Friendly Enemies

©2006 Ian Hobson

A story inspired by Bernard Cornwell's Starbuck Chronicles and by the American Civil War picture cards I collected as a boy in the 1960's.

***

For a time, I must have drifted in and out of consciousness. The battle had long since passed me by but somewhere to the north-east, over the crest of the hill, the sound of cannon-fire rumbled like thunder. I raised a hand to the gash in my forehead and winced. The wound had stopped bleeding but a flap of skin hung down over my right eye, and my face and neck were thick with dried blood. The body of the cavalry officer who had inflicted the wound lay in the grass just a few feet away; his right hand still gripping the saber and flies crawling in and out of the bloody gunshot wound beneath his right ear.

As I tried to stand I discovered another injury: my left ankle was badly swollen and wouldn't take my weight. Later I guessed that I must have been kicked or stamped on by one of the horses in the cavalry charge; probably after the blow to the head had knocked me senseless. I crawled over and prised the saber from the dead officer's hand and, with difficulty, used it to cut a sleeve from his uniform. But the material was too thick to use as a bandage so I discarded it in favor of his shirtsleeve. I cursed out loud as I replaced the flap of skin and tied the sleeve around my head.

With the makeshift bandage in place, again I tried to stand; but my head swam and still my ankle wouldn't take my weight. So, with a groan, I fell back to the ground and lay still while the pain and dizziness subsided. It was then that I became aware of how thirsty I was and instinctively felt for my canteen; but it was gone. I propped myself up on one elbow and looked around. There was no sign of my canteen or the Springfield musket that I'd been issued with when I'd signed up. I suddenly felt very alone – as though the world had come to an end and I was the last person alive - and tears began to sting my eyes, and yet, at the same time, I was filled with rage. 'Thieving rebel scum!' I shouted. I lifted the saber and lashed out at the dead cavalry officer, cutting a groove in his dead face and slicing off the tip of his moustache. 'God-dam bastards!' I'd heard that rebel soldiers often stole from the dead and wounded. I lashed out again with the saber; reliving the moment when the saber had swung towards my own head, and when, in sheer panic, I had discharged my musket as I tried to duck away from the blade. It was the first and last time I ever killed a man; but if I hadn't defended myself he would have killed me; and he almost did. In my dreams I still see the saber swinging towards my head and then the cavalry officer's head jerking backwards in a haze of powder smoke as he's hit by the ball fired from my crudely aimed musket.

The dead officer ignored his new wounds and continued to gaze at the sky. It was late afternoon and the shadows were beginning to lengthen. I could see other bodies; some in grey but most in blue uniforms like mine; none were moving. I recognized Sergeant Logan and Dick Wallace among the dead. I could see that they too had been robbed; even Dick's boots were gone. I guess I'm supposed to be dead too, I thought. Whoever stole my musket and canteen must have taken me for me dead.

I looked to the north, over my shoulder, as I heard more cannon fire and then a distant volley of musket fire followed by an answering volley; or maybe the second volley was just an echo; I wasn't sure. But as I strained to listen for the sounds of battle over the wind in the nearby trees, I imagined I could hear running water. There had been no time when my company had been ordered forward to think about where we might find water; but now, looking south towards the bottom of the meadow, I could see a meandering line of trees and shrubs that I hoped followed the course of a stream. So, trailing the saber, I began to half crawl and half drag myself downhill.

I passed more bodies. A cannon and its carriage lay on its side in the grass with one wheel shattered and a dead horse with frightened, staring eyes still in the traces. Flies swarmed around the wound on the horse's neck. The body of a Confederate soldier lay beside the horse. There was no sign of a musket but the dead soldier still had his canteen and I used the saber to cut its leather thong. I cursed the soldier as I found that the canteen was empty, but I dragged it along with the saber as I continued downhill. The pain in my head was bad but the thirst was worse. A small patch of long grass, somehow spared from the trampling of cavalry, infantry and artillery, lay between me and the nearest trees at the bottom of the field. I could clearly hear the water now; almost smell it. I crawled through the long grass towards the sound, keeping left of a boulder that the field's owner must have thought to be too big to be worth digging out. I stopped to rest for a moment and lay my head on the grass. I remember the sun-warmed earth feeling good against my face. I wanted to sleep but I pushed myself up onto my hands and knees, driven on by thirst. But then movement caught my eye and I heard a ragged, Southern voice.

'Could use a drink, myself.'

Startled, I rolled onto my side, and gripping the saber's leather bound handle, I looked back towards where a confederate solider lay propped against the rock, his right hand resting on the musket that lay across his lap and his left hand cradling a bloody stomach wound. My eyes strayed from the man's bearded face, to the musket, and back again.

'It's loaded and primed,' he said, 'but don't worry, son. I reckon I've killed enough men for one day.' The man grimaced and blood seeped through his fingers as he gripped his wound more tightly. 'And maybe I won't see another. What's your name, son?'

I stared at the man. He was older than me by at least twenty years. His uniform looked old and faded and there was a hole in the sole of his left boot. He was clearly in pain but he managed a smile. 'Cat got your tongue?'

'Nathan,' I replied. My mouth was dry; whether from fear or thirst I'm not sure.

'Mine's Ed. Now how 'bout that water?

I stared at the southerner a little longer. He was my enemy; the enemy I had been trained to kill yet, somehow, that no longer mattered. He and I were both casualties of a brief but bloody encounter and, at least for that moment, there was a bond between us. So, still carrying the saber and the canteen and ignoring the pain in my ankle, I got shakily to my feet and, turning back towards the sound of running water, I carried on down between the trees and clambered over a snake-like tangle of tree roots to reach a gurgling stream.

As I leaned close to the water to take a drink I could see my own reflection. My face was an ugly mask of dried blood, but I drank first and then washed my face as best I could without disturbing the bandaged saber wound. Then I filled the canteen and hobbled back uphill to where the Southerner lay against the rock with his eyes closed. At first I thought that maybe he had died, so spoke his name, 'Ed?'

As he opened his eyes he seemed a little surprised to see I had returned, but he smiled as though he had just won a wager with himself. I stumbled and then crawled the last few feet, removed the cap from the canteen and held it out towards him. Ed took the canteen, held it to his lips and drank, keeping one eye on me, perhaps worried that I might make a grab for his musket. 'Thanks,' he said. 'You seem kind of attached to that saber. Spoils of war?' He handed the canteen back to me and I replaced the cap before answering.

'I guess.' I didn't know what else to say, as I suddenly realized that now I too was a thief who stole from the dead.

'Swords look fine on the parade ground, but give me a musket any day.' Ed grimaced and clutched at his wound again and a trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth.

'You gonna be alright?' I asked. I could see that Ed's wound was still bleeding but there was nothing I could do to help him.

'Maybe. Maybe not,' he replied. 'Where' you from?'

I moved closer to Ed and sat beside him, leaning back against the rock. The last of the day's sun filtered through the nearby trees and shone on our faces. 'Boston,' I answered. 'You?'

'Mississippi. I guess we're both a long ways from home. This your first time? In battle I mean.'

'Yeah… You too?'

'No, but first time shot.' Ed grimaced again and then closed his eyes. There was more musket fire to the north, but he didn't seem to notice it. 'And I don't mind tellin' ya, it hurts like hell.'

For a time it seemed to me that the musket fire was getting closer but then it petered out. Then I must have fallen asleep for a while because suddenly, though it was still light, the sun had gone behind the western hills. Then I heard a distant shout followed by a horse's whiney, and Ed, who had seemed to be asleep, stirred and opened his eyes as he heard it too. I turned towards the sound and edged myself up to peer over the top of the rock. Three grey-clad cavalrymen had come over the hilltop and were heading towards the bottom of the meadow. But one of them slowed his horse and veered towards where the dead cavalry officer lay. Then he called to his two companions who turned their mounts and followed him. I slid back down to hide behind the rock, guiltily remembering how I had mutilated the officer's body.

'Confederate?' Ed must have seen the look of panic on my face. I nodded my reply. Then as Ed's right hand closed around the stock of his riffle, I reached for the saber and edged back a little, ready to thrust forward with the weapon and kill him if I had to. 'No, son,' he said, his voice more ragged than before. 'If they catch you with that, you're dead for sure. Take this.' He slid the musket off his legs and pushed it towards me. 'Give me the sword and go hide yourself.' He nodded towards the trees from where I'd fetched the water. I hesitated, not understanding. 'I have a son about your age,' he said. 'Now take it!'

'Thanks,' I said, though my voice was just a whisper. I looked into the eyes of my friendly enemy and exchanged the musket for the saber. Then quickly I dragged myself away towards the stream, keeping as low as I could until I was into the tree cover. From there I could see both Ed and the three cavalrymen. One was stooped over the body of the officer; the others seemed impatient to leave. For Ed's sake, I thought about shouting to attract their attention, but Ed slowly raised his right arm and gave me a brief salute, then waved me away. I returned the salute and then backed down to the waters edge and made my way upstream until I was able to enter the woods to the west of the meadow.

I was limping badly and it took me the best part of three days to rejoin my company. They had been forced to retreat but were now on the march again. Because I was wounded and weak from lack of food, I had to remain behind. But a month later I returned to the meadow where I had almost been killed. The bodies of Union soldiers had long since been removed for burial or to be returned to their families. But there were six unmarked graves at the edge of the field; unmarked all except for one where a saber was thrust into the earth at the head of the grave. Its brass guard was tarnished and its steel blade was rusting but I was sure it was the same saber. Though I had no way of knowing who was buried beneath it: the cavalry officer perhaps, or Ed, my friendly enemy.

***

My favourite picture card was titled 'Friendly Enemies'. It showed two wounded soldiers lying in a field beside a stream; one with a bloody stomach wound and the other giving him a drink from a canteen. Here's an extract from the text:

The bodies of the dead and wounded covered the battlefield for miles… Shirtsleeves were applied as tourniquets to stop the bleeding from wounds and head bandages were made from old handkerchiefs. Once wounded, the soldiers no longer thought of war, and only tried to help each other survive.

I still have the cards. A full set except, for number 80. I must have chewed a lot of gum.