Echoes of Dark and Light (20 page)

Cora nodded slowly. “Your first one. And you’re feeling it intensely.” She paused a moment, thinking. “It is a very dark time in our country, especially for soldiers. But every soldier knows the risks involved in fighting for his cause, just as you do. It’s all part of war. Didn’t you consider these things before you joined?”

I stopped pacing and thought back, slowly shaking my head. “Not really. Foremost on my mind was Robert, finding him and taking him home. Secondly I thought I’d finally be helping my country. I didn’t think much about this side of soldiering.”

I slumped back down on the bench. “But whether I thought about it or not, that man is still dead.”

We sat quiet for a moment, and then Cora spoke. “Would you change what you did, if you could do it over?”

“What, killing him? Of course, then he’d still be alive and—”

“And what else?”

At first her question confused and annoyed me, but then I understood. “If I hadn’t pulled the trigger, Toby would be dead instead. Toby and other members of the 27
^th
.”

“And you, too.”

I’d be dead, too. And being dead wouldn’t do Robert any good. Frustrated and exhausted, I dropped my head back and stared up at the constant stars. I sighed, my breath fogging over my view of the stars, then drifting away into the night air. Slowly, the muscles in my neck loosened, my heart rate slowed to normal and the nervous sweat dried on my skin. Shooting that guy hadn’t been a choice; not since I joined the Union Army, not since vowing to find my brother. Killing was part of war. I knew that, and now I had to accept it. As for the consequences of my actions though, I still had some doubts.

I sat up and turned back to Cora. She’d been quietly waiting while I came to terms with the inevitable. Now she smiled gently, raising her brows in readiness for my question.

“What about God?”

“God?”

“Yeah, does God hate me now? Am I going to burn in hell?”

Cora sighed then, her brows bunched in concentration. “Well, that’s a good question, and one you should probably take to the chaplain. I am definitely not an expert on the subject.”

I frowned. “I don’t want to ask the chaplain; I want to know what you think. Surely you have an opinion. You can’t have seen as much death as you have and not pondered the subject.”

She snorted in an unladylike manner. “Pondered the subject? Some days death never leaves my mind.”

“So, am I going to hell?”

Her eyes caught mine, reflecting the light of a nearby lantern. After a moment of quiet study, her lips relaxed into a soft smile. “Who does and who doesn’t get invited through Heaven’s gates is by no means up to me. But in all honesty, I can’t see God refusing you entrance; you have a good heart. And I think that’s important.”

I felt a small clenched part of my body relax. I don’t know why her opinion mattered so much, but I did respect her thoughts. But another small part of me wanted more information. “So, what does the Bible say about killing and war?”

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk to the chaplain or Preacher…”

I shook my head.

She sighed. “Okay, but please don’t take my word as law; I’m only human, and a human without any formal religious training like a minister or priest would have.”

I shrugged. “I don’t care; I’m not looking for laws written in stone. I just want to know what you think.”

“Well, speaking of laws written in stone, the Ten Commandments are a good place to start. In Protestant Bibles, number six is the one about not killing. In Catholic Bibles, it’s number five.”

I raised an eyebrow at her.

“Don’t ask me why, something to do with translations. Anyway, there are many wars written about in the Bible. Now the way I see it, and remember this is just my opinion, that Commandment in the Old Testament refers more to not killing members of your own group or village; that line to cross for anyone else seemed a bit murky, almost as if anyone else was up for grabs.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, the Old Testament seems a bit more tooth and nail, if you know what I mean. But in the New Testament, Jesus teaches to love everyone, not just your neighbor. Of course, defense of yourself or a loved one is perfectly acceptable.”

“That makes everything about as clear as mud,” I muttered, a bit disappointed.

“I know, isn’t life confusing?” Cora replied a bit too cheerfully. “But God knows we’re only human, and that humans make mistakes, lots and lots of mistakes. Sometimes choices aren’t so simple. For example, you shooting the Rebel or letting him shoot Toby. I believe that if we try to be decent, God will forgive the rest.”

“That’s kinda what I was thinking, too. I guess my nerves have been a little rattled lately, and I haven’t been thinking real clear.”

“And little wonder. Everyone’s nerves are stretched a bit taunt.”

We sat quietly for a few moments, until another thought plowed into my racing mind. “You know, sometimes war seems a bit like self defense or defense of your kin. Do you know what I mean? Like this war between the states is defending freedom for all Americans. And like this morning.”

Cora nodded. “You defending your Toby’s life.”

“
My
Toby?” Her word choice touched a nerve. “He is by no means
my
Toby.” I quickly glanced around to make sure no one overheard.

“Oh, I apologize,” she answered with a impish grin.

“I’m supposed to be a guy for gosh sake,” I hissed. “Besides, it’s not like that. We’re tent mates, and maybe even friends, but that’s all there is to it.” I stood up, putting an end to the subject. “Now, as a
guy
, I’d like to escort you back to your pa’s tent, just for safety’s sake. We are surrounded by our own troops, but you never know.”

“Actually, I would appreciate it,” Cora said, seriously. “There are a few fellows around here that make me a bit nervous.”

As we started back to the tents, I bumped her shoulder with my own. “Thanks, Cora. I needed that.”

“You are quite welcome, Private Rivers.”

The next couple months eased by with relatively little commotion … well, as little commotion as a huge working army offered. Immediately following the Battle of Fort Sanders, we set off on a hunt for General Longstreet’s army, but soon settled in for winter operations in eastern Tennessee. First, Captain Truckey had us split into four man crews. Kenny, Woody, Toby and I grouped together; Preacher, off visiting one of the newly dug latrine trenches during the assigning ended up odd man out, so he buddied up with a few of his church pals. Then each group built a winter shelter. The semi-permanent, four-man shelter started out as a two-foot deep squared-out pit, and for a few days the surrounding field eerily resembled a waiting graveyard. But with the efficiency of a well trained army, ‘cause that’s what we were, we ambushed the surrounding forests, piling up logs, walling off the pits and chinking in between the logs with mud. On top of the three to four foot high walls, we draped the rafters with our tent canvases. With a sturdy door and a rock pile chimney, the tiny huts kept us cozy, sort of. At first, firewood lay scattered in great supply from the log wall castoffs. But all too soon, the pickings became slim, and we had to travel farther to gather fuel. Actually, the tiny huts stayed relatively tolerable, if not toasty, what with two feet beneath the ground surface, enclosed from the bitter winds, and all of the hot air that seemed to erupt continuously out of my cabin mates.

The door and the fireplace stood opposite of each other, with the other two walls housing the four cots . Toby and I ventured out early one morning and cut the few remaining saplings to use as our bunk frames. Meanwhile, Woody and Kenny picked up some discarded grain sacks and stitched them together creating hammock-like supports. Then we cushioned them with boughs of pine, which incidentally also helped to freshen up the close air inside the hut. Pegs scattered across the walls held canteens and jackets, and we kept our guns within easy reach in the corner, though I kept my Colt on me at all times. Toby and Kenny built a sort of table for us out of an old hardtack box. Inside we stored Woody’s checker board and a deck or two of cards for evening games. Candles provided adequate light, fitting nicely in the rounded end of a bayonet with the sharp end stuck into the dirt floor.

For a homey touch, and for a bit of individuality, some of the men attached carved nameplates above their doors. The hut next to us had four men all named John, and their plate read ‘John’s House’. Another hut held four brothers, and their plate read ‘The Dillard Brothers’. Others tried to infuse a bit of humor with ‘Country Villa’, ‘Hell’s Hotel’ and ‘Rebel Exterminators’. Woody excitedly volunteered to carve up a nameplate for our own hut. He spent an entire week carefully and secretively engraving his masterpiece. He wouldn’t let us see it until he finally hammered it in place with pride. It offered intricately carved vines and leaves, and read ‘Woody’s Pals’.

Living in such close quarters with three guys proved to be a bit of a challenge. The winter weather did assist in one aspect though, as very few soldiers actually undressed before crawling into their bunks. Even fewer still actually bathed. I managed to steal a few minutes of privacy now and again to scrub out my armpits, but those times didn’t present themselves very often. More than once, I’d catch myself laying in my bunk in my woolen underclothes, scratching at my grungy mop of hair and longing for Gran’s steel tub filled with hot soapy water in the warm glow of the fireplace. But at least I acclimated to the cold easier than some, being used to the harsh, bitter winters of the Upper Peninsula. Poor Toby, from the sweltering south, retired in the evening fully clothed and even added his coat draped over his blankets on his bunk.

Christmas came and went, hitting me pretty hard in the gut, as I’m sure it did others. We had a special church service and most lingered afterwards singing Christmas carols around the bonfire. Toby, Kenny, Woody and I chipped in a bit of our thirteen dollars a month soldier’s pay and splurged at the sutler’s wagon, the traveling general stores on wheels, buying some of their sweet pies for dessert. I did receive a package from home that brought me dangerously close to tears. I quickly excused myself with the pretext of visiting a friendly tree in order to dry out my eyes. I noticed Toby scrutinizing me as I ducked back down into our hut. I rudely barked “What?” before crawling into my bunk. Toby’s look, part concern, part prying curiosity, made me nervous indeed.
Had he seen my tears? Did he suspect me for anything other than a homesick, dirt-smudged soldier?
But the package quickly pulled my mind away from the chilly hut in eastern Tennessee, miles north to my home in the U.P.

Gran had knit me two pairs of thick, wooly socks, one dark gray and the other a spruce green. How blessedly warm and soft they felt on my abused feet! I gave the green pair to Toby, who hadn’t received any packages or letters at all. Robby had carved a piece of Lake Superior driftwood into a surprisingly realistic figure of a howling wolf. He also included a pouch with a handful of sand from the beach. His scribbled note mentioned that he’d wanted to include a snowball from the blizzard a few days back, but Gran had convinced him that it probably wouldn’t arrive intact, and it might even ruin the molasses-raisin cookies that he’d helped make.

Gran had utilized every inch of space in the box, filling the corners with a shiny red apple, two potatoes with sprouting eyes, and a couple of handfuls of stale, yet still tasty popped corn. She even padded Robby’s carving with a recent copy of the Marquette newspaper.

About a week or so after Christmas, came the announcement of a new holiday. President Lincoln declared Thanksgiving an official national holiday, and apparently we’d missed the first official celebration in November of 1863. No matter; I didn’t need a specific day to remind me to count my blessings. Heck, I did that every day I woke up and could continue my search for my brother. Every spare minute I had, I’d make my way through the rows of cabins asking everyone I met if they’d seen my brother.

“…name’s Robert Rivers. Looks a lot like me except taller and a bit more brawny. Have you seen him?”