Unnamed - American Civil War/Dinosaurs

Chapter 1

         He didn’t know what day it was; hadn’t for a long time. The last weekday he could remember being mentioned was ‘Tuesday’ and even then, the recollection was foggy. So much had happened.
         How much time has passed? Had it been an hour? A day? A week?
         He wasn’t sure of anything anymore. Was it still Tuesday? Friday? Was it Sunday, the holy day of Sabbath?
         Time just didn’t make much sense when everything and everyone around you was being blown straight to hell. For all he knew he was stuck in an endless time loop – wake up, march, eat, shit, fight, and sleep. Rinse and repeat over and over and over again until the war was over, or his mangled body was thrown into a shallow grave.
         He didn’t know anything anymore, nor did he give a shit. He wasn’t even sure what month of the year it was. Only a few dates stuck out to him; April 15th, 1861 – the United States as he knew it, as the whole damn world knew it, had dissolved. Torn clean in two. April 16th, 1861 – not 24 hours later – he had signed up as a volunteer for one of Pennsylvania's regiments to join President Abraham Lincoln’s grand army.
         His mother’s heartfelt begs and pitiful pleas had not fallen on deaf ears. As much as he wished to stay, to hug her and brush away her tears, he couldn’t be stopped. He had felt the call, had heard the drums of war echoing in his chest. Alongside the 35 other able-bodied young men of their little farming town, he shouldered his pack and made for the door.
         His heartbroken mother had all but thrown herself down at her lone son’s feet. He’d been grateful to his father who had gently but firmly picked his wife up off the polished oak floor. He held her to him, letting her use his tall frame for support as he stuck out a hand snarled with arthritis to give his son a farewell handshake.
         “You come back. You hear me, boy,” he ordered sternly. His voice was not without deep love and gruff tenderness towards his son, “You come back to us, in one piece if you can manage it. For your dear poor mother’s sake.”
         He nodded, returning his father’s handshake and tears, “I will write soon. I promise.”
         And he was gone, falling into step with his best friends John Hill and Jonas Smithward Jr. – Johnny had died at boot camp after having caught a terrible case of measles and Jonas had taken a gunshot to the head at the first battle of Bull Run. On that spring morning though, so long ago, they were excited and bright-eyed, not knowing the horrors that awaited them. They only knew that they were on their way to what everyone had thought would be a short and quick affair.
         The rebels would be spanked like naughty children and sent back to their homes to nurse their smarting asses and bruised self-esteem. Within a fortnight, or at most a month, everything would go back to the way things were and the minute act of insubordination from a small group of rabble-rousers would just be a thing of memories. That had been nearly 3 years ago.
         Now, the days were unforgivably long and hot. The nights were relentless, bitter, and cold. Wet, heavy snow still wept from the overcast clouds most evenings, only for it to melt within the first few hours of the morning. This left the trails they marched thick with mud. Men, mules, and wagons sunk ankle and axle-deep into the black ooze.
         Was it early spring? Late winter? Middle of fall? Or was the hellish weather this way due to them being perched on top of a ragged mountain ridge?
         He blinked. Were they on a mountain? With a sickening sensation, he felt himself swoop down from whatever purgatory he had been and withdrew back into himself. The world around him, which had gone gray and without taste, sight, and sound came crashing back in full color and all sensations. It was night he realized, and he sat around a low but hot fire with several other men.
         Fat, damp snowflakes clung to his eyelashes. A steaming tin cup full of coffee sat nestled in his gloved hands. The wool was from his family’s sheep herd. The hunter mittens had been lovingly knitted by his sweet little sister, Anne. They had once been a soft cream color but were now stained a tarnished grey from gunpowder and hours upon hours of grueling marches.
         Sitting by his feet was a damp pile of paper and a pencil nubbin. That’s right – he’d been writing a letter to dear Mother, Father, and little Anne. He had gotten stuck on what to tell them about his life. That’s when he disconnected. How long had he been out?
         He blinked, his eyeballs cold and dry from lack of use. They stung as tears rushed to quench their thirst. There they froze on his lashes. He bent his head, one covered with a shaggy mop of dirty blond hair and willed his lips to find the cool tin of his cup. He took a heavy drag. The coffee was still hot, strong, and bitter.
         He hadn’t been gone too long then.
         More and more he found himself fading out of reality. He had brought it up to the company Chaplin, a carefree little man with a rotund shape and German descent, fearing that he might be losing his nerve. Or worse, his mind. He didn’t want to be labeled as stark mad.
         Crazy went against the norm. Crazy landed you alone and hungry without a cent to your name. He couldn’t afford to have that happen to him. His father was counting on him to one day take over the family farm. He’d been reassured by Pastor Brown that no; he was not going mad. It was a self-defense mechanism that his body and mind had concocted to help him deal with the trauma and horrors of war.
         “Without it,” Pastor Brown had said, “you would buckle and break like cheaply manufactured steel. Be happy and thank God above for it, boy. It is only temporary.”
         He took another deep swig of his coffee. His gaze flicked from his half-written note to the glowing embers of the fire that were in desperate need of another log and back up to the weather-beaten and exhausted faces sitting around the fire with him. Yes, he was remembering now.
         His name was Elijah, Elijah Springbottom. He was 25 years old. He was a soldier in the Grand Army of the Potomac, 4th Pennsylvania. He took a deep breath, the sharpness of the air making him sit a little straighter.
         “Welcome back from the land of ghosts, Elijah,” a deep, gruff voice came from his right, “You kinda left us there for a minute.”
         This voice belonged to a tall, broad man with hair blacker than the night. A full set of mutton chops grew along the sides of his face. The lion of the man was Eli Jennins. He was a Corporal now and originally from Kentucky.
         Sitting beside him was a scrawny, red-headed young man with large glasses and a chin that had yet to see a razor. His hooked nose was perpetually wedged in thick, dusty tomes that Elijah had to guess were older than all the men around the fire combined. The young man’s name was Anthony Dilulo and he was a private from New York.
         To Elijah’s left was a blond man with a fair complexion and medium build who hailed from Maine. He was neither too tall nor too short. Light brown freckles danced across his dainty nose and high cheekbones in an elegant zigzag pattern. More than once, Elijah had wondered if Peter Woods drew on the freckles every morning after he shaved. He had yet to catch him in the act, so his curiosity was still unresolved.
         Next to Peter sat two men from Maryland, brothers with only a 10-month age difference between them. Gordon and Jordan Straub, born from an Irish family, were the lone children of a coal miner and his bride. One brother was a brunette with eyes colored like a winter sky and the other brother was sandy blond with eyes like cut emeralds. They had a wicked sense of humor that could entice men to laugh even under the most extreme battle.
         These men, this ragtag group of six men, were all the last surviving members of their original companies. Each was one hell of a fighter and as such they’d been handpicked by their commanding general to be part of a special skirmish team that specialized in guerilla warfare. When all else failed, and stealth and speed were of the essence, Captain Springbottom was called forth to take his team and do what needed to be done, no matter the cost. No mercy and no quarter.
         Elijah set down his mug, nearly empty of its brew, and picked back up his half-written letter. His mouse-colored eyes scanned the page, seeing what the he of a few moments ago had decided was important enough to write home about.
         ‘Dear Mother, Father, and precious Anne,
         It is the 13th of March, and it is bitterly cold tonight. My old bullet wound from last summer has flared up. Luckily for me, it doesn’t affect my ability to march, and I can keep up with the column. I am homesick, dear family, and I am missing the farm. With spring just around the corner, I can imagine the fields soon dotted with fine lambs and sturdy piglets.
         I fear that my merry band of soldiers and I may be called upon again real soon. No one has spoken to me about it personally yet, but I can sense the change in camp while we bivouac. The higher-ranking officers are getting anxious – this usually means that the boys and I will get pulled aside and sent on some God-awful mission. One, as you all know, I cannot speak of.
         Aside from the weather, which has been unseasonably hot and bitterly cold at the same time, not much has happened that I can write home about...save for the fact that we have a new cook/seamstress. She’s a free-born black woman...’
         That is where the letter ended. Elijah felt his lips curl up into a smile. Yes, he remembered now why he had faded from reality. He was just about to tell the family back home about Agatha Stream, the new cook and seamstress who’d joined up with their platoon with her cantankerous father, Michael. Whereas she was as bubbly and friendly as a puppy, her old man was as pleasant as a snapping turtle. He was gruff and rude, and he did not take slack from anyone or anything.
         Just the other day Michael’s mule had thrown a shoe and he had gone to find someone who could fix it. When no one came forward to help, Michael shot the mule and demanded that another one be given to him as a replacement, under threat that no one gets another bite of food until then. As Michael and his daughter were wonderful cooks, his threat was taken seriously. He’s been issued a new mule with the promise that its shoes would receive regular care so that this animal would never throw one.
         But that sweet, plump Agatha. Elijah sighed, his lips curling higher yet. She had the deepest brown eyes he’d ever seen. Her skin was shiny and smooth, like the blanket of darkness that fell over the deep woods in winter. She had curves where they counted, and her smile soothed even the most battle-hardened soldier.
         She was kind, generous, and had a healthy love for family and God. She was a good Christian woman, with good morals and a heart that gave more than it took. She was pleasant to be around, and she made conversation fresh and fun.
         Elijah had found out that she liked to read and write while dropping off his shirt to be laundered and socks to be darned within the first few days of the Streams being a part of his branch in the army. She had been reading a collection of poetry by an author he was unfamiliar with. When he prompted her, she was all too happy to read him her favorite verses. Since then, he’d done what he could to steal some moments of her time to talk books since he himself liked to indulge in reading when he could.
         Elijah licked his lips, thinking he should write home and ask for his mother’s lip balm. His lips were cracked and dry from the wind. Unlike Agatha, who kept her full lips as soft and smooth as a tulip’s petals. They were plump, with the top being curved into the perfect cupid’s bow.
         More than once, Elijah had found his gaze dropping to them while talking to her. He would be lying to both God and himself if he denied having thought, nay fantasized, about taking her mouth with his and kissing her until they were both flustered and breathless. Would her lips be as soft as they looked? Would she taste like wood smoke and those lemon-flavored sweets she was so fond of sucking on?
         No, he couldn’t write home and tell his family about his desires for this lovely young woman, no matter how much she made his heart sing. They would never allow such a union. And neither would Agatha’s father for that matter. He was as protective as a wasp with just as painful of a sting. If he ever found out that Elijah fancied his daughter, Michael would have him drawn and quartered.
         Elijah tapped the lead of his pencil against the paper for a moment. Before long he found the words he needed to finish his letter: ‘who joined up with her father to cook and launder for the men. They’ve been a blessing and a Godsend. The men have missed a woman’s gentle touch and mannerisms, and it shows.
         Mother, if I may be allowed to beg for a moment, could you please send some of your lip balm the next time you send me a package from home? I could sure use some.
         Give my love to the hogs, I miss their antics terribly, and let the town know that I am doing alright. I send hugs and kisses to all three of you. There’s no need to fight over them, I made sure to send plenty for all.
         I love and miss you all dearly. So much so that I have a constant ache in my chest.
         Your son, forever and always, Elijah’.
         As he folded the letter up and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket, a voice lifted above the quiet murmurs of camp. It was rich and supple, winding its way here and there, stilling the voices of all who heard it. Agatha was singing, most likely while finishing up her evening chores, and she was lifting her voice in praise to God. She had picked her favorite Psalm and added her own melody to it.
         Elijah turned his attention in the direction of her lyrical tune and was blessed with a distant image of her nestled by the mouth of her tent. A fire burned close to warm her nimble hands and feet. A white shirt rested in her lap, her fingers working the needle and thread diligently as she patched a hole. Her curly black hair was tucked underneath a red checkered handkerchief, and she looked stunning in her pale green dress.
         Yes, Agatha was sure a beautiful woman. One day Elijah would work up the nerve to ask her if she felt the same about him as he did her. Were their brief moments together as precious and meaningful to her as they were to him? Heaven help him if she said yes because he would move mountains to make her his.