Golden Anvil

I remember when first I saw her.

Long red hair set free, floating gently down her back. Not caught up and bound in the snood used by the ladies of New Orleans. Delicate white skin set against the darkness of her green dress. And such an odd dress. No hoops or ruffles. No jacket. Not even lace. Just a simple green dress. If it had been white It might have been thought to be a night shift. A grey riding cloak was cast about her shoulders, though it wasn't so chill a night as all that.

She wasn't one of the camp followers that flock to the trail of the armies. That simple a dress, she looked like no woman I'd seen with either us or the Yankees. Whores would have shown more of that white flesh, wandering amongst the pickets posted between the armies. And she couldn't have been one of the soldier's wives. The Vivandiers that trailed around with us had more sense than that. None of them would have been fool enough to wander in the woods at night with two armies threatening a battle. Nah, the ones stupid enough to have done that would have had enough frights early on to have left by now.

There was no good reason for her to be out here. Not wandering amongst the pickets of two angry armies. Good way to get shot, stumbling around in the dark. Not unless she was some sort of spy, sent to sniff us out by the Yankees. I figured it would be best to bring her in, captive. Let the officers ask what business she had about that night.

Then she turned.

Those eyes. As I stood there in the dark, all I could see were her eyes. There was so much sadness. It was as though all the pain of this awful war had come to rest upon her. Her despair struck me harder than any bullet ever had.

I don't know how long we just looked at each other. Could be it was a moment, or it could be it was hours. I couldn't tell. Then a cloud moved across the moon, and the faint moon light filtering through the leaves was blacked from the skies. The darkness lifted only seconds later, but when it did, she was gone. I looked around, soon as I recovered my good sense, but couldn't seen one sign of her.

I kept the thing to myself, of course. What was I supposed to say to the sergeant?

"Jacob, I saw a most lovely lady last night while on picket duty."

"Aye, and did ye now? And why would it be that ye didn't have this lovely lass up to the camp?"

"Well, she disappeared."

"Disappeared, did she? Sounds to me like someone was dreaming on picket duty. Perhaps
a turn at digging latrines might wake ye up."

Jacob is a good sort, but he does take picket duty seriously. Has to. The whole Yankee army is within spitting distance. He'd have me on detail so fast I'd not have time to let the dust crunch under my feet. Nah, best to keep quiet about it.

Still, my comrades knew something had my attention. Here we were, marching toward a
major dust up, and my mind was elsewhere. Corporal Deschenes had to ask several times if I had all 80 rounds for my Enfield. Of course, with that Cajun patois of his, even those of us born in New Orleans had difficulty understanding him. But then, when you're part of Ewells Corp, you learn to understand, and right quickly. There are so many brogues, drawls, and such. Nah, his way of speaking couldn't excuse my wool gathering.

I stumbled into the man before me several times during the march. Kept missing the calls to halt
from the Sergeant-Major. After so many miles, my legs should have learned the commands without any need for my mind to tell 'em what to do. I could close my eyes and walk from the Potomac to Richmond without stumbling once, my feet have done that walk so many times. But somehow I kept bumping into O'Sullivan. All I could see in front of me were those eyes.

She visited me again, that night. I'd drawn picket duty again. This time I was on the bank of some quiet little steam, close enough to hear the quiet cough of the Yankee picketed just the other side of it. I had been permitted a few hours of sleep, then, as the mists began to form, I was rousted out and sent to relieve the man who'd held the post before me. I sent him off, then settled in for the night. The Yankee would leave me be, so long as I stayed on my side of the stream, and I was happy to do the same for him. It was an old dance we and the Yankees had perfected over the course of the war. No point in dying over a stream in the middle of the night.

I was tired. Mortal tired. Lacking sleep from the night before, marching all day, then shaken from a worn, filthy blankets again, who wouldn't be tired? Staring out into the night,
a rifle makes for a poor companion when it comes to talking. And the Yankee sure wouldn't take kindly to my violating our unspoken truce. Any one might find himself having trouble not falling to sleep under such conditions. So I found myself circling a tree overhanging the bank. Was the only way I could think to remain awake.

Then I heard it. At first I was uncertain if I was even hearing anything. My hearing is none to good. Too much shooting, too many cannon. But hear it I did. Faint at first, then louder. A voice. Her voice.

She was singing. I couldn't see her. But I knew, I just knew it was her.

I couldn't understand the words. My ma and da never taught me the tongue of the old country. Said I was born here in America, and I'd learn to speak like I was. But I know the sound of it, sure enough. It was like the songs I'd heard my ma sing. She'd sing whenever there was a sick one to care for, or a simple chore to be done. But never with such sadness. I've known my share of sorrow, seen companions lying on the field, torn apart by shot and shell. I know the melancholy of having death as a constant shadow. But this? This voice sang of a depth of knowing I'd not believe any man or woman could ever have the chance to learn.

The ancient words wrapped themselves around me. The stream, the moon, the tree I was under, even the Yankee, all faded. My world became the music. It was all I knew, all that sadness, all that despair. It floated on the notes, rising, sinking, trembling. And black. Blacker than the bottom of a Lousiana bayou.

Then the dawn broke.

I swear I didn't sleep. I couldn't have slept. Not standing on my feet. Yet I couldn't account for the passing of time. I'd have sworn it'd not been more than an hour since I'd taken my watch. Yet there I stood, blinking stupidly at the sun as it crept over the top of a hill across the stream.

The army didn't move that day. I don't know why. Marse Robert doesn't share his reasons with lowly foot soldiers. It'd hardly matter if he did, though. We'd follow his orders anyway. After all, he's led us to victory after victory, even if that effort in Maryland didn't come over so well last year.

What I do know is it gave me a chance to rest after the previous days. I shoveled down
some food, bacon and corn meal, and then wrapped myself in my blankets for a few hours
sleep.

Sleep didn't come easily. I kept having dreams. They were the type where the dreamer can't quite make heads or tails of them once he's awake, but they seem to make sense while he's in them. All I know is she was in them, looking at me with those eyes full of sorrow, and singing that song. Then I'd wake, more tired than before.

I didn't feel particularly rested when I finally crawled out from under the blankets. But by then
the heat was getting up. I can't sleep if it gets too hot, no matter how bone weary I am. Never could, even at home on a real bed. Bare dirt? Might as well try sleeping on a bed of bayonettes.

I tried keeping busy then rest of the day. Any little task I could think of to keep myself occupied, make the time pass. Cleaned my rifle. Darned a sock. Ground some chickoree. Anything. I even volunteered to fetch water for the cook from the stream. Problem is, there's not much to occupy a mind in camp. Doesn't take much thinking to rub oil into a stock and wipe a barrel down, or walk with a bucket of water.

I kept hearing the song. It was stuck in there. I tried thinking of something else, Bonnie
Blue, Allons à Lafayette, When Johnny Comes Marching Home, anything. But I'd stumble
part way through a verse, and find myself hearing those words again.

"S'airiu, Agus a leanbh, Cad a Dheanfaidh me..."

I returned from fetching water more distracted than ever. Something about those words, about
that song, the girl. The answer floated at the back of my memory, buried under the layers
of two years of war. I knew this was more than just a girl singing ancient tunes far from home. Something was tugging at my thoughts, just past where I could get at it. Some memory.

I was so caught up in my thoughts I nearly collided with Hinkley. He was attempting to
get my attention, but I had no mind for what was going on around me. Of course, being
grabbed by the arm and spun about serves wonderously to focus ones self.

"So, where'd you pick the girl up?" he asked me.

"Girl?"

"What? You trying to hide her? I know some of us can get a little rough around the edges,
but you need to have a bit more faith."

"She was here?"

"Sure, she came and washed your blankets. Knew just where to find them. Walked strait up to them like she owned them. I figured you'd told her where they were. Course, I kept an eye on her. Didn't want her running off with anything of yours. But she left them on a branch when she was done and walked out. Never said a word. I tell you, watching her was a distinct pleasure, too. Odd clothes, but lovely red hair. Where'd you find her? I haven't seen her around before."

I confess I ran off at that point. I muttered some fool thing or other, can't recall what, then fled. Didn't matter to me what I said, either. All that mattered was getting away from there.

Sometimes, out there in the night, the old fears come alive. Standing alone in the dark the ancient spirits come alive. Nothing's there but creatures of a world older than fire. There's a spirit in every tree, every rock, every shadow, and each one of them is malicious.

Ma used to tell me stories of that sort. She'd tell me the tales of those spirits, about elves and fairies, brownies and leprechans, and worse than that. The wee folk, she called them. Always she spoke of them with a hushed voice. She tried not to let it show, but she was scared of
them.

Well, now, so was I. Only this one didn't stick to the night shadows.

I was put on picket duty yet again that night. Guess I got someone irritated because we're not short on warm bodies. Even with all the men dead and buried, or sent home missing pieces of themselves, there's still enough for picket duty.

So out I went again. Same place. Same tree, same stream, maybe even the same Yankee.

Same shadows.

This time I saw her. She was walking slowly, ever so slowly up the stream bank. A gentle
breeze drifted strands of red hair around her head. White face framed big eyes. She was gazing at me as she sung softly. Gazing strait into me.

Sorrow washed over me. It was like a splash of cold rain water on my skin, but from the inside. Best way I can describe it, I guess. Doesn't do it justice, but how else can I put it? Looking into her eyes, it seemed I was drowning, and I wasn't sure I even cared any more.

She drifted past me as I stood, unable to speak, unable to tear my eyes away. I was terrified, and yet I couldn't escape. I didn't want to escape. All that mattered was that red hair, that white skin, those eyes, and that voice.

She kept her eyes on me as she walked past and continued on. It seemed she couldn't take her eyes off me any more than I could take mine off her. She knew me. She had to watch me. As if she knew something about me even I didn't know.

I had to ask. I had to know. She was something from my mothers stories, and for some reason, she had come to see me. She had seen lifetimes full of sorrow, and now, somehow, that sorrow had focused on me.

I couldn't get the words out. I couldn't find them. And so she continued along the bank, her pale white chin turned back over her shoulder as she continued to track me with her eyes. And on she sang.

I followed, of course. What else could I do? That song drew me after her. There's a secret, dark place in every man's soul, a place we all hide our darkest fears. That sorrow filled voice spoke to the hollow depths within. Every death I'd seen was spoken to by the song. Every moment I had contemplated my own mortality, every doubt and uncertainty welled up with every note, every word.

"S'airiu, Agus a leanbh, Cad a Dheanfaidh me..."

"Brandon! What are you doing? You ain't supposed to be here. Your place is up by the tree."

I'd stumbled my way up the river bank to Fontaine's position. I didn't even realize I'd done
it. But he'd seen me wandering past and grabbed my arm to stop me. I hadn't even felt the grip until his voice broke the song.

"Are you all right? You've been acting different the past couple days."

I asked him where she'd gone.

"Who?"

"Her. The girl in green. The one who was singing."

"What girl? There's no girl out here. Just Yankees. A girl would be crazed to be walking out here." He gave me a guarded look.

I knew that look. I'd seen it before. It's the look we always gave someone who was no longer quite right. It happens. Spend too much time out here, doing what we do and we change. Some change for the worse. They start looking at things no one else can see, talking about things no one else knows. And, then, they do something stupid. Something we all learned not to do back at Manassas. We all know it. Everyone around gives them the look. The one that says, "You're going
to die soon. You're a corpse already, you just don't know it yet."

And now Fontaine was giving me that look.

So I returned to my place under the tree until some one came and took my place.

I've spent all day thinking about her. I've been thinking about that song. I know what it is now. Ma told me about it. She sang it once, when young Eamon died of the cough. Keening, Ma called it.

She's keening. Singing for all the dead she's seen. We've had an awful lot of dead here since the North came down. That must be what drew her over from the Old Country. She keens for every
young lad that's died since it's started. And for all those who are yet to die.

I'm tired. Mortal tired. I've been marching two years, watching friends die, and doing my share of killing too. I've seen the Yankees getting stronger, and better at this, while we keep getting weaker.

All I want to do is rest.

It's night again. I'm sitting here by stream, by the tree. The sun's set, and the shadows are out. The spirits are here. I can feel them, watching.

I'm going to meet her now. She's singing, just over the stream. I'm going over there to listen to the song until it ends. And then, it's time to sleep.