*This final part is for those whose names live only in memory, consecrated by sacrifice.*

“THE FIELD OF BATTLE IS BOTH ALTAR AND GRAVE, WHERE YOUTH IS SACRIFICED AND MEMORY CONSECRATED.”

— SOUTHERN PREACHER’S SERMON, 1864

V.

Even with the enemy’s front line of battle in full view 1,000 yards down the bluff, the Rebels believe attack improbable, as the bluff is such a strong defensive position.  It runs six miles North to South and has proven to be safe.  They had already repulsed a few light foraging units during the past three days, slaughtering the few Union commandos foolish enough to attempt scaling the bluff. 

“Funny how war is.” ol’ Rufus utters.  “Everything’s so quiet right now.  I came upon a few skirmishers before breakfast and they was tellin’ me that they was surprised by a troop of blue bellies lyin’ in wait fer ‘em while out on patrol early yesterday.”

“Why wasn’t they kilt?” asks the kid.

“Them blue bellies said they wasn’t in the mood ta kill no one on such a fine morn.  They kept our boys covered with their muskets for a tad, then, as they got ta talkin’, they became friendly ‘nuff ta ask ‘bout exchanging newspapers.  They said they wanted ta read news from the other point of view, so they swapped papers, shook hands, and everyone went on their way.  Ain’t that a hoot, boy?  Who knows, in a bit, them same boys might be a shootin’ to kill each other.”

“Ya, I reckon so, ‘specially since things are changin’ so fast, Rufus.  Look yonder down the bluff.” 

The two Rebs see the Yanks below, now swelling to a sea of blue as far as the eye can see at the base of Blind Man’s Bluff.  They are itching to get into the fight. 

Butterflies in the gut of the Yankees are gone now, almost to a man.  Once the realization that the battle is at hand sinks in, the professionalism of the trained soldiers took over.  They may look like a rag-tagged assembly of misfits, but they can fight, oh yes, they can fight.  Many of the older soldiers dressed for battle today had fought in the Mexican War just a few short years ago.

Fact was, many of the men claim to have actually fought along side ol’ Abe, the president, in a bit of action during that war.  Well, there are facts and then there are facts, and the real facts be known none of these men had been anywhere near Abe, but they all had a good yarn to weave for anyone interested in listening.  That would have to wait for a later date; right now wasn’t the time.

The lad looks right, then left, then back to his right.  Blue uniforms of the Federals are gathering as one, ready to assault the bluff.  Warmth comes over him.  He is calmed.  He figures they have superior strength, superior forces, and most of all he knows God is on their side. 

“There ain’t no way them Rebs is gonna get all of us, Caleb!  We is gonna have us a turkey shoot today!”

“Just never mind getting’ too cocky there sonny.  You jist stay behind us ol’ men.  We knows what we is doin’ and I don’t want ya kilt dead, ya hear?  I tell ya it’s gonna get a lot worse here today before it’ll get better, sonny boy.  You jest watch my back; don’t go strayin’ off . . . “

Without warning and without sound it happens.  Ol’ Caleb whirls around in a demoniacal fury, like a marionette on a fragile string in the middle of a Kansas twister.  His mouth is agape.  In his eyes there is a blank stare.  On his face is an expression of shock and disbelief.  The boy notices a third eye socket forming in Caleb’s forehead.  A small trickle of crimson appears and trickles down Caleb’s nose.  His knees twist.  His legs buckle.

Caleb slowly tumbles unceremoniously onto the rocky ground. A death-gasp is heard coming from his contorted mouth.

The boy gags, his mouth goes tight as if he were sucking on a lemon.  He feels hot sweat slither down his face.  He wipes at it briskly with his forearm.  What he sees quickly churns his stomach.  A wrench rips his gut.  One more powerful than the one felt only a short time earlier.  Slimy gray matter, the consistency of Cookie’s early morning’s gruel, now dots his blue, woolen sleeve.  He is staring at gray matter that only a few moments earlier contained the recollections, hopes, dreams, and fears of his friend, Caleb.  This matter contained thoughts of home and of loved ones, thoughts nurtured over a lifetime.  He was staring at remnants of Caleb’s brain.

Realizing what the substance is, the boy desperately attempts to shake the revolting slime off his blue sleeve.  He feels guilty.  Caleb had not only been a father figure to him, but a mentor and close friend.  He knows he should be more respectful of his fallen hero.  His guilt turns to burning shame.

Meanwhile, up on the bluff, “I done got me one of them damned blue belly’s down there boy!”  Rufus excitedly screams to the rebel lad.  “Gonna git me a might more ‘fore day is done, you bet!  My sight is a tad off though.  I gotta compensate fer that.”

“What ya mean, Rufus?”

Kneeling behind the kid, Rufus explains, “I didn’t want ta kill the ol’ man.  I was aimin’ fer the young-un next ta him.  That’s what I really wanted ‘cuz the young-uns grow up ta be big and strong.  The ol’ boys, well they is slow and we don’t have ta worry ‘bout ‘em much in a fight.  Yep, it’s the young-uns we want first.  Same with them blue-bellies, ‘member that kid, ‘member that good.  They’d jist as soon pick ya off first than give an ol’ man like me a second thought.”

Rufus tentatively adjusts the telescopic sight of his British Whitworth Rifle.  This rifle, the undisputed favorite of the Rebel sharpshooters is usually very reliable, but its sight is off from miles of recent marching.  This was the first chance he had to test fire it in days.  Rufus is proud of his rifle.  He has earned the right to be proud for he possesses one of the very few Whitworth’s in the Confederate arsenal.  His is the only one on the field that day.

“You listen up good kid, if’n ya want ta make it through today, ya just stay put behind behind this here big rock.  It’ll give ya good cover so’s ya’ll live ta tell your grandchillin’ ‘bout this here glorious day!  Yes, we are goin’ to hurt them Yanks bad today.  We is gonna hutr them so bad their great-grandchilin’ will still be feelin’ it years from now, I tells ya!”

Patting the lad on the head and mussing his hair, Rufus slowly starts to stand.  He readies himself for a scramble to the cover of a near-by outcropping of rock for second shot.  He takes a half step before stopping.  He sits down, leaning against the kid’s back.

“Forget something, Rufus?” the kid asks turning around. 

Rufus doesn’t answer.  Rufus can’t answer.  A Yankee sniper had delivered repayment in kind for ol’ Caleb. 

Both Caleb and Rufus are now only spectral, ghostly observers of the events which are about to take place.

VI.

It takes only moments for the tranquil setting to mutate into a scene that even Dante, in all of his hells, could not portray.  Orders, both genuine and imagined are chaotically relayed with blinding speed up and down the rank and file of the Yankee line.

“Take the hill at all costs!”

“No retreat!”

The blue ranks surge as one into a rolling volley thunderous of fire.  The young lad is surrounded by men transformed into wild animals that had become thirsty for the taste of blood through years of war.  As they rush forward, over Caleb’s fallen frame, many caution the lad to stay close and to keep his head low.

A salvo of Rebel cannon fire rains down from atop the bluff bursting overhead.  The bombardment is coming from mobile mortars being easily moved around the bluff by only four men.  There was no way the Rebs could have gotten full field howitzers up the bluff.  Besides, the 12-pounder coehorn shell that the mortar fires is better for short range.  Today it is extremely brutally effective.  Deadly shrapnel begins to take its toll.  The first volley is like a giant scythe running through the Yankee lines.  Men fall like toy soldiers.  Bombs fly, rifles fire, men drop.  Carnage is everywhere.  The Yanks waiver, retreat, and regroup.  The center splinters, then regroups, and attacks.

Explosive shells continue to descend.  One shell, its delay fuse apparently jarred loose, bowls through the Yankee ranks as if the men were ten pins.  Men fall in neat rows, precisely as they stood moments before. 

The lad notices a gray-haired old warrior searching for cover.  One moment the old gent was running on two legs.  In the next moment a shell finds its mark.  Hitting the man in his left upper thigh, it tears through flesh and bone without mercy, ripping the old man’s leg from of his hip socket.  The coloration in the old man’s face quickly turns ashen as he goes into mortal shock.  As the man momentarily stands on his remaining leg, the boy witnesses blood gushing from the gruesome wound. 

The old man dies before his corpse hits the ground.

Both sides were now fully engaged.  Blue coats, hundreds, no thousands, push forward towards the bluff as one.  Swarming over the base of the bluff they begin their upward assault.  Marching upward they cheer for God and country.  They cry out for their sweethearts or mothers.  Today they will meet their glory or meet their death!

The resolution was now up to the Almighty.

Seeing his mentor, Caleb, fall without warning and viewing the carnage of broken, and soon to be bloated bodies surrounding him, the young Yankee becomes blind with rage.  Balancing his musket, bayonet ready for business, he links with his brethren to join the fight at hand.  At this moment the child has become a man.

Meanwhile, “Get up!  Get up, Rufus,” the Rebel lad shrieks.  Only moments before he had been cajoling with Rufus.  Now he attempts to scream life back into the prone, spiritless corpse before him.

Demon eyes bulge from tight sockets.  He realizes that Rufus would breath no more.  Slowly turning around facing the bluff, he knows in his soul that he is ready for anything vaulting over the protecting boulders.  Drawing a deep breath he leaves his youth behind and joins the thousands of other Rebels as they screamed out their fear-inspiring Rebel yell. 

His battle on Blind Man’s Bluff had commenced!

VII.

Nothing can restrain the force of the Yankees charge as they advance amid a raging tempest of blistering fire.  Casualties mount.  Mangled corpses and suffering wounded litter the field.  Horrendous losses from the slaughtering fire coming from above wither the blue ranks.  Men, who had fought through many bloody battles, had never seen the ground before them so thick with their wounded, dead or dying comrades.  They knew that there would be many that may survive their wounds, but would never walk on both legs, or hold a loved one with both arms ever again.  Men who can no longer stand are fighting, gulping their own blood while firing their weapons to the last.  Bodies are falling; some are headless, others are without arms or legs.

There is a loud explosion followed by a great moan. One shell destroys ten men in a single burst.  Entire sections of the blue ranks disappear.  Arms, hands, muskets, and knapsacks are tossed into the air as bombs burst all about.  Seconds turn into centuries, minutes are ageless, there is a mass of wounded.

One brave soldier, bullets in his head, chest, arms and legs was struggling to survive, yet crawling to reach a fallen comrade’s weapon so he could continue firing.

Blood is running down a gully and has turned it into a river of death.  It will take a violent summer downpour to wash the blood from this field.

As for the lad in blue, the assault had not dulled his edge.  He continues his assault, keeping his head low, still angry over the useless annihilation of Caleb.  He finds it more difficult climbing over his dead and wounded comrades than he does dodging the hail of gunfire and shrapnel raining down upon him from above.  A musket ball screams only inches from his head as he steps over a fallen warrior who is clutching his belly trying unsuccessfully to contain his entrails as they ooze through the stumps of what remains of bloody finger.  Brimstone from hell fire, it was.  Through it all the Yanks press on.

For the Yankee lad, an eternity passes in short order.  Without realizing it, the boy is almost to the top of the bluff.  He survives.  Gasping, attempting to catch his breath, he looks up.  He crouches just below the boulders concealing the crest of the bluff.  He falls, hugging the dirt under him, and thanks God he has made it this far.

His head rises barely off the ground, but it allows him a view of exploding shells overhead.  Bullets, as thick as flies on a dead horse, zing by.  He foolheartedly thinks of holding up his fingers to see how long it would take to loose one.  Instead, he carefully grips a tree root protruding from the steep embankment and takes complete inventory of his fingers.

“One.  Two.  Three . . .” He counts, checking body parts making sure he still has both legs and feet attached.  He has heard stories from the old men, stories telling of men in battle having had a foot blown off, but the blast that stripped them of their foot also removed all feeling as they continued to fight.  Even though the lad didn’t believe such a whale of a tale, he checked himself just to be sure he hadn’t lost anything.  Both feet were still attached.

He removes and inspects his kepi.  “No holes.  That’s good,” he remarks to himself while running his fingers through his hair before checking to make sure both ears remain. 

“Yep, everything is where it ought ta be.  Praise the Lord!” 

Although he has absolutely no feeling anywhere in his body, he is grateful that all four appendages, along with his ears, and his nose remain.  He does, however, notice a few additional holes in his tattered coat of blue, holes that were not there down at the base of the bluff when he began his climb only moments before.  The worst for him was over he believes as he continues to observe, with horror, the continuing butchery below.  He wonders why he was able to survive the climb virtually unscathed when so many of those below had not. 

He has little time for sentiment or to morn the loss of the scores of good officers and men lying below, for the battle rages on.  From all quarters action continues.  Shells are flying high overhead, bullets and musket balls crashing through living and dead flesh throughout the blue line can not stall advance. 

He must have pleased the god of battle, for he survived.  He knows that nothing but the hand of the Allwise Providence has protected him thus far.  As he lies in the cool shadow of a huge boulder he give thanks once again to Almighty God.

He should have waited.

Only a few yards above him, grasping the same boulder that was providing the Yank his soothing shade is the young Reb hugging its backside.  The Confederate was crouching, waiting for his moment to join the battle.  The Reb has been witnessing the carnage of the battle from the safety of the boulder.  He is able to observe men turning, running, scattering.  He observes bravery within the bloodbath before him by peeking through a crevasse in the protective boulder.  He witnesses confusion among the troops.  It reminded him of how confused a duck once was when it got hit on the head by a falling branch.  He also witnesses much bravery through the confusion.  It appears that for every Yank that falls, three or four more immediately steps up take his place.

His head screams painfully, “Make it stop.  God, make it stop!”

Cannons from over a half a mile behind the Rebel’s position continued bombarding the hillside and field below.  Loud, protracted explosions rip tremendous holes in the attacker’s lines.  Each explosion hurls more body parts into the air while delivering the souls of the mutilated carcasses to the hereafter.

“What’s that.”  Through small cracks in the boulders the Reb glimpses a slight movement.  “Somethin’ blue!”

This gives him a frightful start.  With Rufus dead, he is alone on this section of the bluff.  He had been in small skirmishes before, however, never has he been so close to an enemy as he is at this moment.  He imagines he hears the beating of the enemy’s heart from the other side of the boulder.  He knows for certain that he feels his own heart pulse.  His body throbs from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.  He knows that in only seconds he may be face-to-face with the unknown enemy now lying in wait only inches away.  In a brief moment he will be forced to forfeit his life or that of his foe. 

He is determined that if someone has to meet his Maker, it will not be him.

Trying to stifle his breathing to allow him to hear any movement beyond the boulder, anxiety and fear set in.  His bladder, although emptied only a few moments before the assault on the bluff began, is going to explode just like the shells around him.  He controls the uncomfortable feeling . . . for the moment.

“Clink!”

Metal on metal. 

He knows from experience that the sound means business.  His unknown adversary, hidden behind the rock, is nervously checking his own bayonet making sure it is locked properly.  If the Reb wasn’t sure there was anyone on the other side of the boulder previously, he knows now.

Painfully, his bladder can take no more pressure.  A flooding warmth involuntarily escapes turning his trousers from a dusty gray to a wet, deep charcoal tinge.  He is immediately embarrassed for not being able to restrain himself, but then a feeling of relief comes over him.  The queasy feeling in his gut leaves him.  He is now able to think much more clearly.

He slowly maneuvers his musket barrel so he can check his bayonet.  As with the Yank, he wants to be prepared for what is about to commence. 

It is a mistake the Reb can ill afford.

“Clink!”

Up until hearing the crisp, metallic clink of the bayonet setting in the lock of the Rebel’s musket, the young Yankee is unaware of the presence of anyone being on the other side of the protective boulder.  He is now forewarned. 

Silently waiting, nervously pressing his ear to the boulder, he tries to hear more.  He attempts to determine the size of the force awaiting the moment he vaults to the other side.  The sounds of battle, although thunderous, disappear.  The Yank’s concentration is so intense that he blocks out all thought and distraction from his mind.  The only interest he has in the world at the moment is determining the size and strength of the force on the other side of the boulder.

Too much noise.  Cannon.  Gunshot.  Mortar.  Screams.  Horrible screams!  Oh, the appalling, ghastly, death screams rising from the now scarlet stained battlefield below, curdle the young Rebel’s blood.  All the devastation about and now the enemy has come to him.  This is almost too much for him to deal with.  He thinks he is going to crack from the pressure.  He believes he will soon be joining in the painful chorus of wounded strewn about.

As if to accentuate his thoughts, from one direction he hears, “My leg.  My leg.  My God, my leg?”

From the opposite direction he hears, “Help me!  I can’t see.  I can’t . . .” but before the unseen conscript completes his lament he falls dead in his tracks.  A stray 58-caliber carbine bullet pierces his heart.

Meanwhile, the Yankee is brought out of his trance when he hear the same plea as it was cut short by a projectile.  Now sick from the constant carnage, he makes his decision.  He isn’t about to let a stray bullet end his life in battle.  If he is meant to die this day, he will die on his terms.  He will die with bravery and honor. 

Mumbling a hasty prayer, asking nothing for himself, but rather for his mother, he implores, “Please Lord, watch over my dear, sweet ma.  To you I pray, please keep her well.”

With this bit of personal business complete, he is ready.  The boy searches deep into his soul, grasping for every ounce of courage he possesses.  Taking a deep breath he vaults over the boulder unsure if he will be alive when his feet hit the ground once more.

Only seconds earlier, realizing full well that the enemy will not wait forever, the Rebel reached back into his deepest memories for a thought of his mother. 

“Ma dear, I want ta see ya and be with ya again,” his thoughts are racing faster than his heart, “but ya see, there is these fellers yonder that is gonna try and stop me.  If’n I don’t make it, ‘member ma, I love you.”

Feeling as if he has taken care of everything that was important, the Reb is prepared.  He slowly begins to rise from his crouch.

His foe is faster.

Over the boulder bounds the Yankee lad knocking over the young Rebel who is still in the process of rising.  The force of the blow sends the Reb sprawling to the ground. 

The Yank, not only surprised at crashing into the enemy, but dropping him so easily, quickly regains his composure.  He raises his musket over his head; his bayonet poised, ready to kill.

The victim lies prone on the ground.  His left arm is outstretched in a meager attempt to cover his face and fend off the inevitable oncoming blows.  He simultaneously attempts to get the offensive.  Grasping his bayonet-spiked musket in his right hand, he thrust it towards the legs of the Yank.  Although he can’t distinguish his enemy’s facial features, there is something about the Yank’s blue britches that catch his eye. 

In a surreal moment, rather than concentrating on his impending doom, he notices how curious it is that the Yank’s trousers are in no better condition than his own.  He was never this close to a Yank before and he was led to believe that all Yanks were rich and wore fine clothes.  The enemy’s britches have rips, tears, and holes in them just as his does. 

He shifts his left hand in a slight defensive motion allowing him to see more of his adversary.  He can now make out some of the Yank’s youthful features as the Yank is drawing back his musket for the fatal thrust of his bayonet. 

The Yankee boy’s face is covered by his musket, but the Reb can see he isn’t any taller than he is and just as raw-boned and scrawny as he is.  Not much difference in age, he reckoned.  In better times he thinks the two might actually be friends.

“What am I doing?  He’s trying to KILL ME!!!”

Coming to his senses, he immediately cries out his shrill, Rebel yell.

The Yank begins his decisive, deadly thrust; the Reb feebly parries with his weapon exposing his face to the enemy.  Although it is only a slight movement, being as he is at the disadvantage lying on his back, it gives the Yankee reason to pause. 

Their eyes meet and lock upon each other.

For a brief moment both boys see each other not as deadly foes, but as human beings. 

What the boys see in that short brief moment, the moment they look deep into each other’s eyes–into each other’s souls, give both a traumatic shock!

Now locked in deadly combat far from home and in the heat of battle, fighting for their very lives, the boys stare at each other in unbelievable, utter amazement!  They are staring not at an unknown enemy.  They are staring back at themselves!

VIII.

Here, atop Blind Man’s Bluff, in the backwoods, uncharted Southern mountains, miles from home–years from home, two young boys gaze into the face of the hated enemy and see a face they instantly recognize; they see a face identical to their own.

Ironically, here meet twin brothers, born sixteen years before and separated now for just two.  They had chosen similar, yet quite different paths.  One had gone north seeking his fortune in the big city while the other, less venturesome lad stayed home taking care of their widowed mother and tending to the family farm.

Over the two years of separation they lost contact with each other and until this lethal moment, neither had known of the fate of the other.

Here they are, poised in mortal combat, bayonets fixed, ready to run each other through.

The rebel, yet lying on his back in a very precarious position, instantly recognizes the crazed face of the Yankee as that of his brother.  He tosses his musket aside.

The Yankee, not having made the connection yet as the adrenaline continues to surge through his body, continues with his distasteful task.  His bayonet is in full thrust, directed towards the heart of the prone Rebel.  The well honed bayonet blade glistens, its cold steel shimmering in the bright sun.  Its blood grove impatiently waits to be employed.  It anxiously awaits the Yankee’s completed plunge.

In the back of the Yankee’s mind a inexplicable voice screams out, “STOP!!!” 

Muscles tighten and jerk as, with superhuman effort, the Yankee halts his motion.  His mind is spinning.  Everything is a momentary blur.  He recognizes the soldier before him.  Immediately his thoughts flash back to better times, times years ago, times before he left his home and left his only brother; this twin brother now sprawled before him.  Yes, those were better days–much better days.

A memory of swimming together in the near-by stock pond raced through his mind.  Then a thought came to him of the time they rode Betsy, their ancient mare, over to the north forty to repair the split rail fence after a severe twister had ripped out a section “near ‘bout a mile long.”

Sheep flash across his mind.  Oh the sheep.  He hadn’t thought of them in years.  They become frightened by the storm and bleating madly, they escaped through the broken fence.  The boys acted quickly.  They took turns herding the sheep and repairing the fence.  It took four days to fix the fence.  In those four days the brothers ate coon and squirrel that they hunted in the woods surrounding the farm.  The Yank smiled remembering how, after three days, a tender and juicy leg of lamb would have tasted great.  It would have been a might better than a scrawny squirrel, but Ma told them to leave the sheep alone and to bring every last one of them back safely.

These thoughts raced through his mind in merely a split second of his short live. 

When he comes back to his senses, he realizes he is still standing over his twin the bayonet is only inches from his brother’s heart.  He knew he could not kill the Rebel, his brother, his twin.

He wants to fall on his knees and tell the fallen rebel that he missed and loved him so much over the past two years.  He wants to ask his twin how their dear old mother, whom he hadn’t seen for such a long time, was doing.  Was she still alive?  Was she upset because he left and never returned?  Did she miss him?  How he wished the two could have reunited in better times.  It wasn’t right to meet on this savage, deadly battleground.

As the words begin to rush from the Yank’s mouth a shot rings out.  From which direction is unknown.  Was it an errant missile?  Was it a Rebel sniper’s bullet finding its mark, the sniper intent on protecting one of his own?  No matter, for it was at this decisive moment both lads macabre fate was sealed.

The Rebel lad, on his back, realizes his brother recognizes him.  He knows his brother is going to let him live, but the bullet finds its mark.  He watches helplessly as his brother is hit, shot through the head, dies instantly. 

The Rebel screams in terror.

His Yankee brother momentarily remains hovering above him, bayonet yet poised in its deadly offensive position aimed for his heart.  He falls in a crumpled heap. 

As the Yankee drops to earth, the bayonet quiets the young Rebel’s yell for all eternity.

Epigraph

“The field of battle is both altar and grave, where youth is sacrificed and memory consecrated.” — Southern preacher’s sermon, 1864

Somewhere, miles from the battle sight and many weeks later, a gray haired mother receives two letters, one from the blue, one from the gray.  She sits in a creaky old rocking chair the boys built for her years earlier.  Slowly she reads the words in mournful silence; anguish pierces her heart.  She stares vacantly at the words on the pages before her.  Both missives could have been written by the same hand had she not known that they originated from bitter enemies. 

Neither letter gave any indication how her sons died, only that they both died at an unfamiliar battlefield known as Blind Man’s Bluff.  Although she knew the odds were against it, she prayed they met up and made amends before meeting their Maker. 

Both were good, loving boys.  She knew even though one wore blue and the other gray they would have protected one another. 

She looks up in time to watch the sun set over the dirt country road leading up to her farm.  She momentarily sees both sons walking arm in arm towards her, but then she realizes she will see her sons no more.

  Her hands drop painfully to her sides.  She can no longer grip the letters before her, the words on the page are much to heavy for her to bear.  Tears streak down her soft, wrinkled cheek. 

A mother grieves in anger and heartbreak.

She is alone.

*************************************************************************

Thank you for walking with me through the journey of Brothers in Arms. This trilogy has carried the weight of memory, duty, and silence — and now, as one chapter closes, another begins.

Next up: The Peculiarity Emporium — where oddities whisper, curiosities breathe, and wonder waits at every turn.

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