Before the lot of us could even think about gathering ourselves as we finally drove up to the house, the front door swung open with a clamor and cast a dim light across the front porch. Aunt Betsey ran out and frantically bobbed her head up and down in what I assumed was an attempt to identify us as she clutched her lantern in one hand and her skirts in the other. Had the situation not been so grim, I may have giggled under a cupped hand at her exaggerated gestures. Laughter was a thing of the past now and was surely nothing more than a memory. I didn't know when or if I would ever laugh again given the circumstances.
Aunt Betsey's crackling voice called out over the space between us, "M—Missus Lanton, is dat you? Oh Lawd, please let it be the missus!"
"Yes, Aunt Betsey, we have returned, but we have wounded men and we will need your help getting them inside. Please do calm down." Mother's reply was painfully spiritless. She was a woman made alive only by dejection.
At Mother's response and for whatever reason would provoke her emotions, Aunt Betsey let out a shrill howl of a sob and stumbled off the porch to meet Mother, running to her as she was attempting to remove herself from the driver's seat and nearly pulling her to the ground. I stood with Alex and the able-bodied men in the back, watching as Mother's eyes grew wide at Aunt Betsey's clawing and sobbing and wondered what it was that happened in our absence to upset her so.
"Why, Aunt Betsey! What is the matter with you? What has happened?" There was some feeling in Mother's voice again.
"Aw, Missus Lanton!" she manage to choke out. "Missus Lanton, I gets so scared bein' alone! I's so afraid that straggluhs would find the house an' kill me! We need a man in the house for to keep us safe! I's so afraid! Please say dat you found Mistuh Lanton an' he won't be away no more!"
As I quietly removed myself from the buggy, I watched Mother's face fall and her gaze drift off to some place beyond Aunt Betsey, some place that had no feeling and evoked no passion. The wagon rocked back and forth as Mammy Charlotte stood and landed with a grunt upon the ground, and she paced over to Aunt Betsey with heavy footsteps. She forcibly placed herself between Aunt Betsey and Mother.
"Betsey, we ain't found Mistuh Lanton, so doan you go sayin' nothin' else 'bout it."
Aunt Betsey's hands rose to her round face as she began to cry once more, but Mammy Charlotte grabbed her wrists and pulled them down again.
"Ch—Charlotte, there be too many strange mens in our country. They scares me so awful bad," Aunt Betsey managed to say. "Mistuh Lanton ain't have no bus'ness out in no war. He need to protect this house!" she cried out.
Mother's brow wrinkled, and she brought up her hands to conceal her face as she ran into the house sobbing. The raised hand that Mammy Charlotte had readied for the purpose of slapping Aunt Betsey was dropped to her side.
"Betsey, calm yourself down. We gots wounded men, an' they needin' to be brought in. They's strangers, but they ain't bad as far as I can tell."
As Aunt Betsey quit her bawling and quieted down, I realized that it was only William and me remaining in the wagon. I looked down at him, and the moonlight shone brightly upon his still face and revealed that he was too young to even shave. His eyes were half-open, and his bloodied chest heaved with every gasping breath he struggled to pull in. I heard another man clear his throat. I looked up at the edge of the buggy to see the fellow that was keeping guard during our ride, his hand outstretched toward me and the less fortunate limb still brought up to his chest.
"Miss, do come down now. The Negroes an' I will see to it that he is brought inside," he urged gently. The moonlight took advantage of his eyes, manifesting in them and giving off a soft glow.
I made little steps toward him, uncertain of myself and what would happen next. "Sir, please tell me your name."
I thought I saw him straighten up a bit. "Corporal Clayton Parks of Alexandria. It is unfortunate that we meet in these circumstances, Miss . . ."
"Luciana Lanton," I told him barely above a whisper. I made the final pace in his direction and took his outstretched hand, beleaguered by dizziness as I stepped off the ledge of the wagon. I was confused and it seemed as though reality was spinning around me, waiting on my next move only to vindictively cross it. Here we were standing in the darkness just after a terrible fight, and our wounded were still as gentlemanly as ever. And what bewildered me even more was that this maimed soldier was helping me when he was the one that needed tending to.
What on earth is wrong with me?
"Oh, Corporal Parks, please do forgive me for my empty-headedness, but how badly are you hurt? You mustn't waste your energy on me. Oh, and thank you very much for your service to the cause, but are you—ˮ My words were spilling from my mouth terribly quickly, and it probably saved me from sounding like complete and utter fool when the he interrupted my prattling with a soft chuckle.
"Miss, do call me by my first name. An' I am alright for now, but we must get William inside an' make him comfortable."
I had gotten so tangled in my racing thoughts that I had nearly forgotten about the poor boy even though I was fretting over him just moments ago. "Oh, William . . ."
Mammy Charlotte appeared from somewhere, and the wagon creaked as she and Clayton attempted to remove the unfortunate youth. Allowing my immediate surroundings to fade away, I looked at the house and watched as Mother emerged, she meeting the trio of soldiers and Alexander as they attempted to make their way inside. One of the fellows was limping terribly, and Mother went to offer her shoulder to lean on, her face still red from weeping.
A sharp cry of pain pierced my ears, and Clayton hollered a torn voice, "I just can't do it! I can't move 'im!"
Instantly all things real asserted themselves, and without saying a word I took Clayton's place at William's feet, picking his lower half up with all of my might and Mammy Charlotte bearing his shoulders and rocking head. He gasped more hurriedly as we carried him with shuffling, struggling steps to the house, and I prayed to God that he wouldn't pass on in our arms out in the yard. I didn't have much capacity to think as I strained to move the pitiful boy. The one thought hanging onto my mind as we carried him in was that if I dropped him he would surely die, and I would never forgive myself for bringing such an unfortunate end to one of our brave heroes.
He must make it into the house. Perhaps if he is inside and taken care of he will live.
My arms and legs burned terribly as we brought William up the porch steps, and Clayton thankfully offered his unharmed arm as support for his back so that he would not sag so much between Mammy Charlotte and me. Mother held the door open with a lantern in her hand, and as I followed Mammy through the threshold with his lower end, the light revealed the horrific extent of his injuries. The blood soiling his uniform shirt originated from a bullet's violent entry into his lower right chest, and just below that was another cruel hole made into his flesh by some form of weaponry. I gulped, and my head became even more dizzied as crimson dripped from his body onto the wooden floor.
"Bring him to the guest room, Mammy, and lay him on the bed. I don't care if it ruins the sheets," Mother instructed rigidly.
With Clayton's help, we somehow managed to heave William's limp body upon the bed, and immediately Clayton asked my mother for a pencil and paper. Alexander brought in a light and set it upon the nightstand, the flickering candle revealing just how pallid and waxen his skin was. His eyes were closed and enveloped in dark circles, and I was now able to see that the mess of curly hair on his head-top was of a dark auburn hue. Just below his white, dry lips were a few little dark hairs of manhood. The line of his jaw was soft, and his nose turned up just a bit at its point. William was undoubtedly a handsome boy in a simple way, and I thought that it was likely that he had a sweetheart somewhere waiting on him to return home. Oh, that poor girl! What if he didn't return home? He had to live—he had to—and I decided that I would do all that I could to keep him alive.
"Willie, what's your mother's name an' residence?" Clayton asked, disrupting my pensiveness. He had the paper and pencil in hand, using the nightstand as a desk and ready to write. Mother must have brought him the items unannounced, for I surely didn't notice her return.
William's blue eyes fluttered open and he drew in a great, gasping breath and produced the information in a nearly inaudible whisper. I heard him, but I wouldn't have been able to recount his mother's title or address had my life depended on it. I was there but not there all at once, like a ghost haunting a place that was once my home, simply observing happenings but not being able to participate in them. Things were taking place around me—so many things—yet there was nothing that I felt I could do to affect the inevitable outcome. What was I to do?
He can't die. He has to live. He has to!
I remembered then that I was to keep William alive so that he could reunite with his family and the unnamed love he must have had anxiously awaiting his arrival. Yes, that was what I was supposed to do. I needed to nurse him back to health, and wasting away time by writing a silly letter was not going to restore him.
"Clayton . . ." I felt myself say. "Must we do this now? We need to tend to him and get his wounds dressed and yours as well. Letters to home can wait."
Much to my surprise, Clayton's opinion on the matter didn't match my own, for his beard sagged in a frown and his thick, dark brow scrunched upon his swarthy forehead.
"Miss Luciana, letters cannot wait. He cannot wait. Now whether or not you want to admit it, this boy here's dyin', an' it is only right that I write home to his momma an' not bombard him with tryin' to dress wounds that won't heal." There was a pause, and he looked at William and his face softened. "Now, Willie, what would you like to tell your dear momma?"
My throat tightened as reality reared its hideous head, and both embarrassment and grief overwhelmed me as my eyes spilled over with tears. I looked down at poor William and watched helplessly as he fought to draw in enough breath to speak, that terrible far-away look manifesting in his gaze. I saw his mouth move but heard nothing other than my own thoughts racing in my head.
Lucy, you are such a fool. He is dying. He is dying and there's nothing you can do to stop it. The Yankees have killed him, and he is dying. The Yankees . . . The Yankees did this, and now he is dying, and there is not a thing you can do to help him.
William's heaving speech halted, and Clayton was writing down the last few words the boy had told him. I stood still as I unthinkingly stared at William and listened to the sounds of what was going on in the rest of the house over his continuous struggle for air. I heard the voices of Mother and the other men, and Aunt Betsey's carrying on echoed through the walls. I heard Mammy Charlotte huff and tell Aunt Betsey to go outside to draw up some water and then cook whatever food we had left. Mammy was so strong—she had always seemed so strong. I had believed that I could be strong like her, too, but I was very much mistaken. It seemed that I was unfortunately wrong about everything. I was a mere weakling—a weakling and unforgivably wrong.
The door creaked behind me, and I turned to see Alexander walk cautiously into the room. He stood next to me at William's bedside and tugged lightly on my skirt in what I thought was an attempt to tell me something of importance, but all he did was ask in a low whisper once I bent down and placed my ear near the little cupped hand about his mouth, "Sister, is he going to be all right?"
Without answering him, I stood upright again and beheld William, Alexander still holding onto my skirt. The pitiful boy was looking at my brother, and a very faint smile was painted upon his lips, the expression casting strange shadows across his spectral countenance. Although blood continued to soak through his shirt and he fought fruitlessly for air, William still managed to find a reason—whatever that reason was—to smile, and it made me so very sad that I couldn't find the ability within myself to do the same for his sake. He let out a wet cough, and in quiet horror we watched as a stream of crimson appeared from the corner of his mouth, causing Alex to cling tighter to my side. William swallowed but coughed again, and more of that tragic color blemished his pale flesh. I looked over at Clayton, who I also knew to be strong, but his countenance bore just as much sorrow as ours. My heart sank so heavily that I felt sick, and I knew then that this was truly the end for this young warrior.
A moment of silence passed. William coughed no more and his breathing was so shallow that I could barely see his chest rise and fall. His eyes were closed, and just when I thought the boy had left this world and its suffering behind him, I saw the azure of his eyes shine a little again in the candlelight. He took in a long, wheezing breath and began to sing weakly in a familiar tune:
"Then here's to our Confederacy,
Strong are we and brave;
Like patriots of old we'll fight
Our heritage to save . . ."
William gasped once more, and Clayton quietly joined him in song as he struggled to commence again, grasping the boy's hand in his own:
"And rather than submit to shame,
To die we would prefer;
So cheer for the Bonnie Blue flag
That bears a single star."
Clayton's lips remained parted as he gazed down at William, for he had fallen silent and his eyes stared emptily before him, his bloodied mouth hanging open. Tears ran freely down my face, and I felt Alexander's figure shaking with sobs as he continued to clutch onto me, his face buried in my skirt. William's eyes widened a little, and he gulped in air.
"Hurrah! Hurrah!
For Southern rights h—hur—hurrah . . ."
William coughed again, and more blood came forth and ran down his chin in little rivers. I watched as his eyes fell half-shut once more and the last bit of air within his chest expelled itself with a great sigh. His head fell limply to one side, and he gasped no more. It seemed that in that very moment the whole house grew silent, and not a single one of us dared to move.
He's dead.
God's finger had touched him, and now finally the poor boy could join the angels in song. Alex lifted his head, and I gazed down to see his red face looking up at me, his eyes pleading for some sort of comfort.
"S—sister? Is . . . Is he gone?"
He then turned away from me and beheld the deceased soldier. Clayton still held onto his hand.
"Y—yes, Alex," I choked. "He's gone now. He's not suffering anymore . . ."
I couldn't bring myself to say anything else. Alexander looked up me again, and when our tearful eyes met and lingered within each other's forlorn stares, we both began to cry like little children. There was no concept of older and younger siblings then, and there was no need for it.
"Dear boy, whenever I sing 'The Bonnie Blue Flag' next, an' whenever I sing it the time after that an' every other time after that, I will surely think of you," Clayton whispered. He placed William's limp hand gently upon the bed and turned to me. "I'll see to it that he's buried in the mornin'. I need to get my arm seen to an' somethin' to eat, an' then we all need to get some rest."
With that he quietly left the room. I couldn't bring myself to look at the poor soldier that had just passed on. I wanted nothing more than to remove myself from the sadness that loomed in that guest bedroom, for I felt as though I could easily cry forever. I had to escape the incorrigible anguish by any means, even if it meant going out to meet the others only to behold more marred flesh and smell more blood.
I sniffled several times before saying, "Alexander, even though it's terribly sad that poor W—William is dead . . ." I tried not to break down once more. "There are four others that need our help."
He said nothing and nodded. I started away with hesitant footsteps to go see to the other soldiers, and Alexander held onto me as he followed. He desperately needed my guidance and I needed his companionship, and I thanked God then that we had each other.
As we entered the parlor where Mother and Mammy Charlotte had made places for the four remaining men with pallets on the floor, I thought about all of the work that needed to be done. Clayton was right in saying that we all needed to rest, but I knew that I was not going to sleep very well that night if at all. One man had died already, and I knew that I couldn't bear to watch another's life slip away and maintain my wits. Whatever it was that I could do to help our guests in butternut and gray, I would do it and stay busy so as to not succumb to my sorrows.