A/N- Alright, this is a new story (duh) so I'm going to tell you a few things you need to know. For one, one of the chapters will be M rated. Only one- and I don't believe (as an author) that that constitutes an M rating for this entire story. Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong. You will have plenty of warning about this chapter, and if you decide not to read it, I will give a review of it in the chapter prior to it. Deal?
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Cool evening mist sprayed down on my battalion as we emerged from the woods- the Yankees were still in the dark trees, lingering, waiting for the opportune moment to spring. I inhaled deeply, allowing the pre-battle adrenaline to circulate my body. My horse tapped it's feet anxiously, feeling the electricity flowing through the air.
All of our mouths set into a hard line when the first Yankee solider immerged from the dense thicket, fog swirling around his horses feet, and a Union flag waving in the slight breeze. I turned to my charges and simply nodded once-they nodded solemnly in response, and we all surged forward, headed for the battleground. A sharp battle cry ripped from my throat as I climbed over the steep hill to greet the enemy- immediately, one of my men fell from his horse, following the sound of well-aimed gunfire. I winced as his body hit the ground, completely lifeless. His frightened horse darted for the safe cover of the woods, it's red-brown coat wet as it disappeared.
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A WHILE LATER
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The sound of swords clashing rang in my ears as I danced tactfully through the chaos- we had only lost about ten or so, out of 200. But, every time another fell, I couldn't help but wonder- did he have a family? A wife, and possibly a child on the way? A mama that had made him promise that he would come home, just like mine had whenever I departed?
You had better come home to me, boy. she had said firmly, Or I'll tan your hide.
Just then, a body fell in front of me, one of our foot soldiers. I know that I shouldn't have, but I couldn't help staring at the body, horrified. That pause- no matter how short- was the absolute worst mistake I could have made.
"Major, look out!" someone yelled.
My hade turned just in time for a stinging pain to rock my chest- a pain that was pinpointed right near my heart. I fell from my horse, and, spooked, it ran off, almost crushing me in its retreat. I pressed my hand to where the pain was the worst, hissing and cursing under my breath, trying not to move much as to avoid attracting attention.
My hand came away bright red, covered in my own free flowing blood.
I had been shot.
Immediately, I knew that I had to do something. I tried to stand, but my legs refused to work- definitely not a good sign. I knew that I couldn't stay and fight, that I had to get help, or else I was going to die. I dig my hands into the soft earth and managed to crawl to the edge of the battlefield, stand up using the support of a tree, and began to stumble through the thicket. I didn't really know where I was going- I had never been to Georgia before, mainly because I had a tendency to stay around Galveston. I just knew that I had to get away from here, or someone was going to find me and finish me off. After about a mile, the giant burn of resentment for leaving my comrades behind began to burn, adding to the stinging pain in my chest. But I knew that, as soon as I was well, that I would be right back in the field alongside them, fighting to keep the South free.
After a mile more, I was beginning to get woozy, and I could feel the blood from my wound staining the jacket of my uniform. I stumbled, landing on my knees in a shallow pool of water. My breathing was labored, and there were bright red dots swimming in front of my eyes in the pitch blackness of the night. I continued on.
I could no longer hear the sounds of the battle, but, after a few hundred more yards, I could see the faint glow of a house on the horizon- my pace quickened to almost running. I reached the large, plantation-style house in a matter of minutes, my will to live rushing me, and knocked heavily on the door, praying that someone was home. Black snakes slithered in and out of my vision, and my knees shook; I was beginning to lose consciousness.
Just then, a small woman opened the door.
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APOV
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I had just been sitting at home, thinking. I was thinking about how I missed my mother, now that her happy nature didn't brighten the doorways of the house, since she had gone and passed away, claimed by pneumonia. She had left me her house, and I had decided to live here rather than with my father, despite the fact that I was alone, five miles from Atlanta. I was thinking about how I detested my father and the man that he wished me to marry, Edgar Wilkes. Edgar was a suggestive drunkard of an Alpha male, who supposedly 'won' me from my father in a game of poker one night, after they had all been good and liquored up, of course. Father said that Edgar's controlling nature would "do my unladylike, mouthy self some good". I had refused to marry him and moved out of Annapolis and my father's house promptly.
Just then, there came a heavy knock at the door. I pushed the skirt of my cornflower blue dress aside and moved to answer it.
There, on the porch, leaning against the wall, was a tall Confederate solider. The entire from of his grey jacket was covered in blood, his own by the looks of it, and his hazel eyes were wide, yet he seemed not to see me.
His knees wobbled, and suddenly, he collapsed, his tall frame coming down into my arms. I managed to hold him up, but for a moment, I thought he had died. But I heard his pulse hammering unevenly, for his throat was pressed to my ear. With much effort, I dragged him to the first floor guest room and settled him on the bed.
"Stay with me," I pleaded to him as I began to remove his clothes. I couldn't help but notice all of the embellishments sewn onto his jacket- he must be a higher ranking officer. I pulled my mind quickly from the trivial to pull off his pants, not having the female instinct to gawk and/or giggle at the sight of a naked man. I examined the gunshot wound to his chest, right above his heart, and went into action. I made sure that his head was elevated at the same level as the rest of his body and grabbed the first aid kit from under the bed- my brother called me crazy for keeping these things here. I pulled out a pair of tong-like surgical tools and held by breath as I carefully pulled the bullet from his chest- his breathing quickened, and he wreathed unconsciously. I pulled a linen rag from the kit and pressed down on the wound to stop the bleeding. I held it there for a safe amount of time, allowing the blood to clot, before I grabbed a new rag, wet it with water from the washbasin next to me, and gently wiped the coagulated blood from his skin. He would need a bath when he was a little better. I wrapped his chest in a sling-shaped bandage of thick linen medical cloth, and sighed- he would live. I could tell.
I took a new rag and began to examine him, cleaning his baby-soft skin as I looked him over. He had a few scraped and scratches on his arms, which I treated and covered appropriately. I washed the blood from his right hand, presumably from where he had gone to feel the wound. His hands were rough- he was a hard worker. Then, I looked at his face.
He had a square jaw and full lips, and I could tell by the darkening circles under his eyes that he had been deprived of sleep for a while. He was exceedingly beautiful, with a face that seemed to be carved from ivory by the skilled hands of an old master. I would compare his beauty to that of the Bottechelli angels on the Sistine Chapel, but he shamed them all. He had thick, curly hair the dark color of bee's honey- I reached out to stroke his face gently.
After putting some clothes on him, I let him sleep, knowing that he both needed and deserved it, and turned to tend to his uniform- the jacket was filthy, but salvageable. I went to the kitchen and put on a pot of water to boil. I carefully removed all of the pins from the jacket's breast and put them in the nightstand drawer, shutting it quietly as not do disturb him. After the water had boiled, I poured it into a large wash basin, and let the jacket soak for awhile before returning to the room. The pockets of his pants were empty except for two things- a small pewter cross, and a pocket watch with the initials 'J. M. W.' inscribed on the back. Hopefully, these were his initials. I took his boots to the kitchen with me as I began to scroll through all of the 'j' names I knew: Jacob, Jonathan, Jerry, Joshua, Jackson…
I sat down at the kitchen table and began to polish his boots, feeling helpful. I sat the now shiny boots on a shelf next to the wash basin and sat down to scrub his clothes. The jacket went last, needing all of the soaking time it could get to ensure that the blood would come out. I scrubbed his pants gently, not wanting to damage the fabric, and sang as I waited for him to wake…
Bob Roebuck is my sweetheart's name,
He's off to the wars and gone;
He's fighting for his Nanny dear,
His sword is buckled on,
He's fighting for his own true love;
His foes he does defy;
He is the darling of my heart,
My Southern soldier boy.
When Bob comes home from war's alarms,
We'll start anew in life;
I'll give myself right up to him,
A dutiful, loving wife.
I'll try my best to please my dear,
For he is my only joy,
He is the darling of my heart,
My Southern soldier boy…
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A/N- Alright, the song Alice is singing is called "Southern Solider Boy", and it is actually part of a song that was popular in the south during the Civil War. Confederate wives and sweethearts would sing it whenever they found themselves missing their men. I had to do a LOT of research for this story. The way she treated Jasper's wound is actually the correct way to treat a gunshot wound, in case you were wondering… Love Is A Funny Thing only has a few more chapters left on it, so I should be able to both finish it and work on this. My school is on spring break until Tuesday, so I have a feeling that writer's block would not be handy. I would like to thank all of my awesome readers- you guys amaze me with your reviews and support, even when the stuff I post sucks eggs.
(P.S- I really want someone to enter my contest, so go and check out my profile and get writing. WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE???)