Heart Of A Soldier

Heart Of A Soldier

  By Josh Isaacs

  Copyright 2012 Josh Isaacs

  June The Twenty-Third

  Year Eighteen Hundred and Sixty-Three

  Seven Ante Meridiem

  Shrieks of fear escaped from his mouth, filling the air with an ear-piercing pitch. Twenty-three year old Lucas Burkette lie paralyzed on the battlefield with a half-inch minié ball lodged against his spine. How he'd been shot in the back escaped him at the moment; how he'd gotten onto a battlefield was another mystery. One he'd have to save for later, if there was going to be a 'later'.

  He reached behind his back and felt for the wound just above the small of his back. His finger entered the wound to the first knuckle as he winced in anticipation of the pain, but the pain didn't come. He'd apparently gone into shock and lost feeling in the nerves.

  He tried turning onto his back, but he could not. He shoved the ground with his left arm, trying as hard as he could to get off his stomach, but still he was unable. The last of his physical strength now drained from him he let out another shout; it was drowned out by the sounds of a volley of musket fire from the far side of the battlefield. Sucking in again once the blast fell silent, he let out another cry, this time of desperation, an attempt to be heard by anyone near him, but again his voice was silent in comparison to the volley of muskets, this time coming from the opposite side of the field as before. He let his neck rest as his head fell against the cold, moist, copper-colored Kentucky soil underneath the blades of bluegrass, the blades of which felt like razors digging into his chest. It was unnaturally short for so early in summer, an oddity explained by a simple fact he'd forgotten; the ground he lie on, fought on, where he and so many others were perishing, was once a privately owned pasture, the owners had driven themselves from their home for fear of an ensuing battle. A fear that tragically came to fruition. The paths their livestock walked daily still appeared as ruts cut in the dirt, making winding paths through the grass. Apparently no more than days had passed since they'd fled.

  His breaths became short, uneven and coarse. Each inhale was laced with wet, heavy soil that caught in his throat, choking him slowly. He felt as though the moisture had been drained from the air around him, despite the particularly heavy fog this morning. He tried to turn his face away from the ground to avoid sucking in dirt as he inhaled, but the effort tired him even faster. Loose, heavy, sharp -or so they seemed to be at the moment- particles of dirt flooded his throat. He gagged on the dirt, tried to breathe in to cough but his breath was cut short by another load of dirt forcing its way into his esophagus. He would have preferred to have choked to death since it would have been quicker, he decided, but he was unable to convince himself to give up in such a way. He wouldn't let his twenty-three years of existence be brought to a meaningless end by giving up. His parents didn't raise him to give in but to fight. They were the reason he chose to fight for this country, his country, the Confederate States of America. Desmond, his older brother, disagreed; Lucas just prayed they wouldn't meet on the battlefield. Desmond's enlistment in the Union army had caused his parents to forbid Lucas' joining the war. Desmond's choice went against everything he stood for. State secession, Lucas believed, was a right, even if all the laws weren't right. His older brother believed that he was fighting against slavery alone, but overlooked the political differences to focus on the moral. The worst part about the war was that it was dividing families; brother against brother, child against parent. When mere children, twenty-three and twenty-eight, meet each other at opposite ends of a battlefield, aiming muskets at one another, that was the most tragic result of war.

  He wasn't going to go out like this; this was much too pointless and vain a death for someone like him. Death had always been present in his mind, but this isn't how he planned on meeting it; helpless and alone.

  Alone, misguided and foolish, he lie there in the essence of pain, not from the wound but from fear; fear of admitting mortality to himself. Deep down, he knew what was soon to overtake him, yet he gave not an inch towards believing it.

  His world was fading quickly. He tried to keep his eyes open, but his efforts failed. Each second that passed added another pound to the weight of his eyelids. At first, he could not -would not- accept what had happened. He was too young for his life to be cut short now, especially by a small, seemingly meaningless piece of lead.

  “Not yet. . .” he whispered as the last shred of light faded from his sight.

  Three Post Meridiem

  Pain washed over him. That cold, bitter pain he felt in his soul, ravaging his very being. He hated it. It tore at him, tempting him to curse the very life that was now fading from him. Unimaginable pain. Loneliness. A hollow, aching feeling of a wasted life was scratching at the edge of his consciousness. And the one responsible still stands on the far side of the field. So long as a single man in blue was still on his feet, the one responsible hadn't paid. It was the last standing Union soldier that he blamed.

  The sun was now beating down on his back, sweat, frigid sweat ran down his cheek and puddled in the ground below his face, creating an irritating, muddy mixture caking against his face and beard like plaster. The trail it followed down his face left an irritating itch that he'd have given his rifled musket to be able to scratch. His musket, something he'd forgotten about had fallen no more than two feet away from his right hand. He had the strength to turn his head—that much had returned to him. He saw it, sitting there, within his arm's length. His eyes widened with excitement. All he had to do was reach over and grab it. He silently promised himself he'd make the blue coat who incapacitated him pay. Equally and dearly.

  The sun had moved from the last time he'd been conscious, it was a couple hours past mid-day now. That blue coat couldn't be alive still. He'd make ten others pay, he decided. From his mid-field vantage point, he figured he'd be able to maintain enough accuracy to take half that number without much trouble.

  He reached for his musket. . . He reached, but nothing happened. He struggled as hard as he could, and watched as his hand refused to move. He focused on his hand, trying to regain some measure of control over it, but it didn't work. Tears welled in his eyes again; this time like hot drops of pure rage. There was a second wound, this one going clean through his shoulder. He'd not felt the wound before. He cursed himself for being so helpless and useless. He hadn't even managed to get a single shot off with his gun, his pouch still holding all fourteen of his musket rounds. Years of preparation to fight for his ideals, for his country, for Marble Man Lee, led to nothing. Fizzled out like the open end of a great dream, cut short and forgotten in the moment after its passing. A pointless endeavor that now was his life. Short, anti-climactic and wasted. He was furious at himself.

  He heard volleys of shots being traded—a flash of smoke and lead from in front of him followed by an exacting response behind him. He let out a loud, furious growl as he rolled himself onto his back. Gasping for air, he began to pant. His hands shaking from his lack of strength, balanced by an equal will to bring revenge to his enemy. He was able to reach his musket with his left hand now. He felt relief now, he felt alive now, and now he could do what he'd dreamed of. He was not going to die for his country; not before making someone else die for it first. With one hand, he rested the musket against himself, running the length of his body. He bit one end of his cartridge packet and ripped it open. His convulsing hand poured a paper sleeve of gunpowder on the end of the muzzle, most of it ending up on his chest and stomach. He grabbed another cap of power and took extra care to pour it in the barrel this time. He placed the minié in the end and forced it down with the ramrod. He spun the weapon around, using his foot as a stand to keep him steady, pulling the lock back, his face twisted into a wry kind of s
mile. It was happening, he was serving as he saw fit and proper. Closing his right eye to see down the irons was past the point of being awkward to him. He made out a blue figure and pulled the trigger. The excessive backfire ignited the power on his chest.

  He screeched as his shirt caught fire and seared his skin. For all of twenty seconds he let out an unending cry of pain before he ran out of breath, by which time he had been able to extinguish the flare by beating himself with his left arm. His body was now charred with second and third degree burns, his eyes were burning and crusting from the dryness and the heat, his arm stinging from exertion. His last conscious moments were spent whimpering and in pain, wishing he could choke on the dirt instead, but the fact that he'd not be able to turn himself over again wasn't too hard for him to deduct.

  Uncaring of whether or not his shot had met its target, he fell into the darkness, this time embracing the release it would bring.

  Eleven Post Meridiem

  Burkette awoke to something new; silence. Complete and utter silence. Though campfires illuminated opposite horizons, he couldn't see them, but he knew they were there. He felt them there, even over the hundreds of yards between them. The sky had grown to a moonless, cloudless twilight, lit by the stars that glimmered and twinkled brightly. It was a sight that reminded him of when he was younger. Peaceful, carefree years, no enemies, no blue coats or gray coats, no muskets and no pain. Just contentment. He'd have given anything to relive those times, if only for a minute.

  “Anything”, he whispered, “Anything at all.”

  There was no response. He slowed his breathing and listened as intently as he could, but the silence still pervaded the stillness. He began to cry. The loneliness had overtaken him and he couldn't bear it anymore. He wished for a way to end it.

  “Can You hear me?” he cried as loudly as he could, “I'm begging You! Just answer me!” but the silence still surrounded him. No shooting star, no bright flash of light, no chariot of fire. . . Just silence and darkness. He felt absolutely alone.

  Fear began to choke him; he'd always found faith, even in the darkest of days there was still faith to guide him like a light by his feet. His faith was beginning to crumble, and he apologized for that. When his faith felt week, he'd had hope, but his hope had abandoned him moments after he was struck by the projectile that was still lodged in his back.

  He brought his arm over his heart in a subconscious attempt at showing desperation and earnestness, “I'll do anything. Anything you ask, no matter what it is, I'll do it. Just give me the chance to.”

  Loneliness. The absolute absence of presence. The despair of crying out with no response. The fear of having nobody to hold his hand as he left this world. The hollow void in one's self that stabs at the emotions. Loneliness. He had never felt it so strongly as this moment. Before, he'd at least had the sounds of orders being barked by each companies' respective commanding officer, of muskets being shot, of searing hot balls of lead whipping through the air around him at unimaginable speeds. Now, loneliness was drowning him, mercilessly. The stillness and quiet became his greatest fear. He desperately wanted to hear the sounds of muskets once more, if only to kill the quietness.

  Terror of loneliness and silence. It was the feeling of falling through the thin shelf of ice over a pond in winter. The sheer terror of swimming to the top, seeing the surface, reaching the surface, but not being able to do a thing to help oneself. Of standing on the edge of a hundred and something feet cliff face and looking over the side as a gust of wind hits you from the back. Taking a step back to catch yourself but only losing your footing altogether. Terror of loneliness and silence. The loneliness by itself was bearable—it was the fear of it that hurt the most.

  His parents had forbade him from joining the war, especially opposite his brother. After months of trying to convince them, they finally decided that it was his choice to make. His choice. This lonely misery was his choice. He'd have given anything to see his parents' faces one more time. His sister's face, his brother's face. Desmond and he had been very close when they were younger. With each passing year, they became more distant but brothers, and nothing could change that, not even the color of their jackets. They were Burkettes. They were soldiers, sure, but below that, underneath the pale colors of their clothes, behind their heavy muskets, they were brothers. Sons. Children. His parents' children. He knew their parents would never see either of them as anything but their kids, though they were grown adults now, years older than their parents had been when he or either of his siblings were born.

  He wanted to be with them one more time, like before; no wars, no guns, no uniforms—just them as a family once more to say that he loved them, to see their smiling faces, to hear their voices. It would never happen, he knew, but still wouldn't admit. Somehow, he'd be saved, he told himself over and over again. He didn't know, or care for that matter, how or by whom, but he repeated it to himself, regardless.

  He couldn't help it—he cried out to God again. His faith, as diminished as it was, still held its ground, “I just want to know. . .” he began to sob, “I-I just want-I just want to know You're there.”

  His eyes were streaming tears; “I just want to see them for a moment. One more time. I'll do anything. I'll never fight again. I'll never get mad and yell at them again,” his pleas growing more desperate.

  A moment passed, no response. “Anything!!” he shouted, but still the silence was all he heard.

  He was losing his grip on reality; never had life seemed so limited. It couldn't be this miniscule, seemingly insignificant moment that passes as quickly as it comes, he convinced himself. A flash in the pan in the grand scheme of things; a scripture he'd read as a child but never taken to heart came to his mind.

  “Whereas ye know not what shall be on the morrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away.”

  Yesterday would have been a good time to remember that, he told himself.

  Yesterday would have been a good time to remember a lot of things.

  The lonely silence was a poor excuse of a distraction from his predicament. Before drifting off into yet another exhausted loss of consciousness, memories of his past rushed into his mind and brought with them a certain comfort while bringing about a painful unrest. . .

  June The Twenty-Fourth

  Eight Ante Meridiem

  “Susie Sue. . .” he laughed, “Where are you?”

  The midday Georgia sun was scorching the open field, so they'd taken a recess from harvesting the crop and decided upon a game of hide-and-seek. He found himself running in circles around the little tool shed under the shade of the old oak tree, trying to tag his younger sister.

  “Over here,” she giggled, peeking around at him from behind the mighty live oak.

  He ran to the side she was looking around from and sprinted several circles around it in an attempt to catch her.

  “Over here,” she said again, her head poking around the corner of the shed.

  He'd long since tired of the game, but he chased her nonetheless. It was her favorite game so he found enough enjoyment out of it to continue as long as she cared to, even if it meant hours on end. It was a welcome break from the blazing heat of the field.

  He knew it was a dream, or at least a hallucination, but he didn't care; he was on his feet, young and running. It felt real enough to him to be an adequate escape from lying on his back, helpless, broken and dying.

  As that memory began to dissolve, another took its place -another welcome distraction- this time of he and the neighbor. A colored boy about his own age. His name was Jeremiah, Lucas called him Jeremy, but he had no surname to be speak of. It wasn't until his later years that he learned why Jeremy had no surname; the owners of the plantation he worked on had not given him one. His parents had been very adamant that he not play with Jeremy but, despite that, Luke, as Jeremy called him, didn't see a difference between himself and his friend.

  They were div
ing into the cold, muddy lake between the two farms. Luke would go under, and as he came up to the surface, it rarely failed that Jeremy would splash his face, making Luke swallow a gulp of water and getting it in his eyes. That inevitable started a splash battle. Neither ever won or lost, nor conceded or forfeit. Lucas' parents had told him the day before that they were moving to Tennessee in mere weeks. It only made him treasure the times spent with Jeremy even more. He knew the chances of ever seeing Jeremy again were beyond slim, but odds have a way of being beaten.

  This memory, like the other, began to disappear.

  He was coming to, albeit slower than he had before. The lead in the minié was taking its dreadful effect. Near-molten balls of lead zipped with eery whistles above him. He didn't care. He tried escaping back into his dream, but he couldn't. It was gone now, again just a distant memory with few surviving details.

  The sun had burnt his skin and it was starting to slough off in flakes, each one revealing a burning, sore blister. He didn't care. He closed his eyes and tried again to return to his dream. He could not.

  Tears welled and made cold, wet lines on his muddy face. He just wanted to leave. If it was for but a minute, he'd have been ecstatic. He knew he would never see the face of his sister again, nor his friend, or his parents. He knew the last thing he would see is what he saw now: a clear, blue sky with narrow blades of grass protruding into his peripheral vision. A bland, boring, unremarkable sight.

  His tears were met with all-out sobs; sharp, sudden inhales, mucous running from his nostrils and a throbbing ache in his temples tried to keep his attention, but he couldn't focus on them. His focus always returned to his past. A painful reminder of what was and what would never be again. A reminder of solitude, loneliness, loss, pain and anguish; unresolved vengeance and mindless, unbridled rage that would seethe and boil, but it would not evaporate.