"Omens," Pt. 1 (Gettysburg)

Photo by Scott Umstattd on Unsplash

June 30, 1863

“There’s going to be a charge tomorrow.” Godfrey fell down on his bedroll without taking off his boots. His gray uniform was spattered with mud and blood, some of it still wet.

Simon gnawed on an apple that was more bruise than fruit. “My brother is over there somewhere.”

Godfrey went on groggily, as though he hadn’t heard Simon. “What is Lee thinking? Union’s got enough artillery to shoot our horses to pieces before we see any action.”

“The men are tired.” Simon took a big bite of the apple, grimaced, but forced himself to chew and swallow. This was the only food he had left. He wrapped the rest in a handkerchief to eat in the morning.

“Why could things not continue as they were?” Godfrey mumbled. “Suki and Annabelle are happy working in our house. They are treated well. What will happen to them if we lose this war?” He yawned and rolled over. “No one is going to pay actual money to a couple of…”

Half a minute later he snored.

Simon sat brooding in the darkness, thinking about Daniel. His little brother was sleeping somewhere on the northern side of the field.

Things had been fine as they were. Papa beat the slaves, but he also beat his sons when they disobeyed or their work was unsatisfactory. Papa didn’t pay the slaves, but he didn’t pay his sons, either. Why did the slaves deserve a war? Simon would have preferred not to fight in a war, regardless of what the fight was for.

Simon lit his lantern and approached the third bedroll in his circle. Jameson had been struck in the temple by a bullet during the day’s battle. It had only grazed him, but he had not regained consciousness since he fell. His face was still filthy, half-caked in mud. The clean white bandage stood out like a halo around his head. Simon shook him, then rolled him over. The man was already stiff. He had been dead for several hours.

Simon sighed, then searched Jamison’s clothes and knapsack for food. He found a stale crust of bread and devoured it quickly. It crunched like a twig between his teeth.

He became aware suddenly that someone was standing in the darkness not six feet from him. An unnatural dread ran through him. He trembled. The lantern-light quivered as it illuminated the figure. Simon would have screamed if the sight had not driven the breath from his lungs.

The figure looked like a man, paler than the moon, lips blue like those of a frozen corpse. Red eyes glinted, disproportionately large, like an owl’s in the lantern light. The voice was a raspy, high-pitched whisper. It gave no message but a death rattle. Pale, unnaturally long fingers, like the legs of a white widow spider, stretched forward, icy knives in the darkness.

The lantern dropped from Simon’s hand. The creature recoiled backward and became one with the shadows again, it swelled in size and grew dark as ink. The stars disappeared behind it. The crickets were silent. The owl-like red eyes expanded and dark wings unfurled, bat-like. The creature’s shadowy figure sailed straight upward into the darkness. The stars reappeared. A chill wind rippled across the field.

Simon finally caught a breath and screamed.