He stood there, stiff, unmoving, recognizing the solemnity of the moment, recalling as he did so the words of his old commanding officer, who had said that there was nothing that a man could not face while standing to attention.
He stood to attention now. His fingertips almost imperceptibly gripped the seams of his trousers as he stood there. He realized that he had to set an example to his boy, that if he broke now, Marcus would see weakness in the face of adversity. "No coward my son." He thought to himself, certainly the boy had grown too soft in his years on the farm. He had become used more to the ways of a woman, than to the hard reality of life as a man.
There had been no choice. The call to war had wrenched him from both his home and family. He had seen such sights of carnage and bloodshed, that he was unable to speak of such things, even unto God himself.
He noticed the tremors in his mothers hands as she gripped the white sheets, and recalled the white bandages on the front lines which turned red with the blood of his brothers. he looked away, realizing that everything had changed, that he could no longer look upon a such trivial things as a benign white sheet, and not recall those terrible years of death and blood.
He was certain that these thoughts would eventually leave him, but his mind was constantly filled with the sights, sounds and smells of the aftermath of cannon fire and the screaming voice of his best friend after a musket had left him bleeding to death in a place called Antietam Creek.
Yet he was home now. Home and ready to lead his family again. Certainly his years in the war had left a gaping hole in the child's life.
He hardly knew his boy now, and though, at that moment, he knew that his boy was trying to speak to him, and moreover, that he wanted to sweep him into his arms and cry like a baby, for what he had known; what he had seen, and for all of the reasons that he felt that he had failed.
He could not. he could not do that, not let his son and family down by showing such girlish and futile emotion, no.. he slowly shook his head to himself.
Now was the time for action, for strength, for ignoring the pain and becoming a soldier. To soldier on where others would weep and wail. He had to teach himself to drive the horses again. had to learn the subtle commands to ensure that the pair plowed a straight line for the corn. He had to deal with the hogs and cows.. At the thought of this he shuddered inwardly, knowing that his father had intended that he go to the academy, to become an officer, not play in the dirt like a peasant and hope that something better came to him.
He looked down at his mother.. Certainly the end was not far away, but he begged that she return for one moment. One moment that she could tell him what to do. She had to give him at least one small word of instruction, for all that was ahead of him was so daunting a task, that he felt weak at the thought of it. he had no idea how much a load of corn should be sold for. He knew nothing about the chickens, ducks, nor how much to feed the horses.
His childhood had been filled with orders from his father. Then this voice had fallen silent, and shortly afterward, the voice of his captain had filled that void, allowing him to focus his efforts on what had to be done, rather than to sit all day and wonder what that might be.
"wake mother, wake." he urged within his mind, as if calling to some unseen, and unknown God..
Dear God, where was he now.. where was he when the darkness of death descended and took his mother away...
"For the love of God, woman, wake." came the voice again in his mind, and a moment later he looked hurriedly around the room in fear that these words, such were their magnitude and importance, had not been spoken aloud.
He watched as she continued to taunt him with he departure, breathing yet silent, un-speaking and leaving him to the misery of his burden. No direction, no instruction, just the repeating sound of the shallow breathing which imparted no wisdom at all.
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