Sonata No. 9

Chapter One

“You want to hear my story?” I asked the man in front of me.

“If you want to tell it.” he said.

“Fine,” I replied. “But not for you. For him.”

I sat on the well worn farmhouse porch, looking out into the quickly darkening sky, listening to the sounds of battle in the distance. I was already 17, and should have enlisted by now, but I had chosen to continue my education instead. My father, a soldier in the Confederate army, disagreed with my choice. However, he used his standing to ensure that I wouldn’t be drafted. This was fine with me, as I had never been one for violence, or the hunting and shooting that my brothers and father enjoyed, much as it annoyed them. I leaned back in my chair, listening to the sounds of fighting and wondering if my brothers or father were somewhere out there, defending the Confederate fort that could supposedly change the tides of this never ending battle. I was about to head inside to wash before supper, when I heard rustling in the bushes to the left of the house.

Running down the porch stairs, I grabbed my father’s old hunting rifle, knowing I wouldn’t be able to make myself shoot it, but thankful that my father never locked the gun cabinet nevertheless. Hoping it was only a timber rattlesnake, but preparing for anything, I pointed the rifle at the bushes. The rustling intensified, and a hand appeared out of the bushes, grasping at the ground. Centering my body behind the rifle, I inched closer, shouting to whatever was in the bushes that I was armed, and to come out slowly. For a minute, the bushes stopped moving, then another hand flopped out and soon the rest of the body. Their legs still halfway in the bushes, a young man dragged himself out, wearing the dark blue of a Union uniform.

Scrambling backwards, I kept the rifle pointed at him as he tried to crawl closer. He appeared unarmed, so I crept slowly closer. His lips started to move, and I cautiously leaned in to try and hear what he was saying. “He-help”. He croaked, before passing out. Taking a closer look at him, I noticed the bloodstains on his uniform, and a frighteningly large wound on his leg. There also seemed to be blood coming from his ears. Turning away, I swallowed the bile rising in my throat, and tried to address the situation. Yes, he was an enemy soldier, but he was also seriously injured, and even though I refused to fight, my parents had raised me to be a gentleman. Seeing that he posed no serious threat, I decided to at least try and stop the bleeding. Quietly walking inside the house for our meager amount of medical supplies, I grabbed strips of cloth, and carefully watching the soldier, I wrapped the cloth around his chest, stopping the blood at least for now. I started to turn my efforts towards his leg, but nearly got sick upon looking at it, and instead turned away. The sun was now nearly all the way set, so I grabbed a thick rope, looped it around the soldier’s waist and dragged him into the barn, thankful that he was still passed out and couldn’t make any noise. Wrapping the rope around his hands, I tied him to a small post in a dark corner of the barn, figuring my family wouldn’t find him until I had decided what to do with him since I did all of the barn chores while my father was gone. Still undecided on what to do, I walked back into the house and got into my bed, making sure to keep the rifle by my side. The soldier didn’t seem like he could put up much of a fight, but my father had told me stories and I wasn’t taking any chances.

In the morning I woke up and greeted my mom and sisters, acting as normal as possible. I ate a small breakfast of oatmeal, waiting for my family to leave the kitchen before grabbing an apple and a slice of bread for the enemy soldier. Walking into the barn, I saw the soldier still slumped next to the post he was tied to. He woke up as I started to move around the barn, staring at me cautiously for a few minutes before closing his eyes and leaning back against the post again. Still unsure what to do with him, I took out the bread and apple, and I sat down on a chair a good distance away from him to think about what to do. While my dad and my brothers would have just shot him, I didn’t think I would be able to, even though he was the enemy. I also couldn’t just let him go, he would die before he got two miles. It seemed like there were no options, but I also knew my father would be returning in a few weeks to check on the family and to take a quick break from the endless fighting. He would know what to do with the Union soldier, and I might even gain some of his hard to earn respect my brothers seemed to have so much of. In the meantime though I had to keep him hidden, I didn’t think my mother could handle a shock like that, she was already worried enough with almost all her sons in the war.

Knowing what the Union soldier would face when I turned him over, and in a good mood from making a decision, I went back into the house and cut a few extra slices of bread for him. The rest of the day was pretty much the same as it always was, me cutting firewood and tending to the animals while everyone else worked inside. Occasionally I checked on the Union soldier and gave him some more food, but not too often so my family wouldn’t get suspicious and because in his wounded condition I doubted he was capable of escape. That night though I still kept the rifle in my room. The next day was much of the same, with little interaction between me and the soldier except me rewrapping his wounds. They seem to be the same, but depending on when my father got there I would have to find some type of medicine to keep him alive until he was no longer my problem. As I was dressing his wounds though I got a closer look at his face and realized he was close to my age. He must have been in his 20s, though granted that was starting to become old for a soldier.

The next day I walked in to give him food, and on the way out, he asked me what my name was. Thrown for a second, as we had almost never talked before, I told him my name was James, but he only looked at me in confusion and pointed to his ears. I realized he must have been deafened somehow when he was injured, or maybe he had simply been deaf his whole life. I grabbed a stick and wrote my name on the dirt of the floor. The soldier reached forward and erased my name, and said his name was William. The effort seemed to tire him, and by the time I had finished the rest of my chores in the barn he was asleep. Soon, that was how most days went, with me checking on William, and giving him small information through the dirt. After a few days, he still couldn’t move, but he had started to be less jumpy and nervous around me.

One day I walked into the barn from practicing the violin to feed William, forgetting the violin was still in my hand. I wasn’t the best at playing it, but I knew enough and it was something I could do that none of my brothers could. I had moved William to a different spot in the barn, a small spot behind stacks of hay bales, so he wouldn’t as easily be seen. When I came into view, he whispered a greeting and, spotting the instrument in my hand, asked me what it was. I told him it was a violin. He had been raised deep in Maine, in a secluded town near the forest, and had never gotten the chance to see one in person before. Asking if he could hold it, I reluctantly handed it to him. Admiring the polished wood, he handed it back to me. Giving him his food I had started to walk away and was almost out of the barn when he said, very quietly, “Will you teach me to play? Thinking nothing of it, I reluctantly nodded my head, and quickly left the barn.