Of Love and War

“Surrender, you gaw-damn Reb!” sounded a huge voice.

It came again, POW-POW-POW! as the gunman levered cartridges in. Slugs whacked through the tree, snipping branches. Then came one more, POW! Seven shots in the magazine and one in the chamber, eight altogether. Billy had counted them. He knew the Spencer carbine was empty.

He plugged the cap onto his musket's primer nipple and jumped up. Near the wrecked mill’s foundation pranced a handsome bay horse with rider, a bluecoat cavalryman who was pawing at his belt for another cartridge magazine. No wonder he missed, shooting from a horse.

“Quit that reloading!” Billy yelled. “ I got you in my sights.”

He raised his musket, aiming left of the man’s head.

The bluecoat slid his carbine to the ground, swung an arm to his side and yanked a saber from its scabbard. He came in a rush, hacking at Billy as he scampered around the tree and ran toward the mill.

“Surrender, you little turd!”

“Nawsir,” Billy said. “You the one ought to give up. I got my musket right on you!”

But he couldn’t get it aimed before the horseman charged, chopping at lumber joists of the mill floor as Billy crawled away under them. He scrambled out the other side as the cavalryman circled the mill after him. Winded, Billy hauled up in a tangle of sunflower and elderberry.

“So stop!” Billy pleaded. “Let’s just quit right now and call it even!”

“Like hell quit! Surrender or DIE, Secesh!”

Billy knew he personally never seceded from the Union, even if the Sovereign State of Georgia did. Hell no. He wasn’t any Secesh. Still, this Yank was fixing to kill him for it. Billy had his musket up before he realized it wasn’t cocked. The rider rode down on him, the bay’s sides heaving. Billy thumbed the hammer back just as the muzzle swung around to the cavalryman’s head. It shot half his face away. The rider pitched into Billy, splashing him with blood. The horse whirled, its stirrups flinging outward, and shot off into the woods. The man gargled in two more breaths, sucking air through the liquid mess of his face. Then it all stopped. Billy stood there gasping, halfway bawling. He wished he had never left home, even to find Lenora June.

“Oh shit, oh shit...” Billy lay down amid sunflowers beside the dead man. “He tried to kill me,” Billy murmured. “He woulda too.”

Looking at the sky, he saw the sun was still shining, white clouds still sharp against the blue. He closed his eyes and stared up into the rosy world behind his eyelids. He wanted to stay in that world, but he heard more bluecoats coming. He crawled to the corpse. The dead man wore gold-embroidered lieutenant’s straps on his shoulders.

. “You MADE me do it!” Billy groaned.

The big struggle was getting the lieutenant’s coat off without raising his arms high enough to be seen by advancing bluecoats. Now Billy wasn’t so horrified, just more and more numb. He took neither the man’s shirt nor small clothes. At the battle of Jonesboro he’d seen dead men left naked on the ground, peeled-potato white . He didn’t want to leave this one like that.

The lieutenant had called Billy a little turd, but he was small himself. The uniform with its short jacket fit pretty well. Billy rose from the weeds, brushing sunflower hulls from his hair. This looked like the same day he’d started at dawn, same sky, sunlight shattering like diamonds on the pond when wind brushed the water. Still he felt old, as if years had passed.

A shuffling from behind caused him to turn. Six bluecoat infantrymen burst out of a leafless thicket there. They came straight at him. Of course he couldn’t fool them, not with the dead Union officer there beside Billy’s own gray uniform. He started buttoning the jacket anyway, for some reason wanting to make a halfway decent-looking prisoner or corpse, however it turned out. Under the bills of their forage caps, he was surprised to see that the faces of the soldiers were dusky. They came thundering up, angling their bayonets at his throat. One wearing corporal’s stripes studied Billy’s old uniform on the ground.

“He’s a Reb!”

“Gaw-damn Secesh!” said another.

Billy saw the musket butt coming too late to duck. Then he was looking up at blue sky, in which many bright lights blinked wildly on and off. He was seeing stars. It was the first time he’d seen this kind of stars. The bayonets pricked his throat. Above him now was a ring of black faces, brown faces.

“Let’s just stop now,” another voice said. “Let’s pull back now.” Like someone talking down a high-strung brace of carriage horses.

“Do what the sergeant say!” the corporal barked.

Grudgingly, the bayonets drew back. A dark hand reached down to him. He took it—this small hand—and was hauled to his feet. The hand didn’t let go. It belonged to a sergeant, broad gold stripes on the uniform sleeve. Under the sergeant’s forage cap, out of the dark walnut face, shone those clear eyes he’d seen so often before, eyes of light bright brown. Once more he saw himself in them, himself reflected and woods behind him and sky. Among all those scowling faces, this one alone beamed a wide-mouthed smile. The left eyebrow lifted as she gazed into him. Her eyes were telling him something, maybe no more than, be quiet, let me talk.

“He’s Georgia Guard,” Lenora June said in a strange husky voice, “but I know him. We can use him.”