A Thousand Lives (Short Stories)

Make 'em Smile

It was some small town along the way. I don't remember the name. I never do. Mostly because I don't care, I won't come back that way. No use in remembering places you don't come back to. It never does any good. Remembering. I usually go into a store, pick up what I need and get on. Away from people. Away from everything. But memories are a tricky thing. They come when it's least convenient. And they come without warning, making you do stupid things. When them bluebellies came around the corner, I couldn't just leave. Killing those bastards is what I devoted myself to ever since the war. Their arrogant bearing let my hand twitch in anticipation. It was a group of six. I could have taken them, but a civilian or two might have gotten a bullet as well in the chaos of the struggle. Most of them were my people, their husbands and sons dead in shallow graves. No. I owed them and my family to take them out without any collateral damage if possible. I ducked away into a shadowy corner to escape notice. I hadn't seen any wanted posters, but you can never be sure. It's a disordered time. And like on the battlefield tides could turn in the blink of an eye. I could feel my hatred rise. It demanded me to act right now. Memories of cannon and smoke flickered at the border of my consciousness. Cries of battle, dead men, streams of blood. It all raged like a storm, encircling the calm eye where I still saw my home turned to ashes. I pushed it back into the dark and grinded my teeth. I had to go to my horse first, and get rid of the goods I'd bought. My grey stallion was standing close to the bar. But the Yankees had just entered, they wouldn't be back that soon. A plan of procedure already formed in my mind, when I gave my companion some grain.

"Got som'thin' t'do first, ol' friend."

I waited till sundown. The bluebellies did their duty well. Drinking and whoring around all day. Lincoln would be proud. In the distance I saw storm clouds steadily creeping closer. It would be an awful next ride. From where I stood, I could perfectly well see the bat doors of the saloon. As well as my planned escape route. I had a second escape plan should the first route show any unforeseen obstacles. But it was a vague outlining at best. I had enough time to think. But overthinking wasn't my thing. The best plans are those that come two seconds before impending death. Amidst enemies and shots and screams. When there is no way out and the mind has to react to sudden changes that dealt you new cards instantly. That's how survival works. Luck and quick wits, not only skill. I have seen the captain getting hit by a cannonball whilst the new drummer boy survived the bloody battle unharmed. That's fate. That's God's Will. I spit in the dirt as I felt bitterness taint my vigilance. If God's Will was the ransacking of our homes and the triumph of these blue devils, then he ain't my God. Then I would rather ride with the devil.

It was after sundown when the first soldier stumbled out into the night. I waited until he had rounded a corner and followed. He was too drunk to notice my silent steps. Probably to notice anything. I didn't have to hit him, I just pushed him against the wall and held my knife to his throat.

"Did ye serve under Sherman?" I asked, not giving him time to think about fighting back.

"What," the man only asked in bewilderment. It was dark and he probably didn't see my grey hat, the last remnant of what I once was.

"The goddamned devil Sherman. Comin' through Tennessee an' Carolina. Ye was with 'im. Yes or no!" I was ready to burst as the memories cooked to the surface, despite my will.

"I was with Sheridan," I could feel the man grin. He seemed to have put things together.

"Shenandoah..." I uttered. I had seen the once green valley on my aimless roaming.

"Burned it to a crisp, we did," he boasted with his thick tongue.

"What 'bout 'em others?"

"What about them?" He spoke with feigned ignorance. He was stalling, so his friends would wonder and come looking.