“Who's it from, Father?” Susan asked, wide-eyed.
Martha's eyes met her husband's.
“It's from Jacob,” he said as he pulled his eyes from her gaze.
“Please, do read it, Father!” Susan all but jumped up and down in her chair.
“You know how we do things,” he admonished her. “We'll read it in the parlor once everyone is done with dinner.”
“Let's go then,” Susan begged, pushing her plate away from herself.
“I'm finished.” Martha laid her napkin on the table.
“Me, too.” Susan followed suit, setting her napkin next to her plate. She looked at her father with wide, expectant eyes. Was she willing him to say he was finished so they might retire to the parlor?
He waited a handful of seconds, eyeing Susan and Martha's expressions. “All right, then,” he said at long last, laying his own napkin down. “To the parlor.”
Henry led them to the small family room where they huddled around the fireplace. He took a seat to the left of the massive structure, Susan plopped on the floor near his feet, and Martha sat nearby on the sofa, picking at her cross-stitch.
Taking the letter back out of his pocket, he then opened it and began to read.
“Dear Mother, Father, and Susan, I hope this letter finds you well. I miss you all. We settled in our camp and I'm trying to get the hang of things. I'm learning all kinds of stuff. There are definitely things Benjamin failed to mention in his letters, but I understand. He just didn't think it was interesting. Like how we get up every day before dawn. That's boring stuff. But it's important, I guess, since we do it every day.
“We spend most of our time doing things to keep us from getting fat and lazy. But no one here cooks as well as you, Mother, so I don't think anyone is going to get fat. Don't worry, though, I'm eating well enough. I have met some people here and am making friends. I rode the train down here with one of our camp doctors named John. He gave me some good advice about life. My tent mate's name is Phillip. He's a couple of years older than me. We get along just fine, but he doesn't talk much.
“I'd better head out to lunch before it's all gone. I'll write again soon. Love, Jacob. P.S. I am eager to hear about Benjamin.”
“That was nice that he became acquainted with one of the doctors,” Martha said, working her cross-stitch, moving furiously with her fingers.
Henry supposed she'd rather not allow her mind to wander to those places every parent’s mind must when receiving a letter from the front. Would it be the last?
“I wonder what he eats there,” Susan said, looking up at her father.
“It's not as good as what you get to eat.” Henry patted her on the head.
“But is it yucky food or just a bad cook?” Susan's brow furrowed.
“I think they get rations for the most part,” Henry sighed, looking back over the letter.
“Rations?” Susan tested the word.
Henry nodded. “An allotted amount of food. Crackers, pork, and coffee, stuff like that.”
“Coffee?” She blanched at that. “Jacob doesn't drink coffee!”
“Chances are he will when he comes back.”
Susan looked at her father, eyebrow quirked.
“Susan, there may be other things that will have changed about Jacob and even Benjamin when they come home.” His voice softened. He'd rather not say more.
“Like what?”
She was so innocent to the goings on of war. Too innocent.
“Oh, I don't know.” Henry forced himself to continue the conversation with Susan. “It's just something I want you to know.” He prayed that would be enough for her.
Susan shrugged it off. “Okay, Father. Will you read the letter again?”
“Of course. 'Dear Mother, Father, and Susan…'”
* * *
Jacob scrambled for cover as shots rang over his head. The battle had been raging for what seemed like forever. Cannons exploding and men screaming in pain filled his ears. It was nothing like he had ever imagined. This was the worst kind of horror he could have pictured. He wished he could recall some of his training, but it was all a blank, replaced by images of bloodied soldiers. One by one, his comrades fell. Blue uniforms stained with red littered the ground. In the distance, someone shouted commands, but he couldn't make out anything clearly amidst the muskets firing.
As he moved through the field, he kept low. Bullets whizzed past his head left and right. It was surreal. He was a target in this open field, and his eyes searched the haze created by weapons' fire to find a safe haven. His drive to survive pushed through dizziness and confusion until that was his only thought. Survive. Moving almost by instinct, he made his way stumbling through the field of bodies. By luck, he came upon a ditch protected by a berm and ducked into the safety it offered.
Other soldiers lay in the ditch, fighting from this position. They crawled up onto the berm on their bellies and fired into the enemy line. Leaning against the cool earth that made up the wall of the ditch, he gasped, trying to catch his breath. His fear and anxiety washed over him. He was alive! And that was all that mattered.
Having survived the first wave and made it to a safe position, the temptation to remain here throughout the rest of the battle was strong. But those men on the berm needed him. They counted on him to help defend their position or else they would all be lost.
After he got a hold of himself and steeled his senses, he climbed up onto the berm, staying on his stomach lest he create too much of a target. The man to his left nodded as he took position and began firing at the Confederate army. He did his best to aim at targets, as hard as they were to see. On occasion, he saw a glint of steel in the distance or the profile of a soldier running. And he tried to hit them. It was difficult to discern success.
Glancing across the enemy’s line, Jacob spotted a dip on the far left flank. The Confederates had shifted to the right in response to the Union's first wave offensive. As the minutes of realizing he was alive passed, his confidence began to return. He remembered snippets of the briefing from his unit's commander and the mention of flanking the Confederates on that side. It seemed their offensive had started to work, but something must have gone wrong.
Jacob cursed himself for not listening more closely and assuming his platoon's sergeant would be here to keep things in order. Narrowing his eyes as he watched the movements of the soldiers, he remembered the plan of attack.
“The left unit. Hey! Where is the left unit? Aren't they supposed to be moving in on the second wave?” he shouted to the others crouched with him behind the berm.
They looked at each other, apparently more confused than he.
“I think they got pinned down back there,” one soldier responded, his thumb pointed behind them.
It was Old Man. Jacob searched his memory, but couldn’t recall the man’s name. “What's your name again?”
“Daniel.” His voice broke for just a second.
“The Confederates responded to the first wave and are moving to the right. It’s up to us to move in to that dip over there and flank them from the left.” Jacob pointed to the weak spot in the enemy's line.
Daniel nodded. Was he ready to take orders from anybody?
Jacob had a renewed sense of purpose. Maybe his ability to run fast would pay off.
“We'll split in half. Daniel, me, and you.” He tapped the soldier to his right. “We'll make a fast run for that spot while you all continue to cover us from here. When we get there and start shooting, the rest of you will follow. That may hold back the Confederates just enough for the rest of our unit to catch up and take 'em!”
The rest of his new war brothers nodded in quick agreement.
“I'm Steven,” the soldier he had tapped said, his voice shaking.
Jacob shook hands with him.
He and his small crew loaded their Springfield muskets and gathered up to the left edge of the berm. With a quick visual signal to the others, they broke out in a fast run.
&nbs
p; Jacob's legs flew. It was as if he rode the wind. But he soon noticed how far their target truly was. Could they make it? I've made it this far; we are going to get there!
Loud artillery fire boomed. It was deafening as it hit a spot they had just passed. The shock knocked him to the ground. Daniel and Steven were startled. They looked to Jacob. Were their courage and morale hinging on his? He dragged himself to his feet and continued, as fast as he could. His comrades were close behind. As they ran across the fury of the battlefield, they wove around fallen soldiers. It was a bit much for Jacob, but he held it together and kept moving.
How far is that dip in the line? How long does it take to get there? It seemed like an eternity. But a moment later, he saw it. Jacob wanted to shout for joy. In a matter of seconds, he would be there. He had pulled out well ahead of the others. Would they arrive safely?
As he turned, a blast sounded and pain stung him. Falling to the ground, his eyes feverishly sought out his injury and the source of the blast. Here he was, sprinting like it was a race, forgetting that they were fighting for their lives.
Steven and Daniel caught up to him with wide eyes.
Finally laying eyes on the spot where he had been grazed by a ball, he looked past a torn piece of uniform near his shoulder. Feeling along his skin, he let out a sigh. It hadn't penetrated anything, just missed him. While it would be a noticeable mark, it hadn't entered his shoulder.
Jacob picked up his musket and started running again, at last diving into the dip in the line.
Steven and Daniel jumped in right behind him. They raised their weapons, looking for targets.
One enemy soldier looked in their direction. Was that the man who almost hit him?
Before Jacob could react, Daniel fired, and the man fell.
Another Confederate moved up from behind the fallen soldier, and Steven took him out.
Jacob was shocked into action, eyeing his men as they hastily reloaded. Picking up his Springfield, he trained his sights on another Confederate rushing in. His fingers twitched. What was he doing? He had to act! Yet he could not escape his hesitation.
Everything had been surreal. Marching, inspections, field stripping, rations. Almost like a dream. But now it was real. This was what war was about: killing another man. In the instant it took him to trace his thoughts, he understood one thing: if he waited, he or one of his war buddies would be dead, so he pulled the trigger.
He started to reload his weapon when he felt the shakes and he couldn't keep it down anymore, vomiting on the ground.
“First kill?” There was no judgment or mocking in Daniel’s voice. Only gentleness.
“Yeah,” Jacob said, wiping his face with his sleeve. His legs were weak.
“I did the same.”
With that, Jacob had crossed a threshold he never knew existed. His father had told him he looked like a real man in his uniform. Now those words echoed true.
Jacob didn't get lost in thought though. This plan would be a complete failure unless they provided enough cover for the rest of his unit to take this position.
They had dropped three soldiers. Were there more nearby? He doubted it. Most of the Confederate unit was much further down the line and didn't know they were about to be flanked. Jacob turned to tell Steven and Daniel to finish loading their Springfields when he noticed they were already doing so. Time to give the signal for the rest of his unit to join them and hold this position.
Jacob stood, more exposed than he liked, to wave his hat at the men behind the berm. They were not quite visible, but he watched as they grouped together on the left side. His signal had been received. Reaching over and grabbing his weapon, he put his hat back on.
The sound of more artillery firing in the distance shook him. Was it closer or further away? As he slid into the dip, seeking better cover, the crack of a rifle was followed by hot, piercing pain in his left leg. Looking down, blood covered his leg. His gaze shifted, taking in his surroundings. The man he had hit earlier wasn't dead, but had gotten in a final shot with his loaded weapon.
Jacob let out a loud cry while Steven attacked the man with his bayonet.
Then things started to swirl. Jacob's vision blurred. As if everything was in a daze.
Daniel came to his side, applying pressure to his leg. As he started to fade out, he kept looking back, wondering if the rest of his unit had caught up to them.
And then, nothing.
* * *
The battle raged on. All Elizabeth could do was sit and listen to the cannons and gunfire in the distance, grimacing at every sound. There was no laundry to do, no sewing that was called for, nothing to be done. Just sit and wait for news. It was the longest wait of her life.
Looking at the water, she couldn't help but imagine the laundry they would have to do the next day. She envisioned the blood discoloring the water, as they would work to clean the dark blue uniforms. Shaking her head to clear such morbid thoughts, she tried to think of something more pleasant. Nothing came to mind. What was there to think of at a time like this? Nothing but war and bloodshed. Not for the soldiers, and not for her.
Though she had long since been released from duty, she was unable to leave her post. The camp seemed abandoned with the troops gone, the hospital staffed, and the other women…where? Where were the other women? Waiting and praying in their tents? Elizabeth sank to her knees by the water tub and sobbed, praying for the men in their unit that faced their mortality even then.
“Father, Keep Your gracious hand on these brave men. I would ask that You keep them safe from harm, but I know that it is Your will, not mine, that we should seek. Comfort those who are wounded. Give the doctors wisdom and skill. Be with John.”
“Elizabeth!” Melanie interrupted her thoughts. “Elizabeth!”
Elizabeth rose and rushed toward her friend. “What is it? Is there news?”
Melanie, nearly out of breath, caught Elizabeth’s hands. She nodded. “The fighting is over, but there are many wounded. They need help in the hospital. I told them I would bring you.” Melanie turned and walked in the direction of the hospital.
Elizabeth froze. She wanted to help, but how could she avoid John in the hospital? He would see her for certain, and her time here would be over. Her head fell. What self-serving thinking! There were men wounded and in need of care, and she was worried about something so selfish! Embarrassed by her reaction to Melanie's request for help, she turned away.
“Come on.” Melanie jerked on her hand. “What are you waiting for?”
Determined to do what she could to help the men in need, she turned back toward her friend. “I am sorry I hesitated. I am ready.”
“I know it won’t be easy,” Melanie said softly, “But we will do what we must.”
Melanie must think her squeamish. Elizabeth chose not to contradict her and nodded.
Tugging at her once more, Melanie led her to the hospital tent.
Nothing could have prepared Elizabeth for what awaited her at the hospital. The battle had been gruesome. Every space available had a solider, the tent filled with men in all states of horror. She did not have time to take it all in before a nurse approached.
“Take the men water, sit with them, and tell them the doctors are making it around. Do you know how to clean a wound?”
Elizabeth continued to stare at the sight, not able to make eye contact with the nurse. But she nodded. She was only somewhat aware that Melanie shook her head.
“Good,” the nurse said to Elizabeth. “Do only superficial cleaning. You'll find supplies over there.” She pointed to a shelf at one end of the tent. “And you,” she turned to Melanie. “Come watch me for a couple of patients and you'll learn.”
As she looked over the many men in agony, being recognized by John became a smaller and smaller concern. Elizabeth made her way to the shelf and grabbed the supplies she would need.
She stopped at the man closest to the shelf unit. He was young, much younger than John. His sandy-blonde hair fell over
deep brown eyes that looked up to her as if to find some reassurance that all would be well. There was fear there as well. Fear remaining like an echo from the emotion of the battle, and fear that nothing would ever be the same. Fear of what might happen to him. Would she ever forget that look in his eyes?
“Hello, soldier.” She put on her best smile for him. “I'm Elizabeth. What's your name?”
The man shook badly, with a terrible leg wound. He was in shock. In all likelihood he would lose the leg.
“A-Adam.”
She offered him some water. He drank it, thanking her. She began to clean the wound, but didn't see much point in it. The leg was in need of a deeper cleaning. Still, she did as the nurse had instructed her and basically put a strip of cloth on the gunshot wound.
“I-is it b-b-bad?” Adam asked, seeking her eyes.
She shook her head. “You'll be fine,” she told a half-truth. “The doctor will see you in a while.”
Man after man, wound after wound, all Elizabeth could do was offer water and assurances that the doctors would see them. She knew at a glance that some of these men were not going to make it. And that broke her heart. But she put on a brave smile for them and spent more time by their bedside, talking with them, singing to them, praying with them. A few of them passed on while she was with them, but she refused to cry.
She returned to the shelf for more supplies. Stretching her back, she wondered how long she had been here. The ache in her muscles led her to believe it had been quite some time. A few hours maybe? Glancing around the hospital, she spotted Melanie, sitting with a young man, talking as she cleaned his leg wound. Elizabeth smiled. Perhaps Melanie had found her calling. The doctors made their rounds as well. Dr. Smith was there and Dr. Young. But where was John?
Her gaze flicked from side to side, searching. No John. She felt a little sick and her heart skipped a few beats.
Catching up to a nurse walking nearby, she grabbed at the woman’s sleeve. “I'm looking for Dr. Taylor. Dr. John Taylor,” she said, knowing her voice betrayed her worry.
Off To War (War Between The States) Page 6