A Three-Way War

A Three-Way War

A Tale of The Battle of Gettysburg

Ann Kelly, June 1863

'Twas a dreary night, and black as pitch. Night snuffed out every candle in the room, extinguishing them with its black fist, leaving my bedroom cast in shadow. The wind rustled the drapes, howling like a collection of angry spirits. My heart hammered, as a loud thump! sounded from the outside hallway, followed by another. Rough voices reached my ears as I rolled out of bed, careful not to wake Maude, my sister, who slept beside me. During sleep, her face mirrored that of an angel's, innocent and pure, her golden locks spilling around her face like a halo. Ironic, considering her devilish tendencies towards others.

My feet curled as they hit the floorboards, cold to the touch. Silently, I made my way to the bedroom door in quick, light movements, as silent as a dead man's breath. In a flury of movement, I almost tripped over a wooden bowl on the floor, which caught the drips of rainwater that leaked through the roof when it rained. Pushing the door open on creaky hinges, I peered into the dark hallway. Flickering light emitted from the end of the hallway, where the kitchen was. Voices argued in hushed tones, and I heard a chair scrape against the kitchen floor. Tiptoeing my way across, I poked my head around the corner and spied on the conversation.

Father, Mother, and my older brother, Martin, sat huddled around our rickety kitchen table. To the left, a small pot of broth was heated on our ancient wood stove. At the table, Mother clasped her Claddaugh cross to her chest, a keep-sake she had brought from Ireland when we immigrated to the United States six years ago. Even from my position, I could see the concern in her weary eyes, her creased face wrinkled by anguish, and how her knuckles were white from gripping the claddaugh too tightly...

"-Madness, I'm telling you! Insanity!" Father's voice was rougher than tree bark, as he pushed away from his chair, and began to pace. His hard-soled boots clacked against the floorboards, like bones hitting against each other.

Martin stared at him, his face pale and frightened. His blue eyes seemed to glow in the dim light, vulnerable.

"What has this war come to? The year is 1863, and this war is no closer to ending than it was in 1861! The North has enough soldiers as it is, why must they take our son?"

As Father continued to pace, a sick feeling crawled it's way up my throat. War, I thought, what does the war want with Martin?

"William, please. Calm yourself." Mother responded, her voice as delicate as a bird's bones. "You might wake the children-"

"-Bah! Humbug! How am I supposed to keep calm, when my eldest son has been drafted for the war, eh?"

My eldest son has been drafted for the war.

I felt the words like a bullet entering my rib-cage, tearing me in two. The air was squeezed out of my lungs as I tried to steady myself, holding the wall for support, dumbstruck. My entire world seemed tilted until I could hardly stand. Grasping at my own Claddagh cross that I wore around my neck, I tried to steady myself, but thoughts raced through my mind, faster than a horse.

How can this be? Martin cannot go to war, he simply mustn't! He'll die-

-Before I could stop myself, my feet moved of their own accord. I launched myself into the kitchen, startling Mother. She spilled her hot tea and shattered its ceramic container.

"Ann! My goodness, what are you doing up-?" Looking Martin straight in the eye, I barely managed to keep my voice under control.

"Martin, you cannot go to war! Please, do not-" Martin cut me off with a glance, putting his head in his hands. Father's who's glowering expression told me that I would be punished for my intrusion. Sighing, Martin pushed back his blond hair, staring directly at me. In the faint light, he appeared older than Father, yet he was only nineteen, two years my senior.