Tattered Gray

Chapter Five

            The latter hours of the eighth night of April were very much like an eerie delusion. After dressing the soldiers' wounds and feeding them, two of the men rested for a short while only to arise to their tired feet after thanking us for our hospitality to resume in pursuing the retreating Yankees. Clayton and a man named Levi stayed with us for the night, Levi being the poor fellow made lame by his wounded leg. Clayton had at first changed his mind and intended to return to battle with the other two men, but Mammy Charlotte and Mother begged him to stay, for William still needed to be buried and there was the lurking fear that some Yankee straggler would come to our house in the middle of the night and do only God knows what. I was beyond thankful that he was willing to subdue his passion for patriotic endeavors for our sake.

After everyone was fed a meager supper of lye hominy and dried bacon, each wound was seen to and the last maimed limb clumsily wrapped and bandaged, the excitement of the night faded as the remaining pair of soldiers nodded off to sleep on the straw-stuffed mattresses in the parlor and Mother, Mammy Charlotte and Aunt Betsey retired wearily to their bedrooms without saying much more than a quiet good night. I wondered how they could ever fall asleep. I was terribly exhausted myself, but the sudden quietness after the great clamor of the day and evening's events was too severe of a change to accept so easily. I stood still in silence as I took in the shadows of the dark hall leading to my bedroom. There were too many things to worry about to simply lie down and go to sleep. Worry was heavy upon my heart, and with the eerie, calm quietness hanging in the air, there was nothing to distract me from the thoughts haunting my tired head.

I jumped a little as I felt my skirts being tugged at and looked down to behold my little brother. At least I wasn't alone in such agonizing silence.

"Sister," he whispered to me, "Can I sleep in your bed tonight, please? I don't want to be alone . . ."

"Of course. You don't need to be by yourself."

I led him through the dark to my bedroom. I was well aware that I was speaking more for myself than little Alex. I thought that if I were alone I would surely lose my mind.

Alexander's clothes were soiled and so were my own, but neither of us changed for bed. The looming chance of having to be up and about during the night, whether to contend with wounded men or wandering Federals, made changing seem like a waste of energy. We said a quick prayer together before I tucked the boy into bed beneath my quilt and leaving him to fall asleep while I sat before the vanity. I dragged my brush through my tangled chestnut locks, trying not to look at the haunted reflection in the mirror that was my own.

One, two, three . . .

I counted the strokes of the hairbrush within my head, and that was all I cared to bother my mind with. As long as I had something else to think of, regardless of how simple or insignificant, I wouldn't have to mull over all that had happened that evening.

Twenty-four . . . twenty-five . . . twenty—

My head very quickly grew heavy, and I felt myself rest it upon the vanity on top of my folded hands. I didn't need to count strokes any longer, for I was too tired to think of anything at all. My eyes burned as they closed against my wishes. I knew that I should drag myself over to the bed, but I was too weary. I wanted to sleep, to travel to that darkness that yields no feeling at all. No dejection, no happiness, no anxiety or calm—just darkness and rest. And miraculously that is what I did: I drifted off to sleep and found rest among the ruin that was my state of mind.