WELCOME TO
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WELCOME TO
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by: Bill MacWithey Following, is a chapter length excerpt Far Western West Virginia - 1864 Yesterday,
cattle grazed on thick green grass, surrounded by a neat, painstakingly erected
rail fence. The only sounds
disturbing the tranquility of the countryside were the birds hunting for their
first meal of the day and an occasional bawling calf.
The blue spruce, bending slightly in the light breeze, reached
unparalleled heights, undisturbed by man since their birth.
Blooming honeysuckle wound its way around the entire length of the fence
and added its distinct sweet fragrance to the odor of pines.
Deer roamed freely and safely in the surrounding forest, they too,
undisturbed by man. The smell of
honeysuckle blossoms mingled with the odors of pine and and the fresh dewy scent
of the dark green grass. But, that was yesterday,
before man’s violent intrusion into the idyllic scene. Today, as the sky began
to lighten, what should have been a pastoral setting worthy of the finest
artist’s brush had become a death-filled horror from one’s worst nightmare.
The carcass of man and beast lay side by side in the two
hundred-acre-meadow, a tribute to man’s stupidity of making war on one
another. On opposing sides of the
wide, grassy slope, the neat rail fence lay blasted into scattered kindling.
The pines beyond were felled or charred to burned bark and bare, broken,
limbs. Some fifteen hours earlier, cannon fired back and forth
across the meadow, musket fire rattled endlessly and the screams of dying men
and animals alike, filled the small valley. Now,
as the sun made its way above the horizon behind the forest, total silence.
Not a bird calling to its mate or a bawling calf crying out for its
mother. The sounds of both nature
and battle muted by death. Only a
few ribbon-thin trails of smoke drifted skyward to alert the distant observer of
last evening’s carnage. Huge,
silent birds soared high overhead, circling above the corpse-littered meadow,
amidst the thick forest of the West Virginia countryside. Eldon
awakened to the quickening light in the eastern sky and a pounding pain in his
head. Lying on his back, he stared
straight up, trying to make sense of where he was and what had happened.
The drumming in his head was unbearable.
When he rolled onto his side in an effort to get up, the light hurt his
eyes and a sharp pain shot up through his leg, all the way up to his side.
Eldon gasped loudly, then groaned, while rapidly blinking his eyes,
trying to shake the pain from his head. Falling
back onto the bed of pine needles, his breath seemed not to want to pass through
his throat. The pain was nearly
paralyzing, and he tried to focus on the leg to see why it hurt so badly.
But his eyes refused to cooperate. He
needed water to calm the burning in his throat.
The inside of his mouth felt as if it was made of leather. Eldon’s
thoughts were a jumble of horrible pictures, his breath came in rapid, short
gasps, and the fire in his leg nearly caused him to faint.
Not yet able to remember where he was or what had happened to him, Eldon
was overcome by panic and fear. Finally,
he managed to drag himself to the trunk of a burned tree and force his body to a
sitting position, aware that he was dying.
What had happened? He held
his hands tightly against his temples, trying to stop the pain, thudding like a
blacksmith’s hammer with every heartbeat.
Where was his canteen? He
was unaware how long he sat against the charred bark, trying to control his
breathing and ignore the pain, before his vision began to clear.
Then, he wished it hadn’t. When
he looked uphill, where the fence and Union cannon were the previous evening, he
quickly turned his head away, covered his eyes with his arm and cried out
loudly. “My, God! Oh,
my, God!” Tears streamed from his
eyes, as the battle came back in all its fury.
Again, his breath was but agonizing gasps that hurt his throat and chest.
But, he finally had to look back up the hill from where the explosion of
his own cannon powder had thrown him. Where
his comrades bravely fought, there was but a jumbled mass of fence, shattered
cannon and their carriages, mangled horse carcasses and human remains.
He stared, transfixed, at the torso of a Union soldier, draped over the
broken wheel of a gun carriage. The
soldier’s upper body was impaled on a broken spoke, his eyes and mouth wide
open, as if in horror or disbelief. Eldon
threw his head to the side and vomited. Now,
remembering what had taken place, the thought suddenly occurred that someone
else might still be alive. He had
to drag himself uphill and through the tangled, frightening mess, though he
would rather travel away from this madness.
Eldon was frightened that he might be all alone out here in the middle of
nowhere and prayed he would find at least one other soul still alive.
But, after an hour of painful crawling amongst the bodies, his search was
in vain. He was indeed alone. And
there were no canteens to be found. They
had disappeared along with his fellow soldiers.
Sitting
against a carriage wheel, he stared out across the meadow.
Bodies in blue and bodies in gray littered the two hundred acres from
side to side, their weapons tossed about in disarray by the fierce cannon fire. Eldon’s
thoughts turned to the creek his company had crossed some fifteen minutes before
reaching this place. If he was to
survive, he had to have water. How
far was it? He shook his head,
squinting his eyes, trying to think clearly.
Perhaps he could use a musket as a crutch. The sun moved ever higher in the sky, hurting his eyes, and
he realized they had likely been burned by the furious explosion. Still
somewhat in a fog of unreality, he was afraid to try a first step.
Tears continued to roll down his cheeks – not only from the pain of his
wounded body, but from the pain in his heart, as well.
He wiped a filthy sleeve across his eyes as he sobbed, threw his head
back and screamed, “My God, why did you let this happen?”
Then, in a quiet, choking voice asked, “Why did they make me do
this?” He asked it over and over, as he slowly made his way toward
the trees, leaving the carnage behind. One
last look across the field of pitiful corpses.
He had to remove himself from this horror. What had it gained anyone?
Nothing left of either army but rotting flesh to fertilize the meadow and
make it green once more. Stumbling
down the slight incline one pain wracked step at a time, using a musket for a
crutch, he was but half-aware of what he was doing or where he was going.
Then, he fell to his knees in front of the shattered wooden barrel.
The cask held scant water at its bottom, but it sufficed to cool the
parched lining of his throat. He
scooped the water up in his hands and sucked it into his mouth.
The powder smoke of the two-hour killing frenzy had burned his lungs and
charred his throat to make swallowing excruciatingly painful. The
smoke seemed still to cling to everything.
He had to work his way between the felled trees, broken limbs and
additional victims of the furious artillery barrage, which had come their way. If
he could but make it back to the creek ...
He was sure his company had crossed a creek shortly before encountering
the enemy. Perhaps some of the
horses fled there for water. Maybe
the few soldiers who ran from the battle in panic were at the creek.
Had the cannon caught up with their cowardice?
His head hurt. His vision
blurred again, and he fell to the ground. Now,
on hands and knees, he crawled in the direction of the creek, dragging the
musket and the bag containing the makings of death - powder, wadding and forty
caliber balls. His
hands and knees bleeding from the torture of the sharp rocks, he reached out
with his huge hands, grasped the trunk of a small tree and slowly regained his
feet. For a time, he rested,
wondering if the fog was real, or if he was dying.
He had to get to the creek. Once
more, he staggered forward. The
last thing of which he was aware was falling face first into the water and the
good feeling of floating in coolness. The
battle disappeared. The corpses,
the stench, the cannon thrown on their sides, the blood soaked ground, the
vultures - all disappeared. He was
at peace. *** When
eighteen-year-old Eldon MacCauley opened his eyes to darkness, he screamed out,
"Blind! My God, I'm
blind!" As tears again filled
his eyes, he saw the million tiny dots of blurred light.
He rose to a sitting position and found himself in the muddy bottom at
creek's edge. His throat no longer
burned. He tentatively sniffed the
air. Only the scent of pine
needles. Had it all been some
terrible dream? A soft, cool breeze
gently ruffled the leaves of the sycamore and cypress trees hugging the banks of
the small stream. The sweet smell
of greenness, of grass and pine needles, floated on the air.
He laughed the laugh of insanity and splashed his hands in the water to
see if it was real. Eldon cupped
his hands in the water and brought them to his mouth.
Then, he looked around, listening intently, hoping he wasn't alone.
His hopes were dashed by the nothingness of utter silence, save the sound
of the wind in the surrounding trees. Eldon
ran his hand down his leg to the bandage the doctor had wrapped around it after
cutting away his pant leg. The
bandage was there, along with the pain. He
hadn't dreamed it. As Eldon
fingered the bandage enveloping his knee and upper leg, he thought about the
doctor. That brave soul had just
finished wrapping his leg when he ran toward another wounded man, and the cannon
fire hit. The doctor was no longer
there - just gone! Only a shallow
crater in the reddish clay soil, a monument to his bravery.
The doctor had moved rapidly from one wounded man to another, as enemy
cannon continued to explode all around. Lest
he drive himself insane with the pictures of death, Eldon knew he must put it
from his mind. After
calling upon the last of his strength to force his way up the shallow
embankment, he sat with his back against a tree and listened carefully for the
nicker or footsteps of a horse. Then,
he whistled several times, hoping a horse would come to see who called.
None did. It seemed he would
be forced to walk or crawl away from the killing ground.
But, to where? Eldon knew he
must be delirious, when he laughed uncontrollably.
The irony of it - conscripted into this war that wasn't his fight - now,
the only survivor of this horrible battle. Eldon's
head hung down, his eyes closed and he dreamed of the young Scot lad signing
onto a ship in Liverpool as a cabin boy, then jumping ship in New York Harbor.
He awakened suddenly in the middle of the dream, but it continued in his
wakefulness. How long ago did he
board the ship? Three years? Two? Four?
Again, he knew he must have been cursed into insanity when he laughed at
his inability to think straight. Eldon's
mind wandered, and he thought back to his first encounter with the enemy.
The men in gray had been vastly outnumbered and ran away after a brief
skirmish. But, not this time.
Neither side was willing to concede their position or admit defeat.
It seemed each side in this battle was determined to commit suicide to
destroy the enemy. And, in the end, it seemed their wish had been granted.
Perhaps those who ran away and would be branded cowards were the smartest
among the combatants. There
would be no more war for Eldon MacCauley. He
had a musket, powder, ammunition. All
he needed was a horse. He would
head for the frontier. That had
been his plan when he started working in the New York City shoe factory.
He would work only long enough to buy a gun, a saddle and a horse, with a
few dollars left over for sustenance. The
frontier - Oklahoma Territory - or California, that's where the makings of
fortune lie. But the War Between The States was growing, and every
able-bodied man, citizen or not, was expected to fight for the North or the
South. Now, if the good Lord
allowed him to recover from his wounds, he must be about his original plan. Eldon
lay back on the grass and again closed his eyes. As he thought about all he'd read in the letter his friend
sent back to Scotland from a place called St. Louis, Missouri, he fell asleep.
The sound of crickets was replaced by his mother's sweet lullabies.
His last conscious thought was that his face was on fire. *** "YOU
ALIVE, BOY?" The
loud, gruff voice jarred Eldon awake. He
tried to rise, but couldn't. Fire
and pain enveloped his entire left side, and he could breath only with great
effort. Another
voice said, "He's alive, but maybe not fer long." Again
the gruff voice. "Put 'im in a
wagon and get 'im outa here." Yet
another voice, "Yas, Suh.
Lor ...dee, he shore be a big un, don't he, massa." Eldon
was barely aware of being roughly dropped into a wagon, then bouncing for what
seemed like forever along a rutted trail. Try
as he might, he couldn't figure out if he was being taken north or south.
What did the rebels do with prisoners?
He'd heard some frightening stories about prisoners being tortured to
death. Eldon prayed that the people hauling him away would be
Yankees. But the voice had called
the first speaker “Massa.” The
pain in his entire body was so intense, it seemed the tortuous jarring about on
the rough boards of the wagon would never end.
But finally, the wagon stopped, and he was carried into a house and laid
on a bed. Then he lapsed into
darkness once more, surprisingly peaceful in the knowledge that he was dying.
And it hadn't even been his war. But
there was no peace in sleep. The
war raged on. The battle which had
killed so many began anew. Men
screamed for their mothers. Blood
splattered across his face when his mate was hit squarely in the head with a
ball from a rebel gun. As a man
fell at the gun position just in front of him, he rose up from his hiding place
behind a fallen tree to aid the crew. His
leg went out from under him, and pain shot throughout his body as he fell to the
ground, screaming. The gun and its
crew disappeared in a blinding flash when their powder supply received a direct
hit. Eldon screamed out for it to
stop! Then, everything was
blackness again. *** His
eyes popped open, and he was aware he wasn't alone. An angel hovered over him.
The bright light made him squint. In
a definite Irish lilt, the angel said, "Let me quickly close the shutters.
The day is terrible bright. Do
you still feel great pain, Sir?" What
manner of speech for an angel? He'd
heard it before ... in his homeland. Was
heaven, after all, a place like Scotland? "Who are you?" "My
Mother's American husband brought you from the battle.
He be the baron of the land where you fought." "I'm
not dead? I've not gone to
heaven?" The
face smiled, then laughed softly. "My
adopted father would say it be heaven. No,
it is not in the Lord's Heaven you be. Would
you be hungry?" "Yes
... yes, I’m very hungry." "The
mutton bullion should be just the thing for healing your wounds.
You have been burning with a fever.
Do not try to move. I'll
return shortly." Before he
could ask anything further, she hurried from the room. Eldon
glanced about and realized this was no ordinary home. The expensive papering on the wall was like that he'd
glimpsed in a wealthy farmer's mansion once, when his company had camped on the
farmer's land. And the furniture
was more than a simple straw bed and night basin.
The bed on which he lay looked to be carved from cherry, and the comfort
of the fine feather filled mattress was more than he'd ever known.
The balance of the furniture in the large room matched the bed.
Finely woven curtains hung over glass windows.
A stand holding a pitcher, a washbasin and a towel matched the giant
chest of drawers. Suddenly,
he was overcome by a wave of panic. Why
had they brought him here? Was he
south of the battle, or to the north? Or
was the baron of this land neutral in the conflict? Surely, he must be a Christian man to have retrieved him from
death and brought him to such a fine featherbed. His thoughts were interrupted by the girl's return. She
placed a fine china bowl on the small table next to the bed and helped him to a
semi-sitting position, tucking extra pillows behind his back.
Then, she did the unthinkable. She
tried to spoon-feed him. He'd have
none of that! "Miss,
I am capable of feeding myself." She
quickly handed him the spoon and set the bowl in his lap.
Her actions and voice betrayed her nervousness at his outburst.
"Please forgive me, Sir. I
only meant to help." Eldon
closed his eyes momentarily and was immediately sorry he'd been so rude.
She was a slight person, and probably a few years older than he.
At age eighteen, Eldon stood six feet and seven inches, weighed two
hundred, sixty pounds and measured broad across the shoulders.
He must seem a giant to this wee, small lady.
Working
in the fields of his father's tenant farm in Scotland had built huge muscles on
Eldon's large frame. His size had
many times been a blessing, saving him from having to fight.
The lower east side of New York City was a tough place to live.
Of course, some fools, especially when drunk, had to tackle the largest
man in sight to prove their own manhood. Eldon
had never lost a fight, but had many times worried he would be shot in the back
by someone, who could not face him man to man. Even
though still bloodshot, his deep blue eyes seemed to smile as he apologized.
"I'm so sorry, miss. I
should not have been so rude. Please
forgive me?" She
smiled broadly and fluttered around his bed to prop the pillows up behind him
once more. Then she laid her hand
on his forehead. "You are
having a good bit of fever, still." Suddenly
a dreadful thought struck him. Perhaps
her father had saved him, because he saw a big man to wed his rather plain
daughter and, at the same time, become a slave to work on his farm.
And, once trapped, her father could hold it over him that he was a
deserter and could be shot or hanged at any time.
The thought of it all made him nauseous.
As pleasant as this place was, he would have to escape as soon as
possible. Was he a
deserter? Eldon supposed he was.
Would the Yankee army find him, tie him to a fence post and shoot him?
He'd heard of such. For now,
he would be nice to this lady. But
when he was healed some and the chance came, he would make his escape.
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