Two Struck Images

Phillip Bryant

Two Struck Images

The boy blinked and rubbed his eyes as the storm danced about him. Dust lay thick on everything, any movement stirring up further tempests. He was bored. Exiled to the attic to help his father rummage through boxes, he itched to go back to his toys. The ten minutes of staying out of his father’s way paid his punishment in full, he hoped, with the slight possibility of leniency for good behavior. He needed to keep up the charade of “helping” for a little while longer before his father would send him back to his mother in volley return.

A hideous velvet painting of “The Kang,” as his father called it while striking his best Elvis pose, lay in his path. Quickly bored of it, the boy looked about him and formulated his next distraction. The attic windows, dirty from years of neglect, only allowed thin shafts of light to illuminate the drab, dank, and dirty holding space. The path marked by the sunlight, he imagined, pointed to a long-secreted treasure map. A solitary beam lit upon a stack of boxes, and it was there his adventure would begin. Positioning his imaginary fedora for action, the boy stroked his chin and pondered the trail of danger that led to his prize.

His father busied himself with sifting through boxes of magazines and calendars across the room. The boy dodged the white-jumpsuited Kang and negotiated his way around old toys, lamps, and clutter to make it to the illuminated stack. Proud that he had avoided all of the deadly booby traps, he opened the box at the top of the pile, waved away the ensuing cloud of eye-watering particles, and peered inside.

Crestfallen, he grimaced. No map was to be had; nothing but a collection of photographs. Within the box were images of people he didn’t recognize, a jumbled pile with old and faded color photographs lying indiscriminately among the black-and-whites. Sifting through the collection one by one, he studied the blank faces of people long passed. Here a cluster of men and women dressed in fine attire, there a solitary figure dressed in uniform standing smartly at attention.

“Who are these people, Dad?” the boy shouted as he held a small photo aloft, his short-lived adventure forgotten.

“What people?” his father responded, annoyed.

“These people over he-re,” the boy shouted again.

“We’re the only ones up here, son, you don’t have to yell! I can hear you just fine.” His father turned toward him.

“I’m talking about these photos. I’ve never seen any of these people before.”

“I don’t know. Probably photos your grandmother kept up here.” His father shook his head and turned his attention back to his own box of knickknacks.

The boy put the photo into the pile he was building, balancing it precariously upon a box leaf. “Hey, what kind of photo is this?” Inside a two-leaved, book-like frame was a picture showing two individuals in dark uniforms. “Hey, is this glass?”

“What are you looking at?” His father sighed and crossed the room, deftly sidestepping the multitude of obstacles that littered the way. Taking the object, he looked at it closely. “Huh, I think this is an old daguerreotype.”

“De-what-a-type?”

“Daguerreotype. It’s an old-fashioned kind of photograph. They were made on glass.”

The photo was of a man standing next to another, who was seated. The one standing struck a dignified pose, with one hand resting familiarly on the shoulder of his companion. His eyes looked distant and wide, as if startled by something. His companion was clean shaven with careworn eyes, dark circles radiating like halos under each. Both were thin lipped, and neither smiled. Hats crowned their heads, and each had his coat open save for the top button closing the collar.

His father studied the image as the boy watched his face, looking for some clue to the mystery.

“I guess this is a Civil War photograph,” his father said as he handed the object back. “Be careful with that; it’s extremely old and fragile. We ought to store it better than in this old box. Go take it to your mother and see if she wants to do something with all of this.”

His errand and boredom forgotten for the moment, the boy stared at the picture and ran his finger across its surface, feeling its rough texture. He wondered at their comatose stares, when it had been taken, who these two soldiers were; and he wondered if he was related to them.

His father had gone back to his sorting project. All of a sudden, the dark room got darker; objects swirled, blending in a spiral that went down and down and down. Choked with fear, the boy tried to scream, tried to utter any sound, but could only emit a soft, barely audible squeak.

* * *

Thomas marched with a growing thirst and fatigue that bespoke the miles they had covered since before sunup. His musket strap dug into his shoulder, and he shifted its position. The constant tramp, tramp, tramp of shoes on the dusty road filled his ears and lulled him into forgetting how much his feet ached. The conversations and joking had long died down as the men entered into the rhythm of the march. The miles came and went, but he counted the moments and thought of more pleasant things to push aside the pain. Levi’s face, contorted in laughter, appeared before his mind’s eye.

Shaken out of his trance by the thought of his brother, Thomas spied the back of his hat a few ranks ahead. Relieved that Levi was still keeping pace, he returned to his thoughts.

The events of this campaign had been nothing but marching and countermarching as the Army of the Cumberland and the Confederate Army of Tennessee tried to outmaneuver one another. Day after day of movement with their enemy retreating before them had given the men of the 15th Wisconsin a feeling of accomplishment. “Ole Rosie,” Federal Major General Rosecrans, was leading his army in a brilliant campaign to maneuver the Confederates out of Tennessee and capture Chattanooga. But all that the men of the 15th could see of his brilliance were the blisters and the exhaustion from movement along hard-packed roads. They had yet to trap Confederate Major General Bragg’s army and bring on a final battle, and for this they were grateful.

Thomas thought of the image he and his brother had had struck by that photographer in Chattanooga. The army had only been idle in the city for a few days, but he feared he and Levi wouldn’t have another chance for a long time. Locating a man by the name of Professor Wilkins, they’d had two images struck: one with Thomas standing with his hand on Levi’s shoulder, and the other with both of them seated.

Wilkins, a fair-weather Rebel and recent “John Brown’s Body” Yankee convert—who had even gone so far as to sing a few stanzas to them just to prove it—convinced the two that they couldn’t leave his office without each having an image struck. Thomas kept the one with him standing; Levi the other. The 15th Wisconsin had been raised the year before, and Thomas had been eager to volunteer. In secret, however, he had hoped that his younger brother would choose to stay home. It wasn’t to be. Levi was filled with his own sense of duty, and not wanting his brother to see all of the glory alone, had joined him in signing a three-year paper. Thomas was at once annoyed and eager to have his brother at his side as they entered into the adventure.

“Battalion, halt!” Colonel Heg shouted.

The command shook Thomas out of his daze. Muffled cannon fire rumbled in the distance, causing expressions of alarm and mutterings of surprise. He watched as the regimental and brigade officers held an animated conference, gesturing toward the noise.

“Rest!” came the next command, and the once uniform double ranks of the regiment melted in an instant as the men hunted for the best shady spot to sit. Thomas found his brother and sank down heavily under the weight of his traps and knapsack. Using it like a pillow, he took off his hat and wiped his brow.

“How you doin’, brother?” Thomas asked as he placed his hat on his chest and felt the breeze cool his head.

“Feet hurt,” Levi groaned.

“Lemme see,” Thomas said, and held his hand out.

Levi held his leg up so Thomas could see the sole of his shoe.

“Got another hole.” Thomas shook his head. “Curse that loafer supply officer!”

Levi winced as he shifted position.

“Did you hear the guns?” Thomas asked.

“Yeah, sounds big,” Levi replied.

“You used to worry we’d never get to the ball.”

“An’ you we’d get there too soon.”

“The Corn-feds ain’t as outmaneuvered as we thought.” Thomas shifted a little and rested his head back on his blanket roll.

“Ole Rosie knows what he’s a-doin’,” Levi replied.

Thomas sat in silence and stared at his brother. Thoughts of childhood always came to him before entering into battle. There were gambols in thick summer grass that swayed like verdant waves, pranks on the neighboring Hawkes boys, cruel rivalries setting both brothers upon one another in fisticuffs, and feigned illnesses to keep one home and warm from chilly winter vespers in church. Recounting these moments now, hoping to cherish them a little longer, he closed his eyes. The images they’d had struck had been one of those moments of youthful pride.

* * *

“Now make sure you look directly at the lens, and for pity’s sake don’t move,” instructed Wilkins. “Hold it, just a few seconds more. You can relax.”

“You think Mother would want these right away?” asked Thomas.

“I thought I’d keep mine safe for a while. You know Mother; if she saw how scrawny we looked, she’d bombard Rosecrans hisself with letters requesting our release!”

“I don’t know; thought they would want to see us together and in uniform for the Union cause.”

“Besides, Mother ain’t forgiven you yet for dragging me along. She might come down here to punish you in person just for the reminder.” Levi grinned.

“Gentlemen, it will be a little while as I cure the plates,” the professor said as he carried the plate negatives to his developing room, humming his Yankee proof.

Thomas cocked his head and grimaced as the sour notes faded into the backroom. “Yankee my arse! An’ I don’t remember dragging you anywhere; I couldn’t keep you from tagging along!”

“Someone oughta at least teach ‘im the right words,” Levi laughed. “I wasn’t gonna stay at home while you was grabbing all the glory. I’m as much the patriot as you anyhow.”

“You think Mother’s still angry?”

“I don’t know. She’s prolly tempered down some.” Levi laughed again. “One of these days I’ll show my image to my children and bore them with tales of the war and of this day. That’s why I want to keep it.”

Professor Wilkins stood in the doorway holding the two plate negatives gingerly, making sure to keep each from touching the surface of the other. “Gentlemen, here they are. Take special care of them until tomorrow, as the chemicals are still drying on the surface.” Wilkins tentatively handed them the glass plates, forcing a smile.

Thomas and Levi looked at each image and settled upon which they wanted to keep. Making their way back to the regiment, each one became lost in his thoughts. The 15th Wisconsin had missed the bloodletting at Shiloh, Tennessee, but were baptized by fire at Perryville. Moving to head off Confederate General Braxton Bragg’s Army of Tennessee as it marched into Kentucky, the Union Army of the Ohio was barely able to block the Confederates there, ending Bragg’s campaign after a stiff, bloody battle on a steep hilltop overlooking the town. There, the regiment had been bowed but not broken in severe fighting. They had weathered other scraps since, but each time they faced the elephant, Thomas would remark that providence had been drawn upon one last time. The chase to bring Bragg’s army to battle held eerie portent for Thomas: as at Perryville, would the enemy suddenly turn and strike?

* * *

Thomas opened his eyes, and that pleasant day in Chattanooga receded into memory, giving way to the uneasy present.

“How’s your water?” Thomas asked as he shook his own canteen.

Levi rolled his eyes. “I think I got enough, Mother.”

“You always were her favorite, cursed second born!” Thomas kicked Levi’s leg in jest.

“Bullying, inheritance-gettin’ despotic firstborn!” Levi grimaced in mock agony.

“You’ll be glad I asked soon enough,” Thomas scolded, holding up his canteen one more time.

“On your feet, fall in!” went the cry from the company first sergeants as the brigade began to stir itself back to life.

* * *

The sound of artillery and small-arms fire was fearfully loud, and the marching tempo accelerated. Signs of the struggle littered the roadside: wounded making for the safety of the rear, with limbs bloodied or missing, stumbled over those who had breathed their last. Orderly officers and messengers, hurried by their charges, galloped along the road, forcing the wounded to clear a path or be trampled.

Thomas looked for Levi as he had done several times in the past hour. He was still keeping pace but favoring his left foot. Thomas shifted the weight of his knapsack and steadied his musket on his shoulder. The sound of battle—its terrible crashing of solid shot through trees, the rattle of musketry, and the shouting of the combatants—encompassed all other sounds save for his breathing. Thomas’s heart raced with each step forward.

“Halt! Load, load, load!” went the cry of the company officers.

Paper cartridges, their tear flaps gripped between teeth and torn, were emptied down musket barrels. The clang of ramrods echoed amidst the roar of conflict in the distance. A palpable urgency and fearfulness animated the brigade officers as they conferred again. Thomas anxiously awaited the next command.

“Brigade,” shouted Colonel Heg. “Shoulder arms! At-the-double-quick, march!” Swinging his saber into the air, Heg spurred his horse forward as the regiments in the brigade took up the hurried gait.

Into the unknown they rushed; smoke billowed from behind the trees to their front. Closer they moved, hearing the individual discharges of the cannon now, the report of muskets, and the cries of the wounded.

Thomas spied Levi struggling to keep up. He wanted to excuse him from the fight, trade shoes with him, or just wish him home. Thomas strove under his own load and knew the battle was not going well on this part of the field. Ahead, scampering out of the wood line like frightened animals, rushed a blue mob.

They were running now, grim determination propelling each man forward. Each step bounced Thomas’s knapsack up and down on his back, his haversack slapping at his side and his musket jarring his shoulder.

“Company,” Lieutenant Feedler shouted, “in, two ranks, form, company!” The column of fours melted into a scramble to form company in two ranks. “Dress your lines! Dress ‘em!” At march step once again, the men panted heavily.

The brigade marched in a column of companies toward a dark, extensive wood, passing a dilapidated mill.

“Right-into-line-wheel, on the right by companies-into-line,” shouted Heg. From the columns of companies, each regiment formed in echelon behind another. The wood line was alive as thousands of blue-coated men ran pell-mell toward them in abject terror. Thomas counted three sets of colors streaming past and knew that the enemy was just beyond. The heart of every man sank, knowing the next order would be a march into the murk and darkness of the wood.

A wood in times of peace was a gentle, secure place to find one’s own thoughts, to escape from a meddlesome brother or hide from a sure slap of rawhide against the rump for an infraction willingly committed. The terror in the eyes of those regiments late of that wood spoke of another world entirely, of demons and other horrors too terrible to withstand. To fight in a wood, claustrophobic and musty, blind and groping along to face an unseen enemy, chilled each man to the bone.

Another halt was called just within the wood as the regiments dressed their lines and officers and file closers took their stations. Every man checked himself, both physically and mentally, for the challenge ahead. Thomas strained to find his brother further down the line; leaning forward, he was able to catch Levi’s attention. Levi nodded and smiled, but his expression couldn’t conceal the fear Thomas saw in his eyes.

The expression caught him off guard. Thomas wasn’t used to seeing fear in his brother—to his shame, it was often Levi who looked forward to an engagement and Thomas who could not conceal his fear of battle. At Corinth, he’d had to stay his feet from carrying him through the file closers and into the rear at the first fire from the enemy.

The urge to run had never left him; as the regiment stood poised in the trees this day, he had to steel himself once more.

“Men of Wisconsin!” Heg shouted, his horse dancing in front of the regiment, mirroring the nervous tension felt by all. “Forward, men; forward for Wisconsin! Forward, march!”

“Hoorah!” leapt from every throat as the regiment stepped off into the murky wood. Huzzah after huzzah emanated from the whole brigade as its regiments moved forward in a long, undulating line.

“Dress on the colors!”

“Your dress is right! Cover down there!” The usual jostling of bodies preceding the command forced each man to look to his right and adjust his pace, his step, his alignment with the man to his right, who in turn adjusted himself to maintain formation with the colors. posted in the center of the regiment.

“Forward men, forward!”

“Don’t get ahead; watch your dress!”

“Steady, boys. Corporal, close that gap!”

Into the gathering darkness they stumbled. The reassuring touch of comrades on either side steadied them for the coming crucible. The roar of fire from their front was absent; only the dull roar of battle from the north could be heard.

“This ain’t gonna be good. Pray we clear this before we run into ‘em,” Thomas said to no one in particular. The denseness of the trees and the thick haze hampered the view ahead, and he felt the fear welling up within him as each step brought them deeper into the forest.

The sudden pop, pop, pop of musketry warned of the presence of the enemy.

“Halt, halt!” Heg shouted and spun his horse around as the company officers and file closers rushed to take positions behind the lines of riflemen. Amidst the chaos wrought by the sudden halt, the enemy skirmishers burst into view, rebel rifleman in single line, crouching, dodging, picking their way forward. They abruptly straightened in shock and dismay at the sight of a solid wall of Union blue in stark contrast to the dense brown and green of the forest. Close behind them tromped an equally imposing formation of Confederates.

“Lord, have mercy,” a man close to Thomas stammered.

“Ready! For God’s sake, ready!” Heg ordered as the men struggled to shift into firing positions. A ripple of fire exploded from the Confederate line twenty paces away, catching the Wisconsinites unprepared.

Shrieks of pain and movement caught Thomas’s attention as bodies pitched forward and slumped to the ground around him. Without time to think of the danger, without time to dwell on which of his close friends were now writhing in pain below him, and without time to consider his own mortality, Thomas stood motionless, his musket at the ready, and awaited the next command.

“Aim!” A thousand hammers clicked into place as a thousand muskets leveled on the enemy.

“Fire!”

Thomas pulled the trigger and felt the jolt as his musket discharged. The enemy disappeared in a thick cloud of smoke. The men stood motionless and dutiful to their training, muskets pointed forward, straining to see the damage wrought upon the enemy line.

“Load, load, load!” shouted Lieutenant Feedler. “Quickly men, load; load and come to the ready!”

“Steady boys! Steady; load and come to the ready!”

“Load, load, load!”

Thomas set his musket between his feet and fumbled in his cartridge box, fingers shaking uncontrollably. “Oh, Lord! They’re gonna fire!” he shouted and tore the cartridge too low, tasting bitter gunpowder.

Another volley rent the air. Thomas bent forward and closed his eyes, waiting for the sudden slice of pain to overtake him. More shrieks and moans filled his ears, along with the plucking sound of minie balls as they smacked into flesh. Got to finish, got to finish, Thomas told himself as he straightened and rammed his load home.

“Ready! Aim! Fire!”

The familiar jolt of the discharge told Thomas that his load had ignited; in measured and oft-repeated movements, he dropped his rifle butt-first in front of his feet and reached for another cartridge.

“Load and fire at will; load, load, load; hurry boys, load!”

The enemy fire was coming now in random puffs, little billows of white smoke rolling and drifting in air. Thomas watched as the regimental flag floated to the ground, the folds fluttering in a sickening flourish earthward, rising, and then falling once more. He rammed his load home and returned the ramrod to the keeper, then capped the nipple. A jolt, and he repeated the process. A sudden shrill cry from the enemy brought their line surging toward them. Thomas looked to his left only to see the colors of the 1st Kansas moving to the rear.

“Steady, steady boys. Sergeant! Steady those men there! Load an’ fire boys, load!”

“Oh gracious Lord, they’re breaking, my God, they’re breaking,” Thomas gasped. Fear swept through the regiment as men paused in horror to watch the regiments on their left and right give way. Panicked men flung away muskets and any hindrance in a race to the rear. The rebel yell resounded above the din of musket fire; men cried out in shame, cursed their birth, shouted obscenities, and prayed. Standing alone, left behind by the 35th Illinois and 8th Kansas, the 15th Wisconsin was now taking fire from everywhere, fire which scythed down their lines from three sides.

“Look to your front, damn you, sir! Keep up yer fire!”

“Backwards march, backwards march!” Lieutenant Feedler shouted. Thomas lost his balance as the man behind him grabbed his belt and guided him backwards. Finishing his reload, Thomas leveled his musket and fired, this time seeing a foggy figure stumble backwards and fall. “Reload, reload! For God’s sake, reload and keep up your fire!” Feedler roared.

A long and forlorn line of bodies marked the spot the regiment had just occupied. The Confederates moved forward, emitting their banshee yell and peppering the Wisconsinites with fire. Bleeding a trail of casualties, the regiment moved steadily backwards, keeping up a desultory return fire. Thomas, gripped with fear, could only move and react with instinct as the tumult rose to a deafening crescendo. He could see men shouting things to one another and at the enemy. As he reloaded, he watched Lieutenant Feedler careen forward, spraying Thomas and others with blood. Thomas could only blink and wipe his face and continue on.

Breaking out of the wood line and into the clearing they had crossed only a short time before, Thomas saw the remnants of the brigade reforming.

“About face, at-the-double-quick, march!” a voice behind them commanded, and the regiments’ survivors ran toward the new line. Behind them, the Confederates burst through the trees and let loose a volley that thundered in Thomas’s ears. He heard a gasp from the man running next to him and turned to see who it was when a blinding white light engulfed him.

* * *

Thomas opened his eyes but lay motionless. His head throbbed with pain. His arms felt heavy but strangely disconnected, and he rubbed his eyes. His throat was dry and hoarse.

The sun sank into the west, coloring the treetops with an orange hue. The fight had moved into the distance, but around him was peace despite the cries of the wounded. About him lay the dazed and the dead. Men stumbled without aim through the field; others crawled about on unsteady limbs; still others huddled in small groups for comfort.

Thomas, his head throbbing, wavered on his feet. Crumpled forms dotted the ground, and he remembered running for his life. He saw where his regiment had made another stand by the rows of dead lying in two ranks; where more of his comrades had fallen as they stood shoulder to shoulder and died shoulder to shoulder. Oh, Lord, Levi, Thomas thought. Looking around, he realized Levi could be any one of those still blue forms.

Thomas rushed to the line of bodies. Here and there he recognized an ashen stare or crumpled form. “Levi! Levi!” he shouted. His voice warbled with emotion. Not finding his brother, he began retracing his journey, stopping to look at each face. Bloody, fearful hands gripped his trouser leg, but he coldly shook them off. Cries for water, for mothers, and for mercy filled his ears. The coming darkness promised to make his search impossible. Frantic, he hurried from body to body. He found his friends in their death throes or with the shock of pain etched upon their faces. Thomas paid them little mind.

He came to the tree line, but the daylight abandoned him, leaving the woods darkened and woeful. In the dark, the allegiance of the prostrate forms lay hidden. “Levi! Levi, can you hear me, brother? Levi!”

He stopped. A face materialized out of the gloom, and he stared into the wild eyes of a wounded Confederate. Unarmed, Thomas felt naked. The wounded man motioned with his palm and continued past him, dragging a bloody and useless leg. Maybe he is still with the regiment, or made it to the rear . . . or he’s dead and can’t answer, Thomas thought.

A continuous row of bodies stretched out to his right and left, and he walked among them searching for that familiar form, that clump of curly brown hair, that visage close to his own. “Levi. Levi. Levi.” Thomas’s hopeless intonations were swallowed by the rustling of dead leaves beneath his feet. Tears streaked his cheeks as he groaned out, “Levi. Levi. Levi.”

A hand clutched his ankle, and he attempted to free himself from the trap. “Leave me alone,” he croaked as he gave another effort to free his leg. He felt the grip loosen and heard a moan in response. Thomas stumbled a few paces further. “Levi. Levi.” A vague but familiar moan greeted his ears. Turning, Thomas spied a dark form reaching toward him. As he stared, the form became more familiar. Thomas gasped and froze; his heart sank.

* * *

“Son, I told you to take that stuff to your mother. Now scoot.”

The boy blinked and realized he’d been standing in the doorway leading from the attic. Still clutching the box, trembling, he nodded meekly in response.

“I couldn’t get you up here earlier; now you won’t leave! Stop your daydreaming and go!”

“Mom! Mawwwwmmmm!” the boy cried as he stumbled down the narrow stairway, trying to balance the unwieldy box on unsteady legs.

“What on earth are you . . .” his mother said as she rounded the corner. “Ahhh, Jimmy, be careful! Here, let me take that!” She rushed up the stairs and grabbed the box. “What are you doing?”

“Dad said to bring this box of pictures down,” he said wearily. “I ... I want to show you one.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” his mother said suspiciously. “Okay, okay. Here, let’s put it down over there.” His mother set the box down and sat cross-legged next to it. He sat next to her and watched passively, distracted.

“Oh, these must be Mother’s collection of family pictures,” she said.

The boy nodded but couldn’t keep his eyes off of the daguerreotype box. With tentative reach he grasped for it, but his mother kept thrusting other photos to him while she described who each person was. Impatiently he squirmed.

As each photo was retrieved, his mother pointed out who the people were. Grandparents and great-grandparents, cousins, uncles, and aunts were named and paraded past him—

Tiring of the family history lesson, he reached in and grabbed the box. “Look at this one, Mom!”

“What’s this?” she asked as she took the picture box. The box was ornate and sculpted with patriotic scenes, with a flag, an eagle, and the constitution emblazoned on its surface. Opening the lid, she stared at the image of two men in uniform: one standing next to a clean-shaven younger one seated on a stool.

“It’s a deg, a deg-arro-type,” the boy said as he took the box from his mother and stared at the figures.

“There’s something else inside.” His mother took the box and delicately removed the folded piece of paper that had been tucked underneath the lid. Unfolding it revealed handwriting that filled the center and then ran all along the edges, using up every bit of useful space. His mother read aloud:

Chattanooga, Tennessee, Nov 4, 1863

Dearest Mother,

I hope these lines find you and Father in good health and spirits. I was much refreshed in body and spirit to have rcvd your letter of the 15th inst. of this month. I beg of you to forgive my silence dearest Mother as the siege lines of the enemy have blocked all principle means of communication save for a tortuous mule trail. You needn’t worry yourself on my behalf as I am still in good health. It is by God’s good graces that I am still in the land of the living and that our army has survived this latest scrap.

Our foe was determined and the fight was desperate; at a place that will be forever etched in our memories called Chickamauga creek. You have by now received word of your dearest son’s passing into the next life to be with our Lord. It pains me that it were not I who could have been taken instead of your beloved son to save you sorrow upon sorrow.

You have also no doubt heard the news and read the stories regarding our fight of the 19th and 20th instant of Sept. and I will not add to your pain by describing the awful event. I tell you the truth, Mother, if perdition exists on earth, it is in that small deadly space that separates two foes. I must also confess, though I do not wish you to ever witness the horrors of a battlefield, that I wish it had been you to cradle our darling’s head in your lap as his life drained away so that his last visions would have been of your loving face. I beg your forgiveness for drawing your precious son from his home to a patriot’s duty and a patriot’s death. Your son, my beloved brother and friend, expired among his friends lying around him where they had stood and had been pierced for the transgressions of our troubled land. He is buried dearest Mother with other brave souls whose bodies were left behind on that hallowed and sacred ground as their spirits ascended to their reward.

Enclosed is an image we had struck a mere week before Levi was taken from us to be with the Lord. It is a miracle that the image survived the event and I know it will hold a special meaning for you to see your darling boy as he last appeared. We had two images struck that day, but you will forgive me, Mother, if I keep the second image as it was the one that Levi wanted to keep, was in his knapsack when we rushed into the woods to meet the enemy, was consecrated with his blood as he lay dying in the trees, and was the image he was so proud of.

Rest assured, Mother, and please do not allow yourself to mourn excessively, because your son, my brother, is in the everlasting and is free from the pain of this continued existence. I have felt your prayers for me and would ask you to continue them, as they refresh me beyond any physical comfort or drink. Give Sister a kiss for me and assure Father that his sons have given a good account of themselves.

Your loving son,

Thomas

“How sad,” the boy’s mother intoned as she refolded the letter and placed it back in the box. “This must be Thomas Fredrick Jefferson,” she pointed to the standing figure, “and this is Levi Charles Jefferson.”

“Where’s the other image?” the boy asked. “I didn’t see it in this box.”

“I don’t know. C’mere, I think I remember seeing these names in Grandma’s genealogy book.” His mother stood and strode across the room and into the parlor, and the boy clattered noisily after her across the wooden floor. Grabbing a large, ornate binder, she opened the leaf and started looking over the bloodlines.

The boy nuzzled through her arm and followed her fingers as they traced down the chart. “Here—Levi Charles Jefferson, born April 13, 1839, died September 19, 1863, at Chickamauga, Georgia. Thomas Fredrick Jefferson, born May 12, 1832, died September 19, 1864, at Andersonville Prison, Georgia. That’s a little odd,” she remarked. ”They died one year apart to the day.”

She was quiet a moment. “Let’s put these away in a bit. I want to go through them thoroughly after I get done with Grandma’s other things. Now go play quietly over there and let Mommy work.”

The boy took the photo display box and opened it. Staring at the figures and seeing fleeting images of trees and smoke and uniformed figures anew, he walked over to the bay window and sat upon the faded suede cushions to study the faces. Tracing his finger over the outlines of his distant relatives, he felt a moment of life upon the old finish on the glass. Two images, one saved for posterity and the other lost to time. Sounds of battle echoed in the quiet alcove as he stared into the glass.

He wished he could study the other image, to see what his relative Levi saw and felt and experienced. Even as he wished it, the boy knew the second image lay somewhere in Georgia with its owner: two brothers torn apart by life but reunited by red Georgia soil.

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