasn’t talking to me.

  He was.

  “I said,” he stepped up and kicked the Bible from my hand, “What the hell are you doing out here with the real men, boy?”

  I chose my words carefully.

  “That was God’s book, sir. Surely you would not cast more sin upon yourself by harming one of your own.”

  I noticed then that the man wasn’t alone. This was apparently a group effort to cause trouble, and I had been the unlucky first contestant. His cronies were bearded and dirty, in spite of the fact that we now had a creek to wash in. They began to laugh and cheer on their black- bearded leader, who stooped down and grabbed me by my gray lapels, holding me up with no effort at all.

  “Hang him upside down, Hal! Show him to respect a real man!” one of the cronies shouted. I dangled, trying to tire him out with my dead weight. It didn’t seem to have any effect, so I tried to pick my brain quickly for a solution, trying to remember any fighting tactics I could and coming up short. If he hung me upside down, surely the whole regiment would see my lie the moment my shirt went up. I panicked.

  “Please, just leave me alone!” I squeaked. This made the men break out in raucous laughter, my captor included. He jostled me and I gasped, adding to their fun. His breath reeked of distilled liquor and rotten meat, and I held my breath to keep from vomiting on him and making this worse.