Musket on the Ledge

I think I woke up around midday. I was prostrate in the grass, blowing as hard as I could through my nostrils. I must have sounded like an angry bull, but I couldn’t get rid of that damned smell. When I say ‘damned’ smell, I am not being unnecessarily crass. This was a smell only the Devil himself could produce. Dead bodies and gun smoke… more than I thought possible. I was far from the battlefield, as far away as my legs were able to carry me. Still, the Damned Smell lingered. 

Would there be anyone searching for me? The General thought the Graybacks were nearby, the regiment could be too preoccupied to send a search party. But they would notice I’m gone eventually… I would be shot. Or branded a coward, a permanent mark of shame on my face. At the thought of hot metal, I pulled myself off the ground. I felt excruciating pain in my ankle. Although I slept for hours, I didn’t feel any better. I wish I could have slept for days. The last good sleep I had was in Mary Anne’s arms the night before I left. But the forest is not as safe as it seems. If someone was looking I would be found. Yet the birds carried their songs, forever unaffected by the human blood baths across the country. If I closed my eyes it sounded just the same as when I’d till the fields at home. I could almost hear my mother calling me in for dinner. I wished the musket in my hands was just a hoe.

The inside of my chest began to burn. Anger. I hadn’t felt that feeling for months. It had been replaced by the cavity of my stomach, the aching of my joints. The anger pushed me through all that the first few months of service, but after being beat on for so long, my body could not feel anything other than weary. I would have been happy as a farmer all my life, working my father’s land by day and working my wife by night. I wanted to watch Mary Anne’s stomach grow large and pink each time we made a child. See her blonde curls grow gray and lousy. I would have been perfectly content to have never left my dull little corner of New York. Now that dull life is gone plain and simple and here I was running toward bygone days. 

All we could do was fight. That’s what we soldiers have been told. Preserve the Union. But, dammit, I’ve lost 40 pounds. When I was standing there in ragged clothes with a gun, shooting at a bunch of scared men, the only way I could feel was pathetic. I couldn’t see myself as one of America’s heroes, but I refused to be one of her traitors. More to the point, I didn't want Mama to have a traitor for a son. I turned myself around, chest burning with conviction as my ankle screamed at me to lay down. I chose the nobler voice and marched forth, as the smell of Hell grew stronger.

I came upon a ledge, where forest dropped into a grassy field. Down below there were soldiers of each side lined against each other, smoke blowing and bodies collapsing. From the ledge, I had a clear shot of the Confederates. I crouched into bushes, loaded my musket, and took aim the best I could. As that first bullet flew into the shoulder of one man, I reloaded and shot another which hit a man right in the neck. Blood splattered. In a rage, I took another shot, hitting a man in his leg, before I realized the tone of the field had totally changed. Guns on both sides were down. Men on both sides were screaming like they’d never seen blood before. Men who had been lying dead on the battlefield, got up and ran away. Only the man I had shot stayed on the ground. Some men, both Confederate and Union, went to help him. My mind could not make sense of what I saw, but I decided not to shoot another bullet. I found myself running away from the battlefield once again. Back in the forest, not understanding what was happening, but knowing something was terribly wrong.

There was a clearing which led into a graveyard. I didn’t stop running, twisting through graves, until my hurt ankle snagged on one and I went flying into a little slab in the ground. The gravestone seemed weathered and old. The engraving read… 

Melody Jackson 

1883 - 1943

Rest in Peace

The numbers made my head throb in pain. I laid there, ankle screaming at me not to get up. I just stared at the numbers, before my head felt like lead and my skull hit the stranger’s grave. It was not long before the inhuman wailing and cuffs around my wrists. I kept silent. One of the men told me that was my right. So all I said was “Addison Wells. Union Army. 147th New York Regiment”. The men glanced at each other and glared at me. They threw me in the back of a metal carriage. The machine grumbled and rode away, no horse attached. Out the window came into view concrete buildings and flashy signs. Dozens of the horseless carriages. Lights red, green and yellow. It all made my headache worse. I closed my eyes,  blocked it all out. For the first time since I got the draft, I cried.

***

A bright light was shown in my face, but there was no fire. If I squinted real hard at it, I could make out a glowing stone of some sort. It was so bright, yet so solely focused on my sweating face, as to make the room around me look near pitch black. One of the lawmen stood before me, a cold metal table between us. 

“What is your name?”

“Addison Wells.”

“Is that your real name or your pretend name?”

“I am Addison Wells. From Oswego, New York.”

“Are you a historical reenactor? Who are you associated with?”

“I’m not… that. I’m not sure what that is.”

“Alright. Why then are you dressed like a Union Soldier? Or even better, why are you telling us you are one?”

“Because I am one.” I retorted, knowing I was not  going to be believed, but not understanding my surroundings well enough to make an excuse.

“Knock it off. Acting insane isn’t gonna help you. I am just going to note you weren’t cooperative. Why did you shoot into that crowd? And don’t tell me it’s because they were Confederate soldiers.”

“Is this the Confederacy?”

“Stop being funny. This is the United States.”

“Then why is it a crime to shoot a Confederate soldier?”

“It’s a crime to shoot anybody. Is it a crime to play around as a Confederate soldier?”

“Why would any American want to play a Confederate soldier?

“You killed a man, Addison. He’s dead. And his wife and three kids back in Georgia will never see him again.”

It wasn’t the first Southern son I had shot. I believe I had killed 6 total in the war, but really I don’t know. Bullets fly, they might hit someone, he might die. It was too messy to tell. 

“He is dead because of you, Addison.” the man repeated with such vitriol it made me feel nauseous. 

“I thought I had to do it.” I said and suddenly my breath was wild and shaky.

“This is a strange case. We don’t know who you are. Or why you’re in that torn up costume. We don’t know why you did what you did or why you did it with a musket. But honestly, that’s for the journalists. All I can tell you is that you’re probably facing a lifetime in jail. Thanks for admitting your guilt so easy.”

“Can I ask one question?”

“One.”

“Why are there so many stars on the flag on your sleeve?”

He squinted at me and said “There’s 50 states.” I thought for a moment and smiled. “And that includes Alabama, Georgia, the Carolinas, all them?” and wondered if these names would even be recognized. 

“What was this? Some kinda political statement? Got something against the South?”. 

I gave a genuine smile and laughed a little. As he dragged me to a cell, the man mumbled “You’re a creepy motherfucker”.  The bars slammed shut and whatever shreds of freedom I had were over. Across the room, the calendar above the officer’s desk said JULY 2016. I laid down on the cot, glad to at least rest my ankle, as my mind spun wild. I clung on to the thought of the Union preserved to try to get some good sleep, but my brain ended up a broken record: Why so many States? Why so many States? Why so many States?

***

Guilty.  

It had all been a blur  of things I did not recognize, but the court was almost comforting in how unchanged it was, wood panels and all. Although, the judge was a dark black man, which took me aback. Gave me a laugh even to see a negro up there looking so important. Though maybe if anybody would  sympathize with shooting a Grayback dead, it would be a negro. But it ended up not meaning much. Guilty just the same. Second degree murder. I didn’t know there were degrees of murder. Thought you were a killer or you ain’t. Guess I wasn’t even a first rate killer, but off to the penitentiary I went. Sometimes in that cell, I’d awake in sweat, simply glad I wasn’t actually back on the battlefield. Concrete and metal felt safe on those nights. Other times I woke up with a boner and a dry throat, sad that I would never see Mary Anne again. 

My ‘cellmate’ had tattoos all over each of his arms. Many of the men here did, it was like nothing I had ever seen before. Maybe they had been real scared about becoming an identity-less body. These were men of all colors too, including more negroes than I had seen since my regiment marched past plantations. My cell mate was a pale white, though, like he’d never worked in the field a day in his life. Well, I guess one doesn’t get much sunlight locked up in here. He had short blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and muscles so large I thought he might belong in a sideshow. His name was Eric and his words slurred together.

“I killedmahbruther. Was feelinup mahwoman. Wuddit youdo?” 

I wondered if I still had the right to remain silent.

“Youdeaf, boy?” he growled.

“I shot a man dead.”

“Why?”

“I saw that…. he was…” 

I remember what the police officer had spelled out with sarcasm in the interrogation room. “The Civil War is a hundred years finished.” Saying I was a solider, that it wasn’t murder, didn’t mean anything to anyone.

“He took my woman to bed.” 

The thought of Mary Anne with another man put the flame back in my chest. She probably married another man. I was dead over there. Back then. And she was dead now.  I puked in the little latrine. At this point I had gotten used to the sight of water swirling down the drain. On my knees in front of the swirling water, I said “I lost control. I’m not a killer. I’m a soldier". 

“I’m nottakiller either. I servedinafghanistan. You?”

“What’s that?”

“Waswhat?”

“Af- af-”

“Afghanistan.”

“Right. What is that?”

He looked at me like I was the dumbest son of a gun he’d ever laid eyes on and began to speak real clear.

“It’s a country. We’re at war there. Are you retarded or something? You’re no solider.”

“I am a soldier.”

“Don’t disrespect me. You don’t know the shit I saw.” 

I clenched my mouth shut lest I start spewing words that might sound like insanity to him. I had to suffer another indignity. I was just a common killer. A man with a screw loose. 

“You are showing symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.” said the man who each week sat in a chair across from me. He was a bald man with thick glasses, asking questions about my past and furrowing his brows at my answers.

“Do you really believe those memories?”

“Of course I do.”

But of course I could not blame him for not believing me. I was not sure who to be mad at in all this. I was raised better than to curse God. When the war came there were the men who cursed God for the misery and the men who cursed the people for bringing it upon themselves.  Mama’s only proud possession was our family Bible and it sat on our dinner table, a constant reminder of what she expected from her children. The day the news of war came, all the joy got knocked out of her, and she simply pointed at a verse in Acts and slipped off to bed. 

And hath made of one blood all nations of men for to dwell on all the face of the earth, and hath determined the times before appointed, and the bounds of their habitation…

The words made my head spin, but with the talk of blood and nations, I figured she was thinking it was Biblical times all over again. Was there mention in the Bible of God throwing a poor soul into the future? They allowed me a Bible and I scoured through it. In Acts it said something about suddenly taking Philip away to Azotus, but I didn’t know what Azotus was.

“Youabiblethumper?”

“I’m a man of God.”

“Everykiller sayhe a manahGod.”

At night I dreamed of Azotus, but I couldn’t make sense of it. There were the concrete buildings and magic mirrors I had found here. It was really a lot like the bit of the world I had seen before prison, but it was all jumbled, and the streets flew into the air. Buildings rose hundreds of feet into the sky. It was all impossible and I knew it was a dream as it was happening. But then there was Mary Anne, alive and well and mine, except she was wearing a pair of jeans and a ‘t-shirt’. She said something about that “Afghanistan” place and “really fucking missed you”. I  opened my mouth to respond and I talked funny, like the people in Twenty Sixteen do, using words I didn’t understand. I called her ‘sexy’ and unbuttoned her pants. She dressed like a boy, yet her face was so painted up it made me embarrassed. The embarrassment kinda got me heated and on the big cushy bed I relieved the feeling into her. She moaned my name and it was good to be called Addison without suspicion. When we were done, she turned on the magic mirror and it no longer dimly reflected our naked bodies. It showed us a man in two lines, with muskets and rifles. Smoke all around them and bodies hitting the ground. Music stirred, music I never heard on a battlefield, a whole orchestra playing while Graybacks and good American men shot each other dead.  That Damned Smell came through the magic mirror.

“PUT IT OUT!” but I was back awake in the cot, starting at Eric’s face above me.

“SHUTTHEFUCKUPYERASCAAAL.” 

He gave me a good slap to the face. The smell went away.

“Sorry,  I was having a nightmare.”

“Keep it to yourself.”

“Eric… why are there so many States? Can you name some States for me?”

He shook his head, but it was too dark to read his face. He musta been able to see my  genuine confusion, though, because he whispered a little song to me.

“Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, California, Colorado, Connecticut..” and so on. There were all the familiar names, but so many new ones. I wish I coulda gone out and seen what the settlers made of that wilderness. For the first time, I didn’t ache for home, I felt kinda like God might have suddenly taken me here for a reason and I just had to trust him. Mama trusted that God brought the war for a reason and now there was “Alabama, Alaska, Arizona” and negro judges in fancy robes.

“Do you really believe those memories?” asked the bald man again later that week.

I gave a long pause. I could hear birds through the window. If I closed my eyes… 

“I’m… really not sure. It’s in my head, but so is a lot of stuff, so I’m really not sure.”

“You are showing symptoms of psychotic disorder…” and he went on about tests and pills that could make the false memories go away. I laughed to think that just eating something could sort this out for me. That was Mama’s solution to everything. I thought about her teaching Mary Anne to cook. The two of them would crack eggs onto the pan, laughing together because Mary Anne was lousy at it, getting egg shells where they didn’t belong. 

“Like this, on the side of the pan, not too hard. And then…”

Dinner smelled real good. “Well if it isn’t my two favorite ladies…” I’d say when I walked in with freshly butchered meat. Why were we doing all this? Oh right, this was a special occasion. I was home. Oswego hadn’t changed a bit. As we ate up our eggs and ham, I would tell them about the Confederate soldiers I had killed. There was this one I shot from up on a ledge. Mary Anne smiled real bright at it, but I could tell Mama was hiding a frown. She’d say to me on the porch later, when Mary Anne was cleaning the kitchen, “He had a wife and three kids”.