Off To War (War Between The States)

by Sara R. Turnquist

  He nodded. It sounded weak and he knew it. Matthew wanted to offer her something. “Perhaps until you remember your name, we could come up with something to call you,” he suggested.

  She raised an eyebrow. After a somewhat lengthy pause, she said, “What should my name be?”

  He was taken aback. Surely she didn't mean for him to name her, did she? But as his eyes continued to gaze at hers, she watched him expectantly. Swallowing hard, he chose his words carefully when he opened his mouth to speak again.

  “I've always figured that if I had a girl, I'd name her after my grandmother—Annabelle.” Her brows came together. Was he on the wrong track? “Forget it. I'm just too nostalgic for my own good.” He looked down at his hands, his face heating.

  “Annabelle,” she tried the name. Thin brows lifted from their creased state. “I think I like that. I like it a lot. Annabelle.”

  “Annabelle it is, then,” Matthew's eyes met hers, smiling.

  Dr. Wilson appeared again. How much had he heard? “Ah, we've come up with a temporary name, have we?”

  “Yes.” Elizabeth looked up at him. “Annabelle.”

  Dr. Wilson picked up her chart and made a notation. “All right. 'Annabelle' it is.”

  Matthew returned his gaze to Elizabeth’s face, but she was already watching him. Something coursed through him in that moment.

  “I think it's time for Miss Annabelle to get some rest,” Dr. Wilson said gently, eyeing Matthew.

  “Of course, doctor,” he said, rising. He leaned over to Elizabeth once again. “I'm glad you are better.”

  “Thank you.”

  Matthew turned to leave.

  “Wait,” she called out.

  He spun toward her.

  “Will you come visit me again?”

  “If that's all right with you. I would like that very much.” There was that warmth in his chest again.

  She nodded. “I would like that, too.”

  Was he a schoolboy again? It seemed so as he smiled back at her. Then he took his leave.

  * * *

  Miles away, John awoke in a Confederate jail. The same walls and bars greeted him that he had fallen asleep staring at the previous night. He lay on the makeshift bed, or what they passed off as a bed. Would the floor be as comfortable? Perhaps. Less likely he’d be bitten by bedbugs.

  The cell closed in around him, the space uninviting. Then again, that was the whole point. What did they intend to do with him? Who did they think he was?

  His body ached from the rough treatment that had been visited upon him since his capture. He had first been held in a small Confederate camp. They had tried to get information out of him there. But he had nothing to give them. Nothing they wanted.

  Then he was moved here. Not more than a couple of miles southeast. Though blindfolded, he had been able to feel the sun, burning on the right side of his face as he lay in the back of a wagon.

  Motion nearby drew his attention toward the cell door. He turned his head in that direction and regretted the movement as pain shot through his head. Small movements. Remember, smaller movements.

  A soldier worked the lock. “Stay back.”

  His warning was wholly unnecessary. John had no intention of fighting his way free. Yet. So he did as he was told.

  The man brought in a plate of food and set it on the only other piece of furniture in the space—a small stand. Eyeing John, the soldier backed out of the cell, secured the door, and moved down the hall in the direction he had come.

  “Excuse me,” John said, moving to stand next to the bars. “Can you tell me why I'm here?”

  The man didn't answer. He didn't even look at John. Just walked off.

  “Anybody?” John called out.

  There was no answer.

  Grimacing, John eased back down onto the cot. He glanced at the meal provided him. Rations, no doubt. Some pork, beans, and bread. None of it looked appetizing, but he might as well keep up his strength. So he ate every last bit. Who knew when he'd get another meal? Nothing was promised him here.

  That was why he also attempted to sleep as he could, but to no avail. There was no rest to be found. His body was too alert. Too on edge.

  Not for the first time, his mind went back to that fateful moment on the battlefield. On the front lines, patching soldiers and sorting through those who had hope and those who did not, he had been in the thick of it. Deep down, he had known he shouldn't be out there, but some of the soldiers were bleeding out on the field unnecessarily. A simple tourniquet could save lives. The left unit had been pinned down and he patched soldiers there. Then they were surrounded.

  A few men died protecting him. He saw their faces even now. And when the shooting stopped, he was the only one the Confederates deemed worth taking. For what purpose, he didn't know. Did they think he was someone of value? True, he was an officer. But that was a rank given him because of his medical standing, not his military position. Surely they must know that.

  Lost in his memories, it took a moment for him to realize he had company. How had he missed the clip-clop of boots? It seemed so loud now. The Confederate soldier was back.

  “Care to tell me why I'm here?” he tried.

  The man didn't respond. He simply demanded, “Hold out your wrists.”

  John stood, making slow movements, and did as told. The man reached through the bars and cuffed John's wrists. Only then did the soldier open the cell. Was he such a high-risk prisoner?

  The soldier indicated that John should step out of the cell and follow him. He then led John through the small jail and into another room. Perhaps the sheriff’s office at one time? It had since been converted into an interrogation room of sorts with only a table and chairs. Hands on John’s shoulders pressed on him until he was seated in one of the chairs.

  John did not resist.

  The man posted himself behind John, by the door.

  Who are we waiting on? John kept his facial features even. If he had information they wanted, he had no intention of giving it up. He would have to work to keep his face an expressionless mask. No one had trained him for this.

  Soon after, more footsteps sounded in the hall. Someone bigger than this soldier. John was tempted to turn his head as the larger man drew near, but he forced his attention forward. The man’s labored breathing helped John track the man as surely as the floorboard creaks. As he passed by John, his back became the first view John caught. He was big, appearing all the more massive in the small space. When he turned, John peered at the markings on his uniform. Though he hadn’t taken time to learn much about Confederate uniform insignias, he was certain this man was an officer of mid-level ranking.

  “Hello, Captain Taylor, is it?” the man said as he made his way around the table to sit in the chair opposite John. He carried a file with him. Tiny in his large hands.

  “Dr. Taylor,” John corrected him.

  “Your uniform indicates that you are a Captain.”

  “I am, but it is a rank bestowed as the assistant surgeon of the regiment.”

  “As you wish, Dr. Taylor.” The man seemed to dismiss his response. He opened the file and leaned over, holding John's gaze. “I'm Colonel Wallace. I understand you've been cooperative.”

  “I see no reason to cause problems.”

  “Good,” the man said, smiling. “Then we're going to get along.”

  John remained silent.

  “Let's start with something simple.” He pulled a map out of the file and set it in front of John. It appeared to be a map of the area. Battle lines had already been marked up and John could identify where he had been captured. “Can you point out to me where your camp is located?”

  “I can't.” John replied without giving the map much more than a glance.

  “You can't? Come now, doctor.” The colonel leaned back in his seat. “I thought we had an understanding.”

  “I'm not good with maps,” he lied.

  “Let me help you, then.” He traced the battle line wit
h his finger. “Here's where the fighting took place when you were captured.” His finger stopped at one point in the line, drawing an invisible 'x'. “Here's where you were captured. Now, where is your camp from there?”

  John leaned forward then and pretended to look intently at the map. “I can't be sure.”

  The colonel's eyes flicked to John's face and his mouth formed a thin line. “Did you walk far to get to the front line? Was it close? Did you go east? West? Downhill? Uphill?”

  “I think I must have hit my head when your soldiers roughed me up. I can't seem to remember.” John cocked his head to the side and narrowed his gaze.

  The truth was that the Union camp had, in all likelihood, been moved. The Colonel had to know this as well. But John did not plan on giving even an inch.

  Colonel Wallace laid his large hands flat on the table on either side of the map, straightening to his full, seated height.

  John remained silent for a moment as if he were thinking, then shook his head. “I can't recall.”

  Wallace's eyes narrowed, his face reddened, and he drew in a breath through clenched teeth, but he kept his cool. His voice remained even and calm. “Take him back to his cell. Nothing but stale bread and water until he's ready to talk.”

  The soldier grabbed John's arm and lifted him.

  “Wait! I do remember something.” John's words rushed out of him.

  The Colonel held up his hand to stop the soldier.

  John leaned over the map. He shouldn't, but he couldn't help himself. Pointing to a place on the map a couple of miles into Confederate territory due southeast of the front line, he said, “That's a place I've always wanted to visit.” He smiled. “I bet it's a nice little town.”

  The Colonel looked at the map and frowned.

  John had pointed to the town where the jail was located.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Colonel Simmons sat at his makeshift desk, rubbing the bridge of his nose while he waited on his next meeting. It was not going to be pleasant. Private Thomas 'Tommy' Dickson had been a wild card from the start. And now he had to have another talk with the man. There didn't seem to be anything he could say that he hadn't already said. Even in wartime, there were certain rules, things that made sense and things that didn't. And shooting an unarmed man…well, woman, when she could have been taken prisoner and used to gather intelligence just didn't make sense.

  Simmons’ aid lifted the tent flap and stuck his head in to let the lieutenant colonel know Private Dickson had arrived.

  “Send him in.” Simmons sighed, sitting up and preparing himself for what he knew would become a confrontation.

  Dickson stepped into the colonel's tent and saluted. Even for a soldier at attention, his posture and movements were stiff.

  “At ease,” Simmons said.

  Dickson relaxed his stance ever so slightly.

  “I trust you know what this meeting is regarding, Private,” Simmons said, leaning forward.

  “Sir, no, sir.” Dickson didn't even bother to glance in his direction, but kept his eyes trained forward, fixed on some spot on the back of the tent behind Simmons.

  “Private, you shot an unarmed Union soldier out of battle when there are standing orders to take any and all opportunities to capture such soldiers for interrogation.”

  “I believed the so-called soldier to be thieving the bodies, sir.” Dickson's voice was firm, resolute.

  “My orders still stand.” Simmons raised his voice a level.

  “Sir, yes, sir,” he fairly spit out.

  Simmons got to his feet and approached Dickson. “This isn't the first time we've had this conversation. I'm starting to think you are trigger happy, Private.”

  “Sir, no, sir. It was just a Union soldier.” Even as Simmons approached him, Dickson refused to look at him, still staring at that one spot.

  “Just a Union soldier? Are you even listening to me? That is the point! She may have had information we could have used. Now we'll never know. Now we are stuck harboring an enemy because not only did you decide to go against a direct order, you had the bad aim to wound her and the bad luck that she was struck with amnesia.”

  “Sir, yes, sir.” There was that same stubbornness Simmons had seen before. All proper in here, but a loose cannon out there.

  “I have no choice but to sentence you to digging latrines for the whole camp for the next month,” the lieutenant colonel said before walking back toward his desk.

  “Sir?” came Dickson's surprised response and the first hint of emotion Simmons had gotten out of him. And it was the wrong time to show such emotion.

  Simmons spun around. “What?” Simmons's words were strong, challenging.

  “Sir, yes, sir,” Dickson said through gritted teeth as his eyes narrowed, back to staring at that blasted spot on the tent wall.

  “Dismissed, Private.” Simmons said with a wave of his hand as he sat at his desk and turned his attention to the next item on his list.

  Simmons didn't bother to watch as Dickson left.

  * * *

  A stillness fell over the camp. All was peaceful as the soldiers lay resting. All, that is, except for the hospital. The two remaining physicians had worked well into the night performing the necessary operations to keep their patients alive. And Melanie was grateful for their hard work. Even now, she waited for this one particular surgery to be completed. Dr. Smith concentrated on fixing Jacob's leg as best he could.

  Should she feel selfish that this surgery took so long? How long would an amputation have lasted? That was no matter. They were going to save his leg. Together.

  When Dr. Smith told the nurse to mark Jacob for amputation, Melanie had pled for his leg, asking if there were any way they could save it. The doctor remained doubtful that anything could, but he said routine deep cleaning might fight off gangrene if they had the resources and staff to do that. Of course, if they would only teach her, she would volunteer to add that to her duties.

  She just couldn't imagine a man so young, with so much promise, having to go through life without one of his legs. Especially the man who had just been declared the 'camp hero' for the day.

  Dr. Smith must have been moved by her sacrifice for he said they would all work to try and save his leg. He must have made an enormous exception for Jacob.

  Looking over the hospital, Melanie saw several amputees. Some from battle, some from surgery. All would have to learn a new way to live. Melanie's heart went out to each of them. But at least they were alive. Why couldn't she have said the same thing about Jacob?

  Something about him had spoken to her heart. He was special. Was it just because he was so young? As she looked around this tent, she saw several other boys his age. Was it because of his heroism? There would be another hero tomorrow. Could she save them all? Or was it because she had seen enough devastation for one day and she had to have some hope?

  Dr. Smith stepped out of surgery, scrubbing blood off of his hands. Jacob's blood.

  “Dr. Smith!” She rushed over to him. Questions filled her, but she bit her lip, holding back the torrent. He would tell her what he could as he could.

  Smith raised his head to look at her. Was he as tired as he looked? Or perhaps more so?

  “I repaired the damage, but I am still doubtful we can fend off gangrene. It's going to take a lot of diligent work on your part and even then…” He left the sentence hanging.

  “I know.” Reaching for his hand, she squeezed it. Her gratitude poured out of her. “Dr. Smith, thank you. I wish I had the words to say more, but I…”

  He bobbed his head. “It's time for me to get some shut eye. Tell the nurses that if they need anything to talk to Dr. Young.”

  “Yes, doctor,” Melanie said, releasing his hand. As she watched the doctor move to the other side of the tent and out beyond, she clapped her hands together. Setting about to do as Dr. Smith had requested, she moved through the hospital tent.

  By the time she had made rounds to all of the nurses, Jacob
had been moved to his bed to recover. Melanie took hesitant steps toward him. Moments later, she was by his side. He appeared even younger when he slept.

  Surely he must have lied about his age to end up here. He can't be 18. What must it have been like for his mother and father when he told them? Her own mother and father could not have cared less when she told them of her plans to contribute to the war effort by joining the women's camp. They had stopped caring what she did long ago. And while she wanted to believe they were concerned about her, she would just be kidding herself.

  Melanie sat with Jacob for several minutes more. But he did not move save the rise and fall of his chest. Not wanting to disturb his rest, she decided to leave. Another long look at the boy who would be a soldier, and she rose to her feet.

  She then made her way back to her tent. It would be daylight in a few hours. Slipping into the tent without making a sound for sake of her tent mates’ rest, she plopped down on her mat with no other nighttime preparations and drifted into a sleep filled with disturbing dreams of war.

  * * *

  Matthew moved through the camp. The tents and soldiers milling around him were but a blur. Would anything halt him from his daily rendezvous? It had been this way since she came. Each afternoon he made his way to the hospital. Dr. Wilson still followed the progress of Matthew’s arm but that was not the reason he so faithfully trekked to the hospital day after day. He had become quite drawn to her.

  Though Annabelle had not regained her memory, she had become more comfortable around him. Some days they would converse easily, other days he would do most of the talking. It all depended on her mood. But she always seemed eager for his visits. Whether she was anxious to see him or just to break up the monotony of the day, Matthew did not know. Whatever the reason, he was thankful for the time spent with her.

  He came to find that he looked forward to these moments with her. And it was much more than simply the enjoyment of her company or some sense of responsibility for her. There was something happening within him. Was he coming to truly care for her?

  As much as Matthew hoped she would regain her memory, it concerned him, too. What would it mean for her? For him?