John and Marty

hey, i am getting back around to writing some stories. I am currently taking a couple of Creative writing classes and this i s may homework. I have been busy since "Jill's Awakening". I attained a Master's degree in busness management. now i am turning back to the fun things. everyone keft me some very good feedback on my last story, and i promised i would write some more on here. It is short with a hook, i hope you enjoy it.

December was a hard month, even back home where there was a roof, a soft bed and a warm fire. Even then, sometimes it became cold in the house like in the early morning, when the fire died down. But here, at Stones River, it was never warm, and sometimes, you were wet for days. At least there was no longer the terrible fear of heavy battle. This was a rare lull in the great battle to free Tennessee of Union occupation. General Bragg led the Confederate Army of Tennessee to this place on the banks of Stones River over a month ago.

At first, the Army planned on a short respite, and then scouts began reporting that the Union’s Army of the Cumberland, led by General Buell, seemed mysteriously to abandon the pursuit. Since then, the weary soldiers simply concentrated on battling the harsh elements, resting, and gathering their strength. A relaxed air befell the camp; it seemed as a community of neighbors all getting along. It all seemed strange when one considers the enemy camp lay but 15 miles to the northeast.

In the cold of December, the first casualty in the battle of the elements became the snags, and tangles of driftwood along the banks. The men gathered these as an easy means of warmth, burning them in the many campfires scattered throughout the camp. At first, the fires remained small so as to avoid providing light for enemy snipers. Now, the soldiers were complacent, allowing the fires to burn brighter and to provide more warmth. Now the fires seemed as large bon fires at camp meetings. The larger fires consumed the available supply of wood, and provided an increasing area of cleared land for the tents and shelters of the soldiers. The small river, hardly more than a creek, ran through a wide bed of smooth rounded stones of bright gray limestone. Beyond the river’s edge lay an apron of the stones before giving way to the soft mud where the soldiers’ camp lay.

Tonight, two soldiers strolled along the edge of the camp, walking
along the divide between the rocky apron and the soft mud. It was the easiest path as the rocks were few and sunken into the soft mud. One neither slopped their boots in the mud nor risked a stumble on the rounded rocky surface of the apron.

John Calvin Brown a tall, muscular, but lean man his bright gray uniform festooned with the insignia of a confederate infantry sergeant walked casually alongside his corporal, who had enlisted under the name of Martin Jameson. John’s lanky gait did not match Marty’s smaller, almost feminine steps. The differences in the heights, frames seemed most pronounced.
Everyone called him “Marty,” He was a small framed man that bore the same uniform as John except Marty wore the rank of Corporal. For the others in camp, this was a common site, John and Marty seemed an inseparable pair. Others in the camp noticed the pair more than usual and rumors crept about the camp concerning the two.

The pair chatted as they progressed, walking slowly, and so closely that at times their shoulders bumped. Sometimes, they peered up at the sky that blazed with stars and a full moon. As they spoke in whispers in the cold, little puffs of fog exited their mouths. Just outside of hearing range, a group of crusty soldiers pretended not to notice the two as they walked by in the distance.

Around a blazing campfire sat five soldiers, absorbing the warmth of the fire and chatting between the swigs of whiskey sipped from jars. Clarence Simmons sat on one of the rather large boulders arranged for sitting, positioned around the ring of smooth gray stones that contained the roaring bonfire. The flowing river lay shortly to his right, and the strolling pair to his left, before him sat the others in the small group. He observed the couple out of the corner of his eye as they passed his position. The feeling of contempt in his stomach burned as hotly as the sips of the straight whiskey as it hit bottom after a long pull at the jar. Clarence is a heavyset soldier wearing a tattered uniform from many months of battle. He was a battle-hardened veteran, his speech crusty from the battle experiences or from his life’s work in a backwoods sawmills. His long hair and matching beard, gray with a few strands of black running through, flowed from under a wide brimmed Cavalry hat folded upward at the ears.

As the pair faded into the shadows, Clarence picked up a long oak stick and began poking at the fire sending a flurry of sparks skyward and brightening the area around the fire. As he lay the stick aside, he said in a gravelly voice, “Somethin’ funny ‘bout them two.”

The others around the fire came alert at the utterance. Each man heard whispers around the camp, yet, no one spoke of their suspicions so openly. The campfire group remained quiet for a few moments while the comment cooled in the night air. There were quick glances between members of the group before someone finally broke the thick silence.

Another battle-hardened veteran Thomas Gentry, a stub of a cigar lodged in mouth between his characteristic salt and pepper muttonchops rocking between his lips as he spoke. He muttered “They been like at ever since I known ‘em,”

Hiram O’Malley, an Irish immigrant who joined the confederacy to get money to start a small farm, related to the group, “I ain’t tol nobody this,” Hiram began, “but, last week when I was on morning sentry duty, I was to relieve the sergeant on his sentry post.” Hiram looked at each man’s face to judge his interest, and then explained, “The sergeant was sittin against a tree.” Hiram paused, “Well’” Hiram hesitated again before he continued, “Marty was there too, and they were both wrapped in a blanket together facing each other and they had their arms were wrapped around each other.” Marty took a deep cleansing breathe before he commented, “Disgusting.”

Bobby Withers, a slim brown head kid of 18, had joined the Army two months before. He had never seen any fighting, and grown up on the plantation owned by his father. Before enlisting, he’d enjoyed a life of pampering and money. He was as green as they come. Right now he was growing pale, his mouth drooped, he was aghast at what he had heard. “That ain’t natural!” he exclaimed when he found his voice.

Blonde, slender, and also 18 years old; but, with more battle experience and more wise to the world, Jim Billingsley only smiled, delighted at the boys reaction. He said through his smile, “I been knowing about it for a while, I see Marty coming outa the sarges tent early of the mornings lately.”
The group at once giggled and Clarence capped the discussion with, “What’s the Confederacy a comin’ to?”

John and Marty continued walking, oblivious to the conversation at the campfire. They passed Marty’s smaller tent and stood in front of John’s larger tent. They stood face to face, trying to appear business like. John motioned with his hand and then held the flap open as Marty ducked inside. John quickly followed and immediately turned to secure the flap. When he turned back around to face Marty, Marty had removed the uniform hat and allowed the hair captured underneath to flow down to the shoulders. “It’s growing back quick Martha,” he said as he took her in his arms feeling her womanhood as he kissed her.

Breaking the kiss, he lowered her to the bunk and sat beside her, “Martha,” he began, “I know how much you want to be with me, posing as a man to enlist and come with me was admirable. But, I am worried; the war will start again any day now. It was a hard battle when we were at full strength to fend of Buell, and now, they say Rosecrans is taking over. On top of that, President Davis ordered General Stevenson to take 7,500 of our troops to protect Vicksburg. It is about to get bloody and I don’t want you here.”
She looked lovingly into his eyes, a tear welling up almost to the point of sliding down her cheek as she declared, “I can’t John, I belong with you. If I go back no matter what I say, the community will think I ran off with another man. I’d be chastised.” She paused to sigh before continuing, “We’ll get through this together.” She finally said adamantly.

John replied, “Sure, you might, for a while, but, when all this is over and all the other wives come home with their husbands, they will all understand.”
“No they won’t” she retorted quickly. “They’ll think I use that as an excuse or that I did and turned coward. I won’t go back.”

John realized the debate was hopeless; he drew her into his arms and held her tightly. “May God help us, I don’t want to see you die,” He declared.
“Nor I you,” Martha said through her sniffles.

Vowing to continue the fight, the lovers slumped into the bunk holding each other tightly, a mixture of love and fear for each other flowing between them.