“There is one promise I’d like you to make, Gideon Bradley. I want you to swear that you would do anything necessary to return home.”
His wife’s voice reverberated around the canvas tent, but she was nowhere to be found. Private Gideon Bradley was certain of that, at least, as he observed his surroundings. That night, there were nine other cots, though the tent was intended for a total of six. The sickly-sweet smell of gangrene invaded his nostrils. There were many men around him, all suffering from various ailments, so he was unable to locate the source of the scent. But he was able to find where the agonizing cries were coming from. Though everyone was suffering, the cries of the older man across the room from him were the loudest. He wanted to know “where that sawbones surgeon had taken [his] leg off to” but was left unanswered. The surgeon was already onto his next victim. These doctors refused to bother Private Bradley anymore; his case was a hopeless endeavor. A part of him envied the older man, at least he got to do something before kicking the bucket.
He shifted his gaze towards the crate next to the older man’s cot, where the instruments were kept. There were several different layers of dried blood, all forming various shades of crust over the knives, saws, and bone nippers. The band of the field tourniquet had lost its original cream color. It was permanently replaced by a wet, crimson hue.
These were the sights that forced him to accept the reality of his situation. He was dying in one of the first aid posts at Camp McClellan. He had been drafted by the Union government earlier that summer and had arrived at Camp McClellan on September 1st. Three days later, he had woken up with chills, and an incredible headache. It had been a fortnight since then. It was only a matter of days before the 8th Iowa Infantry regiment were supposed to leave for St. Louis. One of the “bright sides” for joining the Union Army was that he would finally get to see some place other than Iowa. Nevertheless, here he lay, slowly expiring in Davenport.
He attempted to laugh at this thought, which caused a burning pang to strike from the left side of his abdomen to the center of his stomach. He attempted to yell out in pain, but instead released a series of dry, stabbing coughs. He feebly groped for the handkerchief he had left on the surface of his frock jacket. However, his clammy fingers grasped at the leather cord around his neck instead. At the cord’s vertex rested the copper medallion Sarah gave him before he left.
He started to fuss with the medallion, admiring the brackish texture of his initials “G.B.” engraved onto its obverse side. But as he did, he noticed that there were a series of rose-colored spots on the hand that held the medallion. As he pulled up his frock’s sleeve, he noticed that the rash didn’t end there; it appeared as though this was affecting his whole body. The only reason he hadn’t noticed the rash was because he wasn’t itchy, which he thought was a miracle.
It was as though God himself had heard his thought and responded by sending him an unholy amount of heat through the entirety of his body. He began to sweat and groan, then muttered to himself, “Typhoid fever. Lucky me!”
It was in moments like these that he most needed his medallion. As he attempted to flip it onto its reverse side, his hand began to tremble. Engraved onto this side of the medallion was their wedding anniversary date, and Sarah’s favorite quote by Walt Whitman. It read, “08.04.1853. Keep your face always toward the sunshine, and shadows will fall behind you.” It was certainly a pleasant thought, yet due to the tent’s limited light, the shadows weren’t behind him. They were right beneath him.
“Gideon…when will you understand?”
It was Sarah, once again. He had tried to reason that he hadn’t properly eaten or slept in a fortnight. But the gentle, honeyed nature of her voice was too real to him. Had she made it to camp?
He was then hit by a potent surge of nausea, and his abdominal pain was becoming a colic. He yelled out, and attempted to lean forward, which only worsened his suffering.
“Gideon… when will you understand?”
A sudden gust of wind extinguished the light from the tent’s only lamp. He tried, in vain, to find his medallion. He never liked the dark, and now, the shadows were all around him. If he could not find the medallion, he would need something else to preoccupy his racing mind. However, his endless headache and colic only permit him to gaze at the grass beneath him. Though the ground was the darkest part of the tent, he managed to find a distraction. He focused on a fresh bloodstain. The bloodstain became his personal scrying mirror. He discovered that if he stared into it long enough, he could see Sarah’s beautiful face. Her green eyes were still a welcome surprise to her otherwise pale countenance.
“Gideon” she said, “I reckon not to sound foolish, but when will you understand that this war ain’t yours to fight?”
“Then whose is it?!” he cathartically cried.
“I can’t rightly say. The only thing I know is that the burden of war has always fallen upon the backs of the less fortunate. And the worst part is that you are just another name to them, Gideon. But to me, you are irreplaceable!” Sarah began to sob. “You’re irreplaceable, and you should come home, to me.”
He gently ran his index finger across the bloodstain, caressing his wife’s face. Comforting her one last time, he only managed to mumble, “I can’t-” before taking his final, ragged breath. His hand remained steadfast in its position, where the shadows fall.
Sophia Mascotti Feller is a candidate for an MFA in writing at the University of San Francisco. Her work has been recognized by NYC Midnight, and Eleven and a Half. She is also a copy-editor and publication specialist at 4LC.
Modern Flash Fiction 