Hey, all.

I’m prone to write short stories occasionally based on random prompts or thoughts. What follows is one such- the long-term consequence of the vicious American Civil War. The Civil War cost some 600-700,000 fatalities. The true number will never be known. Whole stretches of the countryside were laid waste for generations, and bitter guerilla campaigns were fought in the borderlands. The war directly contributed to the so-called “Wild West,” when legions of displaced and traumatized veterans were unleashed upon the Western tribes, and each other- criminals such as Billy the Kid and the Younger Brothers were veterans of the war, as well as the leadership of the post-war Army. Men such as Sheridan and Custer pursued and exterminated the fighting bands of the tribes.

The campaigns and lawlessness of the West were a direct and logical outcome of the bloodshed of the War itself. For those who didn’t “go West,” the War still framed their lives as if frozen in time. I know of one such veteran directly, from my Grandma, who related his experiences as she lay dying.

Anyone fantasizing about a redo of the American Civil War is a dangerous idiot.

Oh Lord Jesus. 

Jim stood in the serried line. To his right and left were seemingly endless soldiers in dark blue jackets with light blue trousers. His regiment, the 122nd Ohio, stood. The Johnny Rebs were coming. He could hear them scream; the Rebel Yell echoed over this accursed field of green.

The scream said, “We are here, and we are coming for you.”

The Napoleons opened up, BOOM, BOOM. He gripped his Springfield and waited for the command as he had been trained, as he was told. He watched as the Johnny Rebs closed on his regiment; they grew closer. Closer.

He had to piss in the worst way. His hands rested upon the steel and walnut of his rifle; in it rested a Minie Ball, nearly three-quarters of an inch of dying nestled in his barrel.

On top of a charge of black powder, it waited. Like he did with his regiment, thousands of young men strong. Men sound of body and mind; they waited for the axe to fall. For the Rebs to come. To close with them, to kill them.

His grip was sweaty upon his piece. His mouth was dry; the sun beat down upon his wool jacket. He swore he could feel the sun build heat in the brass bugle upon his bummer cap; he was a man of the line, an infantryman.

His mission; to close with and kill the enemy on this accursed field.

“Thou shalt not kill,” the preacherman said.

But today, he would.

He’d kill Rebs just like him, children of the same God. How could he figure that right? How could he ever be clean?

ROAR. They screamed. They trilled; it was the Rebel Yell.

They meant to leave him cold and splayed-legged upon the field. With the bayonet that pierced, the bullet that killed. Grapeshot to smear him across the bright green grass or a ball that would cleave him in two.

The hell with that! His mouth was dry; his vision narrowed into a tunnel. He saw the running Rebs in their butternut and gray. Oh, Lord Jesus, he thought.

His Lieutenant screamed.

“Hold, Boys! Hold!”

The man held his sword along the line of troopers, straight across as if to hold them back. 

Zip. Phweet. Snap!

“Uh,” said the man next to him. Ephraim. He fell as if his strings were cut.

Jim pissed himself. He would hold. On the grave of his father, on the spirits of his ancestors, he would hold.

WHUMP.

The Rebs had artillery, too. A gap formed in the line of blue.

“Close ranks! Close ranks!”

Jim moved. It was automatic, a mindless drill. The Rebs closed upon their line. They were close. Close!

“Present, Arms!”

Jim brought his rifle to his shoulder. 

“Full cock and aim low!”

Jim ran his hammer back and sighted on a shouting man with a dirty blonde beard.

“First rank, fire!”

Jim smashed his trigger. The yelling, bearded man disappeared behind a dirty puff of smoke. Had he just killed a man? He was too busy to care.

Jim automatically kneeled; he pulled a cartridge out, bit off the end, and dumped it in his barrel. He smashed the ball into his barrel with the ramrod, ran the hammer to half-cock, and placed a cap upon the nipple. He was ready.

By his ear, the second rank fired with a deafening, ragged blast.

The Reb’s advance faltered. So many of them fell.

The third rank fired.

The Rebs screamed, their charge decimated. 

“First Rank!”

Jim stood.

“Full cock!”

Jim’s heart pounded. The rebels fell. His heart hammered away; he screamed. Something squeezed his chest as if a great weight pressed upon him. He fought to breathe. He couldn’t. For the love of God, he couldn’t.

Jim fired. The Rebel’s line fell apart. He sagged to his knees. They got me, he thought.

On the 21^st of August, 1931, James Buckmaster fell at last. His daughter found him.

They listed “heart failure” on his death certificate.

But Winchester killed him.

No one would ever know.