“Well, Jane. May I call you, ‘Jane?’ I simply don’t believe you. He’s here. We can be sure of that. Let me see now. Where would young David be hiding? We played this game when I was a boy. Private Jensen, Private Smith, search the barn. Now!”
Mrs. McDonald screamed.
“My son is too young for your war! Leave him alone!”
The ‘good’ captain ignored her protestation, and a big grin spread across his face.
A century and a half later it is impossible to piece together the details of the event, but as David’s mother and the captain stood outside her front door a shot rang out, and then another.
Jane let out a blood-curdling shriek and fainted dead away at the Confederate officer’s feet. The surly man summarily grabbed her under both arms and propped her up against the wall of the house.
As her youngest son lay dying on the straw-covered floor, the two soldiers proceeded to toss him out of the second story loft door into the hay wagon below.
Captain Matthews let out a string of expletives the likes of which his troops had never heard in their young lives.
“What the bloody h_ _ _ were you thinking, Jim? I give you a simple task to do, and instead of bringing me back a fresh body, you give me a corpse!”
(and)
“Well, no matter. The boy was a coward, and I expect he would have come running back to mama in the space of a week. Pack up your rifles, and let’s get outta here.”
As the three men mounted their trusty steeds, Jane managed to stand, and tore out towards the hay wagon. Having reached her dear son’s side she could see the bloody holes in his chest and right arm.
And suddenly, the poor boy inhaled sharply, opened one eye, and recognizing his mother attempted to speak. Taking renewed courage that she might somehow extend his life, Jane climbed up in the hay wagon next to him, pulled his upper body into her lap, and stroked his hair.
“Hang on son. I’ll ride into town and get the doctor.”
David shook his head and whispered.
“No, mother. I’m done for. I cannot hope to live long enough for you to saddle Old Tom. Abide with me a while.”
And with that, young David gasped, and ‘gave up the ghost.’
Afterward
Something short of a million men died as the result of gunshot, grapeshot and disease during the Civil War. And this figure fails to take into account young men such as my cousin David. Children of the southern cause who were never properly registered, and whom their parents attempted to preserve from falling prey to a war which could not be won.
When I consider the untold multitude of young fellows such as my ancient cousin, I cannot help but reflect on the brevity of their lives, and the generations who would have sprung up, (some of whom would have been with us today) had they been allowed to go about their business, marry, fulfill whatever plan God planted in their hearts, and rear children.
Perhaps the ‘bean counters’ would respond with some trite excuse about these poor boys not having died under what might be regarded as ‘official circumstances.’ Perhaps they would respond with the worn out old phrase, “You understand, it’s not personal.”
Well, I can tell you it was personal to David’s mother, and a myriad of other mothers like her. And, though we are far removed from the circumstances of that day, I can tell you
… it’s personal to me.
By
William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 48. Copyright pending
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If you would like to see the titles and access hundreds of my blogs from 2015, do the following:
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