Echoes of Dark and Light

by Chris Shanley-Dillman

  I smiled absently and nodded. “Sometimes.”

  “Ooo, okay, how about oatmeal raisin cookies?”

  “Woody, this place has some of the best oatmeal raisin cookies in the world.”

  “And how about plum pudding—”

  “Woody,” Toby interrupted, “are you hungry or something?”

  “Almost always,” he said with a sigh. “Okay, how about good smellin’ air? Does this place have fresh air, not the stinky latrine smell that seems to follow the Army of the Ohio wherever we go?”

  “Most definitely, unless of course you’re actually standing in an outhouse. An outhouse smells like an outhouse wherever you are.” I squinted into the setting sun at the edge of the forest. It appeared like the shadows had moved, and not in a wind through the branches sort of way. I nudged Toby and pointed.

  “How about friends. Would this place have a friend or two?”

  “Lots of friends, Woody, the best kind.”

  Toby edged back and gestured for First Sergeant Barlow who stood a few yards away. I pinned my eyes on the shadows while Toby whispered our suspicions to our poker playing friend. He pulled out a viewing scope and peered through the shiny brass cylinder, slowly nodding his head.

  “Yes, it sure seems our Rebel neighbors are up to someth—”

  Musket fire exploded from the forest edge and I stared in shock as the First Sergeant crumpled to the ground with a bloody musket hole torn through his chest.

  “Get down!” Toby yelled, pulling me off my feet as musket balls flew past my head.

  “Cover and retreat! Cover and retreat!” Captain Truckey’s deep voice boomed out over the confusion as he squatted behind a tree stump and took aim at the enemy.

  Toby leaned over, yelling in my ear, “The captain gave the cover and retreat order meanin’ half of us provide cover for the other half to retreat to safety, and then vise versa. Start shooting!”

  I couldn’t seem to make my limbs work, staring stunned as the First Sergeant’s blood pooled at my feet. Toby and Woody’s muzzle loaders fired alternately as one reloaded and one aimed at the advancing gray-clad men hollering and howling like enraged monsters. Fifty or so men of the 27th quickly and cautiously scrambled down the slope towards the open gate. Every instinct in my bones ordered me to follow, to run for safety. Only Toby and Woody kept me on the line, defying gut survival instinct. I couldn’t, wouldn’t leave my new friends.

  “Keep firing, men!” Captain Truckey bellowed between shots. “The first half is almost to the fort!”

  I shook myself out of shock and swung my rifle into position. I peered down the barrel, the smoke tearing my vision. I narrowed in on one Reb, his outlines blurring in the smoke and setting sun. I aimed, my finger on the trigger, my heartbeat thumping loudly in my ears. I could hit him, of that I had no doubts; my aim and skill came only second to that of my brother. But I hesitated. Does this fellow have a brother, too? A mother who would weep for his death? A son waiting at home? How would a person explain to a child that his father had been killed, shot on a battlefield. How do I explain to God…

  “Bobbi?”

  I turned to Toby’s questioning eyes. “I don’t know if I can,” I whispered.

  He must have heard me somehow. “The first one is always the toughest,” he reassured. “Here, give me your gun; reload mine.” He aimed and fired.

  The man I’d held in my sights stumbled to the ground and lay still. Toby’s bullet or someone else’s, I would never know. I pushed the dead Rebel out of my mind and concentrated on loading the guns for Woody and Toby. At least I could do that.

  When musket balls began sailing overhead towards the Rebs from behind us, Captain Truckey roared for us to retreat; the other half of our unit had reached safety behind the walls of Fort Sanders. And now, with the help of the artillery’s cannons, they fired over the walls at the enemy. Crouching low, we ran down the slope to the waiting bridge. Captain Truckey counted heads as we clamored across the wooden planks, our boots thumping echoes down into the surrounding moat. Satisfied that everyone with a heartbeat had made it to safety, he then followed. Before even halfway across, he signaled for the waiting soldiers to raise the bridge and start closing the heavy doors.

  I collapsed to the ground as my legs gave out, not even able to acknowledge Kenny’s nod of greeting or Preacher’s prayer of thanks. Woody and Toby dropped down next to me, trying to catch their breaths.

  When Toby could speak again, he turned to me. I expected anger, or worse, disappointment, at my failure to fire my rifle.

  “So,” he began, “what’s the answer to our Questions game?”

  I stared at him blankly, too stunned to reply.

  “That’s easy,” Woody piped in, not bothering to sit up or even open his eyes. “The answer is ‘home’.”

  Artillery and Infantry worked together all night, lobbing cannon balls and musket fire over the field at the Rebels, who had retreated back into the cover of the forest. The 27th had orders to sleep, but I couldn’t force my eyes closed for all of the noise. Not to mention the fear still spouting through my veins. Still, I tried to rest as Captain Truckey anticipated more action come sunrise. Others in the 27th seemed to find sleep elusive as well; voices murmured softly in nearby tents.

  I longed to ask Toby about what had happened. ‘The first one is always the toughest,’ he’d said. Had he once hesitated in pulling the trigger as well? If so, how did he overcome it? Do I really want the act of killing to come easy? But my questions would have to wait; Toby snored loudly, deep in sleep, probably the only one in the entire fort.

  I sighed and rolled over to wait for morning, but the frigid hours crept by with a slowness that tugged at my sanity. I couldn’t force the moment from my brain, when I aimed and then failed. Normally I didn’t care a speck about other people’s opinions, but shame flooded my face at what Toby must think of me, perhaps a coward or a liar.

  Life thundered by fast and ferocious, like the raging tornados that struck our town back in Indiana. A person tried to stand and face the storm of life, only to be knocked down by disease, hunger, heartache, abuse, fire, a parent’s fist… That person had two choices: she could give up, or climb back on her feet. If she stuck with it, eventually a break in the clouds would reveal the beauty of a rainbow or the love of a friend, bring some sunshine through the storm. But it’s her choice because it’s her life. And who am I to take away that person’s choice? Who am I to take away that person’s life? I didn’t have the right, except in self-defense or in defense of a loved one. But right then, the country struggled though a war, and normality didn’t exist in the raging horrors of war. I felt completely lost.

  On the other hand, how did I expect to be a soldier if I refused to fight? And why did this just now become an issue? I longed to talk with Robert. But as that didn’t appear possible at the moment, who else? Not Preacher. Toby? Maybe Cora.

  I slowly began to notice a shift in light, the varying grays of dawn instead of the intimate darkness of night. I heard men stirring, making coffee, passing gas, hacking up the phlegm from sleep. I took a deep gulp of air and exhaled, seeing my breath float ghost-like into the corners of the tent. Then I suddenly realized that Artillery had ceased firing. Had the Rebels retreated? Somehow I doubted that. I quickly pulled on my boots and crawled out of the tent.

  I collided with another soldier.

  “Good, you’re up. Captain wants everyone to report at the northwest wall in ten minutes.” He hurried to the next tent.

  His urgency sparked an unease in my gut. I quickly dove back into our tent, tripped on Toby’s legs and landed hard on his chest.

  “Oof! Hey, what the—”

  I guessed that was one way to wake up a soldier. “Sorry about that. Captain wants everyone at the northwest wall in ten minutes,” I relayed as I scrambled off of him.

  Toby tried to talk through his yawn. “What happened to the morning reveille? Did Kenny finally carry out his threat and pour molasses down the neck
s of the bugles?”

  I snorted. “Not yet, at least I don’t think so. A soldier just delivered the message, and then he moved off in a great hurry. Something must be happening. Or about to happen.”

  I dug out my coat while Toby pulled on his boots. We arrived at the northwest wall, muskets in hand, with two minutes to spare. Pink-tinged clouds lighted the eastern sky, and a heavy white cover of frost coated the entire grassy slope on the other side of the walls.

  “Hey Captain, what’s up?”

  The 27th crowded in close to hear his words.

  “Rebels formed up and are preparing an attack. Stand ready to retaliate.”

  We lined up, two men thick, our rifle muzzles resting on the wall, our eyes scanning for signs of movement. I noticed my hands shaking and quickly stuffed them in my armpits to hide my nerves. Before I could remind myself to take a deep breath, cannon fire exploded from across the hillside from five different positions.

  “Hold your fire, men!” Captain Truckey instructed. “Steady now!”

  For forty-five minutes, the cannons blasted the fort. Most of the shells flew too high. I couldn’t tell if the Rebels aimed high on purpose, as a cover or distraction, or for some other reason. But then out of the woods came a horde of yelling and screaming Rebels charging the fort. Men in varying shades of grays and brown stormed down the slope toward the wire-strewn stumps, less than three hundred yards from where we stood. Without my realizing it, my hands had slunk out from my pits and gripped my musket with determined instinct.

  “Easy men, wait for the right moment,” Captain Truckey cautioned.

  Every nerve in my body stood alert and waiting. I could feel the warmth from Toby’s body standing next to me, shoulder to shoulder at the fort’s wall. I looked over at him, meeting his eyes, those warm, molasses brown eyes. A crooked grin eased the worry from his face, easing mine a bit as well.

  “It’s going to be okay.”

  His reassuring voice eased through the overwhelming storm of yelling men, cannon fire and thick fear roaring in my ears. My pounding heart immediately calmed a notch, just enough to keep me from vomiting all over myself.

  “Look! The wire barrier is working!”

  I wrenched my eyes from Toby’s to witness the effects of our telegraph wire obstacles. The Rebel charge slowed as the men crawled over and ducked under the wires. Many tripped and became entangled, clogging the flow; others lost their footing, tumbled down the slope and into the surrounding ditch. Booming explosions all around shook me alert, and I realized I’d missed the orders to open fire. Almost on instinct, I braced my musket against my right shoulder, aimed down the long barrel, pinned a running Rebel in my sights…then hesitated. Could I really take another man’s life? A whipping movement of color caught my eye and I quickly re-aimed and fired. The flaunting Rebel flag splintered into pieces and in seconds became trampled into the dirt. I couldn’t wipe the sly smile off my face, and I quickly reloaded, aiming for another flag.

  The surge of men reached the ditch surrounding the fort. A few hesitated; without ropes or ladders, climbing out the other side would prove difficult. But the Rebels quickly made up their minds and launched into the ditch to avoid our torrential gun fire from the fort walls. However, it didn’t provide much cover, and the dead and wounded Rebels began piling up thick in the ditch. The smell of blood mixed with the gunpowder, burning my nose. Our artillery took advantage of the cornered Rebels, dropping shells directly into the ditch. I stared in horror as the men screamed for help, screamed for surrender. Then one particularly fiery Rebel caught my eye as he and a few brave followers clamored over the rising pile of bodies, reaching the fort’s walls. Suddenly nearly face to face with him, I instinctively shuffled backwards a few steps.

  The Rebel raised his gun and yelled “Surrender, you Yankee sons of b—”

  A cannon fired three canisters of shot, blasting him and his companions into pieces that flew in all directions.

  I pushed past Toby and fell to me knees, gagging and vomiting sour bile. I felt the Rebel’s blood on my clothes, my skin, my hair. I gasped for air that remained just out of reach.

  Then blurred colors moved through the haze, catching my eyes. Rebels tumbled over the far wall, scrambled to their feet and charged! The 27th all focused on the slope and the flooding ditch; no one saw the rear attack coming. The Rebels charged silently in the clashing chaos, guns raised, guns aimed.

  Toby!

  I grabbed my Colt pistol, cocked the hammer, and aimed, as instinctive and natural as my own heartbeat.

  The rear attacking Rebels arrowed across the grounds. I aimed down the barrel, my hand steady and sound. I squeezed the trigger. The leading Rebel dropped to the ground, dead.

  My gunfire alerted the rest of the 27th to the rear attack, and the remaining Rebels quickly threw down their weapons and surrendered. Moments later, the cease-fire called the end of the battle. It lasted a mere twenty minutes.

  As the world revolved out of focus around me, I slowly crept over to the dead Rebel, the man I had shot and killed. He lay on his back, hazel eyes wide open and sightless. My bullet had pierced his head; a small hole in the center of his forehead pooled dark red blood that overflowed and dribbled down his cheek like tears to join the puddle forming from the larger, ragged exit hole.

  An arm encircled my shoulders.

  “First one is the hardest,” Toby murmured, as he gently steered me away from the body.

  Sunday church services, postponed until that evening, attracted an extra large crowd.

  “That usually happens,” Preacher informed me, “immediately before or following a battle. Men seem to feel a little closer to our Lord with death so near.”

  I heard a hint of sarcasm in his voice, as if he disapproved of their inconsistent religious practices. But I didn’t reply. I felt immersed in some sort of disorientating fog ever since coming face to bloodied face with the man I’d killed. I’d felt Toby’s concerned eyes watching me as I somehow worked through the afternoon’s orders. Poor Woody spouted bad joke after even worse joke to try and uncover a spark of a smile from me until Toby whispered something to him. Afterwards, Woody kept quiet, but insisted on hovering annoyingly at my elbow to help in anyway he could. Later, I would look back grateful that our orders took us out of sight and smell of the ditch filled with dead and dying Rebels. But at the time, I could only concentrate on breathing.

  As we walked to the church services, this time held in an inner meeting room of Fort Sanders, Toby kept pace with me and we soon fell behind of the others.

  Trudging along next to me with his hands in his pockets, Toby nudged me with his shoulder. “So, Bobbi, want to talk about it?”

  I shrugged.

  Toby sighed and tried again. “Sometimes it helps to talk as everyone here has gone through it. We’ve all killed; it’s part of war. Eventually the shock and guilt eases a bit, though it never disappears completely.”

  Toby spoke from experience. And while I did appreciate his concern, I just couldn’t find any words to say.

  “You’re strong, Bobbi. You’ll get though this.” He nudged me again and then walked on ahead, leaving me alone.

  As I rounded the corner to the meeting room, voices spilled out into the hallway, slowing my steps even more. I peered through the open door to find hundreds of men pressed shoulder to shoulder. An overwhelming stench of unwashed bodies, tobacco smoke, and gunpowder wafted out to assault my nose. As my queasy stomach flipped over, I quickly ran back the way I’d come, almost trampling someone in the process. I mumbled an apology over my shoulder, as I ran.

  When I found a slice of solitude, I paused to catch my breath. Sinking down on a bench, I pinned my eyes on the stars glowing in the night sky. The cold air bit at my nose and chilled my bones, but I pulled my jacket close and stayed put. For the first time since the battle I’d found a hint of peace, and if the cold air kept intruders away, so much the better.

  But a few moments later, someone appeared at my shoul
der.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  I glanced over, annoyed at being disturbed. But the unexpected arrival of Cora’s soft smile eased my bristled fur. “Oh, it’s you.”

  “Well, that’s not very welcoming, especially since I almost twisted an ankle in pursuit after almost getting trampled.”

  “Sorry.”

  Cora didn’t wait for an invite. She sat down on the bench next to me and settled her skirts neatly around her. Except for a fine film of dust coating her boots and hemline, she appeared clean and fresh as if having just stepped from a hot bath. For some reason, that really irked me.

  “How do you do it?” I exploded.

  “Do what?” Cora’s dainty blond brows furrowed in confusion.

  “How do you go about looking and smelling so clean when we’re out here in the middle of a bloody war? Do you keep a bathtub filled with rose petals behind the hospital tent?” My own skin itched from the filth of the past few days. I’d managed to wash most of the blood off from today’s battle, but I could still feel a few clots stuck in my hair. And to add insult, while trying to clean up I’d pulled a nasty louse from my scalp. Just the thought of lice infested hair gave me the shivers, and I knew I’d be conducting a thorough search for his friends later tonight. If I couldn’t get rid of them by hand, I swore I’d shave my head!

  “I did just step out of a bath, though I’m afraid I ran out of rose petals last week.”

  I couldn’t tell if she spouted sarcasm or spoke the truth so I kept my mouth closed. And with my mouth closed, I had to breath through my nose, which reminded me of how bad I stank. I suspected that Cora could smell my odors as well, but had too many manners to mention it. Still, I scooted away a few inches, glad the wind blew towards me.

  “So, Private Rivers,” Cora gently pried, “do you want to talk about it?”

  My temper flared again. “Why does everyone all of a sudden want to talk so much?”

  “Well, I cannot speak for anyone else, but it appears as if something is troubling you. I’ve been told I’m a really good listener.”