Page 3 of Always to Remember
“I’m sorry, son,” the sergeant said quietly before he stepped away to stand beside Captain Roberts and issue his first order. “Ready your rifles!”
Clay’s mouth went dry.
“Aim!”
He felt the wind caress his face, heard the leaves rustle—"Fire!”
One
SPRING, 1866
CLAYTONHOLLAND JERKED AWAKE. TREMBLING AND BATHED INsweat, he ran a shaking hand through his hair.
The thunder again resounded, and he took a deep, shuddering breath. The nightmares always came during thunderstorms when the rumbling in the sky wove itself through his dreams.
He threw back the covers, clambered out of bed, and made his way to the window. Unlatching the shutters and pushing them open, he breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of rain. Reaching out, he relished the stinging raindrops as they pelted his palm. Lightning flashed and thunder called out against the darkness.
Thunder always reminded him of the volley of rifle fire—the volley that never came. Even now, years later, he still waited for the crack of rifle thunder to disturb that quiet dawn so long ago.
The sergeant had bellowed his final command. Clay drew his last breath and held the precious air deep within his lungs, waiting for the bullets to slam him against the wall, to force the life from his body.
He waited what seemed a lifetime … and beyond.
He lowered his gaze to the soldiers standing before him, 8 wondering if they were waiting for him to look at them before they carried out their orders. But as he met the troubled gaze of each man, so each man lowered his rifle and studied his boots.
Oddly, he could remember clearly the color of each man’s eyes: brown, brown, blue, brown, green, blue.
The sergeant conferred with Captain Roberts. Then he escorted Clay back to his cell.
Later, Clay learned that his prayer, his concern for their souls and not his own, had touched the hearts of the soldiers and officers in attendance.
A simple prayer had saved his life and prolonged his misery. He had spent nine months shackled, serving time for his refusal to carry a rifle.
After his release, he had found one reason after another not to return to Cedar Grove. Until the war ended.
He had arrived home at Christmas and discovered that the only peace within his life resided within his conscience. Beyond that, the war had followed him home.
He watched a pale light float toward the barn. A streak of lightning outlined his two youngest brothers as they trudged toward their predawn chores. Entering the world on the same day, Joseph and Joshua were inseparable, and few people could tell them apart. They’d been but five when the Confederate Army had come for Clay. They were nearly ten now. Clay sometimes wondered if it wouldn’t have been kinder to stay away, as his other brother, Lucian, often suggested.
He closed the shutters and turned up the flame in the lantern on the bedside table. Self-consciously, he rubbed his bare chest as he picked his clothes off the chair and tossed them on the bed. As was his habit, he dressed carefully, taking time to button every button. He pulled on his socks before shoving his feet into his boots. Standing, he stomped his feet into place.
He’d turned the cheval glass so it faced the wall, saving himself the agony of confronting his reflection. He’d gained little weight in the three months since his return. He couldn’t get credit at the mercantile, so the meals he provided his family were dependent on the wild game in the nearby hills and the few assorted vegetables they grew in their small garden. He told his brothers things would improve once they harvested the crops in the fields. He had to believe those words in order to survive to the next day.
He’d learned that small trick during the war. Don’t think about tomorrow or what horrors it might hold, just cling to today.
He picked up the lantern and unbolted the door of his bedroom. He walked through the small living area where his family had long ago shared abundant meals and conversation, where a fire had burned in the hearth while his mother quilted as she wove tales to delight her children. His father would whittle, occasionally interrupting to add his own bit of thread to the story. Laughter had filled the room and smiles had been as abundant as the food.
Now, the room served as little more than a place to eat a somber meal in silence. He pulled his slicker off the hook by the door and stepped into the storm.
With his head bowed, he trudged toward the dilapidated barn. The entire farm needed repairs. His parents had passed away before the war ended. Lucian had managed to hold onto the farm and keep the twins from becoming wild. As a young man of sixteen, he had shouldered the responsibility without complaint.
Lucian’s complaints had only surfaced when Clay returned home to lift the burden from his brother’s shoulders. Their parents had dictated that they wanted the farm passed down to their eldest surviving son. Clay was the eldest, and he’d survived.
Walking into the barn, he inhaled the familiar scent of hay and livestock along with the disappointing smell of rotting wood. He couldn’t get credit at the lumber mill either.
He heard the tinny echo as the milk hit the galvanized pail. The sound didn’t have time to fade before another took its place. He knew his brothers sat, one on each side of the cow, working together as one. He’d noticed that their being twins had created a certain bond. Sometimes it seemed the brothers didn’t even have to voice their thoughts to each other.
“I know what you’re thinkin', and it ain’t gonna work.”
