The Visitor

Chapter Five

Calamity raged around the house. Alice had sobbed herself to exhaustion, still upright in Gideon's lap. A saintly blonde cherub, oblivious of the destruction around us. Lydia and I huddled on the other side of the cellar, jumping with every boom of cannon and crack of musket fire while Aunt Violet sat by the stairs, stoically unafraid.
"Lord, protect Walter and protect us. Keep our house standing..." Lydia whispered desperately to the Lord. I knew I should be praying too, for Peter and Walter and men like Jennie's fiancé Jack Skelly who were off to war and likely outside our door, but the words wouldn't come. I wanted something to do, sewing, cooking, anything to keep my mind off what was happening outside. Images of burning houses, blackened fields and bleeding men crowded my mind, each fighting for my attention.
     There was a pounding in the door, urgent and frightened.
     "Open up!" voices screamed, "open the door!"
     "Don't!" Aunt Violet cautioned severely, but I was already half way up the stairs.
     "Someone needs help," I called over my shoulder as I set foot in the kitchen and hurried to the door. Not that she could hear me; the noise went from loud to deafening above ground. I grabbed the door, not even glancing at who it was, throwing it open just in time to see two Union men being dragged off the porch by two young Confederate foot soldiers.
    "No! No, please!" The younger of the two, no older than Gideon, screamed and fought off his guard as best he could. I ducked as a shot rang out, looking up to see the guard gasp in pain before folding over onto the ground. I screamed, out of anger or fear I don't know, and charged out of the house. The young Union boy turned and jabbed the guard in the chest with his bayonet just as I reached them. Horrified, I sucked in air and felt my eyes bulge like a wild horse. The boy looked at me sheepishly, then sprinted in the direction of the town. Adrenaline fueled my veins as I hoisted the Confederate soldier under the armpits and dragged him in the direction of the house, ducking and weaving between soldiers in blue running like frightened sheep towards the center of town. They dove into pig sties and privies, banging on doors and cellars for friendly folk who would let them in to hide.
    I hauled the moaning man into the house, kicking the door shut with my foot.
    "Please," he called out, forcing me to stop. "Please miss! Just put me down!" As gently as I could, I lowered him onto the rug, snatching a pillow from the sofa for his head.
     "Don't worry," I whispered encouragingly. "It's alright, we'll find you a doctor. This'll do for now," I balled up my apron and tucked it under the man's back. Looking at his face, I realized he was no man at all. "How old are you?"
     He gasped, "fifteen."
     My heart broke and sank to my stomach. "You're tall for your age," I said sweetly, trying to engage in distracting conversation.
     "That's how I got through. Told them I was eighteen, surgeon said I looked it, and gave me my enlistment papers." He began to moan again, hot tears rushing down his cheeks. "I want my mother...I...I want my mother!" My apron was nearly black from blood; it would be useless to find a doctor.
    "Shh...shhh, it's alright. You're going to be alright." What do I say? What do I say? "The Lord is my Shepard, I shall not want..."
     He tossed his head on the pillow, pouring sweat. "Please, please I just want my mother."
     "She's coming, she'll be right here." Aunt Violet knelt on the boy's side opposite me. "Don't you worry, she's on her way."
     The boy gulped air, "Mama?" he asked, staring up at Aunt Violet.
     "Yes," she answered gently with a broad smile, dabbing his wet face with her apron. "It's alright. Rest now."
     He managed a weak smile, "I love you, Mama."
     I clapped my hands over my mouth to stifle the sobs that were escaping.
    "I love you too," Aunt Violet said. But the boy didn't hear her. His shuddering breaths had ceased and his hands relaxed, but his eyes still fixated on my aunt's face. I openly wept now, my heart shredded for the good and promising life wasted away on our floor. Aunt Violet bowed her head, her lips moving as she prayed over the body. When she finished, her eyes met mine.
"Help me move him. The others mustn't see."
"But where? There's hardly anywhere fitting!" I cried, glancing around the room.
"Just to the corner, so no one sees." Alice. She meant so Alice didn't see. We couldn't protect her from the horrors outside, but we could try to keep our home a sanctuary. Aunt Violet took him under the arms, and I by the feet, walking with short steps to a corner of the parlor room. Glancing around, my aunt grabbed a coverlet from the sofa and draped it over the body, obscuring the face.
Crash!
I shrieked and threw my arm over my eyes as the window pane shattered, throwing glinting shards about the room. Disregarding both the body and the glass, I ducked out the remains of the window. Union soldiers were scurrying back through the town, diving into pig sties and outhouses, desperately trying to avoid capture by the Confederate soldiers at their heels.
"You see those men?" I jumped at Gideon's voice over my shoulder. He nodded to the Union men walking calmly, casually firing over their shoulders. "Those are the Black Hats, better known as the Iron Brigade. They never retreat, not ever."
"But they are now."
"I know."
A pit settled in my stomach. "That's bad."
"Yes."
"Gideon," I said softly.
"Yes?"
I shook my head, "nothing."
Gideon poked at the body with his boot. He looked at me questioningly, "what happened?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"He can't stay here. His men will come looking for him."
"Gideon, we can't just leave him out in the street! He's just a boy!"
"Emma, that's the only way he'll be returned to his folks."
My mind flits to an image of a poor Southern family with many children dressed in rags from Alabama, or a grand plantation in Georgia. He has siblings, friends, maybe a sweetheart. Maybe he was like my Peter, dreaming of attending college and making something of himself. In each image, there is a mother waiting for word of her son. I stared at the body for another long moment before collecting my skirts about me and settling in beside him.
"What are you doing?"
"If he were at home, someone would be sitting by and mourning him. And I...I don't want him to be left alone. Just doesn't seem right."
Gideon paused, then sat beside me. "Alright. We'll stay here until the street clears." The cold boy sat between us under the blanket, neither one of us touching him. We didn't eat, didn't return to the cellar, just sat and watched him for hours. The sun drifted across the sky, doing nothing to extinguish the heat of the day. The smell of iron and fire filled my nose, and I silently prayed for rain to wash the blood and char away.
     Dusk falls, shadowy figures begin to bob about in the street with lanterns that dip like fireflies. Carts sway from the heavy weight of dead and dying soldiers, piled one atop the other regardless of uniform. Instinctively, I hold my breath as a man in dirty gray leading a burrow approached another in soiled blue. I tense, waiting for a brawl, but the two nod and go their separate ways.
     "Did you see that?" I ask.
     "I've heard when soldiers see each there, they don't bother with fighting. You never know if it's someone you know, or knew. People are tired of this war, Emma. The soldiers, most of all. They're exhausted. They haven't been home. They miss their families. Those that can't read or write haven't heard from their families and can't very well send word themselves."
     "How do you know all of this?"
     Gideon shrugs, "Walter. His letters to me are different than those he sends to the family."
      I remind Gideon of the body, which he took up gently, slinging him over his shoulder and stepping out into the night. I watch from the broken window as he converses softly to the Confederate soldier, gesturing to the house. The soldier nods, flinging the boy unceremoniously into the cart. Poor child.
     Footsteps sound behind me, too heavy to be Aunt Violet's or anyone else in the house.
   "Who's there?" I ask the dark with as much confidence as I can muster, snatching a shard of glass from the floor. It won't do much good, but it's better than nothing. The figure took another step toward me. "Don't you dare take another step!" I say, my hands shaking, "I have a knife!"
    The figure raised  his hands in mock surrender, chuckling as he did so. "That's no knife."
     I gasp. I'd know that voice anywhere. "Who are you?"
    "Come on, Emma. You know who." He's chuckling again, giddy and gleeful.
    "Come into the light," I command. He obeys, crossing over to a patch of moonlight that's made its way onto the floor.
    And there he is.
    I'd know that silhouette anywhere, the broad shoulders, strong jaw and mischievous glinting eyes.
    "Peter?" I say to the dark.
    And the dark responds: "yes."