Chapter 1
The wagon jostles Frankie back and forth. Instead of the smooth cobblestone road that he's used to, the wheels lumber over dips and trenches in the dirt. Each bounce lifting Frankie's slight frame off the wagon's floor.
You'd think a road headed to the nearest Confederate encampment would be smoother.
A rough bump sends him careening into the soldier beside him. The man shoves him back with a gruff, "Keep off, boy."
Frankie sits up straighter, keeping his shoulders lose instead of stiff, rolling along with the waves of motion. If he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend he is on horseback, riding through his family's estate.
And not on his way war.
Possibly to die.
Especially for a cause he doesn't believe in.
His imagination can only take him so far as every inhale through his nose brings the smell of unwashed bodies and a hint of piss.
Frankie is glad he had the foresight to bathe before being sent away, not knowing when he would get the next chance. His favorite nanny, Goodie, also agreed, and ran him a bath using the best olive oil soaps from Italy.
He had always taken pride in his smooth and supple skin, never wanting his hands to turn rough and calloused. One such blister is already forming on his inner thumb from lugging around his weapon and he hopes he can find the time to soak it in warm salt water.
The filthy cuticles and unclipped nails of his comrades make him grimace as the soldiers bite at them with their teeth and pick the grime out from underneath with pocketknives.
All of this is typical of men in the working class, as everyone else is doing it. Or, perhaps it's all men,, including his own father, who never shared his high priority of self care.
Hearing the distant echo of gunfire, he tenses, his grip tightening on his rifle until his knuckles turn white. Thankfully, the shots are not a steady stream of bullets, just small bursts, but it is enough to put him on edge.
The carriage suddenly veers to the side, letting another wagon pass, hailing from the opposite direction. Its driver, a one-legged soldier from the Veteran's Reserve Corps, keeps his head down. His hat is pulled down low over his eyes. He does not bother to wave or acknowledge the kindness of Frankie's wagon.
As it passes, the other cart is stacked high with the corpses of his fallen brethren, stacked on top of one another like sacks of cornmeal. Their bodies lay in unnatural positions, reminding Frankie of marionettes with their strings cut. The corpses are not covered with a sheet or cloth, as is custom. A few arms and legs poke out every which way, eerily bouncing with the cart's movement.
The men around him pull off their hats out of silent respect, clutching them to their chest instead as the wagon passes. Any and all conversation ceases until the death cart moves on.
The sight does nothing for Frankie's nerves and he gulps loudly.
Is that going to be him soon? Carted away to who-knows-where at the bottom of a pile, his arms and legs bouncing around?
He realizes then, that he has never seen a dead body up close- save for his departed grandmother and two younger siblings. All of those cadavers had been from sudden illness, not from the brutality of battle, and all had been dressed in their Sunday finest. He wonders how many more he will see in the coming days and if he will ever get used to the morbid scenery.
Another horse and buggy closely follows behind the first. This one is much more unsettling, as it is full of living soldiers; living being a very generous term. Even from his seat, Frankie can see the various wounds suffered from a recent skirmish. He has no medical knowledge, but even he knows that most of those wounds are fatal, if not from infection alone.
Bones are seen protruding through skin as the limbs lie shattered and broken, still attached to their owners...for now. More than one man has grievous head injuries, their eyeballs destroyed by a lucky shot or with brain matter openly exposed to the air.
The extremities seem to be a common target, as a man's arm is held on only by a string of red sinew while another's leg is jaggedly torn off at the knee.
Blood paints everyone and everything and Frankie has to swallow hard to push the rising bile back down his throat. He knew he could die in the heat of battle, he had accepted the possibility when he enlisted, but had not considered he could be made lame.
For life.
Forever crippled. Forever useless. Forever a burden on his family.
Even more so than he is now.
Even as a healthy man and an heir to a sizable estate, he has always been unsuccessful in his craft and even less successful in obtaining a wife. How much more difficult would his life become if he was maimed?
He supposes it's too late now to turn back. It would be considered desertion.
The first wagon of the dead was shocking, but quiet and somber. This second wagon of injured men is unsettling, carrying with it moans, wails, and prayers to Jesus Christ.
A soldier no older than a boy calls out for his mother while he holds his hands over a bullet hole in his stomach, blood seeping freely between his fingers.
For the millionth time since Frankie signed with the Confederate army, he regrets joining. Rueing the moment he dipped the recruiter's pen into a pot of glossy black ink and made his legal mark.
"You won't regret it, Mr. Lumberdale!" The recruiter said with a hearty handshake that painfully squeezed Frankie's thin fingers. "Welcome to the ranks of the Confederate army."
Even then, Frankie could not shake the feeling that his life had been signed away, soon to be ended at the end of a stranger's rifle.
