An historic short story about the Civil War.
Saturday, April 5, 1862
I awoke earlier then usual. The sound of rumbling wagons, whinnying horses and shouting men disturbed my peaceful slumber.
Pulling on my dressing gown, I raced down the stairs to look out the front window. Father was already dressed in his dark suit and clerics collar. The deep furrows in his brow disturbed me further.
“What is all the commotion?”
“Come, look,” was all Father said. He pulled the drapery back farther for me to see. Throngs of soldiers in blue uniforms and mule driven wagons crowded the muddy lane. I was struck by how young the soldiers were. Some were mere boys – barely sixteen or seventeen.
Fear griped my heart. “Do you think there will be a battle here?” my voice quivered.
Father placed a sturdy hand on my shoulder. “I don’t think so, Sarah. The soldiers will probably march on down to Corinth. That’s where the railroads cross. I can’t see them fighting over peach orchards.”
Father turned from the window. “Maybe we’d better cancel church services for tomorrow morning. Considering all the Southern sympathy in our neighborhood, it would be better for my parishioners to stay at home until the Northern soldiers move out. I’ll go down to Pearson’s store and have them spread the word.”
“Do be careful, Father,” I tilted my head up slightly and kissed his check. He grabbed his hat and disappeared out the door.
The rest of the day Hattie and I went about doing our normal Saturday chores. There was always so much to do. Bake bread, prepare vegetables for Sunday dinner. I was grateful for Hattie’s help and companionship. She was a freed black woman, who had worked for my parents ever since I was a small girl. We had become especially close after my mother died when I was fourteen. That was six years ago.
“Missy, Sarah, I shoo hope dem soldiers don’t bring no trouble. Folks ’round here don’t like dem Union soldiers much”.
I smiled weakly. “Father thinks they’ll move out in the morning and not to worry. The bread is ready to come out of the oven.” I changed the subject purposefully.
By evening, the clatter had calmed and so had my anxious thoughts. After I had prepared for bed, I stood by my curtained window. I could see hundreds of campfires dotting the gently rolling meadowland. I carefully lifted the window. When the breeze blew my way, I could hear men singing. It certainly was a peaceful night. I prayed that God would keep our home at peace and protect those young boys I had seen earlier that day. I looked down the country road toward father’s church, too far to see from my window. “Shiloh,” I whispered to the still night air, “Shiloh,” meaning peace in Hebrew, the name of my father’s small church down the road.
It was dark when the first sound of thunder pierced through my restful dreams. My first thought was to close my window before the April rainstorm could cause any damage. I staggered across the room and slid the window down. I was surprised there was no rain outside. But where is all that loud thunder coming from? The horror of what was happening down the road slowly dawned on me.
Hattie was already in the kitchen fuming, “This ain’t no way to start the Lord’s day! Soldiers fighten and killen on a Sunday. It’s a sho crime, dat’s what it is.” Father soon joined us and urged us to remain calm. We were to go about the day as usual.
After breakfast, Father thought it fitting that we hold a small prayer service. With bowed heads, we listened to Father recite from the 23rd book of Psalms. ” Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.” My heart filled with longing for those poor young boys facing each other with guns and bayonets. After the short devotions, we ate our Sunday dinner in silence, each of us pondering in our hearts the terrible events going on within our hearing.
The roar of thunderous cannons continued all day. By afternoon, hundreds of tired, mud covered soldiers staggered by our home. Their youthful faces were no longer smiling and jubilant. The ones who could walk dragged their wounded comrades behind them. We had heard a makeshift hospital had been set up on one of the ferry boats at the Landing.
Father, Hattie and I were kept busy all afternoon giving a sip of cool water to each wretched soul that passed by. Mr. Taggert road by and condemned Father for helping “those blue bellied devils.” Father looked squarely at Mr. Taggert, sitting on his fine horse. “All of these boys are children of God, and I will help any of God’s children. It doesn’t matter what color uniform they wear.” Father went back to the well to get more water.
By late afternoon, the sound of the cannons had ceased. Mr. Pearson and Father decided to go down to the battlefield. Father felt he could give some last blessings and comfort to the dying soldiers.
“Sarah, it isn’t safe for a young women to be out alone in times like these. You’d best go in now with Hattie and lock the door securely.”
“Yes, Father,” I promised, and the two road away.
I was just about to enter the house, when a lone soldier came slowly riding up the hill toward me. He was tall. Curly dark hair protruded from under his officers hat. He had a presence about him that intrigued me. Ignoring Father’s instructions, I decided to give this one last soldier a sip of water.
He looked so tired and downhearted as I approached him with the tin cup of water. His blue uniform jacket was torn and covered in mud. His shoulders were slumped as if they carried a heavy burden. “An angel of mercy,” he barely whispered. Our eyes met and for a long time I stood paralyzed. I had never seen such deep blue eyes. They remained locked on me all the while the young man drank his fill of my meager offering. “I wish I could do more for him,” I thought. He handed back the cup and tipped his hat. “Thank you, ma’am,” was all he said as he prodded his horse to move on.
Mesmerized, I watched him ride down the road. Some spiritual connection had been made between us as we had studied one another. It was as if all the pain and suffering he had seen in battle had been communicated to me through our eyes. My heart ached for him. “I’ll never see him again,” I thought miserably.
Just then the horse stumbled in a muddy rut, and the young soldier slumped over and fell off his horse. I quickly ran to him. Ignoring the mud, I knelt down. I gathered his head into my lap. Leaning over I could feel his breath on my check and knew he still lived. I laid his head down gently and quickly ran to the house screaming for Hattie.
“Help, help me quick,” I gasped out of breath. “There is a soldier lying in the road.”
“Well, what dos you spect me to do? We ain’t no army hospital!”
“But if we leave him out there, he’ll die. And it’s starting to rain,” I persisted. Hattie, if you don’t help me bring the soldier in, I’ll do it myself.”
I picked up my skirts and rushed out the door with Hattie following and mumbling under her breath.
It was difficult enough for two of us to carry the unconscious man upstairs to our quest bedroom, I never could have done it alone. I secretly thanked God that Hattie hadn’t been too obstinate.
We removed the muddy jacket and shirt. It was then I saw the wound to the upper right shoulder. “Hattie, you’d better go get Doc Talbot.”
“He won’t come to fix no Yankee soldier,” Hattie shook her head.
“Don’t tell him about the soldier. Just tell him father needs him. Please, Hattie. Go,” I cried.
Hattie lumbered down the stairs uttering more words I couldn’t and didn’t want to understand. I brought up a pan of water and a towel and began to clean the mud and grime from the man’s face and arms. When I touched the wound the man groaned. More carefully, I removed the caked on blood.
Hattie still hadn’t returned. I had to get him out of that blue uniform. With great effort, I removed the man’s boots. She still hadn’t come, so I gingerly removed the filthy pants. I tossed the incriminating uniform into a basket and covered it with a an old towel. If Doc Talbot didn’t see a blue uniform he might agree to treat the soldier. I berated myself for thinking so deceitfully, and begged God to forgive me.
I went back to the breathing form, and tried to cleanse the rest of the mud, averting my eyes as I worked. Finally, I heard Hattie and the doctor coming up the stairs.
“What is this about your father needing me?” the doctor suspiciously asked.
“Father?” I looked puzzled. “Oh, no. It’s this soldier”, I innocently replied. “We found him out in our garden. He must have wandered here from General Johnston’s army. You must help him, Doctor. He’s hurt badly.” My eyes pleaded with him to help as I uncrossed my fingers behind my back.
The doctor looked at me hesitantly and went to work examining the wound.
I sighed in relief, and prayed God to forgive me again.
“It looks like he was shot in the shoulder, but the bullet missed the bone and went clear through,” the doctor muttered as he cleaned the wound more thoroughly. “He’s lost a lot of blood, so I suspect he’ll be weak for a few days.” The doctor applied some ointment and covered the ugly wound with a clean bandage.
He washed his hands in the basin and stood up drying his hands on a towel. “Keep that wound clean. It’s not serious now, but it could be if it gets infected. Apply the ointment every time you change the bandage.”
I thanked him sincerely, and Hattie walked him out to the front door.
Hattie made some chicken broth from the leftovers from our Sunday dinner. It seemed like days and not just hours since we had eaten that dinner. We tried to feed the soldier some of the nourishing broth, but most of it dribbled unsuccessfully down his chin.
Father returned late that night. He was so tired and worn. He said there were so many dead soldiers on one field, that he could barely walk without stepping on a mangled leg or arm. This was the most horrendous sight he had ever seen. Hell had come to Shiloh in the space of twenty four hours.
We sat in the front parlor. I held his hands and tried to comfort him. Then I told him about the soldier upstairs that I had rescued. He looked at me but never admonished me for bringing a strange soldier into our home. “We’d better go have a look at him,” was all he said.
We didn’t know who he was or where he was from. Father rummaged through the muddy jacket and found papers that told us that this was Captain Jonathan Harcourt from Springfield, Illinois. There was a letter from his mother, so we knew he had parents and a younger sister living in Illinois.
All night long, I kept vigil. I cleaned the wound and applied the healing salve. Several times during the night he would mumble, “They had no ammo, they had no ammo. ” His head would violently shake from side to side. “Shhh, shhh, everything is fine,” I whispered softly. When that didn’t quiet him, I’d hum a few bars of “Rock of Ages.” It was a little out of tune, but it seemed to calm the restless soldier just the same.
As the long dark night dragged on, I began to pray for Jonathan. Now that I knew his name, I knew whom to pray for. But I didn’t know what to pray for. Should I pray that God allow him to live – only to go back to battle and face more terrible atrocities. Or should I pray that God allow him to die and find ever lasting peace with Him. It was the worst spiritual dilemma I had ever faced. In the end, I prayed to God to do what He thought was best for Jonathan. “I’ll leave it in your hands,” I reluctantly submitted. But as I gazed upon the unconscious man through the flickering candle light, my heart secretly hoped that God would permit him to recover.
By daylight the next day, the thundering had begun again. The soldiers who had retreated up the hill toward Pittsburgh’s Landing on the previous day were now marching back toward the already bloodied fields. These soldiers looked grim and determined. They had lost the frightened look of the previous day. We also noticed that many of the soldiers wore clean new uniforms.
Mr. Pearson dropped by with the latest report. On Sunday afternoon, General Johnston had died from a leg wound received in the midst of battle. The Southern army had been demoralized by the loss of their gallant leader. And overnight, General Grant’s army had been joined by General Buell’s army of over 30,000 men. “With these new reinforcements I bet they’ll take back every inch of ground the Southern boys won yesterday,” Mr. Pearson analyzed.
Father was concerned with the further bloodshed to the soldiers and possible bloodshed to his parishioners. With the Southern army retreating back to Corinth, the area around our small community would be completely controlled by the Federals. Father was afraid some foolish Southern sympathizer might do something to antagonize a Union soldier and bring bloodshed to the civilian population. Later that day, Father met several of the men at Mr. Pearson’s store and begged them to remain calm and stay in their homes.
The day dragged on. I worried lest someone find out about our Union guest. He was still so weak. By late afternoon his eyes opened. I was struck all over again by their blueness.
“The angel of mercy from the road,” he whispered.
“Yes,” I nodded. “Here, try and drink some broth. It will help you gain back your strength.” I gently held up his head and brought the cup of liquid to his parched lips. It was difficult for him to drink, but he did manage to take a few sips before collapsing on the pillow.
The next morning we awoke to the familiar sound of chirping birds. The thunder and roar of cannons had ceased. The quiet was almost deafening.
Jonathan was better this day. His brow was cool to my touch, and I knew now how God had answered my prayer and I rejoiced.
By evening, Jonathan was able to sit up for his dinner. We talked about commonplace things. He told me about his family back home and his dream to practice law when this was all over. I told him about the trials of being a minister’s daughter. We laughed about some of the foolish things I had done to embarrass my father. We never talked about the day of battle or how he had been injured. The spring breeze and the smell of peach blossoms in the air was too wonderful to mar with talk of war.
By Thursday, Jonathan was able to come downstairs for dinner. He was regaining his strength quickly – too quickly. He was anxious to rejoin his regiment. He told us how unprepared the Union soldiers had been that first day of battle. None of them expected to be attacked by the Confererate army that Sunday morning. Many of the young boys in Jonathan’s command had been sent to battle with no ammunition. I knew the needless waste of young lives weighed heavily on him.
Late in the afternoon, Jonathan joined me in the small garden behind our home. We sat on a stone bench under a peach tree. The blossoms gently fell to the ground in the soft spring breeze.
He took my hand. “Thank you for all your kindness, Sarah. I may call you Sarah?” he gently queried.
“Yes, I would like that,” I blushed for the first time in my life.
“And may I write to you when I’m gone?” he pursued.
“Yes, I would like that,” I reiterated, not believing how utterly I had lost my tongue.
His hand reached under my chin and drew my face upward. My eyes locked with his. It was just like the first time we met. We gazed at one another silently as no words were needed to communicate the feelings we felt. Slowly his head bent and his lips barely touched mine. He gently drew away and smiled. It was as if the whole world had stopped. I wanted this moment to last for all eternity.
“I must leave tomorrow, Sarah. I have to get back to my duties.” Tears formed behind my eyelids as his words shattered our perfect moment.
Later at supper, Father and Jonathan talked about the war. Jonathan was convinced that the Union must be preserved at all costs. Father thought the last battle had cost enough. I didn’t really pay much attention to their talk. Jonathan was leaving in the morning.
Friday, April 11th was cloudy and overcast. The weather matched my mood. I put on my best silk blue dress this morning and spent extra time pinning up my hair. Both Hattie and Father raised their eyebrows when I came down the stairs. I ignored them when I saw Jonathan’s smiling look of approval.
After breakfast, Jonathan went out to the stable to see to his horse. Father had found the horse grazing in the fields and had tethered him in our small stable. Jonathan’s horse was now saddled and ready to take his master back to war.
I joined Jonathan in the lane as he made the final adjustment to his saddle. The air was cold and damp. I shivered in the cool wind. I handed Jonathan a sack of fresh slices of bread and smoked ham that Hattie and I had prepared.
“You are a very thoughtful and loving young woman, Sarah.” He took the sack and hid it away in his saddle bag. He turned back to me and gently took my hands in his sturdy grasp. “Now don’t you go worrying about me. I plan to take real good care of myself now that I have met you.”
He gently pulled me against his strong chest. My cheek nestled against his. I felt warm all over in his embrace despite the chilling wind. I fought back the tears forming behind my eyelids. He slowly let me go as father coughed from the back porch. I turned away and quickly wiped my eyes.
Father joined us, and the two men shook hands. Jonathan climbed on to his horse and smiled down on us. “Thank you again for everything.”
“God speed,” Father replied. Jonathan nudged his horse and cantered down the once more quiet country lane toward the army of General Grant.
I watched silently as he disappeared into the rolling hills taking a part of my heart with him. I knew I would anxiously look for his name on every list of casualties released by the War department. I had just joined the thousands of young women and mothers who prayed daily for their men in uniform — whether blue or gray.
The Civil War had come to a place called Shiloh, a place that once meant peace. But my heart would never be at peace again until a certain soldier with the most magnificent blue eyes found his way back to me
An Ordinary Woman 