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from A BLUE AND GREY CHRISTMAS

CHAPTER ONE: The Battered Box

The fall day had turned chilly; a brisk wind blew from the west. In the ladies’ farmhouse, flames danced behind faux logs in the fireplace, casting a golden glow across the pale yellow walls of the living room.  Grace Singleton and her housemates, Hannah Parrish Maxwell and Amelia Declose had pulled chairs into a circle around a low table, their eyes intent on a battered tin box, the size of two large shoeboxes. 

Earlier that day, Hannah’s husband, Max, had strode into the house, his overalls streaked with dirt and grime from carrying the box, which was discovered, while digging a foundation for one of his historic restorations.

“Lord only knows how long it’s been buried,” he said.  “Fellow on the backhoe said it looked like an old fishing box he inherited from his great-grandfather.” We broke the lock and opened it. Just a bunch of letters and a couple of small books inside, but I thought you ladies might like to check them out.”

Intrigued, Grace had taken the box to the kitchen, scraped away layers of red clay dirt, and scrubbed it as clean as she could get it.  One side looked as if it had been struck by a hammer, but the box had survived intact with no apparent damage to its contents: several small leather-bound diaries and bundled letters addressed in faded ink to folks in South Carolina and Connecticut. Dark and dented, the box sat now on their coffee table.

 “Open it, Grace. Open it.” Amelia’s blue eyes gleamed with excitement. “Maybe it’s a buried treasure.”

“Books and letters, treasure?” Hannah’s eyebrows shot up, as she glared at Amelia.  “We’ll be lucky if they don’t crumble when we touch them.”
Rusty hinges creaked as Grace lifted the lid and eased it back. Inside lay six packets, one of which had been untied. The remainder were bound with twine, frayed and crumbling in places.

A thrill of excitement raced through Grace, and she eased the untied bundle of letters out as gently as she would lift a newborn babe from its cradle. The top envelope opened easily and Grace extracted two sheets of paper, which she spread on the table beside the box.

“It’s dated November, 1864, and it’s addressed to Marianne Mueller, Little River Bend Community, Walhalla, South Carolina.”  Grace looked from Hannah to Amelia. “We know where Walhalla is. We’ve eaten at The Steak House there. It’s near Lake Jocassee, remember?”        

Amelia nodded. “Can you make out the writing?” Her fair skin was pink with excitement, and she could hardly sit still.

“I’ll try.”  Grace squinted at the faded words, then read aloud:

Dear Cousin,
I write this to you, this being the year 1864 and the war not ended yet. Bein’ so
much alone, times my mind plays tricks on me, specially when it’s quiet like it was after my last battle, no guns roarin or men screamin.  Sometimes, layin in bed I think back to that time when I was layin in that rock-hard ditch, stones pokin me and thinkin I’m gonna die.  Weren’t nothin but gray fog, hard mean pain, and my leg twisted, hurtin bad. Them Yanks come at us out of nowhere, blue coats, yellin, shootin a cannon right atop us. The noise like to bust my head open. Cannon blast mustta sent me flyin, mustta dumped me in that there ditch.  All’s I could do was keep breathin and stay alive. Twas the worst I was ever scared.

Fellow lyin next me in that ditch was a-wearin a blue uniform stained with blood, and he raised up his hand, fingers bloody and a-clawin the air. His face was mussed with dirt and gunpowder and filthy from war. That there Yank’s alive, I thought. Let the bastard die. Then I thought, he’s jus’ a man like me, scared and sufferin in this stinkin hell. 

They mustta give us up for dead. Guess we fooled ’em’, I muttered, and the pain gripped me bad so’s I thought, this here’s my last breath. But the pain eased, and I lay there pantin, tryin to gather my wits and strength to help myself and maybe the Yankee layin’ next me. 

I’d mended plenty of animals on the farm at home and the broken parts of men in the war, ’cause there was never ’nough medics to carry the wounded from the field to the hospital wagon, and I’d carried many a man and helped in their care. I could tell my leg was broke, but the Yank aside me was bleedin’ bad.  I tore my shirt and turned, even with the pain it brung me, and tied off the Yank’s wounds to stop the bleedin and bandaged  the gash on his head, all the time wonderin why I was tendin the enemy.

I laid back, then, and worried how I was gonna splint my leg, cause there weren’t no wood about. If I could splint my leg, I could crawl outta this here ditch.  Aside me, the fellow groaned, and I figured he’d never make it.
My rifle was next me, and I laid it next my leg and tied it straight, though I wondered why, since I was gonna die anyways. Then I thought, damn well better die with the Yank than dyin alone.

I said to him, We was lost, headin east.  He groaned, and talked so low I couldn’t hardly hear him.

We were lost too, the Yank said, our maps gone, officers dead of dysentery. We were all scared. Lord knows we didn’t know what to do.  Someone loaded the cannon and sent a shot flying.  I went flying. That’s all I remember. 

The pain come back real bad again, and my mind went away from me. When I caught myself, I muttered somethin about bein lost and a-headin East

The Yank groaned. Then he told me they was lost too, maps gone, officers dead of dysentery. They was scared and someone loaded ther cannon and sent a shot flyin. He went flyin and that’s all he remembered, till he work up in this here ditch. He turned hisself to me best he could, then, and said his name was John Foster, and I said mine was Tom Mueller, and something passed between us, and to hell with the war. I knew I weren’t gonna crawl outta that ditch and leave him to die alone. 

Grace looked up.  “I can’t make out the rest. It’s too water stained.” As she carefully folded the brittle paper and slid it back into the envelope, the ladies sat deep in their own thoughts. Then Hannah said softly, “Amazing. That letter’s more than a hundred years old. The war began in 1861, if I remember correctly, and ended with the Lee’s surrender to Grant at Appomattox in April 1865. Here we have two soldiers from opposing sides left to die in a ditch on a battlefield in 1864, and Frank Hay’s backhoe dug up that rusty old box in our field.”“You know your history,” Grace said, turning to Hannah. “I’m impressed.
Amelia dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. “How terrible, to be injured and left to die like that.” Then her face brightened. “But they didn’t die; they wrote those letters and diaries. How did they survive? How did they get to Covington?”

“Hopefully the other letters are in better condition.” Hannah cleared her throat.  “I’m sure we’d all like to know more about this Tom Mueller and the Yankee he helped.”

Amelia nodded and looked at Grace. “Go through the packets, please, and see if you can find one of John’s letters.”

...

Joan Medlicott
P.O. Box 355
Barnardsville, NC 28709