by Stephy Smith
“Robert is fine. He tells me that in every letter. But I know Robert, and he’s not fine. None of them are. Do they lie to make us worry less? Do they not realize we know them better than they know themselves?” Her hand tightened, creasing the paper.
“The best we can do is take their word for it, Maggie. Don’t dwell on what is or is not written in the letters. If you do, it will consume you. You’re not only taxing yourself, but also your child.” Grace squeezed her hand.
“How can you tell me how I should act? You don’t have a husband who could get his head blown off any given second.” Her nerves wore thin, but she cringed, hating she’d been cruel to her sister.
Grace removed her hand from Maggie’s. “You’re right. I don’t have a husband in the middle of the war. I do, however, have five men in its midst that I care deeply about.”
Maggie stared after Grace as she retreated across the room. “I’m sorry, Grace. I don’t know what has gotten into me as of late.”
“Let’s leave Maggie to herself for a while. She needs rest.” Izella ushered Grace and Mittie from the room, quietly closing the door behind her.
Maggie didn’t try to contain the sobs. Her husband was somewhere lost in the war, playing hide and seek with the enemy. She was miserable in her dresses, which grew tighter every day. She was going to have a baby and could possibly end up raising it alone. Why couldn’t Grace see her problems were bigger than her own? She was more at risk of losing everything in her life.
****
Grace
Grace stewed for a little while. Maggie was so caught up in her own grief she never considered the need for anyone else in the family to try to regain normalcy in their lives. She knew her sister didn’t intentionally direct her anger at anyone in particular. The hurt didn’t come from the words Maggie had said, but from not knowing how to fix Maggie’s pain.
She shot her mother a glance. Worry lines formed deep creases across Izella’s beautiful, weatherworn face. Silver slowly invaded the amazing brown locks that hung to her knees. Grace crossed the room and took the brush from her mother’s hands. In a short time, she’d twisted the hair into the bun her mother always wore.
“Why don’t we go for a ride tonight? You know, it would do us all good to get some fresh air.” Grace rested her hands on her mother’s shoulders and stared toward the window.
“What a splendid idea.” Mittie’s eyes sparkled with excitement.
“Yes it is, Grace. I think it would do all of us some good.” Izella took the brush from Grace and walked toward Mittie.
Grace straightened her shoulders and glanced at Izella and Mittie. “Which one of you is going to venture into the lair of the lioness Maggie? Her mood swings are getting on my nerves.”
****
Mittie
Mittie stifled a giggle. It had been a long time coming, but Grace had finally lost her temper. Thankful she wasn’t the recipient of the tongue-lashing, Mittie thought back to the days before the war, when she endured far more of Grace’s lectures than she cared to remember.
She preferred a different kind of fight than to be lectured and told how she should start acting like a lady. If she had her way, she would be wearing pants instead of the uncomfortable petticoats and skirts. Except when a man came to call. Then she would put on the air of being the respectable young lady everyone expected her to be.
“If Maggie doesn’t want to come along, she can stay in her room and feel sorry for herself. I, on the other hand, welcome the idea.” Standing her ground, Mittie pursed her lips.
“Girls!” Hands fisted, Izella perched them on her hips. “I have had enough of this type of behavior. Would you like me to dig out the boxing gloves and let you three pummel the heck out of each other?”
“Mother! You cursed?” Grace’s eyes widened and her jaw fell.
Taken aback by her mother’s outburst, Mittie stared in shock. Laughter gurgled, and then rolled from her throat. Tension had filled the house since two days after the men headed out. It was only a matter of time before they would all get on each other’s nerves. However, for her mother—nice, calm, good-natured Mother—to break was not a possibility she had considered.
“I would rather be with the men at war. You know I can best most of the men in these parts.” Mittie scanned her mother’s face.
“You need to focus on being a lady. You are a grown woman and you are expected to act like one.” Her mother’s narrow gaze sent a shiver down her spine.
“I would be more helpful on the battlefield than I am here.” Mittie straightened her shoulders.
“If you want to be helpful, then volunteer at the hospital. They need more assistance in bandaging injuries. It would be good for you and Grace both.” Izella whirled around to leave.
“Yes Mother, what a good idea. I hear the men come in and ask the first girl they see to marry them. After the honeymoon of one night they are sent back to the front.” Grace bit her bottom lip.
“The girls who fall for that are shallow. All they want is the pensions. Most probably don’t even know the name of the men they marry.” Mittie cut her eyes to Grace.
“I want to volunteer. It will be better than sitting around here feeling sorry for ourselves.” Grace placed a hand on Mittie’s arm.
“Oh, all right. I would still rather be where the fighting is.”
“War is no place for a lady, Mittie. We have already discussed this and we are not discussing it again.” Izella straightened her shoulders and glared at her.
“Mother—”
“I said to forget that notion and that is what I mean.” Izella gathered her skirt in one hand and turned to the door. Her footsteps bore down on the hard floor and faded when a door slammed.
“See what you have done? I bet she doesn’t let us go on a ride now.” Grace narrowed her gaze and crunched her brows in a deep V.
Suddenly, a terrible scream echoed down the hall as if the devil’s claws were raking down the back of someone. The noise came from Maggie’s room.
Chapter Five
Lewis
Rain drenched Lewis’s clothes, and his face, as he stood in the downpour awaiting orders to attack. For a brief moment, he thought of how good Izella’s warm, soft skin felt as he cuddled next to her. With a shake of his head the raindrops flew from his face, taking his memories with them.
The separation from Robert and his sons strained his senses. He mouthed a silent prayer for all to be safe and shielded from the horror surrounding them. If he’d taken time to think things through, he’d have left Thomas at home to protect the women and to oversee the plantation. Never had it occurred to him that he, his sons and son-in-law would be sent in different directions.
It was too late now. The letters he’d written to Izella about his concern for their sons sent guilt to torment him. She was his closest friend, the one person with whom he could discuss family matters. The desire to see his wife, especially before an attack, knotted his heart. Just to hold her one last time in case he never got the chance to hold her again.
Death distorted the area with sadness and gloom. The men all wondered if their time would be next. The putrid odor of gunpowder and blood mixed with the moisture in the air. Many of the men expressed their desires to run as far away from the war as they could get. Some did, but most stayed. He couldn’t lay fault on the ones who ran. Everyone missed their families. They all needed someone to talk to.
Other men in his unit would understand his need. But they weren’t his Izella, and he didn’t feel comfortable discussing family business to them. Instead, he held his tongue and prayed for another chance to write home.
Finally the order came, and solemnly he prepared his gear for the next volley. The battle raged. The men in his unit fell to his left and right. Moans resounded in the area as if a bullhorn had been pressed to the wounded men’s lips. Sleep refused to calm the devastation of the day. He pulled out his pencil and paper and penned a letter home.
My dear Izella,
Please read my letters in the strictest of confidence. There is no reason why we should alarm the girls. I hope this correspondence finds you well and healthy as you were when I left. I fear this will take longer than we anticipated. Men pass by us with crutches and limbs lost. Quite a depressing sight I must confess, especially for the men who have not yet seen battle. It may be even more so when we reach the front lines, which should be sometime tomorrow, for we march night and day to relieve some of our tired and weary men. The weather is not in correlation with us, bringing on every kind of wrath it can to impede our forward movement with the cannons and the artillery the front lines are hoping to receive. The nights of cold, stinging rains are as dreary as they drag on. During the day, the heat cooks us as if we were a chicken in the oven to roast. Excitement of action eats at the hearts of the young men in my presence. All they talk about is killing the Yanks. From the number of cripples we have met along the way, the chore will take more than words and a few artillery rounds to bring them down. I fear the Yanks have proved to be a fearsome and courageous bunch devoid of conscience.
I long for the day I can hold you in my arms and have the chance to make this nightmare go away from our lives. My love for you is all the hope I have left in this shell of a body. It keeps me going to ensure I will see you again.
Your loving husband, Lewis.
****
Robert
Robert tried to keep his words light as he stretched on the ground and put pen to paper. There was no sense in upsetting Maggie any more than she already was. In her last letter she’d confessed how the women appeared to be fine but frazzled, and then revealed how unhappy they all had become. With her words, his heart sank to levels he’d never known before.
Lewis had always been his inspiration. However, with the separation, he had no one to turn to. Bitter cold wind bit through his wet woolen clothes. His company had waded through the swampy waters, pounding dirt into thick mud, and he no longer felt anything below the waist.
His legs grew heavy with the added weight. Bullets sailed around him like a swarm of bees in attack mode. He ducked and pivoted into the tiniest place he could find. What kind of hell had he put himself in? The war had lasted longer than he believed possible. Now there seemed to be no end in sight.
“Maggie, my sweet wife, don’t give up on me. I’ll be home as soon as possible,” he whispered into the battlefield air.
Always cautious of what he wrote in his letters, more than half of them he folded and stored in his pack.
My dear sweet Maggie,
News of the baby has reached me. In a few months’ time I hope to be home for good so I can help you in your delicate situation. I can only pray our child possesses your stunning beauty to gaze upon. I am in high hopes today. We haven’t had to wage battle in a few days now and the news of a new life has brought delight to our men. It was cause for a small celebration of whoops and hollers, which concerned the commanders. We were told to cut out the noise for fear of alerting the Yankees of our whereabouts. I miss you more than if my own heart was ripped from my body, dear beautiful Maggie. I count the days until I will see you and hold you in my arms again. I cherish the day when my eyes behold our precious child and I can rain kisses upon its chubby cheeks, pull it close to my chest and, if it is a girl, send the boys packing when they come to call upon her. Until that day arrives, rest assured I love you with all my heart. Give a big hug to Izella and the girls for me. You need to band together, rely on each other for comfort and strength.
I love you always. Robert.
Finishing the letter, his heart emptied of excitement. His fears returned to fill the void. Would he ever witness the sparkle of her blue eyes, the fresh scent of flowers floating from her hair and her soft skin tantalizing his as they lay together in their own bed? There was no guarantee anything would come to fruition as long as the war raged on.
Chapter Six
William
Astride his horse, William relaxed. His heart took to the rhythm of the drum. The battlefield drew near and his excitement of another charge surged to the surface of his being. Exhilaration coursed through the environment around him. This was where he belonged, deep in the action he’d so desired from the time he was a child. Too bad men had to die in the process. He prayed it wouldn’t be one of his own kin that fell victim to death.
He never wrote home to his family of the blood-drenched battlefields. Nor of the screams of the wounded, melding with the dreadful call of the wild as nature itself swallowed them up. He rode bravely into the face of the enemy without a second thought.
****
Samuel
Samuel fought to keep his eyes open. Day and night, men of all ages plagued the hospital. Heavy limbed and with his legs throbbing, he stood covered in blood. The tortured souls yelled out as arms and legs were barbarically removed. The putrid odor of fresh and dried blood settled in his nostrils. His fingers grew sticky with the darkening liquid. A rancid taste lingered on his tongue.
Tents overflowed with a mixture of gray and blue uniforms. At times, he wished he had stayed with the infantry. Chaos had taken over his life. There was no slowing down the process, and he prayed it would all end soon. How much death and destruction could one man take? Bile rose in his throat and he choked it back.
Secretly, he prayed he would never grow accustomed to this sort of life for, if he grew used to the gore, he would no longer be human, but would instead live in a shell of torment forever. He fought down tears and set his hands busy on the next victim of war, thankful no one from home was here to share his suffering.
He shoved aside thoughts of his father and brothers, unable to dwell on what they might be facing, until later when he was alone and could relax with his thoughts. His mother and sisters mixed with the nightmarish hell the men would carry home with them when it was over. He wondered what kind of affect the brutality of the war would wage on each of their lives.
He took out his diary, thought for a quick moment then wrote inside.
December 1861:
‘Today I went out on one of the ambulance wagons. We picked up the wounded and tossed them in with no regard to pain. Our mission was to get out of the open where the bodies lay. Wounded men scattered across meadows, boulders, and in trenches, their moans providing an eeriness that takes over the battlefield in the most unsettling fashion. Horrid, nightmarish scenes we wouldn’t see if we were home with our families. The screams filled the air as we moved the poor men into the safety of our hospitals. Every day, all day, the moans never cease. The noxious stench of gangrene, gunpowder and vomit twist even the strongest stomachs. Doctors and nurses alike pale when the ripped and shattered bodies flood in after battles. I don’t know what is worse—the newly wounded or the ones who were patched and sent back to the front lines. It is a revolting scene for the hospitals and does nothing for the morale of the men we are treating. Death has become prevalent over the living. We cannot take time to mourn or pray over the souls we have lost to this war. We are constantly praying even in our sleep that Lincoln and Davis will come to an understanding and call a truce. There is no quiet as we move from camp to camp tending to the men.
****
Thomas
Thomas held his breath. His gaze probed the dense copse of trees, scanning the land for the Yanks. Their camp across the river prepared for battle, even now. Rain soaked his back with icy stabs as he slithered back down the path he’d made. Once in the clear, he stood and ran to his commanding officer.
“They are preparing to move,” he reported, out of breath. He waited for a reply, readying himself mentally for the assault. His stomach rolled and his chest tightened despite his efforts at a calm exterior. With a steady grip on the rifle, he waited for word to spread through the camp.
The army wasn’t what he’d thought it to be. Not with the strategies and plans from other companies, or positions and the number of men who played their role in the war. When he signed up, his vision of battle had been to go in blasti
ng until the enemy gave in or lay dead by the wayside. There was no one who actually died in his visions. It was all a game like he’d played when he was a child. The naivety of his childhood thoughts brought disillusionment to the forefront of chasing each other over the prairies, mountains and down the streams. As far as he could see men lay injured or killed.
He’d sent letters home as often as he could. It was hard to write them without revealing his true fears. Mostly, he kept correspondences simple, assuring his family that he was fine. Although there was plenty to report, he refused to draw the womenfolk into his world. Let someone else do the honors, he had enough problems of his own. He penned his own account, not knowing if it was more for himself or his mother.
Dear Mother, and sisters,
We march in mud knee deep; the rain is cold and sharp, prickling our faces, shivering us to the bone. Most of the men have no boots and have everything you can imagine wrapped around their blackened feet to cut the cold. Relentless charge and fallback operations continue with little or no sleep. We are tired, hungry and sick. I listen to men coughing and throwing up as often as shells and cannon balls take to the air. I miss the sounds of the wildlife making their lonesome calls at night. Even in sleep, the horrid sounds of the war ring in my mind. Our once peaceful land is buried beneath the wicked hands of destruction in which I am a part. When will this all end? To lie in a green pasture and stare at a blue sky with puffy white clouds would be heaven as the land is pocked with battery fire, the sky is tainted with smoke and the calls of the wildlife overpowered by the cries of wounded men scattered thickly in the vicinity. Oh, what a wretched war this has turned out to be, Mother. A merciless war being fought all in the name of States Rights.
