Sisters of Shiloh (13 page)

“I haven’t seen anyone. Except Matthew.” She lowered her eyes to a patch of clean ground. “He’s dead.”

“No.”

“A shell hit him in the face.” Josephine’s voice had turned dreamy, a defense against tears.

“Oh God.”

A horse came galloping toward them out of nowhere, eyes wild and mane on fire. It reached them so quickly that they could only cover their heads. The horse leaped over them and left the stunning smell of burned horsehair as it veered in the direction of the railroad.

“We have to find the others,” Josephine said at last.

Libby remembered the dead lieutenant.

“I have some bad news,” she said.

“What?”

Libby twisted around and pointed at his body.

Josephine drew in her breath.

“Josephine, he didn’t feel a thing. They shot him clean.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

The sisters crawled back to the lieutenant. His jacket was too small for him. Gravity had lengthened his jowls. His black lips were parted, revealing an equally black overbite. Josephine closed his eyes, unbuttoned his jacket, and searched his pockets, retrieving a photo of a little boy. “He’s got the same dimple,” she said, then turned the picture over to reveal big shaky letters, the kind children make before their fingers strengthen.

GEORGE

The firing stopped around the octagon house.

Libby said, “Here, take your gun.” She picked it up by the barrel. Its temperature made her frown. “This barrel’s cold. You didn’t fire it, did you?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Josephine! If you don’t kill the enemy, you’re not helping win the war. You’re not helping me. And you’re putting us all at risk. I shot five Yankees, at least. Maybe six. But I’m going to count five, just to be fair.”

Libby handed Josephine the gun. “I’ve got some cartridges left over. Tomorrow we’ll sneak down to the river, and I’ll teach you how to shoot. If anyone hears us, we’ll say we ran into some Yankee pickets.”

Josephine looked down at the dead lieutenant. “Are we just going to leave him here?”

“What else can we do?”

After the fight, the Confederate surgeons attended to the Confederates and let the Union men wait in agony. Grapeshot had gouged huge holes in the trees. A fire had started in a brush pile next to the railroad and burned an artillery limber.

The sisters found Wesley and Lewis in front of the octagon house.

“Where’s Floyd?” Wesley asked.

Lewis spit a stream of tobacco juice on the ground. “I saw him boiling coffee next to that telegraph pole way over there.”

“Matthew is dead,” Josephine told them.

“Don’t say that,” Wesley said.

Lewis tore his slouch hat off and threw it against the granite wall bordering the yard. “Bastards!” He squatted down and covered his face.

Wesley watched him for several moments and then pulled him to his feet. “He’s in a better place, Lewis.”

“Better place, hell. He’s dead.”

“Let’s go in the house. We might find some food.”

Low azalea hedges bordered the path that led to the doorway. The odor of burned flesh hung in the air. Bodies lay propped against the granite wall and scattered all over the yard. One of the soldiers had collapsed trying to crawl out of the house; now he lay shadowed by the open door. He looked up at the Confederates as they filed past.

“Damned Rebels. You ain’t got me yet.”

“You shut your mouth,” Lewis warned, “or I’ll close this door on your head.” He chewed his tobacco rapidly and then leaned down and spat the brown results in the man’s face.

The foyer was beautiful, just as Josephine had imagined it, although a corpse hung off the second-floor balcony, red drops falling out of his open mouth and pooling on the floor. Artillery fire had destroyed the middle of the stairwell. Smoke spiraled up from the crater.

They went into the parlor, where the blood splattered on the drapes and floor had somehow missed the piano keys. Two soldiers lay tangled together, unmoving, their muskets by their sides.

The table in the kitchen had been wiped clean, and the word “Hello” was chalked on a black slate. The salt box was full. A corn grinder sat on the far shelf. The air smelled less like blood or smoke and more like cinnamon and yeast.

Wesley peered in a cupboard. “There ain’t no food in here. Just the smell of food. The family must have took everything before they ran off. Selfish bastards. Let’s go see what’s on the second floor. They might have some money stashed in a drawer, and we can use it to buy something from the pie wagon on the next march.”

“And I’ll bet when these people skedaddled, they left some good shoes,” Lewis said. “I’d hate to have to wear a dead Yankee’s shoes.”

The crater in the stairway was still smoking. They maneuvered around it as they climbed to the second floor. Other soldiers were checking the rooms.

“They’re all dead up here,” one said.

“We’re looking for shoes,” Lewis said.

“Suit yourself.”

The rooms were spacious. Light filtered through the blackened curtains. Most of the dead were huddled near the shattered windows. One man still had a cartridge clenched between his teeth.

The room they entered next was clearly that of a girl. The wallpaper was a pink frost pattern, and two pier-glass mirrors caught the sunlight and directed it across the faces of a half-dozen dolls that sat propped against a shelf. Josephine opened the trunk at the foot of the bed and found more dolls. She retrieved one and held it to the light.

Lewis leaned his rifle against the wall. He picked up a tortoiseshell brush, pulled his shirttail loose, and scratched his stomach vigorously.

“We’ll have to burn that brush,” Wesley said. “No little girl should have to use that.”

A chifforobe caught Libby’s eye. She squinted and leaned her head to one side. She walked closer and squatted a few feet away. “Look,” she said, pointing at a stream of blood trickling from the chifforobe.

Lewis dropped the brush and grabbed his rifle. “You come out of there,” he said, pointing his rifle at the unseen prey. “You come out right now, or I’ll blow you to kingdom come.” He edged closer, moving at an angle in case the wounded man still had his gun.

“Be careful!” Wesley said.

Lewis yanked the door open. A great amount of blood sloshed out, followed by a soldier cradling a leg blown off at the knee. His face was twisted into terrible contortions. “Kill me. Please, I’m begging you. Kill me.”

Lewis lowered his rifle. “You poor bastard,” he said without sympathy.

Wesley took off his jacket and began to unbutton his shirt.

“What are you doing?” Josephine asked.

“Making a tourniquet. Now go find some help for this man.”

Lewis moved his bare feet away from the spreading blood. He said, “Help for a Yankee? You’re joking!”

“He’s wounded, though,” Libby said. Josephine nodded.

“What the hell difference does that make?” Lewis asked.

Wesley kept unbuttoning his shirt. “What if you were in his place? Or me? Joseph, go find the damn litter-bearers!”

The man had dropped his leg to hold the stump. “No! Kill me!”

Lewis seized his rifle by the barrel and swung it hard, smashing the stock against the man’s head with a sickening thud. Blood ran down the Yankee’s face.

“No!” Wesley cried.

The Yankee tried to shield himself, but Lewis hit him again. His head cracked open. He slumped over sideways to the floor and lay motionless but for the twitching of his arms.

Wesley stood wide-eyed, his shirt held together by one button. “My God, Lewis,” he whispered.

Lewis wiped the stock of his gun on the bedspread. “That’s for Matthew,” he told the dead man.

Night fell. A subdued feeling hung in the air. Soldiers played cards and drank whiskey, their voices low, or sat by the light of a kerosene lantern, writing letters to the families of the men who had died. The burial detail had worked all day and into the night, growing sloppy in their exhaustion but making sure they dug deep enough. Bury a man too shallow and his body will exude a phosphorescent blue mist that lingers above his grave. That was the legend, at least.

Shocked to the bone from the loss of Matthew and the bludgeoning of the wounded man, Libby sat with the others, her cup of soup just a prop in her hands. She had managed to find some new clothes to replace her bloody ones: a pair of trousers, torn at the knee, and a white shirt that was too long in the sleeves.

Logs had been laid out in a U-shape around two corners of the campfire. Lewis stretched his feet toward the fire until his toes turned red by its light. He had found no shoes that would fit. Floyd stared off into space, tapping his drum distractedly.

Josephine had gone to bed early. Wesley hadn’t spoken in hours. He folded a slab of hot bacon and put it between two cold pieces of hardtack. He bit down and the bacon oozed out the sides. He took the food out of his mouth and studied it, then showed Libby that his teeth had made no indentation in the flat biscuit. He pulled out the bacon and threw the biscuit in the fire.

Lewis said, “Hey, I would have eaten that. Why don’t you play something? A little ballad for Matthew. Well? What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”

Wesley gave his brother a long, loveless stare, stood up, and walked away, leaving a heavy feeling in the air behind him. The others looked at their laps and didn’t speak. Lewis rolled a cigarito and left it unlit. He glanced around at the others and put it back in his pocket. “I lost my temper. I was real upset about Matthew.”

Floyd blew on his hands and started to drum again, but stopped himself. He curled his fingers and crossed his arms. “That ain’t up to us to forgive. That’s between you and God.”

Lewis retrieved his cigarito, lit it, then sighed and threw it into the fire. The cornhusk blackened. “Well,” he said in a darker tone, “at least I killed some Yankees today.” He looked around the fire. His eyes rested on Libby. “Not like you.”

“You’re crazy,” Libby said, her spine straightening. “I killed five of them. Maybe six.” She held up her fingers as though they were witnesses.

“Like hell you did. You didn’t kill nobody.” Lewis stood and retrieved a musket from a trio that leaned together like the sticks of a teepee. The other muskets fell, but he ignored them. He walked back to the firelight and gave the musket to Libby. “This yours?”

She ran her hand along the stock and found her initials.

“Yes, it’s mine.”

“Let me show you something.” He took the musket back, found a stick, and stuck it down the barrel, pushing it in and out. He turned the musket upside down. A great quantity of black powder poured out, along with some paper cartridges. Lewis kicked the resulting pile, and it smoked up the air.

“Well, look at that,” he said. “Did you remember to put on the percussion cap each time you reloaded? Your gun wasn’t firing, except maybe on the first shot, and I noticed you hit a tree with that one.”

“God sakes,” Floyd said. “It was his first fight. How good were you the first time?”

Lewis turned around to put the gun away. Libby leaped up and rushed at his back. He whirled around as she reached him. He dropped the gun and grabbed her by the collar.

“You want trouble?” he asked.

Libby struggled to free herself. “You’re a bastard, Lewis! You smashed out the brains of a wounded man, and I bet you did break your own brother’s arm!”

He sucked in his breath as though she’d punched him, but did not let go of her collar. He tightened his grip and pulled her closer. “Don’t ever say that again about my brother, or you’ll get what that Yankee got. I swear you will!” His voice shook and his eyes glittered, as though holding sunlight they had trapped at noon.

Floyd stood and held out his hands.

“Can you two stop it? Just stop.”

Lewis had twisted her collar so tight, her throat had closed. The lack of oxygen produced a flush of sleepiness and a confusion about whom she was fighting and why.

“I said stop it!” Floyd said.

Lewis released her, and she sank to her knees. Floyd picked up Libby’s gun, walked over to where the other guns lay, and arranged them so they leaned against each other. They fell in a heap and he tried again.

When Libby finally fell asleep, she dreamed she was back at the little Kent Street house in Winchester. The apples were gone, but the vines of stubborn jasmine were still blooming along the fence line. She and Arden sat on the cypress swing in their backyard and watched the dawn break and the sky take on sunfish colors, a confidence of hue. Arden leaned back against the swing and closed his eyes, revealing lids the color of lavender pebbles. Drops of morning dew clung to his face, each no bigger than the eye of a needle. In a few moments, the light would dry them.

His breathing deepened, and she wondered if he’d fallen asleep.

“Arden?” she asked.

“Mmmmm?”

“Did the Yankees kill me?”

He opened his eyes. “What in the world are you talking about? You look fine. Not a scratch on you. In fact, you don’t seem quite as pale. Maybe war is good for you.”

“Do you think I’m stupid? For jamming up my gun?”

“New recruits do that all the time. What bothers me is that I think you were happy about it. Happy that your gun jammed, and you didn’t kill any Yankees.”

“That’s not true, Arden!”

He looked at her. “I’m wondering about you. Wondering if you care all that much about our cause.”

“Of course I do! It means everything to me. You know that.”

“At least you fired your weapon. Your sister did not.”

“She was nervous.”

“Or maybe she’s a traitor.”

“Don’t call her that.”

“It’s true,” Arden said. “You’ve been meaning to ask her about it. You know—about what you saw in the woods at Sharpsburg.”

“I think my eyes were playing tricks on me. It was dark in those woods. Shadows moving. She could not have done what I imagined, Arden. I was mistaken. And, besides, you’re not dead. You’re alive.”

“Sweetheart, if I’m alive, what’s crawling on me?”

“Nothing.”