THE WILL OF MINE ENEMIES
Gettysburg, Pennsylvania
Friday, July 3, 1863
Ginnie, her mother, Georgia and the boys all lay silently on their beds in the converted parlor, waiting for the firing to begin again. After a while, Mary said wearily, “Well, we’d best be getting the baking done. Those soldiers will be coming soon.”
Going into the kitchen with her mother, Ginnie stood again at her mixing tray and began blending ingredients for biscuits. Working up a large lump of dough, she kneaded it on the tray, wondering if there was some way they could increase the number of biscuits they could bake at one time.
Mary, who was starting the fire in the bake oven, came back past Ginnie to get more wood. The door to the parlor stood open, so that it formed a barrier behind Ginnie as she stood at the dough tray. Her mother started to close the door so that those still sleeping in the parlor would not be disturbed by the commotion in the kitchen.
“Leave it open, please,” called Georgia. “I like the smell of the dough.”
Ginnie looked at her mother. “It’s all right. Leave it open. I feel safer here behind it.”
* * * * * * * *
At that moment, in the home of Harvey D. Sweney, 350 yards north up Baltimore Street, a Louisiana sharpshooter began his day’s work. He was tired from the constant fighting on Thursday. He had climbed countless flights of stairs to check the views from the second floors or garrets of many buildings. Firing five or six dozen rounds, he had personally picked off three Yankee soldiers that he knew of, and had drawn the angry return fire of several squads of Union riflemen. Two windows had exploded in his face but, aside from cuts and bruises, he was uninjured. He took pride in his marksmanship. Back home in Louisiana, he bragged that he could pick off a squirrel with a single shot at 100 yards. But shooting Yankees on their own land was the supreme pleasure of his life. He didn’t know about politics; all he knew was that he was tired of being pushed around by the northern politicians. He was up here to do a little pushing back.
He had found this single garret window in the south side of the Sweney house last night about twilight. It was quiet and dry in the garret and, since the window was too small for more than one rifleman, he was alone. There was scattered firing from windows all around him, from the Rupp Tannery with its tall smokestacks to his right, and from some buildings to his left across the street. He had squeezed off a few shots for the pleasure of harassing the enemy, but it was soon dark, so he had eaten a bite and gone to sleep.
He slept late into the morning, something unusual for him. It was after 8:00 when he woke, alerted by the resumption of musket fire. He started to go look for an outhouse, then decided simply to urinate in the corner of the garret. Before he loaded his weapon, he paused to chew a bit of hardtack for breakfast. Finally, looking out the window for a target at about 8:30, he spotted a blue-coated figure hurrying across Baltimore Street halfway up the north slope of Cemetery Hill, crouched as though his posture would make him invisible to the enemy. The man in the garret aimed and squeezed off a shot. His quarry never slowed or hurried his pace, did not even seem to notice the shot. Odd. At this range, it should have been a certain hit. The marksman looked up at the tree branches. They were visibly moving. Wind. That was the problem. He would have to correct for windage.
There was a simple way to do that: fire at a stationary object, calculate how far off the mark the shot registered, then adjust in the opposite direction to allow for the effect of wind. He looked for a target. Up the hill to the south, a little over 300 yards away, was a house with a door which faced north. The door had a clearly visible knob on the left side just the right size and at the right range to help him make his calculation. He aimed at it and fired. A puff of smoke and splinters appeared about two feet to the right of the doorknob and a few inches lower. That was the correction he would need to make. Satisfied, he went on about his sharpshooting.
The lead slug, missing the doorknob by two feet, had blasted through not only the outside door on the north side of the McClellan house, but also had gone through the inner parlor door, the door which stood open so that Georgia could smell the bread dough, the door which gave Ginnie an added sense of safety. Slowed by its progress through both wooden panels, it needed to travel only two more feet to strike Ginnie precisely in the spot below her left shoulder blade which would allow it to penetrate her heart. It had barely enough momentum left to exit her body, after which it was spent, ending up wedged between her corset and her left breast. Virginia Wade, twenty years of age, was dead before her body crumpled to the floor.
Mary, reaching for more wood in the corner of the kitchen, was startled by the splintering crash of the bullet tearing through the two doors. She straightened up in time to see Ginnie slump over the mixing tray, then slide backwards onto the floor, pulling the tray with her. With a choked cry, Mary knelt alongside the body, shouting, “Virginia! Virginia!” as she lifted her daughter’s head and peered into her lifeless eyes.
* * * * * * * *
Wes’ company, huddled together at the base of Culp’s Hill, heard dawn break as it had the day before, with thunder. The explosions were much closer, however, and from where Wes lay he could see the muzzle blasts from the hilltop. The shots fell with great accuracy across the regiment’s front. Suddenly, musket fire erupted from a breastwork only thirty yards away. Wes and the others were shocked by how close it was. When they had arrived in the pitch darkness some hours ago, those breastworks had been invisible. Now, as the sky began to lighten, Wes could see clearly that the Federals had built a strong wooden wall atop their trenches, and were pouring a devastating fire from behind the safety of their log fortress.
Colonel Nadenbousch rode by yelling orders, obviously unhappy with their situation. He told them to fall back and shift to the left. They took up a new position to the right of the little creek that ran down the hill. Wes knew the place well. The water hole that he had played in as a boy was across the creek and over the next rise. Above them, more Yankees crouched behind another set of breastworks. They began to fire as Wes’ group moved into place.
Wes looked to the rear, wondering what they were going to be asked to do. There he saw their colonel conferring with General Walker. Ben sat on his horse nearby, waiting for orders. All at once, the colonel turned to Ben and spoke a few words. Ben saluted and spurred his horse toward the 2nd.
Dismounting, he ran over to where Wes and his company were posted. He spoke to the captain, and a moment later they both turned and looked at Wes, motioning for him to join them. Wes jogged the few steps and knelt beside Ben, filled with both curiosity and apprehension.
Ben explained, “The general wants me to scout the area over the creek to see if it’s possible to attack that breastwork from the flank. He asked me if you’d help since you know the area.”
“Of course. Are we going now?’
“Soon. Drop your pack and just take your rifle. We can move faster that way.”
A little after 8:00 in the morning, the two of them moved off to the left. They stayed in the trees until they came to the creek. Jumping into the water, they splashed across quickly, worried about becoming targets. Ben made it in several strides, but the water came up to Wes’ thighs. The current was swift and he had trouble keeping his footing. The icy cold had already numbed his legs and, by the time he pushed up the far bank, Ben was off again, running into the cover of the woods.
As he watched Ben run ahead of him, Wes had a flash of memory from his childhood. He was chasing Will up this same hill. His short legs had always made it impossible for him to catch his taller brother. They had splashed through this creek, laughing and yelling. Then, lying on the rocks ahead, near the trees which Julie and he had called their “houses,” they had dried themselves in the sun, enjoying a fraternal bond which, sadly, had faded over the intervening years.
Ben now lay among those same rocks, peering around the edge of one of the larger boulders to study the Federal line. Wes crawled in beside him and turned onto his back. Looking up, his eyes found “his” tree, twenty-five yards or so to his right. As he examined it, a cold shudder ran through him. The tree had been blasted by artillery and rifle fire until it was missing a good part of its foliage. Light patches in the trunk, among the darker toeholds which he had gouged so many years ago, showed where bark had been shot away to reveal raw wood. Several branches were missing, and their absence revealed something which he had almost forgotten about, a crooked twist in the trunk halfway up which made the tree look as though it had suffered an injury long ago.
Ben looked down at Wes. “What’re you doing? We’re supposed to be checking on the Federals and you look like you’re taking a nap.”
“See that tree over there?” Wes asked absently.
“What tree?” Ben asked without looking, still nervously searching for enemy activity.
“That crooked tree over there, that’s been all shot up. I used to sit in that tree when I was a kid. And talk to my sister.” All of a sudden, his throat choked up and he had an irrational desire to weep. Dizzy with emotion, he realized that part of what he was feeling was fear. He wished he had not seen what the battle had done to his tree.
Ben kicked him in the shoulder. “What the hell’s the matter with you? We’ve got Federals all over the place, and you’re going on about trees.”
Wes took a final glance at the tree, then flipped over onto his stomach alongside Ben. In that instant, his mood changed completely. “I just realized that I’ve come home,” he said. “I had to join the rebel army to get back where I belong. This land is mine.” He scooped up a handful of earth with his fingers. “I didn’t have to go south to look for a plantation. It’s right here. When we win, this will all be mine. Mine and Ginnie’s.” He punched Ben on the arm, satisfaction blazing from his eyes.
Shaking his head, Ben cautioned him, “Well, then, you’d better watch yourself. We have to win this thing first.” He looked at him sternly. “Let’s concentrate on what we came to do.” But even Ben’s sharp words could not dampen Wes’ euphoria. It was all here before him: the land, the future, Ginnie, and the opportunity to make all of them his.
Ben pointed to a large boulder farther off to the left. “Go over there where you’ll be closer to their flank. I’ll go up around here” – he pointed to the right – “to that boulder, so I’ll be on their front. Let’s shoot from those two directions at the same time and see if we can make them reveal how many troops they have and where they’re posted.”
Wes scurried to the left, dodging from tree to tree, finally hiding himself behind a large rock facing the enemy flank. From there, he could see Ben’s boulder with his rifle sticking up above it. The rifle lowered and fired into the front of the Federal trench. Wes saw two enemy soldiers turn behind the log breastwork to return the fire. From Wes’ position, he could support Ben, covering him from the Federal fire. If Ben could entice them to show themselves, Wes could fire at them while their attention was focused elsewhere.
Swiftly loading his gun, he waited until Ben fired again. For the second time, he saw two Federals turn from their flank position to fire toward Ben’s boulder. They were behind their log fortification, but Wes could see their movement through the firing slit. He aimed, fired, and heard a shout. He reloaded and looked toward Ben, waiting for his next shot. But in his excitement, he peered over the boulder instead of around it.
The bullet struck him in the forehead. Ben saw Wes topple over backwards, his arms outstretched, his rifle still clenched firmly in his fist. The bullet seemed to lift him off the ground and push him backwards. Ben watched in horror as Wes’ outstretched body fell to earth again, sliding backwards downhill into a small gully. He landed on top of his rifle among the jagged rocks at the base of a dry wash and never moved.
Ben screamed, “Wes!” He wanted to run to him, but he was trapped where he stood. The Union soldiers, aware of his position, fired continuously and the bullets struck around the boulder every time he tried to move. He hid behind the rock, firing repeatedly, until his ammunition case was empty. Then he sat watching the place where Wes lay, hoping for some sign of life. It was half an hour until the regiment, deciding that the two of them had been killed, made its assault. There was desperate fighting for twenty minutes, during which the 2nd Virginia suffered a terrible number of casualties. While the Federals were distracted by the fighting, Ben was able to work himself around to where Wes lay.
He felt for his pulse, but Wes’ face was gray and there was no life in his eyes. Ben choked out his name, amazed once again at how quickly a life could be snuffed out. As he stared at the dead eyes of his friend, he was overcome with rage. It was his fault; he had asked Wes to come with him. He had gotten his own best friend killed. He stared at Wes’ body in disbelief.
Finally, he dragged him over to the group of trees that Wes had pointed out to him and laid him carefully alongside them. When he moved the body, Ben discovered that Wes had fallen on his rifle, breaking off the stock. He returned, picked up the stock with the letters “W. CULP” carved into it, and tossed it alongside the body to help identify Wes. As he looked down at his friend, his eyes filled with tears and he whispered, “Goodbye, Wes. Old friend.” Then he was off, running to catch his comrades as they retreated back down the hill.
In the sudden silence, a bee buzzed on a flower, unaware of anything but the work it had to do. A breeze whispered through the shattered branches of the familiar tree overhead, opening and closing them rhythmically. Wes lay under the tree, back on his own land, his vacant eyes looking up through the lacy foliage into the blue July sky.
* * * * * * * *
From the parlor Georgia called, “What’s happened? What’s wrong, Mama?” Mary, feeling as though she were paralyzed, barely able to breathe, started to rock as she cradled her daughter’s head and shoulders in her lap. “Oh, God!” she repeated over and over. “Oh, God! Oh, God!” With her right hand, she reached behind Ginnie’s body in an irrational effort to stand her on her feet, but immediately felt the blood oozing from her punctured heart and lung. Hysterically, she snatched her hand away, looking in horror as the blood dripped from it onto Ginnie’s gray cheek. Mary no longer doubted the truth.
Georgia shouted again, her voice rising in fear. “Mother, what’s happened?” Gently placing Ginnie’s head back on the floor, Mary stood up and went into the parlor. When Georgia saw her face and the blood smearing her dress, she instantly knew the truth but could not comprehend it. “What?” was all she could say.
Mary stood in the door, faint and white with shock. “Georgia, your sister is dead,” she said simply. “A bullet hit her in the back.”
Georgia’s horrified screams were joined by a frightened wailing, first from the two boys and then the baby. Mary stood immobile in the doorway, too stunned to think or even to feel.
The moment of paralysis was broken by a pounding on the side door, the one through which the fatal bullet had just passed. Two large men in blue uniforms burst into the kitchen. Mary turned to face them, too bewildered to be surprised by their appearance or to wonder what they wanted.
“What is it, Ma’am?” one of the soldiers, a sergeant, shouted. “What’s wrong.” Then they saw Ginnie’s body on the floor. The men knelt alongside her, feeling for a pulse. After a moment, they looked up at Mary, their faces confirming what she already knew.
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” Mary said, regaining some of her usual poise.
“I’m afraid so, Ma’am,” said the sergeant. He glanced at the door, noting the bullet hole. “Must have been a stray bullet.” Then, standing up, he quickly took charge. “We have to get you out of here.” He spied the two boys, peering in through the parlor doorway at them. “You and the children shouldn’t be here. This house is between the lines, and it’s dangerous,” he said, stating the obvious.
“We wanted to go to the basement yesterday,” Mary told them, “but we were afraid we’d get shot when we tried. And my other daughter,” she said, indicating the parlor, “has a new baby, and we couldn’t move her.”
“That’s all right,” said the sergeant. “We’ll help you.”
He ran up the stairs to see what was on the second floor, then descended quickly and ordered, “Gather the children, and follow me up there.”
“No!” said Mary firmly. “Georgia can’t climb stairs and I’m not going to leave Ginnie here on the floor!”
The sergeant put his arm around her shoulder. “We have to get you out of here,” he said firmly. “We’re gonna take you and your girls over to the other side of the house.”
By this time, Georgia was standing in the doorway holding the baby. The parlor door screened Ginnie’s body from her sight. “Where’s Ginnie?” she asked, her tear-streaked face haggard with shock. Mary closed the door so that Georgia could see Ginnie’s body, lying with her head toward the north door. Her feet were partly under the kitchen table, the dough tray was alongside her on the floor, and the whole scene was covered with spilled flour and baking ingredients, slowly turning red where blood seeped out from under her body.
Georgia began a high keening wail. Her mother went into the parlor and rummaged through the chest, returning with two quilts. One she threw over Georgia’s shoulders to hide her nightgown from the soldiers, the other she held up for her daughter to see. “We have to cover Ginnie with something,” she said quietly. “Shall we use this?”
Georgia recognized one of her own quilts, one she had pieced together as a child. She nodded without saying a word, staring at her sister’s body on the floor. Mary spread the quilt over Ginnie, carefully arranging it so that it covered all but her feet. When she stood up, she broke into tears. “I can’t leave her here.”
“We won’t leave her,” the sergeant said impatiently. “But we have to get you out first. We’ll come back for her.” He pushed Harry toward the stairs and indicated for Isaac to follow him.
When Mary explained, “He can’t walk,” the sergeant scooped him up and beckoned to Mary to precede him up the stairs. Halfway up, Mary suddenly realized what they were doing. “I don’t want to go up here!” she shouted. “It’s not safe up here!”
“We’re not going to stay up here, Ma’am,” responded the soldier. “This is the way to safety.” As Mary reached the top of the stairs, she saw what the soldier already knew. Straight ahead, on the left side of the front bedroom, where an impenetrable brick wall had always separated the two halves of the house, was a ragged hole made by the shell which had torn through the upper floor yesterday. Mary understood: the thing which had almost killed them a day earlier was now providing the route for their escape.
The private was enlarging the opening by tearing away lath and plaster and kicking at the bricks which framed the hole. When he was done, he took the baby from Georgia, watched as she gingerly squeezed through the opening, then handed the baby back to her. When the others had passed through, the sergeant started after them.
“No!” Mary shouted again. “You said you’d bring Ginnie. I’m not going any farther without Ginnie!” The two soldiers returned to the kitchen where they laid the quilt on the floor, lifted the limp body onto it, and covered it carefully. The sergeant then lifted her over his shoulder and struggled back up the stairs. Once on the other side, they led the family down the opposite stairs into the empty south side of the house, then out the door and down into the cellar, which had been abandoned by the McClain family the day before. There they collapsed on the floor in exhaustion.
The sergeant placed the body on a table in the corner and then, seeing that Georgia had no place to sit, returned to the house and brought down a split-bottomed rocking chair. Ordering the private to stay with the family for a while, the sergeant left.
Mary, upset by Ginnie’s disheveled condition, began to undress her. As she did so, she felt something in the pocket of Ginnie’s apron. Pulling out the contents, she discovered, in addition to the key to their house and a small purse, a photograph of Jack Skelly in uniform. She stared at the photo for a minute, her eyes filling with tears. Then, without showing it to anyone, she slipped it back into Ginnie’s apron pocket. As she removed Ginnie’s dress, the lead minie ball fell onto the table with a clatter. She checked the wound and discovered that the bullet had gone entirely through her body. She tried to clean up the blood and remove some of the flour and dough which still stuck to Ginnie’s hands but, without water, she could do little more than wipe the body with Ginnie’s stained garments. She replaced the dress, tried to arrange her hair, covered her once again with the quilt, and sat down on a bench next to Georgia, who was trying to nurse the fussy baby.
Mary felt the pain constricting her throat, but the tears would not come. Georgia sat rocking the baby in her arms, a dazed look on her face. The sergeant returned some time later, standing uneasily on the cellar stairs. He cleared his throat and asked, “Ma’am, I know this is a bad time and all, but I saw the food in your kitchen. My men are hungry. Most of them haven’t eaten much at all in the past couple of days. Do you think I could go and get some of it for them?”
Mary, emotionally exhausted, turned to the sergeant and saw the empathy in his eyes. Slowly, she stood up, glancing back at Ginnie’s quiet form. There was nothing she could do for her daughter now. “I’ll finish the bread,” she said quietly.
The sergeant began to object, but Mary raised her hand to quiet him. She went with him back up the staircase, through the shell-hole and crossed into Georgia’s empty house. As she turned left from the staircase into the kitchen, her eyes moved to the floor behind the parlor door. There she saw the ghastly stain from Ginnie’s blood, darkening even now as it soaked into the wood. With a stifled cry, she moved to the table and began to work. The soldier wiped up the bloodstain as well as he could, then stayed to help. Using the dough which Ginnie had prepared the day before, Mary baked another fifteen loaves of bread which the soldier distributed to members of his company. The last loaves were gone before noon, and Mary returned to her family in the basement.
The five of them – Mary, Georgia, the baby and the two boys – settled into an uncomfortable vigil which lasted almost thirty hours. It wasn’t until past noon the following day, Saturday, that they were finally convinced that the battle was over and it was safe to come out into the open once again.
* * * * * * * *
Julia and Annie hurried back to Annie’s home on West Middle Street after dark on Friday night, worried that they might have missed Wes. He had promised he would visit them again before he left with the army, but they reasoned that he would not be free to come until nighttime, after the fighting stopped.
They had spent most of the afternoon in the basement of their cousin, Mrs. William Stallsmith, on York Street. There, on the east side of the Diamond, they were farther away from the terrible bombardment which took place that afternoon somewhere off to the southwest. Annie’s home was in the most exposed portion of town, and she feared that stray shells might hit it. But for several hours now it had been quiet, and they felt justified in returning.
Unwilling to go to bed, they sat in the parlor impatiently waiting for Wes to arrive. Around 11:00 there was a knock at the door. Julia jumped up, with Annie a step behind her. As they peered through the curtain on the door, they saw a Confederate uniform. Wes. He had been able to return.
Julia hurriedly opened the door, then stepped back in surprise. It was not their brother. A stranger in the uniform of a rebel officer stood before them, removing his hat respectfully. Annie’s surprise turned to fear. She was even more startled when Julia suddenly said, “Why, Mr. Pendleton, of all people! How nice it is to see you again.” She offered him her hand, which Pendleton grasped, bowing slightly.
“Good evening, Miss Julia,” he said. A smile crossed his face when he realized that she remembered him. “It’s a pleasure to see you, too.”
Julia turned to her sister and said, “Annie, this is Mr. Pendleton. Mr. Pendleton is in Wes’ company, and I met him when I was in Shepherdstown. Mr. Pendleton, this is my sister, Mrs. Barbara Ann Myers.”
Pendleton bowed politely to Annie, murmuring, “Mrs. Myers.” Julia turned back to him, her face flushing at the thought that he had come to the house. She wondered why. Could it possibly be that he wanted to see her? She smiled to herself.
“Won’t you please come in, Mr. Pendleton?” Annie said tensely, torn between her desire to be polite to a friend of Julia’s and her distaste at the thought of entertaining a rebel officer. As he stepped into the front room, his discomfort betrayed him; the smile slipped from his white face and his lip began to quiver.
Julia suddenly knew the truth: he had not come just to see her. Trying to hold back the conscious thought, she started to chatter. “Oh, dear, I wish Wes were here to see you. He was here last night. We were so glad to see him. I hadn’t seen him for ever so long, you know, with the way things are. Why, we can’t even get mail back and forth. He said he would come back this evening and we hurried home to see him and....”
Annie broke in. “Something has happened, hasn’t it, Mr. Pendleton? That’s why you’re here.”
Ben looked down at the hat in his hands, nervously running his fingers around its brim. “I’m afraid so,” he said softly. Julia, unable to hold back the realization any longer, burst into tears and turned to embrace Annie.
Trying to stave off the inevitable as long as possible, Annie asked, “Is he badly hurt?”
Pendleton shook his head. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Myers. I’m afraid he was killed.” Julia stifled a scream as Annie’s face crumpled. The women held on to each other, sobbing. He continued, “I can’t tell you how I hate to bring you this kind of news. But I wanted to do it myself. I thought a lot of Wes. He was my best friend. I’ll miss him a lot.” He stood, shifting from one foot to another, uncertain what to do next.
Annie, regaining her composure, said, “Mr. Pendleton, please come in and sit down.” As they walked into the parlor she said, “I know this was a difficult thing for you to do. You’ve had a hard day, and I know Wes was a friend of yours. We want you to tell us everything you know. When did he die?”
“This morning, Ma’am,” he began. “Mainly, I wanted to tell you where to find your brother. I knew that you would want to bring him back home, so I took special care to put him where you could find him.”
Julia looked at him, her eyes red and puffy. “How did he die, Mr. Pendleton? I hope you can tell me he didn’t suffer.”
Ben looked at her uneasily. He tried to speak several times, but found himself lacking the words. Eventually, he shook his head. “No, Miss Julia, I don’t think he suffered.” Suddenly, he was afraid he too was going to cry. “It’s my fault. If I hadn’t taken him with me, he would be alive now.”
Julia tried to comfort him. “Surely not, Mr. Pendleton. Surely, it was something you couldn’t have helped.”
He struggled to regain his composure. “We were attacking on this hill out here, southeast of town, you know, and....”
Julia looked at her sister. “My God, Annie, I hope he wasn’t killed on Cousin Henry’s property. That would be just too awful.” She started to cry again. Pendleton looked in despair at Annie, who nodded for him to continue.
“Well, they sent me up to scout, and I took Wes because he knew the area. He was firing from behind a big rock when...they got him.” He paused to clear his throat, his lip quivering. “Those of us in Company B were real close, because we’d been together since before our unit was taken in at Harper’s Ferry, you know?” After a moment, he added, “It appeared he was killed with one shot. I think he died right away. You know, no pain or nothing.”
He stopped, as though his recital had exhausted his courage. Not knowing whether he was helping or making things worse, he sat in silence, looking miserable. After a moment, Annie asked, “Did you say you buried him yourself?”
“Yes, Ma’am. Well, no, not exactly. After the fight was over, there was a sort of truce to let us recover our dead and wounded. Wes was the only member of Company B who was killed. So, some of the men from Company B went to the clump of trees where I put him and dug a grave. I wanted to tell you where to find him. There’s two big boulders part way up the hill. Off to the left are two trees real close together. One of the trees is shell-struck. Half its bark is missing, and it has a funny twist in the trunk, like somebody bent it to the left, and then part way up bent it back up straight again, y’know? You can’t miss it. He’s buried alongside that tree, on the side toward the boulder.” They sat looking bleakly at each other. “You’ll need to get some men to go look for him, Ma’am,” he added. “That’s no place for ladies right now. There’s lots of bodies still not buried out there.”
Julia straightened and said with conviction, “That doesn’t matter. I’m going to go look for him.”
Annie reached over and stroked her hair. “Oh, Julia, you can’t do that alone. We’ll ask Cousin Henry to help us. After all, it’s his property. He knows it better than anyone.”
“Annie!” Julia shouted. “Cousin Henry hates Wes. He thinks he’s a traitor. He says he should be shot if he comes home.”
Annie tried to calm her. “Hush, Julie. Wes is gone now. He’s paid for whatever sins he committed. They can’t hold any hard feelings now. It’s too late for all that.”
There was another long silence. Finally, Ben said, “I wish I could help you, but I have to get back to my unit. I think we may be pulling out tonight.”
Annie brightened. “You’re pulling out? Does that mean the battle might be over?”
“Maybe,” he said nodding, his face a picture of frustration. “I think we’re plumb wore out. I don’t think we can make another assault. I can’t say for sure. If you wait ‘til tomorrow to go look, I think the hill will be clear. Anyway, tonight it’d be way too dangerous. There’s lots of nervous men out there. They shoot at anything that moves and find out later who it was.” He rose, picked up his hat, and bowed awkwardly. “I’ll take my leave now, ladies. If you’ll excuse me.”
Julia got up quickly and went to him. Grasping his hand, she looked into his face, her cheeks stained with fresh tears. “You have done us a great service, Mr. Pendleton. We can’t thank you enough for taking care of him, and for letting us know where to find him. He treasured your friendship.”
Annie added her thanks. “We know you didn’t have to do this, and that it was dangerous for you to come here. We will always be grateful.” He shook hands with each of them and, with a final long look at Julia, turned and left.
Julia stood in the open doorway as Ben’s dark form blended into the night. Listening to his footsteps fade away, she strained to hear some final sound in the deepening silence. Then, raising her eyes, she saw, directly overhead, a single star burning in the black night sky.