Tattered Gray

Chapter Two

No one spoke after the crying ceased. Hours passed by, and the five of us lay in silence beneath the bed listening to the noise of the artillery go on and on with the occasional boom of a cannon volley. Although no one moved and no one uttered a sound, I knew they were all awake and ever alert to the doom conquering the outside world. As the sun began to set and stretched various shadows across the floor, I wondered to myself how much longer this could possibly go on. How many more men, never mind Federal or Confederate, could possibly remain after such a time and so many bullets? Although it was only a matter of hours, it seemed like we had been in hiding for days, and somehow the intermittent clamor of the battle became less and less startling. While earlier I couldn't accept the humanity of the fighting, I was truly beginning to think it all a dream. My eyes grew heavy, my mind weak, and for at least a few minutes I was in that fictional promised land of silence and peace. The only worthy recollection of that dream was comforting and warm nothingness.

Eventually I opened my eyes with a gasp. They danced around in my head searching for sign of life, and yet I saw nothing. My gaze remained visionless, and for a split moment I thought that I may have really been in that imaginary paradise.

No, surely I'm not so lucky.

The shadows created by the furniture in my parents' bedroom had spread and enveloped the room in darkness. Nightfall had come and the day was over, but what of the battle? I strained to listen for a few moments. Artillery fire had ceased, I heard no cannons and no guns, and that incessant strong wind had been quieted to a low, miserable drone that I struggled to hear out in the distance. The booming of weaponry had not awakened me. It was the peculiar silence of the battle's finish that disturbed my daze.

The battle is over. It's finally over.

My internal reveling ceased when I heard the shuffle of Mother and Mammy Charlotte removing themselves from the cover of the bed frame.

"Mammy, you and Luciana hitch up Gertie to the wagon. Alexander, come with me and help me get the bandaging cloth and clothes together for your father should he need them. Remember the ones I made? And Aunt Betsey, light us some candles and lanterns. You shall stay here." Mother instructed us solidly and without waver in her voice. I knew that she was only glad to be able to finally go retrieve her husband, but I didn't think that it occurred to her that she may have only been preparing to regain a martyred man.

I said nothing and crawled out from under the bed space, letting go of Alex to let him face Mother alone. Something was suddenly different about her. When Daddy left in 1862 to protect his land, it seemed as though a part of Mother had trailed along behind him like a lost pup. For the first couple of days following his departure to service, she had kept herself shut up in her bedroom with her smelling salts and only allowed Mammy Charlotte to tend to her. She eventually rejoined the rest of the world but only grudgingly so. It seemed that a little of her former self now arose to the occasion.

Aunt Betsey struck a match and lit a lantern, and Mammy Charlotte took it from her and headed outside. I followed her silently. Although I very well felt the sticky April night air against my skin and took in the faint scent of smoke in the breeze as Mammy Charlotte and I attempted to capture the old bay nag, I felt as though I were watching the whole affair from some theater sitting above our heads. It didn't seem real—none of it seemed real. Here we were: the battle was finally over, and we were preparing to go find Daddy whether or not he was alive. Before I knew it, Mammy and I had Gertie parked in front of the wagon. In the dim light, I looked into Mammy Charlotte's eyes and only saw a reflection of myself. Neither of us knew how to hitch her to the wagon, for she had only been ridden by Mother as of late to go into town for goods.