Crossing the Deadline by Michael Shoulders Page A

Union uniform. Water covers my bare feet. I’m standing in the middle of Paddy’s Run, a gun in my hand. Lifeless forms, stacked like cordwood four-, five-,six-deep, cover the creek’s banks. The war hasn’t made its way north to Centerville, Indiana, has it?
    Four men in Confederate uniforms carry limp bodies toward Crown Hill Cemetery. I stand perfectly still, exposed and unable to move, hoping they don’t notice me. The soldiers go about their work, oblivious to a Yankee standing close enough to see the ranks on their coat sleeves. Why am I invisible to them? A cannon rings out from the west, causing the ground beneath my feet to rattle.
    The blast wakes me from my dream. It takes several seconds, but the realization hits that I’m sleeping at the train station. The sky’s a seamless black, and there are no sounds coming from the city streets. Swells of blood pound in my neck, and the throbbing in my wrists is like the constant beating on a bass drum. Short breaths, in and out, slow my heart rate to normal.
    As soon as my eyes close the nightmare returns.
    I raise my gun and point the barrel downstream. My eyes dart from bank to bank. My right forearm quivers and taps my rifle stock, making it sound like telegraph code.
    The creek flows clear as windowpanes, but I can’t feel the smooth rocks at the bottom of the stream, only the coolness across the tops of my feet. I walk downstream and end up past the cemetery and out of town in a shallow pool near Governor Morton’s home. The pool sinks to waist deep at one end here before rippling out the west side of town.
    More piles of men lay dead on the banks. Body fluids pour from their mouths and nostrils. Organs spill from wounds, and flies smother every cut like apple butter on bread. Blood cascades over dirt and rocks and mingles with creek water, turning it red as a cardinal’s wing.
    Mother stands stoic beside Uncle Clem beneath a barren oak tree. She’s wearing a flowing black mourning dress with crinolines. A widow’s cap rests snugly on her head. Light bounces from a piece of golden jewelry. It’s a brooch with a quarter moon and stars and is clipped near the base of her throat.
    Suddenly something catches Mother’s eyes, and she points frantically to a body being carried to the cemetery. To my horror, I realize the next soldier to be buried is my brother, Robert. His eyes are open and blinking. He struggles to free himself but is unable. In desperation, he turns his head toward me and yells at the top of his lungs, “You have to save me, Stephen!”
    Noise from a gathering crowd wakes me. Mothers, fathers, and girlfriends have come to say good-bye and wave handkerchiefs to loved ones. Some men mingle around the platform, shake hands, and tell one another they’re from Rushville, Batesville, or Connersville. Watching them hug family and friends makes me wish I had said a proper goodbye to Mother. “I’m so proud of you,” one father says as he shakes his son’s hand.
    I take off the extra clothes I wore for the night and pack them and my blanket into my bag. There are few open seatswhen I make my way down the aisle of the train. As I scout for an empty seat, I overhear one fella talking about how he got his first kiss from his sweetheart just before boarding the train. Those not talking about their sweethearts talk about how quickly the 9th Indiana will end the war.
    I notice a shiny leather horn case in a compartment with one empty space nearby. “Is that seat taken?” I ask, pointing.
    â€œNaw, help yourself,” the man in the seat says as he turns my way. It’s August Smith, a fellow bugler from the Centerville band. “What are you doing here?” he asks, jumping up to give me a hug.
    â€œI knew you were joining, and I thought the Ninth needed a good bugler,” I say with a laugh.
    â€œWell, it’s good to see you,” August replies. “I