This short story was written by Yavan Vyas ’23 for his English class. It follows the journey of a slave through the Battle of Malvern Hill.
Father
“Life only gives you one thing from the start and you must cherish it. Whether by blood or water, never leave family behind.” My father’s voice echoes in my head.
Is this it? I think to my trembling self as I fall down to my knees. My hands are bruised from the unforgiving grip of my Springfield rifle. I miss the model ‘54 and the comfort I felt as it rested in my arms as a newborn rests in its mother’s. My family is gone and I fight in their memory. Bullets whiz by, forcing me closer to the wet ground below. Fumes from fired shots crowd my lungs making it harder to breathe with each passing second. The mud darkens my fabric to black, the color of my skin. The piece of shrapnel lodged in my side sticks out awkwardly, limiting my movement and coating my uniform with viscous blood. The smell of smoke along with the unmistakable scent of blood fills the air. A sharp ringing sensation has not stopped since the explosion. My head throbs as I realize what happened. The Napoleon cannon I manned, along with 5 others, was overloaded with gunpowder. One confederate cannonball was all it took. The explosion killed all the soldiers working with me and would soon claim my life as well. I take a long look at the smoke-filled battlefield around me and see the Malvern courthouse in the distance. A symbol of what I fight for: justice. Maybe I should close my eyes? Yes… that sounds nice. As my heavy eyelids fall, a single memory comes back to me.
I am back in the old wooden barracks where we had slept nearly twenty years ago. We would wake at crack dawn with the cawing roosters. Everyone, including the children, was to work in the cotton fields from dawn till dusk. Sleep would only bring nightmares of whips and searing hot metal. Waking up only reminded us of the endless hours under the scorching sun to come.
Only the sight of my son, Johnny, would put me at ease. His breath would comfort me as he lay in my arms. The sunlight grazed over his face as he slept soundly. Just before he awoke I would pretend to be asleep and have Johnny wake me up with the same words as always. What were they again?
“Sir? Get up!” A young voice from the battlefield echoes in the distance. Forty years a slave has ingrained a reflex to wake up at the drop of a pin. My eyes slowly open to see a dark-skinned boy in the distance.
“Just stay there! I’m coming over to help!” The soldier was shouting to me from behind the cannon. Where would I even go?
The ground moves below me as I feel two hands firmly grab my ankles. As he drags me, the metal in my side catches against the ground. It should hurt but the shock has made me numb. He hoists me up against a canon and we take cover.
A closer look reveals an innocent face staring at the wound in my side with horror in his eyes. His jet-black hair droops, obstructing his vision, and beads of sweat roll down his neck. He couldn’t be more than 21 years old and had no business fighting in a war.
“Sir, you might make it if you receive medical attention. I’ll take you there.” His voice wavers as, deep down, we both see the flaw in his promise. I chuckled inwardly at his naivety.
“Kid, you look young and you’ve got a long life ahead of you. Chances are, the medics are long gone, and even if they aren’t, they’re far in the back. I’ll only slow you down. Leave me here. I’ve made peace with myself.” The boy dusts off my uniform to match the faded navy blue of his.
“Enough, we’re family now and whether by blood or by water, you never leave family behind.” Before what he said processes, bullets pierce the air above our heads. My death, yet again, looms over me. However this time, I won’t sit idle letting it take me. I fear the boy won’t allow me to.
Miraculously, the shots seem to stop for a moment. Another chance might not come-this is our opportunity to escape. The boy reads my mind and takes my arm over his shoulder. He tries to lift me but it takes time. It is difficult but we reach a point where I only have to walk on one leg. We make a break for a lone medical tent about 30 yards away. A cool gust of breeze blows past, bringing back yet another memory. A memory of my escape.
I am back in the shadowy forest, running from the plantation owners. The harsh chill of night makes me tense up but there is no time to stop and rest. I hear their shouts getting further as we keep running. I worry that the huffing of those beside me will give us away but am too exhausted to do anything about it. The only light comes from the crescent moon and the torches of those chasing us. The inevitable happens and my foot catches on a root.
“Dad! Are you ok?” My son whispered, out of breath. I look to my right and see another slave who stopped as soon as I fell. Not a word comes from my mouth but a mutual understanding is made in those few seconds. The man picks up my son, slings him over his shoulder, and continues down the path. If I’m not going to make it, at least my son should. A shame that this would be the last bit of my time with him.
I awake to the same forest, only now lit by the mid-day sun. I was not caught? I stretch as waves of questions rush into my mind but none will be answered. I have been granted a second opportunity to truly live for once. I must not take it for granted. I limped down the path, each alternate step sending a stabbing pain up my leg but it will all soon pay off. For the first time, I will be a free man.
The sun’s glare brings me back to reality. Each unstable step closer to the tent brings me one step closer to unconsciousness as well. My legs are on the brink of giving out but explosions from behind are quite good motivators. I can feel the boy beside me start to drag his feet but he does not slow down. Had it not been for him, I would have died alone in the middle of the battlefield. One thought puts me at ease. If I don’t survive, at least I’ll have someone at my side.
“We made it!” I shout even though we are only a foot apart. “Boy? Did you hear me?!” I’m overtaken with fear that something is wrong. “Wait a second… Did you hear that?” I whisper in his ear.
“No I don’t. Why are we whispering?” The innocence in his voice strikes through in his question.
“Exactly, how come no noise is coming from inside the tent?” His eyes widen in understanding as he gently lies me against a nearby rock. He slowly opens the flaps of the tent so that only he can see. Was it empty? Was everyone dead? He silently closes the flaps and tells me to close my eyes. He picks me up and brings me inside the tent. I lie on a stretcher inside.
“Why don’t you get some rest?” His soft comforting voice pipes up from beside me. I realize what this means.
“Your name, boy. If you want to stay here, at least tell me that. Tell me how a young lad such as yourself ended up in this wretched battle? Your parents must be worried sick.” At his silence, I continue on. “Tell me of your life before I go. My name is Eric Dothelson and I was–” I am interrupted by a yelp of exclamation. Although my eyes weren’t open I could hear the upturn of the corners of his mouth. The excitement in his voice peeks through his next few words.
“It, um, it seems as though we have a lot to catch up on. My name is Private Johnathan… Johnathan Dothelson, sir.”