Andrew stepped out of the carriage. Snow crunched underneath his feet. The air was sharp on his throat, and the breeze tickled his mustache. He surveyed the landscape. Here was the place — he was back. He stepped out of the way of the door and shut it behind him. He gave it two good whacks, signaling to the driver that he could leave.
As his eyes adjusted to the snow brightness, Andrew took in the immense graveyard. Near the center was a marble monument. Everything sparkled. He pulled his long coat up from the snow and walked to the statue, routinely skip-stepping to fit between the headstones.
Clattering. From down the road came a wagon. It pulled up near a stack of barrels. Travis slid down onto one leg, leveraging a crate for stability. Where his other leg ought to have been, his trousers were tied in a knot. He turned around and pulled a crutch off a hay bale from the back of the wagon. After a moment, the driver cracked a whip.
Travis observed the monument. It was the same every year. Massive, garish. He shook his head and pulled his waistcoat closed to keep out the chill breeze. He hopped towards the center of the cemetery. It was a tired journey, but mandatory. Oaths were meant to be kept.
Andrew reached the base of the hill on top of which stood the commemorative statue. He looked up at it. It was bigger than it had looked from the road. He heard the distant report of a cannon and flinched. He looked down at the snow with his eyes closed. Men were yelling ahead of him, far away. He listened, trying to make out the words. He was losing his balance and opened his eyes. The snow was clean.
The crutch caught the side of a headstone; Travis fell. He landed sideways between the two more gravestones. The snow poofed up to his neck. Cold. He closed his eyes and heard bees overhead.
“That was lucky, Trav!”
Travis looked around. Deeter wasn’t there. There was no volley of bullets overhead. Travis propped himself up. He grabbed his hat and put it back on. Using his crutch, he worked himself upright. He reoriented himself and kept hopping.
By the statue, the major yelled, “Charge!”
Andrew looked up. He raised the bugle to his lips to signal the order. His hand brushed his mustache. There was no sound. He looked at his empty right hand. He remembered how it felt.
“Hey, Trav. We got it done, right? I didn’t die for nothin’, right?”
“Deeter, you’re dead, shut up,” said Travis.
“Nah, sir. I know we won this.”
Pausing to rest, Travis shook his head. ‘Shut up, Deeter.’ The monument was looming. Ugly. The yanks had no sense of style. No sense of honor.
From behind, Andrew watched the sword drop. The command was, “Fire!” The Union volley destroyed the grey line. They were free to move again. The field was theirs, and the enemy was breaking.
Andrew looked up at the statue, taking in its full height. It was imposing. He liked it. He smiled and started back to the road. He pulled up his coat so it wouldn’t get wet in the snow. Honor and nobility won the day. The Union was glorious and triumphant.
Andrew carried with him the memories of a bugle boy.
Travis continued his trek, passing a well-to-do man. He was smiling and distracted; Travis ignored him and kept hopping.
Travis finally found what he was looking for. The headstone simply read, “Cpl. Deeter Hanscomb”. The tears in his eyes made it impossible for him to read. He traced the letters with his fingers. And the next stone. And the next. Slaughtered.
Travis carried with him the memories of a captain — a captain of good men.
