Ghosts of Graveyards Past (23 page)

“They might give us leave of absence for Christmas,” Arthur said, speaking aloud the hope he nurtured in spite of himself. “We could see our families again—”

“And you could see Mariah,” the other man finished, a half-smile forming on the usually stoic face. When Arthur didn't reply, he propped himself on one arm, seeking his face in the firelight. “She didn't break it off,” he said. “Did she?”

“There is nothing to break,” he admitted. “No promise except to write each other. There is an obstacle…a disagreement I refused to compromise the last time we talked. She refused as well,” he added, to make it fair. “We couldn't see a way to make such opposite ideas live equally between us.” He swallowed, frustrated at the tug from his conscience. A stand-in for his waning faith, he envisioned bitterly. “I have wondered lately if it matters as much as I thought. If it is worth driving a wedge between us,” he said.

The violin was wrapping up its tune, the last sad note trailing off in a hum of strings. Wray said nothing for so long Arthur wondered if had drifted off. Finally he did speak. “Seems to me you owe her something more. For saving your life—if that is what she did.”

“It was.” He shoved another log on the fire, orange flames licking the bark. “She still does, in some ways. To read her sweet words is all that keeps me sane at times. That and the picture I carry in my mind of amber hair and shining eyes.” He lost himself in the image once more, her face easier to picture in the dark when nothing else could block it out. “You should write to Hattie,” he said, remembering the dream his friend had mentioned earlier. “For your sake, if nothing else. To hear from one who feels for you the way I do for Mariah.”

This time, no response came. The crackle of wood and coals was all he heard before sleep stole his thoughts.

 

 

 

 

17

 

Campfire smoke had been spotted drifting from a stretch of woods known as Crow's Hollow. The farmers who kept crops within its eight mile border were certain that blue coats were the ones foraging their winter fruits and kale. Arthur's detachment believed it too, tracking the enemy's location through a series of fields and foot paths in the hours before dawn.

“Think we'll take them without a fight?” Henry wondered, voice hopeful despite the lag in his step. Last night's revelry had worn off, the face beneath his cap pale-looking in the first traces of dawn.

“If we don't,” Arthur said, “then it is nothing we haven't done before.”

The boy nodded, a frown creasing his brow.

Sometimes Arthur forgot how much younger Henry was than most of the soldiers in their group, and that he would still have been studying at a school desk if the war hadn't broken out. He stood his ground with the oldest and bravest among them, his uniform battered with the same experience and regret as the rest.

“Your sister's letter was heartening,” Arthur told him, thinking a subject change would distract them both from the morning's impending danger. “She will make a fine teacher if that is how she chooses to use her talent.”

Henry shrugged. “She has no choice, I reckon. Unless one of our neighbors takes a shine to her,” he added, somewhat doubtfully.

Blunt words that Arthur supposed were true in their own way. He imagined the girl had little choice in her future while his destiny lay between equally rocky paths. One of these found him devoted to God and his earthly parents; the other to a woman who defied both of them in her core beliefs and actions. “I envy Nell her strong faith,” he said, realizing afterward how strange that must sound. “She always had a devout heart, I remember. One that kept her anchored through life's uncertainties.”

His friend gave a short laugh. “You can't be expecting too many of those, with a good plot of land and a faithful woman waiting for you after the fighting.”

Arthur could only manage a weary smile for the simplicity of the statement. His fondest hope reduced to one sentence without the complications of his conscience to throw obstacles in the way.

She had promised to wait for him, as Henry said. Years even, if this nightmare continued as long as he now suspected it would. There was only the question of whether her love could truly endure that long—or if he could accept it, even when no war remained to come between them.
How is it I feel Your presence in this, but nothing else?
He spoke silently to the God he still saw as real, if not entirely on his side.

The army broke ranks where the river raised, a blanket of green beside a farmer's cornfield. The crop had been harvested months before, leaving tall, hollowed stalks to rustle in the wind. Arthur thought of hoeing crops back home, of chopping and scraping weeds to stir the soil at the base of the plants.

His fellow soldiers scattered quickly across the banks, eager to fill their canteens and wash the grime from their faces. A few had waded in, among them Wray.

Even from this distance, Arthur could see the way his jaw was tightened, muscles fighting against the pain it caused his blistered feet. He'd worn the same look that morning when Arthur woke to find him huddled over the remains of the campfire.

In his hand had been a lover's memento: a piece of ribbon, a gold lock of hair twined around it. “From Hattie,” he'd explained. “She gave it to me right after I enlisted. Said it would keep her in my mind, with all the distance between us. “

Beginning to understand the reason for last night's conversation, Arthur sat up, his voice full of sympathy. “She didn't keep you in hers, though.”

“She married an attorney in Woolwich. Her cousin told me the other day.”

Without glancing up, he'd tossed the keepsake into the embers. “Guess she knew there would never be anything but letters between us.” The meaning was hard to mistake, the slight nod of the head in Arthur's direction before he rose, dusting his hands with a look of grim resolve.

Would Arthur find himself equally regretful one day? Stoking the flames with the letters he treasured as another man would a piece of gold. The thought made him reach for his bag, hand dipping inside to find the last letter she had sent to him. Weeks old and creased from multiple readings, he could have recited the lines from memory. It was the handwriting he wanted to see most, however, the strokes as sure and steady as the heart of the girl who penned them. Grasping it between his fingers, he let his eyes close briefly in prayer.
If You hear me, then guide the way of my heart. Show me how to be with Mariah, yet still abide with You. Whatever the cost, I will gladly pay it.

A way must exist to forge the two paths of his heart together. Why else should he meet her, only to lose her to the pain of indecision? She could not have spared his life only to leave his heart in ruins. So he told himself, unfolding the sheet to study its contents with a hopeful eye.

Halfway through the first page, it happened. Crows, dozens of them, began to shriek in the woods across the river. In clouds of black, they rose from the rows of trees, startled by some unseen predator below.

A nervous murmur traveled through the field of soldiers.

Arthur stood, shielding his eyes against the glow of sunrise. One moment, he saw only foliage, and the water rippling with the tide. The next, a flash of light, the puff of smoke as musket fire exploded across the river.

He dove for his rifle and then for cover. Those around him did the same, the air thick with cursing as men scattered in every direction.

Some made it to the woods, others fell when they crossed into the open.

Arthur ducked inside a row of corn husks, his friend nowhere in sight.

The shaky youth in the next row was already reloading his weapon, powder spilling as he filled the barrel.

Arthur shot repeatedly across the water, chest tightening as he wondered how many lay in wait for them.

News of their coming must have leaked, perhaps days ago, giving time for the Union camp to bring reinforcements if they chose. Would a pack of troops sneak up behind?

The skin prickled on his neck, a sense of being hunted overtook him as he glanced wildly over his shoulder. Trees and bushes grew thick at roughly the perfect distance for another ambush. Possibilities crowded his mind, competing with the sounds of fighting that echoed around him. They could be surrounded in less than an hour, forced to run like animal prey or else be taken prisoner. Prisoners on their native soil. The idea scorched his blood, prompting him to hoist the musket for another shot. Only there wasn't time to pull the trigger. A blow from some invisible force hurled his body backwards into the dried grass. Harder than any punch a man could wield, it made his bones throb.

He saw blood pool on the ground beside him, realized it was his when the sting in his shoulder told him where the bullet had lodged. Shot. He'd never imagined the kind of pain it might bring even though he'd witnessed the screams of those whose flesh was torn apart by heated lead. Those men had moaned and writhed in agony on makeshift stretchers as they waited to meet the surgeon's awful tools.

Nausea overwhelmed him. Dropping his gun, he lay on his back, breaths coming short and shallow. Anything deeper tore cries of pain from his lungs, tears welling up in his eyes. He could feel his pulse thudding out of control, see the rays of sun blurring in and out of focus in the sky overhead.

“Stay calm,” Mariah urged, pressing a cloth to the bloody wound. “I will get you through this, just like the other times. I promise.”

“It is not up to you,” he babbled, too jarred by the pain to wonder how she came to be there, skirts arranged among a pile of dried corn husks. A trick of the mind, meant to distract him from the way his body contorted with pain every few seconds.

The imaginary Mariah was cradling his head now, stroking the hair in a soothing manner as she said, “You still believe that God controls your fate—that He sees you now, and makes a plan from what has taken place?”

“I don't know,” he admitted. “It is too hard to think, to breathe. I can't—Mariah, I can't—”

“Sleep, then,” she said.

And so he did.

 



 

When he woke, the sun had changed position in the sky. Blood plastered his coat to his chest, the fabric stiff where his wound had staunched itself while he slept.

In the distance, gunfire echoed; the battle had moved further into the woods.

Whether his group had been the ones to pursue or retreat seemed unimportant at this moment, though he supposed all the advantage had been on the side of the Union forces this time.

Teeth gritted, he pulled himself to a sitting position. Clutching his wounded shoulder, he scanned the horizon for signs of life.

Bodies littered the field before him. Motionless, their mouths slack and eyes wide as flies buzzed over their sticky wounds. All wore the uniform of a private, no stars or bars to decorate the frayed collars on their coats.

A tawny-haired youth was face down in a patch of dried corn stalks. The familiar height and coloring made Arthur's hand shake as he gripped the lifeless head. He raised it to find the man was a soldier he'd spoken to all of twice since joining the army, a man whose discharge papers were being drawn up the last time he saw him.

Pulpy matter coated Arthur's hand where it touched them—the brains expelled from the stranger's head when a bullet passed through it. He stared dazedly at the mess and then wiped it on a clump of grass before dragging himself forward to the next figure sprawled in the grass.

All were men he'd seen around the campfire or among the lines they'd formed in battle. He left them where they lay, none breathing when he pressed an ear to their mouths.

No prayer or plea crossed his mind. His thoughts were numb compared to the ache in his bones, a strange dreamlike quality to his surroundings. The fact he was alone—and probably on the verge of death—seemed less important than his need for a drink to quench the parched feeling in his mouth.

The banks of the river loomed ahead, a series of objects scattered across the grass. Canteens and tin cups abandoned by their owners after the gunfire erupted. Rifles were propped on the shore, a homespun kepi hat tangled in a patch of weeds along the edge of the banks.

Desperately, Arthur lowered his mouth to the water only to jerk back again, gasping in terror. Beneath his reflection, a group of faces looked back at him: bulging eyes and bloodied features, crimson seeping from the holes in their shabby uniforms. Men who waded into the river only to make it their grave.

He stared, shrinking from the soulless gaze of their eyes. Until he saw a pair of familiar green eyes, bronze-colored strands of hair scattered around them. A tattered frock coat and bare feet, a jaw marked with a light scar. Blindly, he reached for him, for Wray, beneath the water.

Water touched his face, flooding his nose and mouth as he quickly pulled back up. Still gagging, he fell on his side, pain jolting through his body as he rolled away from the shore, his wounded side pressed into the earth, he could move no further.

They found him in that same position later that day. The victors returning to care for their wounded and dead mistook Arthur for one of the latter. A murmur from his throat alerted the men who carried him that life yet remained. Barely, and for how long, was anyone's guess.

 



 

There is no room left in my heart for grief
.
It doesn't seem possible to feel such pain and still be alive, yet for three days in a row I have woken to this same corridor with breath in my lungs. What should happen to me if it finally ceases no longer seems as clear as it once did, and I feel much regret for those times we quarreled on this very subject.

I had no reason to doubt back then, no loss to grieve me the way you already did. How foolish I must have seemed to you, arguing from a boy's vast inexperience in the matters of death. Now, it is your forgiveness I must ask instead of the God whose counsel I sought in vain.”