Martin Holloway

••••

Here I lie, in this small piece of God's good earth. It's a patch of ground over by Frozen Creek, just a loud holler from Raccoon, Kentucky. It sure is lonesome here, but I make do.

         I haven't seen my wife, Nancy Rose, in over 112 years. I purely do miss her. Wonder what our children are doing? I hope the girls all married up with good husbands.

         I ain't worried much over the boys. Me and Nancy Rose did our best for them. This old, Confederate uniform I am wearing is plumb worn out, and I don't have a change of clothes with me. Right now, all I hope for is a pair of faded Levi's, a freshly laundered flannel shirt, some clean socks and a pair of leather boots. And if it comes right down to it, I might could make use of that rusty bayonet Jeff Davis' cronies issued me for the battle out at James Island, South Carolina . . . those things come in handy when a man finds himself in a hole.

         Pike County, Kentucky has held me in its grasp ever since I moved here from Wilkes County, North Carolina. It is a good place to be. Sometimes, a man will get to thinking, and find a few things in his heart he wished he might do over.

         There's a few things I speculate on from time to time, but they don't crease my forehead overmuch, although some of them are downright worrisome on a cold night. Speaking of cold nights, one of these days, after wearing this CSA uniform until there ain't nothing left of it but a few threads, I might climb out of this patch of ground, go home, and get myself a change of clothes.

          Naw, I reckon I better not do that. Trouble, I've got enough of; ain't no sense in causing folks to worry. The other day, there was a man walking around in this graveyard; a big, tall man, he was. He carried on his head a fine mess of light auburn hair. He had about him, the looks of my son, James Hardin,
but Hardin's buried over at the Justice Cemetery . . .

          I reckon that man was looking for me, for I heard him say my name a few times. I hollered at him; but I don't think he heard me. Ain't no finding me, boy. Even though, you know I am lying here in this patch of ground.

         There's a feller down in Texas named Martin Holloway; that feller has himself a marker, which I ought to have, on his grave. But here I lie; one of these days, I'm gonna climb outta this hole, go down to Texas, and carry that marker home.

         'Most anyone can get one of those things, just tell them your grandpa was Martin Holloway; the government has a record of my service in the 61st North Carolina Infantry, Co. I. That feller down in Texas was my first cousin once removed; I reckon he's laughing at me right now, the way we used to laugh at each other back in North Carolina.

Ain't no thing . . .