When one is on the foreboding field of battle, colours of uniforms make no difference; ash, dirt, and blood turn all colourless. And upon our masks of shining armour does love rust away all hypercritic beauty, does sorrow melt all gleam, and does run the crimson blood of reality. And within that cold, bitter veracity, does that knight o’er yonder have a brighter suit than thee?
Jay Adams was a Yankee, born and bred of clear northern air, and now fought for what former sirs had already died for. Susan, his wife, and Abby, his little girl, waited earnestly back home in Virginia as he and his comrades stationed the border to the South. He smiled at the memory of his family. His wife, surpassing all beauty with her sun mirroring hair and smile that lit the room and made dance merrily the heart. The silver thread spun from the stars that wove her graceful voice still echoed through his soul. And then, there was Abby, the little one; his little one; his own and only, that lay in a basket next to the hearth.
Cries pierced the muggy blanket of air beneath the zenith of the sun. Screams. The sound of a person feeling the cold hand of Death clasping their heart and soothing the agonizing pain that ripped through each cordovan limb. As well did there linger the relentless outcry of the not so fortunate men who lay unappeased in all anguish, waiting. All other noises were cut short by the fierce ring of the musket and the ominous, death-tolling blast of the cannon.
Red. Red was all around them, surrounding them, enveloping them into a world of fear and terror. Red is a primary colour, but not in life. The black hearted souls of men blended with the greenness of greed in their minds is what creates it. And Fear... Like a plague it shadows all, biting at the ankles of humanity as the dog, and clinging to a soft spring flower like the late winter frost. This ominous force turns the most belligerent of men to mice; those of intellect, daft; and the peaceful into towering panicles of revulsion. Fear is what determines a man from a child. A man knows that it is there and overcomes it, and a child ignores it…Both were determined upon this day.
They were outnumbered, terribly, the Yanks, yet fought on with strength they did not know possessed. Adams gasped for clean air but all he received were war tainted breaths. A bullet grazed his shoulder and sank into the chest of one behind him. His heart echoed his friend’s cries with a wail of sorrow. Sweat mingled and mustered with tears on his dark, ash-strewn brow. Smoke stung at his eyes as he blindly wielded his riffle and sadness stung his heart as he blindly watched each dear friend fall. And yet, through it all, there was an ache running through his finger and soul with each pull of the trigger. Faint, yet there. Ever it whispered, and ever did its soft voice remain unheeded. He fired, and reloaded; fighting on in a void, he pressed away all further emotion, from both sides of the battlefield. He gritted his teeth and aimed, and refused to hear the outcry of the soldier hit, willing his ears to not hear and only allowing his targets to appear before him in vague figures.
Yet soon, a piercing cry did reach his ears: ‘Retreat! Retreat!’
Chaos rang through the small army as Confederate reinforcements came to the aid of the grey-suited men. Adams panicked and a wave of emotion flowed over him once more as he surveyed the scene before him. Would that soon be him?..Those navy forms lying wet in scarlet lace? Turning dizzily to flee along with the rest, he did not get far. All he vaguely recalled was a cannon blast, and the splintering of wood. Pain. Crying out. Darkness overtook him.
He was found not far outside of his camp, with his head bandaged and wound cleaned as well as a full canteen of water at his side. None knew how he came there nor the full account of what had come to pass.
‘Yeh were knocked senseless by a tree branch, ‘swat it looks as at least. An’ lost a lot a blood there from yer shoulder, but let it be a week to pass an’ ye’ll be on your feet like nay ‘ad ‘appened. Heh, yeh may ‘ave passed out from the loss afore reachin’ the camp if the treebranch ‘aden’t o’ stopped yeh. ‘Twas a good thing whoever it was who found yeh when ‘e did; an’ done a right good job at patchin’ yeh up I’d say.’ Jerry had remarked after finding him there. ‘If it weren’t for ‘im you’d still be a’lyin’ ‘alf dead in the field.’ After a swift recovery, he was on his feet, and before the weeks turning he was back in the ranks with his comrades.
On a day not unlike all the others of a warm summer’s afternoon, the Union soldiers marched not far from the place where Adams fell, and they nearly ran into a small band of Confederate soldiers. Though seeming hours, only seconds came to pass before a new battle had indeed begun. Adams knelt, almost mechanically, with his musket, cloaked in mud and loaded, and let a single bullet burst into its death-shadowing song. It flew true to its grey target and a scream echoed once more through the scarred and wine-stained forest. And thus did Jay Adams kill the man who saved his life.
©2004 Carolynn Anderson. All Rights Reserved.