by Peter Troy
In his mind Ethan can see them do it once more, the famous old Irish Brigade smashin’ inta th’enemy with ferocity unmatched, punching a hole in the line the way they did at Malvern Hill, or shattering the resistance of the Rebs in the Sunken Road at Antietam. He thinks, he imagines, he hopes, there’ll be fresh troops to exploit the hole once they make it, another brigade following up, thirsting their way forward into the breach, the way water finds its way to the hole in the dam. But by the time the boys come within twenty yards of the stone wall, they’re nothing like a cohesive fighting force anymore. The green flag goes down and is raised again, only to fall seconds later. And what looked like imminent victory in his hopeful eyes just moments before now dissolves into a nightmare, a battered and bloody mass of men, his comrades, his friends, his brothers, unwilling to give way, iron-willed bastards that they are.
’Til then comes the grim, imminent reality as the Irish Brigade is washed down the hill, the lads stumbling over their own wounded as the remnants of a once-formidable force yield the field, not retreating as much as blown backward, downhill, by the Newtonian might expelled from behind the stone wall—as in for each action there is an equal and opposite reaction, and even the iron will of the lads who march behind the green and gold flag can’t change that part of the equation. The Rebs on the other side of the wall stop firing after a while and lift their caps and cheer, not mocking the Irish Brigade but showing their deep admiration. And Ethan turns on his back now, almost breathless, staring up at the sky, wondering if he’ll have any friends left to see come morning.
Jesus, that last one almost did it, the wounded kid next to him says. Those were the Irish Boys, weren’t they?
Ethan only nods his head as the water’s trying to rush to his eyes now and can only be kept back by biting hard on his lip and jerking his head to his chest a few times, then burying it in his right arm.
Hey, you okay? the kid asks.
And Ethan mumbles now, Mmm-hmm.
Jesus, they almost did it, didn’t they? the kid says again, none the wiser.
Ethan opens his watery eyes toward the sight of the slaughter once again.
Mmm-hmm, he mumbles, stuffing back the gasps of air his lungs keep trying to press out, pushing them back with all the rest of those memories that have no right to see the light of day.
Almost, Ethan says.
STAFFORD HEIGHTS, VIRGINIA
DECEMBER 14, 1862
The generals must’ve got drunk or cried crocodile tears or spent the whole night after the onslaught figuring out how to cover their arses when the day of reckoning surely comes. Whatever it was, they didn’t call for the retreat, once the shield of darkness mercifully offered the chance, just left whole brigades, divisions even, to freeze there along the slope below the Reb lines.
You huddled alongside the kid named Will from somewhere in Pennsylvania, pulling in two of Will’s dead comrades from nearby to offer some cover from the wind and the snipers up above. And you and Will listened to the moaning of the wounded, the final pleas from those who didn’t make it through the night, and the muffled tears of those who wished they wouldn’t. Sometime just before the morning, you could see enough of the moonlight reflected off the Rappahannock below to imagine you could speak to Aislinn and somehow your desperate words would be carried off to her. But there were no soliloquies about remember whens or even the lamentations for all that had surely been lost, just a simple plea in case she had any pull in the Ever After and could make such a dream so. Let me see her again, you whispered, knowing Aislinn’d know who.
Then came this morning, with the sun offering the grace of warmth along with the danger of the Rebs up above having clear sight of the field again. And between you and Will there was nothing but a few bits of hardtack and some almost-frozen salt pork to make it through ’til the sun finally set again and the generals figured it was time to issue the call to retreat. And it’s only then that you go back down the slope to something like safety and the warmth of a fire and something to eat.
When you finally find the camp for what’s left of the Sixty-Ninth you brace yourself before going in, but it does little to fend off the news. Finny is dead … left up there amongst the lads shattered by the canister fire near the stone wall, the lot of them nothing more than some high-water mark of the great Irish Brigade that looked victory closer in the eye than any Union Brigade three times their size. And the thought comes to you that Fin must’ve known that morning how he’d have to face the laws of probability at some point, that there were nine dead Rebs who’d have to be accounted for somehow.
What about Harry? you ask O’Leary from your old company.
Went to the flag ceremony, O’Leary answers with disgust.
The what?
Doncha know the new flag for the regiment arrived from New York? O’Leary says. There’s a celebration with General Hancock himself and all the officers—the ones left anyway—over by the ferry docks. Harry’s ready to get himself court-martialed … said something ’bout takin’ a crack at as many officers as he can …
And instinctively you head off before O’Leary even finishes. Along the way you ask whoever you vaguely recognize if they’ve seen Harry or know where the flag celebration is, until you hear the din of a somber fiddle playing in a building not far from the ferry landing. Harry’s outside it, sitting on the ground and leaning up against the wall not two feet from a window. And inside you can see officers with faces down-turned and bobbing slightly side to side along with the music.
Harry, you say.
He looks up at you, and right off you can tell that he’s not all right.
Jesus, Harry, what happened?
D’you hear ’bout Fin?
You only nod your head by way of acknowledgment. Then you see the blood from Harry’s chest and arm, running in a thin streak down his uniform jacket.
Jesus, Harry, you’re hit!
Jus’ a little shrap’el, Perfess … nothin’ like what Fin … or you … or Smitty got … nothin’ like what they got …
And he nods his head toward the heights.
It takes the better part of an hour to get Harry to the hospital set up on the other side of the river on the bluff called Stafford Heights. He’s able to walk the whole way, but you do let him rest an arm on you when it comes to climbing the last hill. And it’s a sad sight the two of you must make, pressed against each other for balance, with you limping and him with a practically lifeless arm tucked inside his coat. Inside the building a nurse takes a look at the wounds, and Harry’s words are confirmed—it looks far worse than it is. There’ll be no amputation or even an operation that’ll be worth using what chloroform they have. There will be no discharge, either. And Harry lies down on the floor at the end of a long row of triaged men waiting to be attended to by one of the overworked doctors, a single blanket underneath him and one on top. The nurse washes the wounds a little and tells him that one of them has practically stopped bleeding all on its own, and then she leaves to tend to more serious cases.
I’ll stay here with you Harry, you say. Get some sleep, and I’ll stay right here by the—
And Harry interrupts you with an angry look on his face and shaking his head almost violently back and forth a few times.
Fer chrissakes, Perfessor, go home! You think I wanna see your feckin’ mug here … to be reminded of it all …
And his voice trails off like you’ve never heard from Harry before, the toughest one of all of you from good old Red Hook, now made fragile by the torment of memory.
Just go home, Ethan—an’ don’t come back here to get yerself shot at, you goddamn cripple … you don’t belong here, pretendin’ like yer still a soldier …
And even though you know he’s only saying such things to convince you to leave, they still hurt coming from him. You lean down and put your hand on his unscathed shoulder, and he nods at you, then turns away. And you go without another word or gesture, hoping this will not be the last time you see him.
> For a time you thought that this was where you belonged, with the lads still, fighting for the cause in whatever way you could. But it was clear that none of the lads who were actually doing the fighting cared a damn about the cause, not Union, not victory, for damn sure not emancipation, not now, not after all this. This war has become about simple put your head down and forge back into the breach attrition, with the generals’ stupidity providing an endless source of fresh corpses and shattered lives. And you’re glad your camera and half the glass-plate negatives you carried with you are left smashed along the slope on the other side of the river. You’ll play no part in promoting the notion of a Glorious Charge, played out in the headlines of the Daily Eagle. And as for any runaways clinging to the Army of the Potomac—well, they must’ve got word that it’s not exactly a reliable team to hitch their wagons to, since there haven’t been any of them to stick around long enough for you to take their picture.
Just outside the building there’s a little bench of decorative ironwork, and you flop your beleaguered body down on it, stretching out your bad leg and rubbing it as far as the knee, trying to ease the pain a little. It’s a fantastic sight out in front of you and for miles into the distance, with campfires on each side of the lines flickering like tiny stars fallen to earth and the brighter glow from houses forming constellations amidst the spectral display. You tip your head back, knocking it harder than expected on the iron bench, and close your eyes until the pain becomes dull. Then opening them, you see the flashes across the canopy of a star-filled sky, little streaks of white at first, then growing bolder and wider and colored pink and orange and yellow. And the words somehow come to you like a treasure stored away that’s been waiting to breathe the open air … Na Fir Chlis … you whisper in the Old Irish … The Dancing Lady.
You close your eyes again and rub your head at the point of impact, then slowly open them once again—and there she is! No counterfeit, this sight, just the brilliance of a memory brought back to life, and you can almost feel yourself along the Lane back home, back before The Hunger, with Seanny and Da still there, with Mam wrapped in her coat and draping the edges of it over your shoulders that reach only just above her waist—and Aislinn, there beside you—dancing right along with The Dancing Lady in the sky—and it’s the sort of clean you thought would never again be possible, something pure as a stream back home … before it all—
Huhhhhh! you’re interupted by the gasp from behind you, jolting your head back upright and gathering yourself before you turn to see the silhouette in the backlight of the doorway, a nurse’s bonnet atop her head and a shawl draped over her shoulders and her turning her gaze from the sky to you.
Oh sorry, she says, I didn’t mean to star— … Ethan?
And she gasps again.
It’s only when she steps a few feet out of the doorway, and the lights from above illuminate her face, that you see the familiar features you’d spent most of the night before reconstructing in your mind—and you smile without being aware of any waking sensation.
And there is not a word between you for the time it takes you to stand up and walk half the way to her, wrapping her inside your embrace and feeling the electric charge of that dream fulfilled, then easing her away from you far enough to look into her deepest brown eyes reflecting the dancing light as they look up at you—and you kiss her now with the breathless gratitude of being given the chance again. A minute passes, maybe more, your embrace a fit of Newtonian symmetry it seems, and for that moment all the scarred earth around feels washed as clean as the childhood memory of Na Fir Chlis—in all her eternal splendor—until you see the blood smeared across the arms and apron of her uniform, then slip back far enough away to see the fatigue pulling at her face, and the eyes that you know have now seen too much to ever forget—to ever be as confident as only a person who has never known the horrors can be. And seeing what has been lost, you somehow become angry with her in much the way Harry was with you just minutes before.
What are you doing here? you ask. Why are you … is it … because of me?
The words are no sooner out of your mouth than you hear the arrogance in them, and the fatigue is gone from her saddened eyes as the fire returns.
I was a nurse long before I ever knew you! she says, pushing away from what’s left of your embrace. How dare you think that I would follow you around like some smitten little girl! I’m doing a damn sight more than you—writing stupid letters to announce you’re going off to take more pictures! Like that’s doing any good! I’m helping to save lives!
And she punches at your chest with the fleshy edge of her hand, then turns and begins to walk back to the doorway. But you find the agility to make two quick steps without a limp, enough to take hold of her hand and pull it gently toward you, slowing her progress for the time needed to walk around back in front of her.
I’m sorry … I … I didn’t … I’m sorry.
Ethan, I have just thirty minutes to breathe something other than a room filled with chloroform … I just want to sit and close my eyes …
And you regain your senses enough to lead her over to the bench while she continues to speak.
… I haven’t slept since yesterday. I think—I don’t know for sure …
You take your coat off and drape it across her lap, then sit beside her.
… it’s been terrible Ethan—one amputation after another …
And as she softens into your embrace, laying her head on your shoulder, you whisper, I know … I know … but enough of that for now … let’s watch The Dancing Lady.
The what? she asks.
And you take just one finger and place it beneath her chin, gently lifting her head up enough to look at the heavenly display once again.
Over here they call them the Northern Lights, but back in th’Old Country, they’re Na Fir Chlis—The Dancing Lady.
I like that better, she says.
Me too. And the first time I can remember seein’ them was back on the Lane, with all of us there—
How old were you?
Couldn’t have been more than six or seven.
Just a wee lad, she says with as much of a brogue as she can muster, and the smile warm on her face once again.
That’s right, you say. And there we all were, Aislinn dancin’ right along with the Lady in the sky, and Da tellin’ us about what the folks long ago used t’say about such things …
And the whisper of your voice is answered with the melody of her soft breaths against the corner of your chest, as you tell her all you can remember of that far-off evening, understanding, with a certainty you’ve never known before … that she is your only cause now.
MICAH
RICHMOND, VIRGINIA
DECEMBER 24, 1862
Jeremiah’s about the last person in the world Micah wants to spend most of a day with. But here he is riding right alongside him. Complaining he should be the one to hold Soldier’s reins. Jeremiah’s good with horses, but even better at complaining.
It’s almost an hour riding in from the Barnes place west of the city. With Jeremiah running off at the mouth the whole time. Talking about how the Massa sent him to go and see about the filly Mr. Barnes wanted to sell. He’d complained for most of the ride to the Barnes stable, and now for most of the ride home. Talking about how that means the Massa respects his opinion when it comes to hawses. And his backward logic makes him somehow think that it means he should be the one holding the reins now. Driving this cart, that Micah takes every day. Driving Soldier, who goes with him every day, too. But Micah wasn’t having any of that right from the start. This was the last day of two weeks working at the Barnes place. And Jeremiah was just along for the ride. Left to complain from the passenger side of things. Until.
You a nigga jus’ like us. Donchu go fo’gettin that. Jeremiah says.
And Micah turns to him, stares at him with a scowl in his eyes. That maybe makes Jeremiah think twice ’bout his latest complaint. But Mmm-hmm. Is all Micah says, for maybe the
twentieth time that day. Which makes Jeremiah even madder.
They’d gone round and round before, back when Massa Longley first bought Micah a year and a half ago. Jeremiah wasn’t the biggest buck in the slave quarters. Just the most favored one, it seemed. Only one with his own little kingdom, right there in the stables. And a cabin all to himself, even if it did smell like manure all the time. Then came Micah. Massa’s new prize, who got his own cabin too, back all the way at the end of the quarters. Far away from the stables. ’Cause Micah was gonna be the first carpenter Massa had to go and make all this lumber they been producin’ and sellin’ into actual things. Like hay lofts and chicken coops, they figured. Which was bad enough. Turned out it was porches and bookshelves and storage rooms and a nursery even. Making him more of a prize than anyone thought.
Most of the other slaves on the place let Micah keep to himself. Which was fine by him. But not Jeremiah, ’cause he’d always figured he was Massa Longley’s biggest prize. So he never missed a chance to poke fun at Micah. And Micah just took it, not caring one way or the other. Still in his days of bein’ just a mule, he figured. ’Til Jeremiah went a little too far one day. Started talking about how Micah come from nowhere and musta been a half-breed whose Momma got did by the overseer. Then it took three men to pull Micah off Jeremiah. And no one messed with him after that.
It’s downright ’barrissin ridin’ through town like dis, me th’Massa’s liv’ry slave an’ you drivin’ this here cart. Jeremiah says, complaining. But not scolding, to be sure.
