Walking Home to Georgia – Fiction

The thunderstorm was moving quickly towards Jim. Thunder erupted above him like a thousand muskets. Lightning flashed in the dimming light of dusk. Jim had anticipated this storm for a while as he watched the clouds assemble in their uniforms of grey and butternut. In some sense, he felt a connection to the clouds. He knew there would be an immense outpouring, but it would be brief. Then the clouds would dissolve for some time until the next storm. 

“The clouds are making war,” Jim said aloud. He offered them a salute.

Jim untucked the gum blanket from his belt. He took two ends and whipped the blanket open. Thunder cracked at just the right moment. Jim heard the muskets as one solid volley. His smile was sad, reminiscent. The smile one has looking back on a good memory, but realizing everyone who was in it is dead. This memory is seen only by Jim, but the feeling is known by many. His smile is shared with the trees and the oxcart path he walks. Maybe an ant saw the smile or a squirrel in a nearby tree. 

The first drop of rain saturated a spot on his slouch hat. He’d worn the same hat for years through mud, rain, snow, and heat. Sure, Jim went through his share of brogans and shirts, but his hat had been his companion. Much like his rifle, but Jim had had his rifle taken back in Virginia. Jim paused his walking. He looked at the clouds once more in their uniform grey and butternut. They too were fighting.

“Yee yit-!” Jim let out half a rebel yell. Then he stopped. I’m not fighting anymore.

Jim stepped out of the ox cart path onto the bank of the road. The grass was tall here, daffodils and wild onion grew along the pathway. Jim sat down, careful to avoid any flowers. He flipped the gum blanket around his back and let it settle around his shoulders. He peered around at the woods nearby, contemplating the possibility of finding sticks to build a small shelter. More drops of water. Jim breathed deeply, pulling in the humid air. He listened to the wind flying through leaves. Plops of rain fell on his gum blanket, issuing dull and quiet thuds. It was the sound lead makes when it makes human contact. 

Jim wished the sound away, but it only grew in intensity. He focused on the woods, a mix of oak, sycamore, and cedar. He saw his friend, Ben, crouching behind a sycamore with his rifle. Ben waved at Jim. There was that dull thud and Ben fell back. He didn’t move. Lightning flashed. Were those Yankees in the trees? Jim thought he saw blue uniforms. A thousand muskets roared. The rain fell harder. The thuds were loud now, each strike like a hatchet chopping his heart. Lightning illuminated the air again. Jim was sure he saw a skirmish line approaching. 

He jumped up, nearly losing his gum blanket. Rain smashed his face. He ran down the path, hoping it was towards safety. He was out in the open now. The path split a field down the middle. Jim ran crouched over. Thunder cracked, booming over his head. Jim slipped on a flat rock. He fell forward, throwing his hands out to catch himself. The gum blanket kept moving forward beyond him. The rain assaulted his senses. Heavy and rapid fire thuds. Jim landed on his knees, tearing a new hole in the thinning jean cloth. His hands, rough from campaigns, were mostly protected from tiny pebbles and sand. He stood, brushing himself off. He was quickly becoming soaked. He knelt down again, searching for his gum blanket in the darkness. 

Lightning crashed nearby. He saw his gum blanket, but the Union skirmishers were approaching. Jim grabbed his blanket and ran. He ran for whatever was ahead. He kept his feet moving, lifting each foot up to avoid another rock. The thunder was moving off to the South. He didn’t know if it was advancing or retreating. But it was quieter. The rain, too, was letting off. The sound of death more dim. Jim slowed himself, entering a small stand of trees. He sat down, not caring that the ground was wet as blood. He turned his head towards the field, waiting for the skirmishers to appear. When the lightning lit the sky, he saw nothing but an empty field. 

There was no one except him for a half mile all around. Jim lifted his face to the sky, to God. The rain spattered his cheeks. He winced with each drop on his eyelids. Why am I walking home and not my friends? Jim mouthed the words, but there was no sound. The thunder vibrated through the air, not as muskets, but as the voice of God. Jim tried to listen, tuning his ears to this. Why me, Lord? Lightning pierced his closed eyes. An image of his hometown burnt to the ground. He didn’t recognize anyone.

“Is that Turner’s Gap?” Jim asked aloud.

There was no answer this time.

“Rhetorical, I spose.”

Jim rubbed the water from his flecks of beard stubble. Is this my purpose? He heard the thunder roar off in the distance. The fighting clouds were slowing down. He huddled under the trees and closed his eyes. I gotta get on home. Jim had slept in far worse positions. For him, this was as restful as it got. 

He didn’t dream this night. He did sleep though, all the way through to morning. He was stiff and it took him a few moments to stretch his legs. He rubbed his knees and saw where he had torn his trousers. He sipped from his canteen and shivered in the April morning. Standing, Jim folded his gum blanket and replaced it in his belt. He relieved himself in a nearby bush. Wishing for coffee, Jim felt in his haversack for something to quell his growling stomach. His hand returned with a small corner piece of hardtack. He stuck it in his mouth to suck on. Jim started walking again, heading southwest towards home, towards Georgia.