02.22.07
An Unspoken Burden: A Short Story
I wanted to make an honest attempt at writing a short, creative story. I call this one “An Unspoken Burden”. It historically based.
He could not move. Would not move. The glaring, penetrating sun was sitting high in the sky, shielding his view of the open space before him. Small droplets of sweat beaded on his forehead as the rays became brighter and the day rose to its peak. The moisture seeping through his clothing was an annoyance. He had not had a bath in weeks. Would not have one for many more. His tall form sat slightly back on an old wooden rail fence. Probably built years ago by an enterprising farmer to outline the lay of his land. It did not matter to him. Not much mattered now. Thoughts were racing through his head as quickly as the shrill sounds of death slammed into the ground in front of him. He pondered the conversation with the old man. It cannot be taken. Will not be taken today.
His mind turned to a colder day in the latter December. He thought of the long, protective stone wall sitting atop of the heights. Perched atop his horse Hero, he saw the masses of blue littering the ground on the slope. Protruding from the dark color were speckles of green. Four-leaf clovers that the Irish carried for luck. He could not help but feel protected that day. The ground was perfect. Not so for the poor souls below. The spectacular sight had faded as the day wore on. They had come at him that day with full fury. He had boasted that he could end it all on that day. Stubborn. Confident. The end was near, or so he had wished. The old man had warned that day of the tragedy of it all. Did not want him to get caught up in the glory of it. There was none. Never was. When day turned to night, he remembered what the old man had said. But the brightly colored glowing lights had amazed them all. Both sides. The Aurora Borealis. Fearful lights that never beckon. Kings and heroes had departed, and God showed them the light. They had joined him now.
The light swirled. Transformed into the illumination of the present. He regained his thoughts. Shielding the sunlight with his hand, he turned to look up the slope. A small grouping of trees caught his eye. He could see blue again but not much else. Thought back to the previous winter. No. I’m not on the crest this time. Notes had been passed back and forth for an hour. He read the scribbling. Didn’t want to but had to. The old man had been firm. He never said it, but it was made convincingly clear. It must end. He had the responsibility. Irritation and confidence gave way to the depressing thought of how it must end. Some will surely come streaming back. They will gaze at him for answers, but he will have none. He was loyal and steadfast. Would do what he was told. Had always done that. Worried what Maria would think had he done otherwise.
The bulldog came back. His thoughts could not dwell on her now. Not on the children. He had lost much already. Would sacrifice more of himself before it was all over. He had never been very religious. The tragedy was too much. The alcohol and evening card games stopped. He thought of them alone. Fending for themselves while he was away. No. It is for them. Or is it? He never gave much thought to it. Loyalties to family and community trumped all else. Whatever beliefs he had, they did not matter much now. Ideas and controversies were to be settled here. Today. Causes were unimportant to him. He acted now as if he were in a mechanized state. All the talk was gone. The image of her was gone, only if temporarily. He turned his head slightly, saw the gold braids flushed against the butternut linen. So many thoughts. He had saw his friend lying on the crude table the prior evening. Not even a table. A makeshift place to lay. The red liquid of life dripped down his arm. Dazed. Rambled words. Broken. It did not end. Maybe this day.
He looked again across the ground. Had heard the deep noise of the hooves hitting the ground. More news. Perhaps it had worked. Maybe he had cleared them out. He could smell the French perfume as another old friend walked closer to him. He had always liked the man. So full of energy. His ringlets of hair were nicely oiled. Well-groomed. The friend was eager. Heard the words. Nothing more could be done. The lines of blue coated the landscape a mile away. They had not gone. Quickly the thoughts turned back to December. His experience of that day had foreshadowed the results of this afternoon. It would not work. Could not. His old friend had pressed him. He was ready. The lines of gray were in perfect order. It was hard to do. He would be responsible for it all.
Replayed it all in his mind. Knew what would happen. His muscles tightened more. The movement was gone. The sounds and shrieks around him faded away. Felt a bit of moisture on the corner of his face. Maybe a tear. He looked down. Thought of how he would have to explain it to his children. How do I explain all of this? How can I convince them that all of this, this day, was necessary. His head dropped heavily. The old friend moved closer. He felt his gentle grasp on his arm. It could not wait another second. Listened as his friend’s voice echoed in his ear. Shall he go in? Shall he end it? Maybe he could still stop it. What would the old man say? No. They had come too far. Made too much progress the past two days. I must do what I’m told.
He tried to open his lips. Tried to voice something but couldn’t. The muscles had become solid. Not afraid for himself. That feeling had gone away long ago. Thought of all the sadness that would come from a few simple words from his mouth. They would affect so many. Households destroyed. Reminded him again of the children, of the scarlet fever. He made another attempt. Could not summon his energy. Did not want to let the call go out from his voice. Thought of the old man again. Do what you have to do. His mind went blank. It all overwhelmed him. He struggled briefly. Slowly moved his head up and down, nodding to his old friend.
James Longstreet had ordered Pickett’s Charge.
