by John Wilson
I buy us some supplies, food for us and the horses and clean clothes. I must look pretty bad, because people stare and give me a wide berth as I go about my business. It’s obvious that I’m in pain from my ribs, but no one offers to help. There is a medico in town, but I don’t bring him out. I wonder if he’ll treat a wounded Apache. He doesn’t speak much English, but in my halting Spanish I ask him to put together a bundle of bandages, swabs and ointments.
When I return to the hacienda in the afternoon of the second day, Nah-kee-tats-an is running a fever. He’s lying by the stove, wrapped in a bedroll, shivering and sweating. I try to keep him cool and feed him something, but by nightfall he’s delirious and speaking loudly in his native tongue. Eventually, toward dawn, he quiets down and I sleep.
I wake up in full daylight with the local medico standing in the doorway staring at Nah-kee-tats-an.
“Él es enfermo,” he says unnecessarily.
“Yes, he is sick,” I reply.
The man bustles forward and crouches over Nah-kee-tats-an. He examines the recent wound and the one from the ambush several days ago, nodding and speaking softly to himself. Occasionally he addresses me with a request. “Agua caliente, por favor.” I busy myself with the fire, heating water and cooking some food.
At last the medico stands up. He insists on looking at my injuries and binds a wide strip of cotton tightly round my chest. It helps the pain when I move. He hands me some more of the ointment and instructs me in applying it and changing Nah-kee-tats-an’s dressings. Already, my friend seems to be sleeping more easily.
I offer the man some breakfast, and we eat in silence. After we are done, he walks through to the main hall and stands looking at the several large dried bloodstains.
“Dónde están los cadáveres? ” he asks.
I take him to the storeroom and haul open the door. A cloud of large flies rise with a loud buzzing sound. The medico simply nods. He walks over to where I have tethered the horses I have managed to catch. Coronado is there, as is an unsaddled pony that belongs to Nah-kee-tats-an. I have also caught Ed’s large black gelding and two other animals. The other two are nowhere to be seen.
“Estos caballos pertenecen a los cadáveres? ” the medico asks.
I tell him that, apart from Coronado and the pony, these horses do belong to the dead men. He asks me if I will give him those horses to sell to pay for the medicine. I say sure and he ties the horses to his wagon and leaves.
The next day, two men with shovels turn up and bury the bodies. They cross themselves a lot as they work and stay well away from me and Nah-kee-tats-an, whose fever has broken and who is taking some food.
On the fifth day the medico returns, examines us both and pronounces himself satisfied with our progress. Nah-kee-tats-an is sitting up. He regards the medico suspiciously but allows him to work on his wounds. The medico gives us some more supplies, a bag of feed for the horses and a small bag of silver coins from the sale of the horses. Outside he turns to me as he prepares to mount his horse.
“Usted conoce esta casa?” he asks.
I say that I do know this house. “Es la casa de Ramirez.”
The medico nods. “Mala suerte. Es una casa de la muerte.”
“Yes,” I agree. It a place of bad luck and death. On an impulse I ask, “Usted conoce Luis Santiago de Borica? ”
The medico’s face brightens into a smile at the mention of Santiago. “Sí. Sí. Él es un buen hombre.”
I agree that Santiago is a good man and tell the medico of my evening with him. Then I tell him he is a good man and thank him for his help. “Gracias por su ayuda.”
“No es nada.” The medico shrugs off my gratitude and mounts. “Vaya con dios.”
I wave as he rides out the hacienda gate.
“I will leave in the morning,” Nah-kee-tats-an announces as we sit by the stove after our evening meal.
“Are you well enough?” I ask.
Nah-kee-tats-an nods. “And I have lived within walls long enough.”
“Where will you go?”
“I will find Victorio and fight with him.”
“Your father, Too-ah-yay-say, says there are too many Americans. He thinks you cannot win.”
“But that does not mean we should not fight. You and I fought here against the scalp hunters, and now they are dead and we are alive.”
I nod agreement. “Why were you here?” I ask the question that’s been nagging at me.
“I was trailing the men who scalped my friends. When I saw they were coming here, I climbed in a window at the back and waited.”
“I’m very glad you did.”
“What will you do, Busca?” Nah-kee-tats-an asks.
I haven’t given it much thought. I’ve been too focused on finding out what happened to my father and on simply surviving. Suddenly I know what I must do. Many people have helped me on my journey by telling me their stories, which have turned out to be parts of my story. I will return the way I came and tell Santiago and Wellington how the story ends. And I will write a letter to my mother in Yale. I won’t go back up to British Columbia. Not now. I’m not ready and, if I am honest, this harsh land fascinates me. I feel it is not done with me yet.
“I will tell a story,” I reply.
My vague answer seems to satisfy Nah-kee-tats-an.
“Perhaps, one day,” he says, “our stories will cross again.”
When I wake the next morning, Nah-kee-tats-an is gone.
In no great hurry, I make breakfast, pack up my few belongings, saddle Coronado and leave the bloodstained hacienda behind. I am sad that my father is dead and that I never got to see him again, but I feel relieved that I know. It’s as if a huge weight has been lifted from me. I’m free at last.
JOHN WILSON is the author of twenty-nine books for juveniles, teens and adults. His self-described “addiction to history” has resulted in many award-winning novels that bring the past alive for young readers. Wilson spends significant portions of the year traveling across the country speaking in schools, leaving his audiences excited about our past. You can learn more about John, his books and his presentations by visiting his blog: [email protected].
The following is an excerpt from another
exciting novel by JOHN WILSON.
978-1-55469-111-1 $12.95 pb
978-1-55469-257-6 $18.95 hc
CAPTURED AND CONFINED to the Confederate prison camp at Andersonville in June 1864, young Jake Clay forms an unlikely alliance with Billy Sharp, an unscrupulous opportunist who teaches him to survive no matter what the cost. By war’s end Jake is haunted by the ghosts of those who’ve died so he could live. Now his fateful journey home will come closer to killing him than Andersonville did, but it will also provide him with one last chance at redemption.
ONE
I pull back the thin blanket and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. When I stand up, the tiled floor feels icy cold on my bare feet, but that’s good—it reminds me that I’m alive.
There’s a pile of clothes on the table by the bed. They’re not mine; they were dropped off by a smiling nun who went round the ward asking if any of us needed anything. I said I wanted clothes and a pair of shoes, and her smile broadened so far that I thought her face would split. The guy in the bed beside me said he wanted his legs back, and she hurried off to help someone else.
I begin to dress, slowly because my hands are still sore. The legless guy turns his head. “Where you going?” he asks.
“Home,” I say.
“Where’s home?”
“Upstate New York,” I answer as I painfully button my pants.
“That’s a long way from Memphis.”
I nod.
“You walking all that way?” he asks.
“Expect so.”
“Lucky bastard,” he says.
I pull on the shoes the nun brought. They’re a surprisingly good fit.
“City shoes,” the man says. “Won’t last long on the road.”
I shake his hand. It hurts, but then I’m used to pain.
“Think about me when you get blisters,” he says with a bitter laugh.
“I will.” I smile back.
I plan to walk north until I get home. It’s not much of a plan. I’ve got some money, my discharge pay and a piece of paper that says that Jake Clay is no longer needed by the Union army. I’ll scrounge or buy what food I can and sleep rough when I have to.
Walking all that way is a strange thing to do, but it’s perfect for me. I want to go home, but I’m scared of getting there. Walking is slow enough that I can feel I’m going home but still postponing the arrival to the distant future.
At least I won’t be alone.
The War between the States has been over for only two months, and the roads and rivers are clogged with men traveling in all directions. Most of them will make it home one way or another. That’s the easy part. It’s what you bring home inside your head that’s the problem.
My hope is that the long walk will give me a chance to sort out what is going on in my head. Walking has always calmed me, helped me see things rationally. Maybe the miles and the dust will wear off the past I carry like a weight on my back. Make me forget the twelve months since I first went into battle that hopeless, bloody day at Cold Harbor. Make me forget the things I have seen, the things I have done, the ghosts who haunt my dreams. I can never go back to being the naïve kid I was before then, but with luck I can move forward.
I hope, but I don’t know. Perhaps it’s not possible to forget that you’ve been to Hell.
TWO
“Pin this to my back and I’ll do the same fer you.”
I don’t know the name of the man standing beside me in the shallow trench. I’ve only been a part of Baldy Smith’s XVIII Corps for a few days. I arrived just in time to move up the James River to these crossroads at Cold Harbor.
“What is it?” I ask, looking at the sheet of paper he’s holding.
“You’re one of them new fellas that joined just afore we come up here?”
I nod.
“Ever bin in a fight?”
I shake my head.
“Well, I’ve bin in plenty,” the man says. He’s missing one of his front teeth, which causes his voice to whistle slightly as he speaks. “And this’s the way it is. Soldier al’ays knows afore a battle if ’n he’ll be on the winnin’ or the losin’ side.
“Now, bein’ on the winnin’ side don’t mean that you ain’t gonna get kilt or have yer leg blowed off, but bein’ on the losin’ side makes it more likely, and we’re sure as hell on the losin’ side this day.”
“How do you know?” I ask in shock. I had assumed the attack we had prepared for all yesterday would win us the battle.
The man gives me a look of pity. “What’d we do all yesterday?” he asks.
“We dug these trenches,” I say.
“And disturbed the bones of a good few of the boys who fought here two years back at Gaines Mill,” he says. “That weren’t good luck. Where’re the Rebs?”
I point through the trees into the thick dawn fog.
The man nods. “And what d’you think they was doin’ yesterday?”
“Digging?”
“That’d be right. Diggin’ like their lives depend on it, ’cause they surely do. Now, me and a few of the boys went forrard yesterday evenin’ and saw them diggin’s. They got log breastworks zigzaggin’ all over hell’s half acre with cannons pointin’ through them every few yards.
“In a couple of minutes, we’re goin’ over there, and as soon as we walk out of that fog, them breastworks is gonna light up like a Fourth of July picnic and there ain’t gonna be space fer a mosquito ’tween them Minnie balls and canister shot. That’s why we’re on a hidin’ to nothin’ in this fight.
“Now, I plan to die facing the enemy, and I want my folks to know what happened to me. So you pin this paper with my name on it to the back of my jacket so’s they’ll know whose corpse it is after the fight, and I’ll do the same fer you.”
I feel like an undertaker, pinning the paper to his back. I notice his name: Zach Moore, written in a childlike hand.
Zach tears a page out of his diary for me to write my name on. I notice the last entry in the same scrawl: June 3, 1864. Today I was kilt.
For the first time I feel real fear. Not nervousness, worry or a vague sense of dread, but cold, specific, gut-wrenching terror. I can almost feel the lead balls ripping their way through my stomach and chest, shattering bones and turning vital organs to mush. I begin to breathe rapidly and hold on to the dirt wall of the earthworks to stop from falling over.
Zach spins me around and slaps me hard across the cheek. The pain brings tears to my eyes but it gives me a focus. Gradually, my breathing calms.
“No point in becomin’ a shiverin’ coward,” Zach says. “If ’n yer time’s up today, ain’t nothin’ you can do ’bout it. Now come on, let’s get this thing done.”
Zach and I clamber out of the trench and form up with the rest of the division. I feel better with others around me, especially Zach. I’ve only known him a few minutes, yet he already feels like a brother. I have the stupid idea that if I stay close to him, I’ll be all right.
We walk forward through the trees. The sharp smell of wood smoke from a thousand campfires catches my nose. It’s a comforting smell, reminding me of fishing trips back home.
The division is moving forward in grim silence, only the rattle of equipment and the occasional shouted order or curse reaching me.
We walk out of the trees, but I still cannot see the enemy fortifications through the fog. Off to my left, a roll of musket fire sounds like the clack of Mother’s new Willcox and Gibbs pedal sewing machine. Then we are in the open. A flat field stretches away to another line of trees, along the edge of which the Rebels have dug in.
Zach’s right—the breastworks do indeed look formidable. Rebel flags hang limp above the solid wood and earth walls, but behind them is a hive of activity. A forest of muskets, with long bayonets glinting in the rising sun, points at us, and the black muzzles of cannon are being pushed forward.
“Come on, boys,” the officer in front of me shouts as he raises his sword and breaks into a rapid trot. Almost immediately, the breastworks explode in a solid wall of fire. The roar reaches me a split second later, but above it I can hear the whine of Minnie balls. Large gaps appear in our formation where canister shot from the cannons rips men to shreds. The battlefield disappears in a rolling wall of thick gray smoke.
The enemy cannot possibly see us through the smoke their cannons and muskets are throwing out, but it doesn’t matter; as long as they keep on firing, they cannot miss. We hurry forward, many men hunching over as if pushing against a strong wind.
The crack of the muskets and the roar of the cannons are irregular now but still constant. We have been told not to fire our muskets until we are almost at the breastworks. Good advice, if any of us make the breastworks.
Men are falling all around. It’s not as theatrical as I imagined in my childhood games. Men in battle don’t usually throw their arms up, pirouette dramatically and throw themselves to the ground. Usually it’s just a grunt, a sagging to the knees and an almost apologetic collapse.
Everything around me seems incredibly vivid and real. Every sight I see is sharp and every noise and smell the strongest I have ever experienced. I see a man’s arm fly off and spiral slowly through the air in a red spray. I hear the soft thud of lead balls hitting the flesh of the man in front of me. I smell his blood.
I feel Zach grip my arm. I turn to see him smiling at me. A small tear in his shirt is already seeping blood. Before I can decide what to do, there is a dull cracking sound. Zach’s head jerks back, his cap flies off and a small dark hole appears in his forehead. The smile is replaced by a puzzled expression, his grip loosens and he slips sideways.
“Zach?” I say stupidly as I crouch over him
. He’s already dead, lying on his back with blood covering half his face and his shirt front. I roll him over so that someone will see the paper on his back.
“You there. Get on.”
I look up to see the officer standing over me. He’s still holding his sword in the air, but the blade is just a stump, shattered by a Minnie ball. He’s not a lot older than me, but he’s trying to look older by growing a mustache. It’s not working; his hair is fair and his mustache looks like the fuzz on a peach. Before I have a chance to reply, the officer groans quietly and sits down.
Strangely, I don’t try to help him. He has ordered me on, and that’s what I do. I get up and keep going forward. I’m in a daze. I can still see and hear what is happening around me, but it’s happening to someone else. I don’t even care that Zach’s dead.
My cap is torn away, and I feel a Minnie ball tug at my trousers. The smoke swirls and I see the Rebel lines. They are surprisingly close. I can see enemy soldiers clambering on top of them to get a better shot at us. I swing my musket around, cock it and aim at a large bearded man slightly to my right. I pull the trigger and he disappears in a cloud of smoke. I wonder if I hit him.
I rush forward and begin to scramble up the breastworks. The wood is sticky with sap, and green shoots still grow out of the fresh-cut timber. There’s a man on top and he lunges down at me with his bayonet. I knock it aside and stab him in the thigh. He yells in pain and falls backward.
I only see the musket butt as a dark shape out of the corner of my eye. It catches me on the right temple. I hear a loud crack and hope it’s not my skull breaking. There is a sense of falling backward into space, and then everything goes black.
