Last Moments

This was written as an assignment for an English composition class in High School. You will see citations throughout the work. These were used to make the story as accurate ass possible to the time period.

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The sound of leather boots disappeared from behind me as I stepped around a tree; the feeling of the bark reminded me of a simpler time. With the sensation, I stepped into my own mind. I couldn't help but smile as memories filled my head: playing in the woods, listening to insects chirp and buzz around like fairies, and the tree roots attacking my feet as I ran along the forest floor. I loved every moment of it. I also remember the sound of Father's musket as it fired off into the woods and the ball tore through the flank of a large, strong buck. Further memories took me to the time Uncle came over, bringing gifts of caramel and sugar. Mama would yell at him with a stern look, "you'll ruin their dinner," for days afterword. Uncle would simply smile and laugh with Father joining him.

A hand placed against my back tore me from my memories. I looked towards the man who had just touched me and saw Will, my only friend in the company. His trousers appeared slightly torn, but for the most part, his clothing looked well kept. His beard had grayed slightly, but a youthful play still showed in his chocolate brown eyes. "Everything good?" he inquired in his deep, tobacco worn voice.

"Just . . . remembering," I said distantly.

He chuckled a little. "My kid's about your age, I think. Wish he was as quiet as you."

I just nodded. He talked constantly, sometimes when we needed to be quiet. I, on the other hand, preferred to remain silent. Mama always described me as a person of action. Father took this further by bragging that I would be a better hunter than haggler because of my quiet nature and skill with a rifle and knife. I would just smile at them and go back to whatever I had been doing beforehand.

The company started to shuffle around the area as preparations were made to begin the march on the road to Gettysburg. I fell in beside Will as we walked in silence, a rare feat for him.

General Lee gave a speech to inspire the men and lead us to victory. He triumphantly stated that this battle would be a "war-ending victory." (Murray, 57) He droned on about changing the tide of the war in favor of the South and finally freeing us from the tyranny of the North. After further talk about gaining the rights given to us by God, I decided it was no longer worth listening. His talk rang hollower than the largest of church bells.

After the General's hollow speech, I shuffled along with the rest of the troops out of the wooded area. I followed Will as the ranks slowly formed for the long bit of trudging we would do on the dirt and packed stones of the road. The smell of mud from the recent rain followed the slow breeze as we continued to march like herding cattle.

I listened to the different groups chatting, each on a separate topic. One group of around five men reminisced about home. A short, middle-aged man mentioned that he had just gotten married and informed his listeners that he planned on using the money from his service to help pay for a small farm. Another group of soldiers seemed to be having great amusement at the expense of Abraham Buford. They joked about how his poor horse must be suffering due to his large, oversized physique. (Garrison, 11) A small laugh escaped my lips as I thought about the horse silently crying from his breaking back.

Another, more somber, conversation wafted its way into my ears. A soldier with wire-framed glasses, an unusual sight on the front, read a letter to another man that had started balding who said that he had never learned to read. The letter spoke about the death of the balding man's mother. The mood of the man after hearing the devastating news reminded me of my own mother. She had been gunned down by one of those "free negroes" as the North liked to call them. The only solace my father could find at that time came from the friend he made with the bottle. In a drunken tirade, he started getting angry about what had happened to my mother. He shouted for all to hear that "them stupid niggers ain't worth nothin and need to be kept in their place." He further the tirade by adding that this war would help him "keep his right to keep those savage niggers at bay." That night, I had left him to rant himself to sleep. Afterward, I headed home. (Chandra, 56)