Casting Shadows

One: July 2, 1863

A flock of ravens raced across the emerald sky like an artist's brushstroke. Freedom was what made them exceptional. It made them eager to dip their ebony beaks into the clouds and feel the elevation burst within their hearts. Undeniable awe caused their wings to cut through the air with ardent power. They knew, when they fell again towards the sun-lit battlefield, that their land would still be there: an eternal hill ridden witness to the upcoming disastrous collision.

As Derek Cromwell lost sight of the ravens in the disappearing sun, that same promise of freedom transformed before his eyes into a sea of tombstones, and he sighed deeply and sullenly. He would have followed the ravens in a heartbeat, but the sun had already vanished behind purple hills, and the birds had gone with it. Warm wind brought the scent of wood. Somewhere far away, spring water rippled. Thoughts of his home, beautiful Virginia, washed away the sadness that clawed at his ribcage.

The fire in the Confederate camp sizzled and popped. The night floated above the tents, causing them to step out of the darkness like shadows.

"Lieutenant Cromwell," said a young cadet perched on the fallen oak beside Derek, his forage cap resting on his lap. Flames danced above the burning logs in the firepit, and autumn leaves cruised on the wind. "The Yankees are barely holding their position. We might have this. If Meade blinks, then... the war... it might finally be over. We would be just in time for a warm pie."

Derek stared into the distant glow of the enemy campfires, the collar of his gray jacket slightly unbuttoned, revealing his pale chest. His hands caught the warm wind of the burning logs. He continually turned his hands, palms up and down, to spread the smell of the campfire on his skin.

"Never underestimate your enemy, soldier. Especially during battle, when your heads are turned towards the inevitable. Destiny is either with us or against us. Despite all, death is reigning over these fields," Derek said, a little leather-bound book peeking out from a pocket of his uniform.

The cadet ran his eyes across the battlefield grounds, his heart aching. On the other side of the hill, the Yankee cannons glistened in the firelight. He imagined that there was a cannonball resting in the hands of the enemy, and tomorrow, on the day of the battle, there would be blood splattered on it—or worse, a soldier's soul.

"What hasn't the war taken?" he asked. "Sometimes, I do not recognize faces that appear before my very own eyes. The lives my bayonet has ended. We aren't fighting the war, Lieutenant; we are fighting the demons that live among us." He pressed his hands to his temples, thinking. His boyish, freckled face was white as a sheet of paper.

"Demons or not, we are past the point of no return. You left your mom at the foot of your bed, Jackson. The tears she left on your cheek—they have dried. There is a field out there, possibly the one I am looking at now, where we will lay our heads. For freedom. For bravery. For God. Now that, my friend, is what will make your momma proud." There was only so much Derek could say to console him.

They heard the snap of branches followed by swift footsteps. An officer in gray uniform with a saddlebag over one shoulder sprung up out of the amber shadows of the fire. His strawberry blond hair fell in waves, hiding a scar that lay above his left eyebrow, a wound from a fight early in the war. The sight of a fellow classmate from Virginia Military Institute brought Derek Cromwell hope that if they went down fighting, they would go down together.

"Come on, Cromwell!" Lieutenant Shawn Grimwood cried out. He patted Derek on the shoulder. "Sullen thoughts bring sullen actions. We are at war, for God's sake."