Chancellorsville, Virginia, 1866
Rebecca knelt before Abel's grave and wept.
It was a beautiful spring day, the skies clear and blue, birds flying from tree to tree, a gentle breeze blowing across the hilltop, brushing against our faces like the fingers of angels.
I gazed out across the valley. It was hard to believe that men had fought here, slaughtering each other by the thousands; that cities and villages had been destroyed, burned to the ground; that people's lives and fortunes had been lost in numbers too vast to even imagine, and all over questions the answers to which now seemed so obvious.
Newspapers both North and South had called it a grand and glorious struggle—a good war that had to be fought. As I watched Rebecca's shoulders heave in sorrow I knew those newspapers were wrong, and as I looked down at Abel's grave I understood that this good war had to some degree destroyed us all. Three boys grew up in our beautiful, peaceful village, and then they marched off to war. Four years later, one came back a cripple, one came back a monster, and one did not come back at all.
Rebecca stood and wiped away her tears. "Thank you for bringing me here, Jubal. You're a good husband and a good friend."
I slipped my arm around her and drew her to my chest. "I hope Abel is someplace where he can see us standing here," I said. "It would greatly please him to know how much he was loved."
A sudden breeze brushed against us, and I took it as a sign that my old friend had heard me.
Rebecca glanced up at me and smiled. "Are we going to that farmhouse now?" she asked.
I turned to Johnny's black metal box that now sat on the seat of our buggy. "Yes," I said. "We're going there now."
The End