No (I Will Not Give My Sons)
By Laura Schiller
Based on: Little Women
Copyright: Public Domain
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"I'll tell you honestly, I love them both
More than my life or any prize I've won
And I will not permit them to bear weapons.
No, I will not give my sons."
- Reinhard Mey, "Nein, meine Söhne geb ich nicht" (Translation by Laura Schiller)
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"Bang, bang! You're dead!"
John looked up from the game of chess he and Mr. March were playing in the Marches' back garden with a jolt of agitation, knocking a pawn over as he did so. Demi was chasing Daisy around the lawn with a gun. She screamed and threw herself down on the grass, her red dress pooling around her.
"Your turn!" Demi prodded his sister's shoulder with the blunt tip of the weapon. "I'll be a Reb, you be Union and shoot me."
"Don't wanna." She scrambled back, holding up her arms in self-defense. "Can't we play something else?"
Something about those two figures, one aiming the gun at shoulder height, one huddled on the ground, struck John as horribly familiar.
It was only a toy, he reminded himself, even as the cold sweat broke out along his spine. A silly wooden toy painted in bright colours that would never be found on a real rifle. It couldn't even shoot. None of this, however, could prevent the black flood of memories from rising over his head. Even now, several years after the war, he never knew what would set them off.
He didn't hear his father-in-law call his name.
/
Bang. Bang. Cannons boomed in his ears as he stumbled around the smoky battlefield. The dead lay on the grass, so close together he could hardly distinguish their blue and gray uniforms, red blood pooling around them.
The Confederate soldier John bumped into was a man of his own age and complexion. It was like looking into his own terrified face in the mirror, but before he knew what was happening, pain exploded in his right leg and he crumpled to the ground. His counterpart leaned over him, preparing for his next shot, still wild-eyed with fear under that gray cap.
He'll kill me, thought John, curiously detached. I'll never see Meg again.
As the pain overwhelmed him and his vision faded to black, the last thing he saw was the Southerner falling too. One of John's comrades must have gotten him, but he felt no satisfaction, or even gratitude.
All he wanted was to be far away from here.
/
"John. You're away from there, do you hear me? The war is over, son. You're safe."
John looked up to find Mr. March holding him by the shoulders, speaking with the hard-earned calm of an army chaplain, looking at him with eyes full of compassion.
"You're safe," he repeated quietly. "Take a deep breath."
John obeyed, once, twice, three times, until his head stopped spinning and his heart stopped thundering like the cannons from that faraway battle. Mr. March squeezed his shoulders reassuringly before letting go.
"Thank you, Father."
"Anytime, son," said the minister, and John knew he meant it. Their acquaintance had begun with the older man in a military hospital, weak with fever. Since then they had understood each other in ways that even their beloved wives did not.
"The children. Did they see … ?" John hated the thought of his innocent son and daughter seeing him break down like this. If he had his way, he would protect them from any knowledge of war.
"I'm afraid they did," said Mr. March, moving back so John could see Demi and Daisy standing in front of him.
"Papa?" Daisy put a hand on his knee and looked up with worried eyes. "Are you sick?"
"I'm better now, sweetheart. Old memories, that's all." He stroked her soft brown hair, reassuring himself as much as her.
"You were breathing funny." Demi sounded intrigued as much as worried. "Why?"
John caught sight of the gun in the boy's small hand. The black tide might be receding, but he still did not like the look of it. "Who gave you that?"
"Uncle Ned."
Ned Moffat. Of course. First that fifty-dollar silk, and now this. Why was it always the Moffats? "Put it away, please."
"But Papa … "
"Put. It. Away."
"But Papa," Demi burst out, hurt and indignant, "Mama said you were a soldier too! I just wanna be brave like you!"
"Never, do you hear me?" Just the idea of his little boy bleeding out in a faraway field made him furious. "Never!"
He realized he was out of the chair, looming over them, shouting. He never shouted. Demi and Daisy had backed away from him and were clinging to their grandfather's trouser legs, one on each side, as if they were frightened. Mr. March placed a comforting hand on each of their heads and gave John a kind, but unmistakable warning look.
"Please forgive me," John said to all three of them. "I'm not angry with you, only … only with myself."
The children looked no less confused, but a little less frightened, when they heard him speak with his customary quiet voice. Mr. March gathered them close.
"There is more than one way of being brave, my dears," said the minister. "A soldier fights because he has to, not because he wants to. It is a terrible thing to take the life of a fellow creature."
Daisy nodded solemnly, but Demi frowned at the toy gun still in his hands and asked: "But isn't it good that Papa fought? Didn't he help free the slaves?"
"Yes," said Mr. March, evidently preferring to simplify the issue this time rather than try to teach political economy to a five-year-old, "But our country still has a lot of work to do before they can be truly free, and that is not the work of a soldier, though it is just as important. We need to fight with words now, not weapons. If you want to be brave like your Papa, Demi, then do what he does every day: work hard, take care of your family, and be kind to people of all races that you meet."
John did not feel he deserved to be praised like that, but he realized what his father-in-law was trying to do. How much the children understood, or would remember later, was a mystery, but at the very least, their grandfather's low, cultured baritone was soothing to hear. Demi didn't even protest this time when Mr. March took away the gun and stuck it into a nearby flower bed, where it looked like a harmless decoration.
"What about me, Grandpa?" asked Daisy, not wanting to be left out of anything, even an improvised sermon. "Who should I be like?"
"Your Mama, Aunties and Grandma are the finest role models any young girl could wish for," Mr. March replied gallantly. "And on that note, children, here they are now. I do believe it's time for tea."
The kitchen door flew open and the March women emerged, carrying trays of cake, tea and coffee smiling and chatting in the afternoon sunshine. Jo had an ink stain on her nose and a dreamy grin on her face; she must have been writing either a story or a letter to her Professor in Chicago. Amy and Laurie had just arrived, carrying armfuls of flowers from the Laurences' greenhouse to decorate the table. Mrs. March caught her husband's eye from several steps away, sharing a wordless communication as they often did. As for Meg, in John's eyes both sunshine and smiles became brighter as soon as she stepped out the door. He walked over to relieve her of her tray, dropping a kiss on her soft cheek as he did so.
"Why, hello." She laughed. "What was that for?"
"Old memories, that's all."
She and the children were the future he had fought for. The next time the past tried to pull him under, he would have to remember that.