Gray-clad soldiers fell everywhere. The air was thick with lead. Shells burst continually overhead, taking down two, three men at a time. Eric watched as both officers and enlisted keeled over, fell backwards, or simply collapsed, dead or injured. Within seconds, it seemed scores of Eric's comrades were felled by the unanticipated staunch Union stand.
Holes opened in the lines. Men froze. The line stopped. Its momentum was broken.
"By God! Don't break, now! We've got to return fire!" Sam's voice, distinct, cried out from an unexpected location, the front.
Eric jerked his head to the sound of the voice. Sam moved forward to be seen, out of position, ahead of the line, just to Eric's right.
"Damn, Sam!" Eric exclaimed, then turned to Old John next to him, exhorting, "The lieutenant's out of position!"
No one replied; no one ordered the lieutenant back to his place. Other than Eric, no one was concerned. For the rest, Sam was where he was most needed.
The dapper young lieutenant pulled out his sword and waved it overhead, running up and down in front of them. He was tall, lean, and muscular, holding his sword aloft. His long brown locks of hair cascaded from beneath his foraging cap and flowed over his shoulders. The sight of this handsome young officer exuding such calmness and confidence reassured the men around Eric. Sam's coal black eyes challenged each man to hold his place, to keep tight, and to withstand the enemy's barrage. His friend seemed ignorant of the projectiles which raced about him. The lieutenant defied death, and in doing so inspired the company to steady under the withering fire. In awe, the men responded.
"Close the holes, for heaven's sake! Prepare to fire!" Sam ordered coolly.
Eric watched, for a moment horrified at his friend's position, forward of the line, an officer, suddenly alone, sword in hand, a target, an easy target.
"Eric Fry, there, musket up!" Sam called out, winking as he passed his friend. "You men with him! Jim Killian, John Dunlap, Thomas Campbell! You are the center! You are the keystone! Hold place and aim! The others will follow your lead!"
Eric responded instinctively to the orders, raising his already loaded weapon. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Thomas and John move likewise. He felt the warm steel of Billy's barrel over his shoulder. Down the line either way, he saw the rest of the squad and the company follow suit.
Eric aimed.
"Company fire!" Sam screamed.
Triggers pulled. A distinct crack, flame, and recoil followed. It was a solid fire. The musket balls found their marks. Union men standing in the works collapsed forward over the earthen walls or slumped back, disappearing into the trenches.
"Reload at will! Stand firm! You men there close the gaps. File-closers, move up!"
As he listened to Sam take charge, Eric moved quickly, biting, tearing, dumping, ramming, running the rod home. He watched in awe of Sam's unshakable presence in the midst of battle. Officers were down everywhere; few were left to be seen. Not only was the company responding to Sam's command, but half the regiment seemed to follow his lead. Back and forth the young lieutenant strode, gallantly, his back to the enemy, yelling, encouraging, confident, brave, all at the same time, each man responding to what the young officer said, what the officer did, how the officer acted. The line steadied around Sam's little company. Men moved up. Officers of higher rank came forward but deferred to the lieutenant's leadership. The gaps closed; the formation tightened. Despite his low rank, Sam was in control of this side of the regimental line, once more five companies strong.
The Yankees fired again. More whistling metal passed through, making the air thick all around. The enemy fire was higher this time, less chance to aim. The men of the Twenty-third were safer. Although a few men were hit, falling helplessly to the side, the line stood firm. Sam's steely resolve enabled them to withstand the first true test.
******
He received the letter just before they moved to the front. He refused to open it, hoped fate would prove he would never have to do so. But as always seemed the case fate worked against him. Fate was cruel.
He took a deep drag on his pipe, letting the smoke roll to the back of his mouth. He felt the tar drip down his throat, and he exhaled. He could wait no longer; he opened the envelope. As he pulled the letter out, he carefully unfolded the paper, bringing it open and steady onto his legs. He began to read.
Dearest Eric,
We have heard nothing from you since you departed last summer. Your two week visit to see your friend Samuel has drawn out for a year now, suddenly with no hope of your quick return. What a fine ruse, to volunteer without your father's knowledge! It took him some time to track you down once he realized you were returning no time soon. However, by Christmas last, he'd discovered your enlistment. As you are aware of his feelings toward the rebellion, he has forbidden your family from writing. But I am not blood kin, so I decided to take it upon myself to reproach you for such deceitful conduct. Your mother's heart is broken. Your brother and your father, in silence, fear for your safety daily. And I worry that you have left never to return, saddened by the thought that I shall never see you again. How were we to know that your departure kisses were not for two weeks, but possibly for a lifetime?
We fear the worst, not having heard from you for eight months. What's worse is knowing you are presently in the vicinity of the Army of the Potomac-that you might have been subjected to fighting in Hampton Roads, that you may be, or even are now, killed. After discovering which regiment you joined, your father inquired of contacts in Raleigh as to your regiment's location and discovered it may have been involved in the battle for Williamsburg. Since discovering this news, your family has been sick with fear, barely able to do their daily chores.
I am worried. I worry for your parents, who tremble at the thought of your demise. I worry for your brother, who loves you dearly. And I worry myself sick that I may never see your face, hear your voice, or feel your warm touch again.
Eric gasped, his breath stolen by the words in the final line of the third paragraph. He read them again; then reread a third time.
Did she know what she was saying? Did she realize how this would affect him? Did she know? Not possible, he told himself, confused and frustrated. He continued reading, sick to his stomach.
Your father insists you have your reasons for enlisting abruptly, without warning or consultation. He insists that you will write when you are ready. And so, as I have stated above, he has barred your mother from writing to inquire of your health and well-being. Your brother has requested the same of me, but I can take it no more.
If you are still alive, I wish you to know the anger, despair, and heartbreak in which you have left, this, your family-your father, your mother, your brother, and me. I implore you-send word of your status. You do not know how much it would relieve us all to hear from you once again, to know you are well, to know you have survived so far through this war. If for no one else, then for me, please, write home.
My deepest affection,
Elizabeth
He closed his eyes as tears welled up. He imagined her writing the letter, her anger pouring forth into the five brief paragraphs. He expected the admonishment, but he never anticipated the personal appeal. She couldn't possibly know the effect her words would have on him, could she? He opened his eyes and reread the letter, the words were chosen so carefully, leaving behind a stinging sensation. It was as if she took a calculated risk, letting him know she was aware of his thoughts and of his feelings for her, using that awareness to her advantage, to remind him of what he left behind, of the damage he'd done, and of the past that kept tearing at him, no matter how hard he tried to escape.
He wished she were here. He wished he could reach out, touch her cheek, kiss her, and tell her he was sorry. He wished he could explain why he left, why he wished never to return, what he was trying to forget. But then, all that was because of her. So he couldn't.
And it didn't matter anyway. He was over a hundred miles away from home, facing the possibility of enemy attack, lucky-or unlucky?-to have survived yesterday and the day before, but not knowing what the immediate future held. He wanted so badly to hold her close, to feel her sandy brown tresses fall across his arms, to smell the distinct faint scent of her perfume, to lift her chin, to kiss her, to tell her was alive, he was alright, and he understood the way she felt. He wanted to explain that he still thought of her, kept the hope alive that somehow, sometime, somewhere she would be his-not his brother's.
But, again, he couldn't. And even if he could, he wouldn't. He never did before, and he wouldn't now. He held it in, a secret never to be revealed. And it tore him apart. He loved his brother too much to ever speak a word, to ever show a hint, and, so, he had to leave. And he left. He was here for a reason-that reason, her.
