Ghosts of Graveyards Past

by Laura Briggs

  His friend gave a short laugh. “You can’t be expecting too many of those, with a good plot of land and a faithful woman waiting for you after the fighting.”

  Arthur could only manage a weary smile for the simplicity of the statement. His fondest hope reduced to one sentence without the complications of his conscience to throw obstacles in the way.

  She had promised to wait for him, as Henry said. Years even, if this nightmare continued as long as he now suspected it would. There was only the question of whether her love could truly endure that long—or if he could accept it, even when no war remained to come between them. How is it I feel Your presence in this, but nothing else? He spoke silently to the God he still saw as real, if not entirely on his side.

  The army broke ranks where the river raised, a blanket of green beside a farmer’s cornfield. The crop had been harvested months before, leaving tall, hollowed stalks to rustle in the wind. Arthur thought of hoeing crops back home, of chopping and scraping weeds to stir the soil at the base of the plants.

  His fellow soldiers scattered quickly across the banks, eager to fill their canteens and wash the grime from their faces. A few had waded in, among them Wray.

  Even from this distance, Arthur could see the way his jaw was tightened, muscles fighting against the pain it caused his blistered feet. He’d worn the same look that morning when Arthur woke to find him huddled over the remains of the campfire.

  In his hand had been a lover’s memento: a piece of ribbon, a gold lock of hair twined around it. “From Hattie,” he’d explained. “She gave it to me right after I enlisted. Said it would keep her in my mind, with all the distance between us. “

  Beginning to understand the reason for last night’s conversation, Arthur sat up, his voice full of sympathy. “She didn’t keep you in hers, though.”

  “She married an attorney in Woolwich. Her cousin told me the other day.”

  Without glancing up, he’d tossed the keepsake into the embers. “Guess she knew there would never be anything but letters between us.” The meaning was hard to mistake, the slight nod of the head in Arthur’s direction before he rose, dusting his hands with a look of grim resolve.

  Would Arthur find himself equally regretful one day? Stoking the flames with the letters he treasured as another man would a piece of gold. The thought made him reach for his bag, hand dipping inside to find the last letter she had sent to him. Weeks old and creased from multiple readings, he could have recited the lines from memory. It was the handwriting he wanted to see most, however, the strokes as sure and steady as the heart of the girl who penned them. Grasping it between his fingers, he let his eyes close briefly in prayer. If You hear me, then guide the way of my heart. Show me how to be with Mariah, yet still abide with You. Whatever the cost, I will gladly pay it.

  A way must exist to forge the two paths of his heart together. Why else should he meet her, only to lose her to the pain of indecision? She could not have spared his life only to leave his heart in ruins. So he told himself, unfolding the sheet to study its contents with a hopeful eye.

  Halfway through the first page, it happened. Crows, dozens of them, began to shriek in the woods across the river. In clouds of black, they rose from the rows of trees, startled by some unseen predator below.

  A nervous murmur traveled through the field of soldiers.

  Arthur stood, shielding his eyes against the glow of sunrise. One moment, he saw only foliage, and the water rippling with the tide. The next, a flash of light, the puff of smoke as musket fire exploded across the river.

  He dove for his rifle and then for cover. Those around him did the same, the air thick with cursing as men scattered in every direction.

  Some made it to the woods, others fell when they crossed into the open.

  Arthur ducked inside a row of corn husks, his friend nowhere in sight.

  The shaky youth in the next row was already reloading his weapon, powder spilling as he filled the barrel.

  Arthur shot repeatedly across the water, chest tightening as he wondered how many lay in wait for them.

  News of their coming must have leaked, perhaps days ago, giving time for the Union camp to bring reinforcements if they chose. Would a pack of troops sneak up behind?

  The skin prickled on his neck, a sense of being hunted overtook him as he glanced wildly over his shoulder. Trees and bushes grew thick at roughly the perfect distance for another ambush. Possibilities crowded his mind, competing with the sounds of fighting that echoed around him. They could be surrounded in less than an hour, forced to run like animal prey or else be taken prisoner. Prisoners on their native soil. The idea scorched his blood, prompting him to hoist the musket for another shot. Only there wasn’t time to pull the trigger. A blow from some invisible force hurled his body backwards into the dried grass. Harder than any punch a man could wield, it made his bones throb.

  He saw blood pool on the ground beside him, realized it was his when the sting in his shoulder told him where the bullet had lodged. Shot. He’d never imagined the kind of pain it might bring even though he’d witnessed the screams of those whose flesh was torn apart by heated lead. Those men had moaned and writhed in agony on makeshift stretchers as they waited to meet the surgeon’s awful tools.

  Nausea overwhelmed him. Dropping his gun, he lay on his back, breaths coming short and shallow. Anything deeper tore cries of pain from his lungs, tears welling up in his eyes. He could feel his pulse thudding out of control, see the rays of sun blurring in and out of focus in the sky overhead.

  “Stay calm,” Mariah urged, pressing a cloth to the bloody wound. “I will get you through this, just like the other times. I promise.”

  “It is not up to you,” he babbled, too jarred by the pain to wonder how she came to be there, skirts arranged among a pile of dried corn husks. A trick of the mind, meant to distract him from the way his body contorted with pain every few seconds.

  The imaginary Mariah was cradling his head now, stroking the hair in a soothing manner as she said, “You still believe that God controls your fate—that He sees you now, and makes a plan from what has taken place?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “It is too hard to think, to breathe. I can’t—Mariah, I can’t—”

  “Sleep, then,” she said.

  And so he did.

  

  When he woke, the sun had changed position in the sky. Blood plastered his coat to his chest, the fabric stiff where his wound had staunched itself while he slept.

  In the distance, gunfire echoed; the battle had moved further into the woods.

  Whether his group had been the ones to pursue or retreat seemed unimportant at this moment, though he supposed all the advantage had been on the side of the Union forces this time.

  Teeth gritted, he pulled himself to a sitting position. Clutching his wounded shoulder, he scanned the horizon for signs of life.

  Bodies littered the field before him. Motionless, their mouths slack and eyes wide as flies buzzed over their sticky wounds. All wore the uniform of a private, no stars or bars to decorate the frayed collars on their coats.

  A tawny-haired youth was face down in a patch of dried corn stalks. The familiar height and coloring made Arthur’s hand shake as he gripped the lifeless head. He raised it to find the man was a soldier he’d spoken to all of twice since joining the army, a man whose discharge papers were being drawn up the last time he saw him.

  Pulpy matter coated Arthur’s hand where it touched them—the brains expelled from the stranger’s head when a bullet passed through it. He stared dazedly at the mess and then wiped it on a clump of grass before dragging himself forward to the next figure sprawled in the grass.

  All were men he’d seen around the campfire or among the lines they’d formed in battle. He left them where they lay, none breathing when he pressed an ear to their mouths.

  No prayer or plea crossed his mind. His thoughts were numb compared to the ache in his bones, a strange dreamlike quality to h
is surroundings. The fact he was alone—and probably on the verge of death—seemed less important than his need for a drink to quench the parched feeling in his mouth.

  The banks of the river loomed ahead, a series of objects scattered across the grass. Canteens and tin cups abandoned by their owners after the gunfire erupted. Rifles were propped on the shore, a homespun kepi hat tangled in a patch of weeds along the edge of the banks.

  Desperately, Arthur lowered his mouth to the water only to jerk back again, gasping in terror. Beneath his reflection, a group of faces looked back at him: bulging eyes and bloodied features, crimson seeping from the holes in their shabby uniforms. Men who waded into the river only to make it their grave.

  He stared, shrinking from the soulless gaze of their eyes. Until he saw a pair of familiar green eyes, bronze-colored strands of hair scattered around them. A tattered frock coat and bare feet, a jaw marked with a light scar. Blindly, he reached for him, for Wray, beneath the water.

  Water touched his face, flooding his nose and mouth as he quickly pulled back up. Still gagging, he fell on his side, pain jolting through his body as he rolled away from the shore, his wounded side pressed into the earth, he could move no further.

  They found him in that same position later that day. The victors returning to care for their wounded and dead mistook Arthur for one of the latter. A murmur from his throat alerted the men who carried him that life yet remained. Barely, and for how long, was anyone’s guess.

  

  There is no room left in my heart for grief. It doesn’t seem possible to feel such pain and still be alive, yet for three days in a row I have woken to this same corridor with breath in my lungs. What should happen to me if it finally ceases no longer seems as clear as it once did, and I feel much regret for those times we quarreled on this very subject.

  I had no reason to doubt back then, no loss to grieve me the way you already did. How foolish I must have seemed to you, arguing from a boy’s vast inexperience in the matters of death. Now, it is your forgiveness I must ask instead of the God whose counsel I sought in vain.”

  Arthur wrote with a shaky hand, propped on his side in a bed at the hospital outside of Bridgeport. The candle flame wavered uncertainly on the table beside him, casting his writing into shadow every few seconds. It didn’t break his concentration. His hand filled the page with a string of thoughts and feelings unchecked by any force.

  He looked at the words, raw and bleeding on the page as any physical wound could be. Words too harsh for a lover’s eyes, some might say, but there was little other choice for one in his position. It was either share his pain with someone who cared or else go mad waiting for death to come for him in this dank, smelly corridor.

  They had given up on him, the doctors who practiced here. He was given supplies to treat his wound, a breakfast and supper tray left by his bedside as he slept. Too many others needed their attention, men who coughed in their sleep all night and bawled with pain as infected limbs were cut away by the surgeon’s steel tools.

  His haversack, along with all its contents, had been lost to the chaos of the battle. For stationary, he was forced to borrow off the patient in the next bed, a soldier whose jaw was partly removed when a Minié ball ricocheted off the tree beside him.

  Believe me when I write that the hope of seeing you again is all that remains to comfort me. The doctors here have drawn up a furlough slip on my behalf, fearing this injury will leave me vulnerable to infection from others in this ward. It may be weeks before my commander receives it, but I intend to live however long it takes to make it back to you. We will meet again, Mariah, if only long enough to say good-bye.

  18

  Con unwrapped the bandage to find jagged scarring where the chisel had cut his hand. Flexing the fingers experimentally, he caught sight of the outline where his wedding band used to rest. The lines had grown faint, the ring itself stashed in a bedside drawer with a few other mementoes from the woman who gave it to him.

  Three months. That was how long since he’d removed it, the biggest stride in a two-year grieving process. At times, he thought it would never end; other days—the last few even—he felt a glimmer of hope for something beyond the endless cycle of pain and regret.

  A car’s motor hummed in the distance. Miss Cade was late for their expedition, yet he wouldn’t have minded a little more time before they were face to face. Tossing the bandage in the trash, he reached for his jacket.

  What made him suggest this, anyway? The answer came as a flash of memory from their carving lesson. That had been a mistake, one inspired by the notion of Jenna looking him over, admiring his work with the stone.

  Today, he would need to be more careful. No reason to take a moment of attraction and blow it out of proportion. Especially when she’d be leaving in a few days, and he’d be back in his workshop, fashioning memorials for people he’d never laid eyes on.

  He grabbed a backpack and strode to the door.

  Jenna had parked beside the gate and was already climbing from the car.

  “I had a late night,” she apologized, untangling a familiar knapsack from the passenger seat. She had stuffed her curls into a clip, small wisps escaping to brush her face. The flyaway look suited her, as did the frayed jeans and green jacket that set off her eyes.

  “We’ve got plenty of time,” he assured her. “Though I’m sort of wondering what you found to keep you up so late in Sylvan Spring.”

  “Love letters,” she replied, pulling a coffee thermos from her knapsack. Seeing his raised brows, she added, “Someone else’s. Apparently, the soldier was writing to the doctor during the war.”

  “But he married someone else,” Con said, puzzling over the newest revelation.

  “I’m hoping the rest of Dr. Moore’s notes will shed some light on that.” Unscrewing the thermos lid, she asked, “Want some? It’s hazelnut, a little strong—”

  He shook his head, but in truth, he liked the friendly gesture. Maybe that’s what bothered him about it, since shying away from strangers was second nature these days. Which meant something about this one must be different, the connection strong enough to threaten firm habits.

  Frost crunched beneath their shoes. The path to the Lesley homestead was overrun with weeds and brush, more so than he remembered from the last time he’d been there. He pulled back low hanging branches, the rocky terrain forcing him to take her arm at one point as they navigated a slope.

  “Thanks,” she said, brushing some twigs from her jacket. “It’s beautiful back here. Even untamed like this—or maybe that’s what makes it so pretty.”

  “Not many people roam off the main path,” he told her. “A few tourists interested in the spring or kids looking to get away from the town.”

  That was why he’d come there in his youth. Later years had been about the stone work or nature walks with Colleen. She would take cuttings from some of the wild plants, and then coax them to take root in her garden at home.

  Right now, hardly anything bloomed among the fall landscape. He did notice the purple hue of violets sprouting beside a hollowed tree trunk.

  Jenna saw them too, plucking one to inhale its scent. “I saw this shape carved into one of the old cemetery’s headstones—the one belonging to the soldier’s wife, I think. Do you know if it has a special meaning or anything?”

  “Roughly a hundred.” He smiled at the incredulous look this earned him. “Faithfulness, modesty, innocence—those are some of the common ones. There’s always the possibility it was just her favorite flower,” he added.

  Twirling the stem between her fingers, she studied its delicate build. “You know,” she began, “looking at so many headstones, learning the symbolism behind the designs…it makes me wonder what I would choose.” She looked up, green eyes thoughtful. “It’s weird, I know, but important, too. A last message to leave behind, kind of like the Celtic symbol was for these people. Only I’d want it to be something more hopeful than what they chose.”

 
The topic shouldn’t take him by surprise, considering the nature of his work. For some reason, though, he found himself uncertain how to reply as they continued down the path.

  “You must have thought about it,” she persisted. “Or at least have some idea what you want.”

  He shrugged. “I guess it crossed my mind a few times. My instructor carved his own headstone. He didn’t want anyone saying the quality was inferior to ones he made for other people.”

  This gave her pause, eyes widening with the image.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, a soft chuckle escaping. “I’m not thinking of adopting the same plan. Sawyer was more of an artist than I am with a whole legacy of stone carvers to defend. I have an easier time separating myself from the work.”

  Her lips formed a relived smile as she glanced his way. “You know, a few of the markers I found at previous sites were actually signed by the craftsmen who made them. When I traced them, it turned out their descendants had passed the trade down through the generations.”

  Con nudged a broken tree limb from the path, its wood grown spongy with decay. “Sawyer didn’t have any children,” he said. “Which is how I ended up inheriting his stonecutting tools.” An irony, since the mason never quite trusted him with them in life. He had done his best to preserve them since, and to render the kind of work his mentor would have approved of in his begrudging way.

  “It must have meant a lot to him,” Jenna observed. “Having someone to carry on the skills he learned from his family. To keep his memory alive, so to speak.” There was something wistful in her tone, and the gaze that quietly sought his.