…And Then There Was Nothing.
A group of soldiers wearing blue-grey uniforms gathered on the top of a hill. The afternoon sun shone above them, casting a shadow over every blade of grass and piece of rock surrounding them in the landscape. There was a sound of wood against rocks, and the troops turned to their general.
“Listen, y’all. Milroy didn’t know nothin’ ‘bout us troops sneakin’ out here. Now he does, and he knows he’s outnumbered. Can’t let ‘im tough up his defences, so we attack tomorrow at dawn. Understood?”
There was a cheer from the Confederates. Their “Stars and Bars” flag billowed behind them, on Sitlington Hill, supported by a string on a sharp metal nail inserted into the ground. Peter squatted on the dirt, tapping his hands and clicking his tongue to rhythms he knew by heart. He was almost uncomfortable with the absence of a job. The extra troops that General Jackson brought with him meant no more work was needed elsewhere. For the first time in a while, he had time to himself, and he was actually glad for the break.
A faint call rang out from not too far away. “They’re comin’! Headin’ right towards us, four of ‘em infantries! Five thousand men in total, ahsay!”
Well, there went his break.
Peter’s heart began beating faster as he rushed to where the men always gathered. Four rectangles of tightly-packed Union soldiers with dark blue uniforms were just starting to march up the mound. He knew what to do. He dashed to get his drum and reported to the general, where he lined up with other boys, most of them younger than him. One of them offered a quick smile and a nod, and he reluctantly returned it. He didn’t know most of them anyways. Many of his former friends were now in heaven with his father. He had learned his lesson to avoid deep connections with anyone again. Peter found the resultant grief of their loss much harder to bear than the fear of his own impending death.
Together, the misfit group of boys started the assembly drum call.
Dla-Dla-Dla-Dla! Brrrrrr-Dat!
———————
As the first shots rang out from behind him, he heard General Jackson’s orders. He started beating his drum.
Dum! Dat! Dum-Dum-Dat!
Forward! The drum screamed. He faintly heard the commander shouting to kill the boys on the other side. Without them, they can’t do nothin’! Wipe their skeleton out and the flesh collapses on its own!
In the back of Peter’s mind, he realized that that was precisely what the Northern side’s commanders must be saying too, as a bullet shattered a rock a few feet in front of him. Most of the boys close by almost leaped up with surprise. Peter just looked slightly startled. Another thing he had found useful was his ability to put a saddle on in fear and to ride on it. This too came from his lengthy experience.
Dli-Dli-Dli-Dli-Dliii! Dli-Dli-Dli-Dli-Dliii!
On the drum’s signals, the regiment started firing. Peter saw the soldiers’ faces as they frantically squeezed the metal pellets using ramrods into the bottom of the smoothbore. He could almost see them trembling in fear. He understood that this might be the first fight for a large number of soldiers, judging from, well, everything. Their sweat glistened on their hands, and though well trained, their fingers fumbled with the thin wooden rod. Their eyes stayed down, squeezing shut from time to time.
A spray of bullets hit the ranks next to them along with a crack! Soldiers cried out in pain. One was clutching his right thigh, his expression now one of torment. As the soldier was carried behind the ranks, Peter could feel his reluctant relief. At least it meant he would not die today. Peter knew so because he had felt the same way four years earlier.
———————
It was a rainy afternoon, two months after his father had left home. Peter would turn twelve the next day, but he was not looking forward to it. It would mean he would be recruited to be a drummer boy in the army. It had been a pact he had made to his father upon his departure. Now, he did not want to upset the promise he had made, but he still feared the imminent risks that he would face. Peter was with his mother, sitting in a wooden rocking chair. She hummed a tune while painting a medium-sized wooden box for Peter’s birthday. Her son stared at the wind and rain outside as it prodded the tree branches.
Buh-Buh-Bum. Buh-Buh-Bum.
“Be righ’ there!” Peter’s mother called. When the door opened, the Mayor stepped in. “Molly,” he said, “will you allow me a word?”
Peter’s mom looked at the Mayor questioningly. “What is it?”
The Mayor sat down on a stool. He was trying to look expressionless, but it was quite obvious that he was doing so.
“Um, can I…” the Mayor glanced at Peter, who glanced at his mother, who looked at the Mayor. “Alone? Okay.”
Peter, taking another worried look at his mom, walked into his bedroom and closed the door. He sat on his bed and listened to the thinning rain outside drumming on the small window.
Dat-Dum. Dat-Dat. Dum-Dat. Pip-ding. Dum-pip-pip. Dum.
Then,
Bang.
Peter turned around, bewildered. The sound came from the small living room. He had never been an inquisitive kid, but Peter still tip-toed to the door, and peered out. His mother was leaning against the wooden chair, and the half-painted box was on the ground. She stared into black space, and the Mayor was looking down at his toes.
“Thank you for the information.”
“Molly, ahm sorry, I-”
“Doesn't change anything. Thank you. Really.”
“The funeral…?” The mayor asked tentatively.
“We can talk later!”
The Mayor looked back at the door. The normally serious and authoritative face was now filled with pity as he wondered about the future of this little kid. It was still raining outside.
“G’bye, Molly.”
That night, he went to bed early. He thought about the consequences. He would not be required to be a drummer boy now. He let out a small sigh of relief.
Then he cried. He did not just cry because his father died. He cried because he felt relieved of his father’s death. He was almost glad. Peter stared at the ceiling and tears streamed from his eyes onto his pillow. He cried until his eyes felt dry.
Next morning, he had decided that he would join the drummer boys.
———————
Another blitz of bullets shot past Peter, and the tension in his heart dropped once more. The afternoon sun had moved quite a lot, leaving the Union soldiers darkened against the setting sun.
Come on, Peter. Just count.
His hands were numb with both the wind and the strain, and it was all he could do to just keep taking orders and relaying them to the soldiers. There were a few splatters of dried, dark blood on the stones.
16. 17. 18. 19.
He always wondered why he saw the flash of the guns first. 20. 21. He saw the spark of the Union rifles, and then the “minie balls” flew into the rock around the soldiers like a hundred horses slamming into castle walls. Almost every round there was a cry heard somewhere near Peter. He continued counting; he knew the guns took about 20 seconds to reload. If I’m going to die, at least I can expect it, he thought. This is easy. He continued to drum from time to time.
20.
A fresh spray of pellets took down one drummer boy. His scream penetrated the skies and fell down as a heavy anvil on the heads of the boy’s loved ones far away. A few minutes later, he was dragged away by some men.
As the battle drew on, the soldiers grew slower and slower. Peter saw small groups of soldiers replace fallen ones near him, but the other side struggled.
22. 23. 24. Crack.
The opposing side was also getting slower. He could vaguely see some bodies strewn on the hill 300 feet away. We are winning! Peter thought. The night sky shone with stars, but he could see no moon.
21. 22. 23. Whish.
Thunk.
His left shoulder exploded with pain as a pellet embedded itself within it. Peter suddenly dropped his drum and fell to the ground. His intended scream came out almost as a squawk, similar to those geese in his little town when he was little. He almost chuckled. The geese! They once chased him around when he tried to prod their mouth with a particularly large stick.
11.
His town! His house. His… mom. Was she home? Was she sick? She’s probably okay.
12.
This hurts so much. Make it stop! I want to go home.
13.
No, wait, don’t make it stop. Then I’ll die. I want to go home.
14.
Peter wondered if he should get up. Could he? His shoulder was still torturing him. He tried to get up but couldn’t. It hurt so much. So much.
15.
Peter’s mom used to tell stories where their little hero killed the evil people even after getting stabbed. They were so heroic! How did they do that? They must have been so strong to even move. So strong. I need to be strong.
16.
16. Sixteen. Six-teen. Only sixteen. Why did I decide to come? I’m too young to die. This hurts too much. I want to continue! I’m-I’m too young. Peter tried to raise his head. He did.
17-
Peter saw the flash first…
