Today We Go Home

by Kelli Estes

  Willie let out a loud sigh. “The rest you know. I enlisted, and here I am.”

  “Do you think you’ll go home after the war?” Emily asked her, thinking about their own home in Indiana.

  “Oh, most assuredly.” Willie’s voice lost the melancholy tone and became animated. “I want to own my own farm there. Maybe even have a cattle ranch like my brother.”

  “Near your family?” Ben asked.

  “If they’ll forgive me for leaving.”

  * * *

  Later, after Tattoo, the three of them settled for the first time together in their tent for the night. Emily lay quietly and listened to the mournful sound of a bugle playing “Taps.” As the drummer beat a few single, isolated beats at the end, she turned over onto her side and whispered, “I’m happy you’re with us, Willie. And I’m happy you two have each other.”

  “Thanks, Jesse,” came the whispered reply out of the darkness. “I’m happy, too.”

  A rustling sounded, and in the lingering light of their dying fire, she saw Ben’s hand reach to the newly built bunk above him, where Willie clasped it in a momentary squeeze.

  Emily shifted again to stare at the dark canvas above her, wishing it was only Ben here and she could tell him how scared she’d been at Allegheny. But telling him would likely only make him want to send her home.

  “Em?”

  She startled, surprised he’d use that name in front of Willie. “Yeah?”

  “I’m happy you weren’t hurt in the battle.”

  She had to draw a deep breath before she could trust her voice to remain steady. “Yeah, me too.” She waited a moment and then, softly, she said, “Good night.”

  “Good night, Em.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Present day: Woodinville, Washington

  December 13, 1861: I wonder, when I die, will I see the face of the person who kills me and feel only pain and hatred toward him? Or will I see the face of God as His welcoming arms surround me and feel nothing but His love, as Aunt Harriet says happens in Heaven? Does God welcome those who have taken the lives of others?

  I took a man’s life today. Possibly more than one, but one I know for certain because we were face-to-face and if I hadn’t killed him first, I would not be here writing these words. He was young. He was a person with a family waiting at home.

  When I sleep, he is there. Taunting me, laughing at me, begging me to spare him. Blood, screams, terror, all the horrors of battle fill my dreams and make me wake often. I feel covered by that man’s blood.

  I love most things about being a soldier, but I despise the killing.

  Larkin closed the diary and sat for a long time with her eyes closed, remembering the first time she’d taken a life. It had been necessary, she knew. And doing so had likely saved countless other lives. But still, it had eaten away at her. She knew exactly how Emily Wilson had felt. Killing changed a person.

  For the past week, ever since the winery fiasco, Larkin hadn’t left the house. Not even to go for a walk with Bowie. Griff’s suicide had hit her hard, and her nightmares and flashbacks were taking her over.

  She wasn’t doing well. She’d called her therapist and talked with her for an hour—promising yet again to find someone local to see on a regular basis but knowing she wasn’t going to—and came away from the call feeling no better. She knew how to cope with her symptoms. She knew to identify her stuck points—the strong negative beliefs she held that were problematic—as they entered her mind and how to change them. She knew to name her emotions so that she could process them rather than avoid them or let them become consuming. She knew to confront her trauma, whether it was memories from Afghanistan or losing Griff, and process through it, challenging the assumptions and false beliefs she attached to the events. She even knew that yoga and meditation and deep breathing helped.

  But it all felt like bullshit.

  All she wanted to do was distract herself by reading Emily’s diary, and when the words started to blur, she shifted to the new laptop she’d ordered after ruining her last one to try to find anything connected to Emily on the internet. And when all that became too much, she drank, slept, watched Doctor Who reruns, and drank some more.

  Reading Emily’s account of the Battle of Allegheny Mountain both thrilled her and shook her. She was so proud of Emily for standing strong with the men and proving she was fit to be there, but she knew too well what it actually felt like to have bullets whizzing past, each with the intent to kill.

  Larkin had never been afraid of a firefight and had taken part in many, but now that she no longer had her weapon, the account of the battle reminded her how vulnerable she really was.

  Lives were taken so easily by bombs, bullets, accidents, or one’s own hand. How did anyone manage to go about their lives in this world and not feel scared shitless? And pissed off by that?

  Larkin was angry, that much was certain. And when she read Emily’s accounts of the bad dreams plaguing her since the battle, she knew there was a good chance the poor woman had also suffered from PTSD. But of course it wasn’t called that back then. Soldiers presenting with symptoms of PTSD during the Civil War era were said to suffer from melancholia, soldier’s heart, or, absurdly, insanity. Sufferers in World War I were diagnosed with shell shock. In World War II it was combat fatigue, battle fatigue, or even the victim-blaming “lack of mental fortitude.” Vietnam veterans were told they had post-Vietnam syndrome, as if that meant anything.

  Trauma messed a person up, no matter what time period they lived in. That’s what Larkin knew for certain.

  Did reading the diary of a traumatized woman trigger her own symptoms? Larkin didn’t know, but she wasn’t about to stop. She knew to take it in small doses.

  That was why today she’d let her cousins and Grams drag her away from it all and to the mall for some Christmas shopping.

  Maybe insanity was an accurate diagnosis after all, she thought as she stood in the busy center court and surveyed the mass of humanity pushing and shoving past one another. Why else had she agreed to come here? This was a mistake. She could not handle crowds like this. Too many people, too much commotion, too much noise, too many potential threats.

  On the balcony above them a line of parents and children snaked around the atrium and down the opposite wing of stores, all of them waiting to see Santa, who presided over a mock North Pole workshop. A stage was set up to one side of the center court, and on it, a middle school band screeched out “Here Comes Santa Claus.” Larkin eyed the instrument cases stacked along the back of the stage, knowing any of them could contain an IED. For that matter, any package carried by any one of these shoppers could contain an IED. Puffy winter jackets could be hiding suicide vests.

  “I want to go to Nordstrom to look for a sweater for Mom,” Kaia said. “Who wants to come with?”

  “I’ll come,” Jenna said. “Maybe I’ll find something for Evan’s mom there.” She turned to Larkin and Grams. “You two coming?”

  Larkin didn’t answer. She was too busy watching a group of teenage boys who were following some girls much too closely. Were they going to harm them? Grams laid a hand on her arm.

  “I think Larkin and I will find a quiet spot to get a cup of coffee. You two go ahead, and we’ll meet up later.”

  Larkin let Grams pull her along as she did her best to watch each and every person around them—up ahead, in the stores they passed, sitting on benches, and leaning against walls. Soon, Grams gently pushed her into a chair in the back corner of a coffee shop. Larkin sat, grateful Grams knew to give her the seat that put her back against the wall.

  Eventually, the cocoon of the coffee shop eased her tension, and Larkin was able to focus on a conversation with Grams. She updated her on the latest sections of Emily’s diary and on her search for Emily in other records. “Basically, I’m not getting far,” she admitted, sipping the peppermint mocha
Grams had set in front of her.

  “What can I do to help?” Grams offered. “I’ve done a lot of genealogy research and can navigate the various sites.”

  “Let’s sit down together tomorrow and see what you can come up with.” Larkin was distracted again. A woman wearing a niqab had entered, pushing a toddler in a stroller.

  It wasn’t the woman’s clothing that made Larkin uneasy. She’d found far more innocent women during her searches than not, and she’d befriended plenty of women who dressed similar to this one. No, what made her uneasy was the fact that she was the exact height and size as Anahita. Even her eyes looked the same. They were the same light blue as the sky on a hot summer afternoon. This woman’s eyes were rimmed with eyeliner, and her lids were painted a dusky rose color. That alone should have differentiated her from Anahita, for Larkin had never seen the girl wear makeup. But still, for a moment, Larkin’s stomach jumped into her throat.

  As she watched, the woman ordered a box of apple juice for her son and spent a minute trying to stab the tiny straw into the hole as the toddler screamed and kicked his miniature Nike shoes against the stroller. When she finally handed it to him, he grabbed it with both hands and settled back with a look of adoration at his mother.

  Anahita had never gotten the chance to be a mother.

  “Larkin?” Grams asked. “You okay?”

  “Uh, yeah. I’m fine.” She forced her gaze away from the woman and back to her coffee. No, she would not think about Anahita. She would not go there. Not today. Today she was supposed to be having a nice shopping outing and nothing more. She gripped her cup between both hands and plastered on a smile for Grams. “So, Grams, what do you want Santa to bring you this year?”

  The Anahita look-alike accepted the iced latte the barista handed her and stuck it into a cup holder on the stroller, presumably to drink later when she wasn’t so covered up. She said something to her son, and they left the store. Larkin watched until she disappeared, her heart still yearning for Anahita.

  Chapter Sixteen

  December 25, 1861: Union Army Camp, Cheat Mountain

  The regiment settled back into camp life so smoothly that one might forget they had partaken of battle earlier in the month. But Emily could not forget. Every night she faced the Rebs again, and every night she shot that poor boy over and over. Sometimes it took all night long to kill him. The worst was when she shot a Reb in her dream, and after the smoke had cleared, she was looking into her own dead face. Or Ben’s. Or Willie’s. One time, the face even belonged to her little cousin Ada.

  She had taken to volunteering for night guard duty to give Ben and Willie privacy, but mostly to avoid her dreams. It helped some. When she dozed during free moments throughout the day, the dreams did not come, and she was able to find her rest that way.

  When Christmas morning dawned, others in camp were as excited as children. For many Union soldiers, St. Nicholas came in the shape of a Christmas box delivered by express mail from home. Although Emily, Ben, and Willie never received packages and knew none would be coming on this day, they did catch the joy in the air. When called to Reveille, some men in another company were so high on anticipation of the day that they launched into singing before roll call. Soon, nearly every man gathered had joined in, including Emily, and their voices filled the morning air with the tune “O Come, All Ye Faithful,” followed immediately by “One Horse Open Sleigh.”

  No quarter was given in honor of the holiday, and drilling and fatigue duty commenced per usual. After Retreat sounded late in the afternoon, however, a swarm of men raced for the express wagons that had arrived with the mail. Emily, Ben, and Willie returned to their tent.

  “I think we need a Christmas tree,” Ben announced as they rested their weapons against the wall. “I’ll go find something suitable while you two find a way to decorate it.” He caught Emily’s eye and gave her a wink.

  She was startled to feel the sting of tears and an overwhelming rush of heat in her throat. As much as she’d tried to hide it, Ben must have noticed how the battle had affected her and was trying to cheer her up. She’d always loved Christmas, and when she’d first seen a drawing of a Christmas tree in Harper’s Weekly several years ago, she had made a nuisance of herself until Pa had given in and gotten them one. They’d had a Christmas tree every year since, and Ben knew it was Emily’s favorite part of the holiday, after the special meal, of course. But that was not an option in camp.

  “We have no candles or ribbon or nuts or cakes,” Willie announced unnecessarily. “What can we possibly find to decorate the tree with?”

  Emily went into their tent and started poking through their meager possessions. Socks? No, those would hardly look festive, what with the holes in the heels and toes and ripe smell emanating from them. Minié balls or cartridges? She rejected that idea as well. First of all, it would be too dangerous in the chance that the tree caught on fire, and second, they would likely get in serious trouble for misuse of ammunition.

  What could they use?

  Her gaze landed on her haversack. Three days’ worth of hardtack was stacked inside, more than she could possibly eat. If Ben and Willie also gave some of theirs, the hard biscuits might look like the cakes and cookies they used at home on the tree. She grabbed all but two.

  What else?

  The only thing left was a packet of desiccated vegetables and another of salt pork. After months of the tough meat, she could stand to forgo that particular ration for a few days.

  Willie laughed when she saw the salt pork, but she dashed inside and emerged a moment later with her own rations. Ben returned carrying a spruce tree as tall as his shoulders. He dug a pit into the ground in front of their tent and stuck the trunk of the tree into it, using dirt and rocks to prop it upright. When he was finished, he stepped back and proudly announced, “We have a Christmas tree.”

  Feeling lighter than she had in weeks, Emily began arranging her hardtack on the branches. Like at home, she started to sing, “Silent night. Holy night…”

  Willie and Ben joined in the singing, and all three of them continued decorating the tree. When Emily laid chunks of salt pork on a branch, it sent Ben into a fit of laughter so intense, he was bent over double with his hands on his knees.

  They were all laughing as Schafer and MacGregor walked up, carrying boxes in their arms. “Merry Christmas,” Schafer greeted them, a quizzical look on his face. “What is the joke?”

  Ben simply pointed at the tree, and when Schafer saw the chunks of gray meat that were its decoration, he let out a loud guffaw.

  MacGregor did nothing more than shrug as he sat on a stump. “In the spirit of Yuletide, we thought we’d share our boxes with all of ye, seeing as how your relations are not so generous.”

  The kindness of the gesture sobered everyone. Willie shook her head. “That is considerate of you, but there is no need.” Emily saw that her gaze was firmly fixed on the fruitcake in MacGregor’s open box.

  Emily nodded. “Your families sent those to you. You should enjoy them.”

  “There is more here than we could possibly enjoy on our own,” Schafer assured them. “Besides, it gives me joy to share with you.” As though that decided the matter, he pulled out a bottle of brandy. “Who wants a drink?”

  They all did, and soon all five were passing around the bottle and taking swigs of the burning liquid in between bites of the fruitcake and walnuts from MacGregor’s box.

  Looking for more treats, MacGregor dug through his box and pulled out a book with a sound of disgust. “I don’t know what my wife was thinking when she included this in my box. At least it will make good kindling.”

  He moved to toss the book onto the fire but Emily saw the title, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, and stopped him. “I’d like to read it, if you’ve a mind to let me have it.” She had heard of the book by Harriet Beecher Stowe, and its examination of slavery.

  MacG
regor shrugged and handed it to her. The call for supper sounded, and they all got to their feet to retrieve their plates and cups.

  As they joined the chow line, they discovered another stir of excitement rippling through the ranks. “Captain’s wife is here, and she’s handing out gifts!”

  Speculation on what the gift might be spread like wildfire. Some guessed blankets, others socks. One man, his hands buried deep in his pockets, hoped for gloves.

  When it was their turn at the soup pots, they were given a serving of fresh beef and buttered peas along with their usual coffee. The line continued to where the captain and his wife were standing together in front of a wagon loaded with boxes.

  The captain’s wife was young and beautiful in a green velvet dress and burgundy cape. Her blond hair was drawn up and pinned under a black hat, but a few curls had escaped to frame her delicate face, her cheeks tinged pink from the cold. Balancing her plate and cup on one arm, Emily raised her collar, pulled her cap lower, and tried to hide as much of her hands as possible in her long sleeves. Would the captain’s wife recognize a fellow woman in her or Willie? Was this the moment their ruse would be discovered?

  As they edged closer, Emily saw that the woman had an air of sadness about her. She was smiling as she placed a fresh apple and a homemade molasses cookie into each soldier’s open hand, but the smile did not reach her eyes. Those were often shifting to the side where her husband was conversing with a fellow officer. Emily sensed an intense longing there.

  But oh, how the woman was on the receiving end of attention from the enlisted men! Emily could not help but smile as one man after another nearly tripped over himself when confronted by the first woman any of them had knowingly seen in months.

  Unbidden, the memory of Teddy Hobson and his marriage proposal came to mind. He was the only man who had ever acted anything like these men around Emily. She knew she was no beauty like the captain’s wife, but she was not unpleasant upon which to gaze. Frankly, the men made themselves look silly, preening and blushing in front of the woman. Emily would much prefer a man who treated her kindly and respected her mind equally as much as, if not more than, her appearance.