This story is by Dave Chaimson and was part of our 2024 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.
Abagail sat bone-tired at the kitchen table, reading the letter left by Nathaniel, her youngest. Though the war was far off from their Portage, Wisconsin home, it knocked on her front door once again. James, her oldest, had enlisted with the 3rd Wisconsin Infantry in Fond du Lac last summer and made his way to Hagerstown, Maryland, to join the Union. Abagail knew how important this had been to him but was frightened of the words she now held in her trembling hands.
Even with her constant discouragement, she suspected Nathaniel would find a way to support the North despite his youth. And though his age brought him protection against conscription, he’d tell her often how he felt left out of the cause. There was a romanticism about the war that attracted many to it, even the young and innocent. Still, Abagail could tell Nathaniel remained torn between his responsibilities at home and a role for his country. Her summer was quiet without James and was about to become even more so as she accepted the sadness of the moment.
“Dearest Mother, July 4, 1862
I know this message will leave you in tears, whether delivered from the head or the heart. I may be young, but I know what’s at stake. I have found the letters from James you had hidden away and understand it’s not easy, but nothing hard-earned ever is. The war comes to me in a way I cannot explain. I’ve written to James telling him I will be heading east by rail to join the 3rd. I will make you proud and write often as I think of you and Papa. I’m certain James will look after me like you always have. Sincerest, Nathaniel.”
Alone before sunrise, Abagail’s heart fell to the smooth wooden floor under her bare feet. She presumed Nathaniel lied about his age on the enlistment forms. Ever since adolescence, he felt compelled to fight for their shared beliefs, always the eternal optimist. She knew Nathaniel had seen the letters, though the worst of them remained buried in her locked nightstand drawer. Judging by what James had shared, war was hell, and he counted down the days until his three years were up. Fearing for their futures, she took comfort in knowing it was all for a virtuous cause she hoped would end soon.
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Mustered out with fifty others in time to join the Union, Nathaniel was under the command of General Pope as the Confederates pushed northward in August 1862. The 3rd infantry from Wisconsin was healing itself from defeat after the Battle of Cedar Mountain in Culpeper County, Virginia. Nathaniel was fortunate to have arrived when he did days later. But he couldn’t have known they were about to collide with General Robert E. Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia along the tranquil banks of Antietam Creek near Sharpsburg, Maryland. War is said to be prolonged days and nights of agitated boredom, disturbed by scant seconds that end men’s lives.
“Dearest Mother, August 17, 1862
I’ve made it out with the Union! And while not pleasant, I belong here! There is a sense of gaiety, though many like me, have not seen much action. While I don’t yearn for battle, my calling is to protect our cause. I have united with James, who was not pleased. He stayed silent for days but softened to help me with musket and bayonet drills before we marched out. The cooking is not yours, and my clothes are fit for a man much larger, but I have made acquaintances with others who have wandered out from Wisconsin and share the same spirit. We send our love, Nathan.”
On September 17, a month after Nathaniel put on his uniform, he and James marched in loose formation down a dusty gravel road toward Sharpsburg with hundreds of others. Over the horizon, D.R. Miller’s farm was filled with harvest-ready cornfields as far as the eye could see. Sundried stalks and husks, brittle to the touch, rattled with every breeze. As sweat rolled into his eyes from under his crooked grey cap, Nathaniel questioned without effort his softening resolve and whether there was a different path forward.
Their hushed ranks moved through the head-high corn, bayonets, and muskets at the ready. It’s what he had drilled for all these weeks. His heart pounded, and breath quickened as he turned left to look at James, steps away, for comfort. They were signaled to stop and held up for the Confederates who advanced towards them from the opposite side of the field. Without warning, artillery and cannons woke the stillness as the battle was ignited. The fresh smell of war settled deep into their senses.
At a forceful command, the 3rd Wisconsin opened fire across their line, halting the rebel advance. Muskets rang out, shredding the corn and shattering bones of others nearby as acrid smoke began to thicken above them. Those standing around Nathaniel fell from oncoming artillery fire and outnumbered men still holding their weapons. His body shook in turbulent fear as the fighting intensified. Shrieks of painful horror echoed as limbs exploded feet from where he stood. His vision widened as fragile, shredded stalks once hiding him were trampled and crushed under foot. No longer able to hear instructions from his Officer, Nathaniel stood frozen in the chaos and faced an oncoming rebel charge.
James knelt to reload and, as he stood, took a lead shot to the temple. Blood spattered on Nathaniel’s face, and he tasted warm iron on his lips. Choking, he threw his weapon down into the bloody dirt, grabbed his brother under both limp arms, and dragged him back over the exposed rocks and twisted bodies. With sweat streaming down through gunpowder that caked his face, he bent over the lifeless body and cried his tears into the thirsty, dry ground.
Twelve hours after it began, the carnage ended, and distant cannon fire was replaced by the screams of survivors helped off the fields and nearby hills. The Confederates fled back across what was left of the cornfield to tend to their own. Like thousands of others on both sides left behind that day, James was buried in a field near Antietam Creek. Nathaniel wondered how men could continue to feel invincible, staring into the face of certain death.
He was told Antietam was declared a draw, though it came to be the bloodiest one-day battle of the war with over 20,000 casualties. Nathaniel swore revenge, though his resolve weakened fast as harsher winter conditions began to arrive in the months ahead. Cold, hungry and confused, he interrogated his own beliefs and asked himself why he was still there. Was victory for the nation worth the death of a brother and countless others who gave up their lives for distant hopes of a better future? For the first time alone, voices of doubt grew louder inside Nathaniel’s head.
“Dearest Mother, October 1, 1862
I hope you and Papa are well. I’m writing from a field hospital somewhere in Maryland. It is as unpleasant as the battlefield itself. I am fine, but with great sorrow, I must tell you James died in battle at Sharpsburg. I am so sorry. Most of all, I am scared. They tell me I will be ready to rejoin the corps in a few weeks, but I no longer yearn to fight. There is no doubt I know the Union is right, but I do not know if I can pick up a musket and kill another man. I have seen death arrive inches from my face and have carried my brother’s corpse off the battlefield in my arms. Though I have only been gone a short time, each day is a year. I know what they do to deserters and understand a coward’s path, but I wonder if that punishment comes anywhere near that of death. I don’t know if my letter will reach you before you get an official announcement, but I hope you hear it from me first. James did not die without cause, and I don’t know what to do next without him. With my sincerest love, Nathaniel.”
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If Abagail thought she knew heartache, it was nothing like what she now felt inside. Her hands shook as she folded the stiff paper and placed the letter on her lap. Heavy tears fell and soaked through the message, smearing Nathaniel’s ink and his fears, onto her winter white apron.
Bedtime drew nearer, and her husband continued his chores in the barn. Exhausted, she carried her candle from the kitchen and went to the front sitting room to read The Notting Hill Mystery, which kept her mind from wandering on about the war. Just as she settled in, there was a knock at the door. She held her breath as she walked across the room, opened it with a light, nervous touch, and gasped.
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