Due to my work schedule, I was unable to get this posted on Veteran's Day, but I am going to go ahead with it a day late. In conjunction with our second promotional giveaway for
Cities of the Dead, I will post a story from the book that has not yet been published in print or on the web outside of the book itself.
This story involves the spirits from a Confederate Artillery Regiment, whose bodies were buried together in a Society Tomb. The memorial in question is real. The story is fictional. War is hell, as General Sherman said, but it doesn't always end when we think it does.
by Jason Phillip Reeser
Early
mornings in the Firemen’s Cemetery are notoriously shrouded in mist. Educated men might explain this by pointing
out the land’s elevation in relation to the nearest waterways as well as the
role played by local weather. Those of a
particular engineering bent would add the importance of Interstate 10 running
along its western border. Spiritually
minded men might suggest that regardless of such natural influences, these
sacred grounds are a nexus wherein heaven and earth join, allowing the passing
of so many souls that a certain residue is inevitably to be seen with the aid
of the day’s first sunlight.
The
Fireman’s Charitable and Benevolent Association had consecrated these grounds
in the year 1852 and tourists might believe the more mischievous tour guides
who spin tales of ghostly smoke and water-sprays from spectral hoses. The awkwardly dressed men with cameras enjoy
the idea that firemen of old still battle it out with ancient fires for all
eternity. Their wives tend to shudder at
this image; some of them familiar with the dread of waiting for a husband to
return from a hazardous job, and some simply burdened with an ingrained human
alarm towards house fires.
Educated
men scoff at notions of this kind and even spiritual men hesitate to give it
credence. And in the end the tourists
will tuck their photos away in a box along with the tour guide’s fanciful tale
and forget all about it. Neither the
scholars, nor the religious, nor the tourists will ever understand just how
close to the truth such tales do come.
Before
the first ray of each new dawn, just as it seems as if the grip of night’s
darkness will never be broken, those who sleep lightly in the Fireman’s
Cemetery are disturbed by a muffled racket coming from a great, square society
tomb. Standing along one open lane, deep
within the field of the dead, it is rather plain in appearance, and by
starlight is dreary looking—a heavy, squat figure resembling a rundown tenement
or forgotten bureaucratic cellblock.
Across the top edge of this monument, if the darkness were pulled away,
one would see these words: Soldiers’ Home.
A
man’s tired voice murmurs a few words, the only reply a sharp clank of metal on
stone. Shuffling steps echo against the
neighboring tombs, and then someone coughs.
There is the sound of running followed by jeering laughter. A lower voice, wide and powerful, demands an
answer. For the first time, distinct
words are heard. “Yessir!”
Now,
a great many footsteps can be heard.
Rattling and clattering mix with coughing and veiled curses. It is evident that as many as ten or twenty
men are moving about in the dark. If
they are all of one purpose, it does not sound so. A short quarrel, muffled by the shroud of
pre-dawn but no less violent than if it were conducted in sunlight, is cut
short by a harsh command. The runner
returns at the same time. Most of the
clamor is now out on the open lane, in front of the Soldiers’ Home. There is less noise, though a few more words
are clearer now.
“Watch
that,” a husky voice warns.
“All
right, all right.” The lower voice
concedes.
“Battery,”
a quick whisper. The last of the muted
clanks and shuffles comes to an end.
All
is silent now save for one figure who cannot stop coughing.
“Battery.” This time, the voice carries more
authority. The coughing stops for a
breath, but begins anew.
The
low voice issues an order. The coughing
figure moves away from the others, back towards the dark block.
“Battery.” There is no more noise. The black morning air holds for a collective
pause.
The
forms of men can now be seen as the first bit of grey is mixed into the
atmosphere. There are four rows of men,
five abreast, facing the Soldiers’ Home.
Before them stand two men, off to one side stands a thinner man. By their silhouettes, it is obvious that the
men are standing at attention, arms held at their sides. Each man’s head is covered by a misshapen
cap. A few exceptions are
bareheaded. All are uniformed, though
most of the blouses ill fitting.
The
thin man steps forward, facing the Battery.
He bows his head and speaks.
“Our
Father, which art in heaven…” his voice is as thin as his shadow.
The
Battery joins in. The words of the
prayer echo down the grassy lane, swallowed by the lingering night. When they finish, they are silent for a full
minute.
From
out of the Soldiers’ Home comes the sound of a stifled cough.
“Detail.” The word cuts the silence like an alarm, and
the black forms break formation. Each
line of men makes its way to one of the corners of the Soldiers’ Home. Most of the black night has been replaced by
a heavy gray that allows the men to be able to see shapes but nothing
more. It is all that they need. Each corner of the blocked structure is
composed of a cannon barrel standing on end.
In the middle of the east and west walls stand two other cannon, though
there are not enough men to work these.
The men toil swiftly, their carefully plotted routine insuring that each
cannon is lowered without injury to the men or damage to the stone artillery
pieces.
As this is being done, two men
from each detail pull open the nearest bottom vault and withdraw a stone cradle
which will hold each great barrel. As
their comrades set the cannons into the cradles, they already begin to withdraw
bags of gunpowder, as well as the rammers, cleaning worms, sponges, lanyards,
and friction primers. As one man seals each
vent hole with his thumb, they first worm and swab out the barrels, removing
any bits of masonry chips and dust that fell in during the process of removing
the cannons from the monument. The vent
holes are then cleaned out in the same manner. By the time the cannons are
secured to the cradle, each team is ready to load their gun.
A
bag of powder is rammed into place, and the brass friction primer is loaded
into the vent hole. A stone cannon ball,
from a stack on the monument’s corners, is rammed into place. The five men now come to attention as one of
them chuffs “Ready to fire!” One of the
details is slow, and finishes ten seconds behind the others. An officer fidgets with his pocket watch.
“They’ll
make it, Colonel.” The husky voice tries
to reassure him.
“All
right, all right.” The Colonel’s low
voice betrays his aggravation.
“It’s
Vincent’s men. There’s only four of
them. Theirs was the man with the
cough.”
“Yes,
I know that, Major.”
Enough
light has crept into the field to allow the two officers to see facial
expressions. The Colonel tries to
smile. The strain is unmistakable even
in the dim light.
“I
don’t like the men to be slack, Major. I
was easy on them. Too easy. It’s why we’re all here.”
“Begging
your pardon, sir, but that’s foolish.
You’re not to blame.”
“Battery!” The Colonel’s command cracks out sharply,
ricocheting off the nearest crypts. The
men stiffen, each gunner’s hand grasping tightly to his lanyard.
“You
know I’m right, sir. This melancholy of
yours comes and goes. You’ll think
better of it. Just give it time.” The Major gently touches his commanding
officer’s arm. “We’ve been over this
hundreds of times.”
The
Colonel ignores the touch and the comforting words, staring instead at his pocket
watch. He draws in a deep breath and
then, without pause, barks:
“Fire!”
The
four cannons belch smoke and thunder as well as stone chips and plaster
dust. Quickly, as if their former lives
depend on it, the men reload. Vincent’s
detail keeps up with the others and a second volley is fired. They fire a third and fourth volley as the
smoke obliterates what little light the morning has to offer. Their world is no longer black. It is grey and white, the air thicker than
the silk lining of the finest coffins.
“Shall
they reload?” the Major asks. His men
wait for his order. He steps closer to
the Colonel in an attempt to see him clearly through the haze.
“Why
do you always insist it is not my fault?”
The Colonel snaps his pocket watch shut and rams it into his
jacket. “I told Division they were
ready. I volunteered them. Insisted they be sent forward. You call me a fool? Only a fool would deny me this judgment.”
“The
men, sir?” The Major waits for his
Colonel’s decision.
“Again,
Major. They’re off this morning. And the sick man is not to blame.”
“Battery,
reload!” The Major’s shout lacks
conviction and carries emotion he had hoped to keep hidden.
“Do
not worry, Major. I know you
disagree. You think I’m too hard on
them.”
“On
yourself, sir.”
The
men are grimy with carbon, grout and sweat.
The chalky residue from the stone guns is smeared across their faces,
making them appear all the more ghostly.
They work with determination, dragging out more bags of gunpowder,
swabbing out the barrels, and ramming the loads in place. It is hot work. The cloying humidity, even in the early
morning, attacks them. They press on,
knowing there is no respite unless they improve. The Colonel has been known to push them until
the late morning sun has finally forced them back into their graves. They fear this as much as they fear real
combat. The sun is painful, and cuts
deeply into their souls.
Yet,
in the face of this toil and pain, they persevere. If they are ever to find peace, they know
they must satisfy their Colonel. They
must show him that his will has driven them beyond their limitations. That he has forced improvement upon them to
such an extent that time can be reversed, they can be saved, and he can be
redeemed. By his own sheer resolution he
must drag them out of the pit that he himself dug for them.
He
is demanding the impossible but they do not balk in the face of it. Yes, it is hard work. It is madness. But they soldier on.
“Fire!”
Smoke
rolls in every direction. It filters
down each adjacent lane, spreading its nauseating stench over and into tomb
after tomb. Many of the dead, long used
to this barrage, keep quietly in their crypts, content to wait out the
Colonel’s self-inflicted fury. On this
day, there are no new arrivals to annoy him, demanding that he stop. The newest residents in the nearby crypts
have already tried this and learned that the old soldier is as unmovable as
Stonewall Jackson ever was. They will
hate him for a long time. Eventually, as
with the older dead, they will come to pity him.
“Cease
fire!” The call is as loud and punishing
as his earlier order to fire. And it
does not mean the soldiers will now get their rest. Now they must move sharply, and attack the
cannons in reverse, lifting the great barrels back into place, and stowing the
cradles and tools without delay. If this
is not done right, they may be forced to do it all over again. They work feverishly, both desiring to please
their Colonel and fearful of his retribution.
“You
see, Major, responsibility must rest somewhere.
It cannot be passed along indefinitely.
Even if it could, it should not be.
Someone has to step in and take the weight of it. You must surely see that this is so.”
The
Major watches his men struggle to lift the stone cannons. In a way, his task is just as difficult. Just as repetitive. He has argued this point countless times. But he has never given in.
“Someone
does take responsibility, Colonel.
Someone of a much higher rank.
You would not presume to make yourself His equal, would you?”
“Look
closely at these vaults,” the Colonel steps closer to the Soldiers’ Home. The large memorial consists of five stacked
rows of burial vaults. There are four
vaults to each row. “As you are well
aware, there are no names here. Only
numbers. These men were destroyed beyond
recognition. Twenty men on this side,
twenty on the south side. Yet, we are
only able to cobble together enough pieces to make twenty-four men. My God!
I’ll be damned if I’ll stand for it.”
The
Colonel puts out a hand and leans heavily against a marble vault. His breaths are short and awkward.
“You
insult your Superior by this proud obduracy.”
The Major is not moved by the Colonel’s emotion. He once was long ago, but he has not been for
a long time. He makes an effort to win
the argument nonetheless. “Step aside,
and admit your limitations. You are not
God, and He never expected you to be one.
There are times when other men’s actions—even sins—affect us. We have no control over them. We simply do what we must and the end comes
out all of its own accord.”
The
men of the Battery, constructed from the detritus of war, reassemble on the
grassy lane, now at attention. Their
eyes wide with the terror of expectancy.
Their ears still ring with the cacophony of their exercise, they tremble
with an excess of adrenaline. They only
wait now to hear their commander’s judgment.
The
Colonel eyes them with weary assessment.
He has seen them perform better.
He knows it. They know it. But he is also aware they have done the best
they could for that day. The larger
question he must answer is whether or not it is enough.
“Step
aside, you said?” the Colonel asks softly.
“How that I wish I might.”
He
tugs at his buttoned collar and looks over the heads of his men. The smoke has spread out over the burial
ground now, a white mist in the rays of the morning sun. The smoke will clear eventually, and the sun
will burn them if they do not get under cover soon.
“Battery,
fall out.” His order is nearly a
whisper, but the men hear it plainly enough.
They break ranks and step out of the wide, grassy lane.
In
the miasma of smoke and sunlight, the weary soldiers climb into their stone
barracks, making little jokes as they go.
They need rest. And at least for
a day, they will get it.
“Thank
you, Major. That will be all. For this day.”
The
Major disappears around one corner of the large tomb. His quarters are on the south side. Left alone, the Colonel stands erect as the
smoke begins to clear. He endures the
sunlight for a short time. It burns, and
he imagines it is necessary.
“Not
God.” The Colonel chafes at the Major’s
impudence. “The man’s got gall, I’ll say
that for him.”
And
then he is gone. The Colonel lies in his
vault, just another corpse in a tomb that he has built with the power of his
pride.
A
cough is heard inside the Soldiers’ Home.
Then nothing more.
The
sun rises. Early morning tourists remark
upon the mist that lingers over the burial field. Another day begins.
To all of those men and women who have given of themselves for our country, I say thank you, and may God grant you the peace that passes all understanding.
