I Shall Be Near to You(84)

Will says, ‘Sully might be there, or maybe they need help nursing.’

We move into the woods, shaded and cool. And then we are out of the trees and into the sun. The sickly sweet smell gets stronger. Things lie about. Hats. Haversacks. Buckles. Buttons. All laid out before us, sprawling across the last low hill before the plowed fields and the fields that used to be corn. Ten horses lay scattered. Pieces of a rifle carriage. Our legs slow and then our feet stop. We stand there, silent, looking.

‘Union battery must’ve been here,’ Ambrose says. ‘Firing over our heads. Trying to help.’

The horses lay there, dropped out of their teams, harnesses tight around swollen bodies, looking like they just lay down for a nap in the sun. Some with thick legs twisted and torn, some with legs stiff and straight. To the far right is a broken-down caisson. One wheel splintered, three horses still harnessed to it, piled almost on each other, the ground torn up in front of them. The smell of rotting is everywhere. I retch before I get smart and hold my breath. Will has got his arm across face, covering his nose.

‘Waste of good plow horses,’ Thomas says.

No one has a thing different to say.

It’s all a waste, I want to say, my life, this whole war, this country too, but I keep my mouth shut.

‘We won’t find what we want here,’ Ambrose says. ‘There won’t be any muskets, not with the artillery.’

He starts walking again. They all do. I follow down the hill. We move closer to the woods, beyond the bare land where the cornfield was, to where Jeremiah is. Everything in my body pulls my feet to him but I only let my eyes go, looking for his tree. There it is, stretching out above the others. I take a sharp breath and hold it or else I will go to making noise. It’s near enough and I’ve got a job. I make myself do it.

We walk through the same fields we marched on only three days ago, the same fields Will and I passed through this morning. This time, I make myself see, I don’t have no choice. Jeremiah’s tree off in the distance. This whole valley bound by woods and low mountains the color of Mama’s lavender sachets. The ground ripples and rolls down to the town of Sharpsburg, land meant to be harvested, land I would have been proud to farm, if it could be had, before all this. Across the valley, near the trees, thin trails of camp smoke rise into the air. In the open fields, thick dark smoke rises from fires burning more than just sticks and kindling. The smell of singeing hair and roasting meat comes on the breeze. Burning carcasses.

Everywhere there are scattered clothes blown like laundry from the line, so soiled there’s no reason to gather it back up. And then there are the Rebel dead, their pockets turned out, their faces turned black from the sun, like tomatoes left too long. Touch them and they burst. I can’t stop myself from thinking of Jeremiah’s blue eyes. The freckles across his cheeks. How pale he looked.

‘You okay?’ Will’s voice, his head turned over his shoulder. Ambrose and Thomas spread apart, casting about.

‘Fine,’ I say. But I ain’t. I feel so sick, like sitting down on that field and never picking myself back up, like crying and tearing at my own clothes or the ground or anything. But I can’t. I make my legs, legs that don’t even feel like mine anymore, keep moving.

Ambrose bumps me with his elbow.

‘Want some?’ he asks, holds out his flask to me. ‘It’s a powerful help.’

My voice ain’t trustworthy so I shake my head. He lifts that flask to his mouth, taking a long pull.

‘You sure? Ever since my wife—It’s the only thing that makes it easier.’

And then I am not sure. I reach for that flask, its metal warm from Ambrose’s hand. He watches me take a swig. It tastes awful, like being back in Doc Cuck’s surgery, but there is something good about the heat down my throat.

When I take my mouth away, Ambrose says, ‘Have another,’ and I do.

It don’t make a thing better, but I say, ‘Thank you,’ and get out in front of Thomas and Will so I don’t have to see their faces. So none of them can see my feelings. So Will don’t look at me like I’ve done something bad, taking Ambrose’s drink.




THREE MUSKETS HANG across my back, but there are more sad things than I can count. Bodies twisted out of any shape. Hands puffed so big the skin pulls tight away from the bones. Soldiers killed so young they look like schoolboys curled up to sleep. Men killed so slow they took out pictures of sweethearts and wives, of children too young to remember their fathers. All these boys, all these men, they are something to someone. There are people back home, waiting on them and the waiting ain’t never going to end now. For the rest of my life I am waiting too.

I search the grass, letting my tears fall as I walk.

I blink. There at my feet is a small leather book, not much bigger than my palm, its cover an engraved spiderweb. There ain’t a single body anywhere near.

It is sodden, its binding cracked and worn. I can’t bring myself to touch the metal clasp that closes it. I straighten and turn, the book still in my hand.

‘Will!’ I call. He is twenty paces behind me and off to my left, but his head pops right up, his face drawn and tight. ‘Come here!’

He jogs, his forehead creased with worry. ‘What is it?’

I hold it out to him.

He says, ‘Oh,’ and a ghost of a smile crosses his face. ‘A Bible.’