
As part of my Free Fiction Friday series, here's another piece I wrote in college and the first story I ever published. It's a Civil War tale.
September Sunlightby Meg NorthA reb musket ball struck Eugene Belden’s leg ten minutes after the fighting started. Falling endlessly, away from pain and life. The twisted hard form of a musket butt became his pillow as the gun’s owner slid in the grass. A macabre lullaby of screaming, shell shot and popping minie balls induced Eugene into a hazy lull.
He awoke facing another New York man. A comrade - nameless, homeless, dead upon a field. Eugene could not remember him, vaguely recalled he’d been a drunk, now dead without a drop of his favorite rum in sight. A half-hidden listing gaze stared at Eugene from a bloody face. Stared out at the sunlight-washed men and bodies and soil.
A blue sea of flattened New York corpses rolled and flowed with the wind upon the lit field. All from Newark Valley, Binghampton, Richford. Tiny rural towns clustered in a huddle between the Niagara River valley and the unquiet streets of New York City. A sickle of shot and shell had been thrust upon the men and papery corn stalks bent to their awesome weight. Three lone shoots wavered against a September breeze, skinny yellow against unerring blue. Trees whispered in the forest behind Eugene. Eugene waited for the breeze to pause and peered around the limp form of a redhead boy who had come to the New York regiment only six weeks earlier. Blood leaked into the Maryland soil.
The fighting had shifted south, away from the cornfields and buckled acres of the Miller farm. Artillery exploded grape shot half a mile away and the ground shook and voices shouted. Fingers of dead men trembled. Eugene waited on the wet earth, half-sitting, half-lying sideways. Final moans, cries for Mother and water, and all around him silenced. He was alone in his own small section of fallen men.
He held onto the dead redhead’s body with one arm and twisted his torso backwards. God, his leg looked bad. Below the knee his calf reclined limply, like a dead animal. He wasn’t bleeding badly, but he was hurt. He grunted and got to his knees and his stomach heaved. Nothing to eat or drink for hours. His mouth felt lined with cotton.
He tried to stand. His wavering body crumpled and fell with a soft thud upon the redhead. Still warm… He shut his eyes away from the dead boy’s open-mouthed stare and crawled to an open patch of ground. A fitful bout of swearing issued from his cracked lips as he struggled to stand. His legs felt full of cannonballs, and he’d never been so heavy, so wearied.
Alone and standing, he bent his body against the breeze and rested a knee on his musket. Men screamed from a distant valley. Perhaps others would gain the ground, the good ground, Eugene thought. For his own general had been wrong, his commands fruitless. Back and forth swept the fighting across the length of the cornfield and ground was not gained. The division failed. Forgotten and dying, regiments were abandoned in the cornfield and a new slice of Maryland landscape was now war territory.
The redhead’s body at his feet slowly stiffened as noon approached. Eugene shifted his weight and the calf didn’t bother him greatly. He could not stay here. The pain was ebbing now. He feared the fighting would come back, him standing helpless as Rebs charged their weakened lines. He fought at Manassas twice and did not want to fight here twice.
Eugene checked his cartridge box. Not much ammunition, but enough to kill a few Rebs before his body fell again. He limped across the twisted mass of dead New York men and followed the sounds of faultless artillery shells. Man, not machine, deserved blame for this ugly September morning.
A wagonless path greeted him as he emerged from the slain cornfield. He took to the faint road. Using his musket as a crutch, his arms gripped the skinny barrel. In this apelike manner he continued through a small grove of sunlight-speckled trees bordering the left-hand side of the cornfield. He had not passed many yards before a screaming, chaotic mess of men and horses burst in from a nearby field and galloped towards him. Eugene grabbed his musket and ran to the side of the road. His torn coat snagged a bush and he sprawled to his knees.
“Private!”
Eugene peeked around the edge of the bush. One of the men on horseback pointed a saber at him.
“I will have you shot for desertion!”
Eugene struggled to his feet and came out into the road, saluting the officer. He showed his lame leg.
“Sir, I was wounded at the cornfield… Sir, I couldn’t stay. The Rebs might’ve come back.”
The man grunted, shouted orders to the adjutants on horseback for supplies and ambulances, then addressed Eugene again.
“So you survived the cornfield. God damn, Private.”
Eugene didn’t know what to say. The officer looked back the way he came.
“We’re going to win this one. You need to get to the church, you hear? And stay away from the lines! Hyah!”
He spurred his little brown mare and galloped as fast as he could back through the trees. Eugene was shaking, the buttons on his coat rattling together. A church? Where can I find a church? he thought. But the order was to get to the church, and he’d fought in the Army of the Potomac long enough to obey orders. He picked up his musket and limped down the road.
The path curved sideways and as Eugene made his way through the trees soldiers came crawling through the brush, choosing to die beneath Maryland oaks and not Maryland sun. Blue and butternut coats alike littered the edge of the road but Eugene walked in the middle, his eyes straight ahead.
“Do ye have any whiskey?” came a voice.
A soldier’s voice, calling to him. Eugene’s hand automatically went to the little silver flask tucked within his wool coat. He bent near the grizzled face by the side of the road, startled by the childlike hands reaching for the drink.
“Aye ‘tis good, very good.”
The man was from an Irish regiment; Eugene could see the shamrock embroidered on his kepi. He tucked the flask away.
“Do you know where the church is? I’m ordered to go there.”
“Church, boyo?” The Irishman gave a lilting laugh, not unlike breezes skipping across spring hills. “An’ what will ye say to the blessed Lord on such a day as this?”
Eugene brushed him off with a scowl and stood up. “I have the order to go to the church and…”
“All who visit that place today aren’t goin’ home, that’s for sure. ‘Tis where all the fightin’s been past two hours or so.”
Eugene’s heart fell. Why had the officer sent him to a doomed place of battle? Had he not known that the fighting had shifted fields again? The Irish private reached for Eugene’s arm.
“Will ye help me up? I were hit in me shoulder…”
Eugene lifted the soldier, letting his wide and wounded shoulders rest upon his own. The two men stood silently for a moment. The valley, so loud and chaotic earlier, now had quieted to match the cornfield. Artillery still fired shells, but the booming was now far in the distance.
“Seems we lost the road,” the Irishman said. “That’s where I were fightin’. That damned bloody road.” He winced. “’Tis a damn shame, a real damn shame.”
The men started along the path again. They moved quickly beneath the trees. Eugene’s limp had lessened, but his arm was soaked with his companion’s blood. The Irishman’s strength was fading, his shoulder bleeding too profusely for it to be less than a mortal wound. He gripped Eugene’s body. Eugene felt the man’s weight slipping, and they collapsed in the road together.
“We’re almost near a field,” Eugene gasped. “Can you make it to the field?”
“That’s the place I were shot, boyo.”
“I can get you an ambulance, or a stretcher…”
The Irishman let his head fall back in the dust. “’Tis no use for that. I wouldn’t want any a doctor lookin’ at me.”
Eugene gripped the man’s jacket collar. “I’ve been ordered to go to the church, and we must go. We must get there.”
“Oh believe me, I’ll get to yer church,” said the Irishman. “I’ll stand there in the presence of the Lord an’ ye know what I’ll say to Him?”
Eugene buried his face in the man’s coat.
“I’ll thank Him for the sunlight…”
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