War Butterfly
by Steven S. Foster
Private Benjamin Hayes crouched behind a fallen log and aimed his musket at the line of confederate soldiers. Fatigued after numerous skirmishes and another long march, he looked across a field of golden wild flowers glistening in the hot sun. Sweat dribbled down his boyish freckled face while he waited for the order from a Union officer standing with a sword held high.
He took a deep breath and wondered if that would be his last. A monarch butterfly flitted over and landed on the bayonet attached to his rifle. Surprised, he watched as it just sat there, oblivious to the impending battle into hell.
“Go on,” he whispered to the butterfly. “Git.”
At that split second, he heard a loud, “Charge!”
The butterfly disappeared. Hayes leaped over the log and took off running toward the advancing rebel army. Amidst the hoots and shouts was a buddy holding the stars and stripes. Shots fired and lead bullets pierced the bodies of men on both sides; cannon balls blasted through the field of flowers. Blinded by thick black smoke, he staggered in confusion. Men fell all around him.
Sharp pain ripped through his upper right arm, and he tripped over the body of a fallen man. Explosions deafened his ears. Darkness seeped into his weary mind; the light of reason blacked out. Drifting, floating in a sea of nothing. No worries. No sorrows. No pain.
Late into the night, Private Hayes gasped for air and awakened to a heavy burden upon his chest. Struggling to get up, he realized it was the body of a dead soldier on top of him, and he smelled the sweat and blood on his skin. Hayes twisted and squirmed until he freed himself: but he spotted ghostly figures of men with their lanterns as they collected the bodies of those slaughtered by the weapons of war.
He flattened himself to the ground and listened to voices coming from somewhere in that battlefield. “Well, lookee here,” said a soldier with a southern drawl. “We got ourselves a real live Yankee boy.”
“Come on!” ordered a gruff, battle-hardened rebel.
“No!” cried out the unknown soldier.
Private Hayes peeked over a mangled body and watched the man being dragged away by silhouetted figures in the dim glow of lantern lights.
“Where you taking me?” the Yankee whimpered in pain as he dug in his heels.
“Andersonville, boy.” The rebel soldier chortled, then punched his prisoner and dragged him across the field.
Private Hayes looked on and kept himself low against a headless corpse. “Andersonville Prison!” he thought to himself. “Hell! I heard that’s a death camp.” Fear gripped him worse than the pain of his shattered arm. He crawled on his belly to get away from the madness. “Ain’t no way,” he muttered under his breath.
Inch by agonizing inch, Hayes dug in with his left hand fingers, knees and boots through high grass while his wounded right arm dragged like a broken branch at his side. In his weary, disoriented mind, he remembered his ma and the blueberry pie she baked on Saturday nights back on his farm in the hills of Ohio.
Southern dirt gritted his teeth; a lingering smell of moss and rotting flesh in the darkness overwhelmed him. Benjamin kept digging in and crawling with the dream of going home.
Increasingly delirious, he heard a voice in his mind, “Get up, son.”
“Pa?” Hayes let out a sorrowful sigh. “Is that you?”
“Wake up, Ben. Got plowin to do.”
Ben sniveled and wiped his nose with a bloodstained hand. “But, Pa, I thought you got killed at Gettysburg.”
“Don’t matter none,” said a firm voice. “Ya got chores to do. Your ma’s depending on you, son. Now git on home.”
Benjamin Hayes groaned. Excruciating pain coursed through his limp right arm. “I’m trying, Pa.” Unable to see, all he could do was feel his way through grass and over jagged rocks that scratched his chest. He slid down a slope and slammed up against something hard, like a log. Bone-tired, he gripped into tree bark with his fingers, but his mind began to fog up.
“Pa?”
Only a chorus of crickets answered, and he slumped face down on a bed of fallen leaves. In his dreams, he was back home, and he saw fields of corn silk glistening in the afternoon sun. His girl, Emma giggled as she ran and hid between silver birch trees; he chased after her in a ritual of passionate playfulness. Her shoulder-length red hair swayed from side to side while she kept looking back to see if he would catch up and take her in his arms.
Just as Hayes reached out, he awakened to a barrage of artillery shells. Thinking he was back in the heat of battle, he peeked over a moss-covered log, and tried to stay hidden among the shadows of red maple trees. Nothing stirred in the early morning twilight. Confused and unable to distinguish between a dream and the bitter reality of war, he staggered to his feet and leaned against a tree trunk.
Parched, he drank the last few drops from his canteen. “Water,” he whispered with a weak, gravelly voice. He took a step, stumbled through the forest, and searched for a stream to quench his thirst.
Pine needles crunched under the soles of his boots. Realizing the sound was a dead giveaway of his position, he froze and listened for any signs that the gray coats might be lurking close by. Instead, he heard the cooing of a mourning dove high up in a willow oak tree, and he looked up at the bird perching on a branch.
Sensing that it was safe, Hayes inhaled the cool air, observed his surroundings, leaned his back against a tree, and felt the sway of its branches in the breeze. Sunlight flickered through golden leaves; he noticed dew drops glistening like jewels. He reached up, plucked a leaf and savored the moisture with his tongue.
“Ah,” he let out a sigh of relief and sucked up more driblets. With his mind a little clearer, he looked at the bloody hole in his right bicep. It had stopped bleeding. The lead ball must’ve gone clean through the muscle. Since he’d seen so many shattered bones from musket shot, this was a miracle he welcomed. With renewed hope, he daubed his wound with damp leaves.
He brushed back thick brown hair and remembered the small tin can of honey his ma had given him before he left the farm a few months ago and pulled it out of his haversack. “Here, take this,” she had said. “It’s a good healer for wounds.”
After smearing it on the red, swollen hole in his arm, he ate some hardtack and headed north. Soon, the sun glared over his head, and the wool uniform held in heat, but he kept going. Sweaty, thirsty and weak, he stopped at a pine tree, and discovered a small pond that was so close, he had a powerful urge to run and dive in. But he also knew that oasis could be a kill zone. Wary of rebel sharpshooters hiding in the bush, he plopped on his belly and peeked through knee-high grass waving in a breeze.
Desperate for water, he rose up slowly and crouched. Just as he stood up, a dove flew out of a dogwood tree. Startled, Hayes dropped back down.
“Well, I’ll be hog tied!” yelled a man from the other side. Chuckling, he said, “If that don’t beat all! I got me a Yankee.”
Hayes kept low. He couldn’t see anyone hiding on the other side of the pond. His only weapon was a hunting knife on his belt.
“Bet ya want some of that water,” said the rebel hiding under shadowy trees.
Private Hayes let out a deep sigh and shook his head. “Yep.”
“Me too,” said the rebel soldier.
“Looks like we’re stuck between a bull and a bear.” Hayes glanced at the pond that was so close, he could smell the musty air.
“Reckon so.” Chuckling continued in the shadows. “So, the way I sees it, we both need water.” There was a pause. “Am I right, Yank?”
“Yep,” said Hayes. “You go first.”
“Well, that’s right neighborly of you, Yank.”
“Glad to oblige, Reb.”
A breeze swayed green leaves and branches with a swooshing sound. Hayes licked his left hand finger and held it up ever so slightly. “Yep. Wind’s shifting,” he muttered in a low voice. He leaned back and observed dark clouds sweeping in from the south, then yelled, “Storm’s a comin.”
“Yep,” said Reb. “Mighty interestin’ how we both come across this ole pond at the same time.” He paused and studied how branches swayed back and forth, and noticed pressure building up in his ears. “How about a truce, Yank? We’ll both fetch us some water down there. I promise I won’t shoot if-in you’d be agreeing.” He scratched his scruffy black beard and listened for an answer. “How’s that?”
“Nah.” Hayes peeked through the high grass again and sensed a trap. “I know you Johnny Rebs. You’re all alike. You gray coats killed my pa.” He leaned his head back and looked up at the black cloud. “Ain’t about to forget that.”
“Aw, come on, Yank.” He exhaled and wiped the sweat from his brow. “We’ve all been fightin' and killin'. You ain’t blaming me personal like. Are ya?”
Hayes thought of the endless slaughter; hatred grew darker in his weary soul. “You filthy Rebs!” He spat it out so fast, he gasped for air. “If it weren’t for you rich slave holders, I’d be back on the farm with my family.”
Warm moist air whistled through the oak trees. Reb gripped his empty musket with both hands. “Ain’t got no slaves.”
“What?” Hayes peeked through the grass again.
Reb exhaled. “You heard me, boy. I’m just a poor farmer from Kentucky.”
Hayes lifted his head a little higher to make sure he heard it right. “I thought all you southerners had slaves.”
Reb licked his dry, swollen lips in frustration. “Look, Yank. Ain’t got no time for this. I’m as thirsty as a dog in the heat of summer.”
Hayes shook his empty canteen and said, “Yep. Know the feeling.”
In that standoff between two exhausted soldiers, they heard childish giggling from a stream flowing into the pond. Just then, a little girl came running through a patch of red and orange flowers chasing dozens of butterflies. She had pig tails and wore a tanned-colored dress over her dark skin. In her right hand, she carried a wooden bucket and smiled happily while dipping it in the water.
“Hey, child.” Reb crouched above the grass and waved. “Fetch me that water. Come on now. Be quick about it.”
She stopped and looked up, but then, she went back to filling up the bucket while the butterflies circled above her head like a golden halo of wings.
“Hey!” Reb yelled louder. “I’m talkin' to you girl.”
Hayes lifted his head up and tried a softer tone. “Hello, little one.” When he made eye contact, he said, “Can you give me some water, please?”
She glanced back and forth at each man with a wary expression, and struggled to carry the bucket of water with two hands. The thirsty soldiers watched and knew there was nothing they could do to get a hold of that precious liquid.
“Well, Yank.” Reb leaned against a log and kept his focus on the girl. “I reckon that was mighty dumb of us.”
“Yep,” said Hayes. “It’s a wonder she didn’t go screaming and high-tailing back up that hill.”
Reb squinted his eyes and watched the girl struggling as the water sloshed in the bucket. “Mighty curious, don’t ya think?”
“Yeah, how come she’s all alone and trying to carry that heavy bucket?”
“Don’t make no sense.” Reb furrowed his brow and temporarily forgot about his thirst. “That child ain’t much taller than a bunny in low grass.” He sighed and shook his head.
Hayes looked on and became increasingly worried about the girl and less for his need of water. “She can’t be much older than my 6-year-old sister. Where’s her ma?”
Reb winced as the girl stepped ankle-deep in mud, and the water sloshed out of her bucket. “Do you see that Yank?”
“Yeah, she could be heading right into quicksand.” Hayes crouched a little higher in the grass, and his jaw tightened.
The girl became distracted while butterflies settled on red flowers, then she set the bucket down on a dry patch and tried to step out. But she staggered, screamed, fell backward and splashed in the muddy water. In a split second that seemed like an eternity, the men watched as she disappeared until a tiny hand rose up and sank down again.
“Don’t shoot Reb! I’m going after her.” Hayes leaped to his feet and ran to save her, then plopped his belly and felt in the ooze with his good left arm. “I can’t find her.” He gritted his teeth and groaned while groping deeper for any sign of the little girl. “God help me.”
“Hang on, Yank!” Reb stood up, but limped in pain with a wounded leg. He stumbled, fell, got back up and ran to help.
“There she is.” Hayes felt an arm and tried to pull her out, then struggled to his feet. “She’s stuck. Give me a hand.”
Reb stepped waist-deep in the mud, grabbed the girl around the waist and pushed her little body as the Yankee held on. “Bring her in.”
“Aw,” Hayes groaned, then lifted her out with his left hand. “I got her.”
“Help me Yank!” Reb was up to his waist and sinking fast.
“Hang on!” Hayes set the mud-covered girl on a patch of grass. Relieved to see her sitting up and spitting out brown water, he turned and leaned with his left arm stretched out, but couldn’t quite make it.
“No Yank!” Reb lowered his arms and continued to sink deeper. “You’ll fall in and we’ll both be goners!”
“You’re right.” Hayes glanced at oak trees and found a broken branch leaning against a log, and grabbed it. “Okay, take hold of this.” He plopped on his rear and dug in with his boot heels while gripping the branch with his one good hand. “Come on!” He groaned and leaned way back.
Reb pulled himself hand-over-hand on the branch, crawled out and plopped down. He breathed heavily and chuckled. “We did it!”
“Yep.” Hayes slapped Reb on the back and turned to see the little girl standing beside them with yellow wild flowers in her hand. “Well, you seem okay,” he said while kneeling and focusing on her black-gem-like eyes. “I reckon you’ll look better once I get some of that mud off.” He took off his neck bandana, dipped it in a stream of fresh water and wiped her face. “There, that’s better.”
She looked up and her innocent smile showed that she had a missing front tooth as she gave each man a share of her blossoms. Although she didn’t speak a word, they thanked her and were smitten by her simple gesture of gratitude.
Hayes put the flowers on his right ear, then asked, “Where’s your ma?”
Instead of answering, she leaned over the bucket, took a cup attached to a rope on the side, scooped out water, and handed it to Hayes.
“Much obliged.” Hayes tried to go easy, but gulped it down. "Ah, that's mighty good," he said while handing the cup over to Reb.
Thirstily, the confederate soldier slurped the water. Some dribbled through his thick black beard. “Thanks.”
Satisfied with their first taste of water, the weary soldiers walked with the girl over to a small farm house. Thick clouds darkened the afternoon sky, and rain drops pitter-pattered the ground, then just as they stepped up on the porch, it poured off the eaves like a waterfall. Strong gusts of wind blew over a ridge and swirled around the badly damaged structure, and banged loose shutters against the walls.
“Hold it,” Hayes whispered and took the little girl by the hand. “Something ain’t right.” Low rumblings of thunder echoed through the valley.
“Yep.” Reb nodded. A fusillade of bullets had ripped through the wall. He peeked in a shattered window. “Ain’t no sign of folks hereabouts.”
Wary, Hayes knelt with the girl and asked, “Is this where you live?”
She nodded, stepped through an opened screen door, and ran into a cluttered room with clothes strewn on the floor. Glass crunched under their feet as the blue and gray uniformed soldiers followed her to the bedside of a shaggy-bearded black man. While he breathed heavily, the little girl crawled up and snuggled beside him.
“Is that you, Butterfly?” He gasped and stared blindly at the ceiling.
She responded with a kiss on his cheek.
“He looks bad off,” said Reb as he leaned closer.
“Yeah.” Hayes placed his hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Take it easy. We’re here to help.”
"I…can’t see.” He wheezed and reached out to Hayes. “Not much time.”
Hayes took his hand and saw the anguish in the man’s wrinkled face. “What happened here?”
“Men attacked at night.” The old man’s chest heaved in a desperate attempt to breath. “Killed ma mastah and his wife. Slaves ran off.” His voice became weaker as he wheezed. “I…I hid Butterfly girl in cellar.” He coughed. “She don’t speak none after her ma died.”
Hayes looked at Reb. “Get the bucket. He needs water.”
Reb left the room. The old man gasped again and said, “Take care of Butterfly.”
“It’s all right.” Hayes gently squeezed the man’s hand. “Try to rest now.”
The dying man tried to lift his head with a blank stare. “Promise me.”
Hayes felt the man’s weakening pulse and knew he had to say something. “Don’t worry. I promise I’ll take care of her.”
The old man lowered his head. Wind fluttered curtains away from the broken window, The man let out a deep sigh with his last breath. Butterfly girl’s eyes widened in shock, then she began to cry on his chest.
Reb came back in with the bucket and looked over at the girl sobbing louder. “Is he dead?”
“Yep.” Hayes gently rubbed Butterfly’s shoulder and felt her little body shivering in fear and sorrow. Thunder crackled and boomed. The storm had swept closer.
Reb looked over with a worried expression and glanced at Butterfly. “Well, who’s gonna look after the girl?”
“I am.” Hayes picked up Butterfly and cradled her in his arm.
“Ah, come on, Yank,” Reb yelled over howling wind banging shutters outside. “You ain’t got but one arm.”
“I’ll manage.” Hayes set Butterfly on a chair and softly touched her cheek with his palm.
Reb shook his head and huffed, “I might’ve known. You blue bellies just come march-in here and take over like you own the place.”
The Yankee’s jaw tightened with the bitterness of battles fought over many months that seemed to go on for years. “Well, all I see is a southerner wearing a stinking gray coat.” Private Hayes narrowed his eyes with increasing hatred of his enemy; thunder rumbled overhead.
“Why you dirty Yankee!” Reb gritted his teeth and shoved Hayes against the wall.
Private Hayes grabbed Reb by the throat. They fought and growled like wolves as the wind battered and shook the house. Frightened, Butterfly screamed, jumped down from the chair and made a strange moaning sound.
“Fra…,” she tried to speak and beckoned with watery eyes. “Fra…ah.” She grabbed each man’s hand and pulled in an attempt to get their attention.”
Hayes felt the girl’s tiny fingers in his palm. Aggression flowed out of him; he knelt and focused on her. “What is it, Butterfly?”
“Uh, maybe she needs to go potty,” said Reb while he leaned closer.
“No, that ain’t it, dummy.” Hayes glared at him.
Butterfly pulled on their hands and tried to bring them together. “Friends.”
“Well, I’ll be a bug-eyed squirrel!” Reb chuckled and forgot about his rage. “Did you hear that, Yank?”
“I sure did.” Deeply moved, Hayes kept his gaze on the little girl and said, “You can speak.”
Butterfly glared with a stern expression like a parent scolding her children and tried to pull the men closer. “Friends.”
“Um, well okay,” said the Yankee as he focused on the girl’s eyes. So you want us to go about like nothing’s happened?” He sighed and glanced at Reb. “Wow! After all the slaughter of men who’ll never see their families again…now she wants us to forgive and forget?”
Butterfly pulled on their hands again and yelled. “You be friends.” She glared as though she meant serious repercussions if the men didn’t comply. “Or we die.”
“Whoa.” Hayes felt her little hand gripping his palm and noticed a glint of stubbornness in her eyes. “You sure drive a hard bargain.”
A bolt of lightning struck a tree; Reb looked on in awe. Electric energy flowed through Butterfly’s fingers and into his palm. Shocked, he pulled his hand away and shuddered. “Stay away you witch girl.”
“Take it easy Reb,” said Hayes. “Butterfly’s just a child.”
“Well, maybe.” Reb cocked his head and stared at the girl as though he expected her to transform into a dragon. “I don’t much like the way she’s a lookin' at me, Yank.”
Hayes shook his head and sighed. “You Rebs are all alike.” He chuckled. “You’re so superstitious, it’s a wonder you don’t trip over a black cat at night.”
“Hey, don’t mock the dark side.” Reb waved a hand over Butterfly’s head. “I’ve seen black magic at its worse.”
She looked up and giggled. “He funny.”
“Yeah, you’re right Butterfly girl.” Hayes reached out to Reb and asked, “How about a truce?”
“Reckon so.” Reb grinned and shook hands with his former enemy, then he looked down at the girl. “Happy now.”
Butterfly held their hands, nodded and smiled. “Uh, huh.”
He took a deep breath and wondered if that would be his last. A monarch butterfly flitted over and landed on the bayonet attached to his rifle. Surprised, he watched as it just sat there, oblivious to the impending battle into hell.
“Go on,” he whispered to the butterfly. “Git.”
At that split second, he heard a loud, “Charge!”
The butterfly disappeared. Hayes leaped over the log and took off running toward the advancing rebel army. Amidst the hoots and shouts was a buddy holding the stars and stripes. Shots fired and lead bullets pierced the bodies of men on both sides; cannon balls blasted through the field of flowers. Blinded by thick black smoke, he staggered in confusion. Men fell all around him.
Sharp pain ripped through his upper right arm, and he tripped over the body of a fallen man. Explosions deafened his ears. Darkness seeped into his weary mind; the light of reason blacked out. Drifting, floating in a sea of nothing. No worries. No sorrows. No pain.
Late into the night, Private Hayes gasped for air and awakened to a heavy burden upon his chest. Struggling to get up, he realized it was the body of a dead soldier on top of him, and he smelled the sweat and blood on his skin. Hayes twisted and squirmed until he freed himself: but he spotted ghostly figures of men with their lanterns as they collected the bodies of those slaughtered by the weapons of war.
He flattened himself to the ground and listened to voices coming from somewhere in that battlefield. “Well, lookee here,” said a soldier with a southern drawl. “We got ourselves a real live Yankee boy.”
“Come on!” ordered a gruff, battle-hardened rebel.
“No!” cried out the unknown soldier.
Private Hayes peeked over a mangled body and watched the man being dragged away by silhouetted figures in the dim glow of lantern lights.
“Where you taking me?” the Yankee whimpered in pain as he dug in his heels.
“Andersonville, boy.” The rebel soldier chortled, then punched his prisoner and dragged him across the field.
Private Hayes looked on and kept himself low against a headless corpse. “Andersonville Prison!” he thought to himself. “Hell! I heard that’s a death camp.” Fear gripped him worse than the pain of his shattered arm. He crawled on his belly to get away from the madness. “Ain’t no way,” he muttered under his breath.
Inch by agonizing inch, Hayes dug in with his left hand fingers, knees and boots through high grass while his wounded right arm dragged like a broken branch at his side. In his weary, disoriented mind, he remembered his ma and the blueberry pie she baked on Saturday nights back on his farm in the hills of Ohio.
Southern dirt gritted his teeth; a lingering smell of moss and rotting flesh in the darkness overwhelmed him. Benjamin kept digging in and crawling with the dream of going home.
Increasingly delirious, he heard a voice in his mind, “Get up, son.”
“Pa?” Hayes let out a sorrowful sigh. “Is that you?”
“Wake up, Ben. Got plowin to do.”
Ben sniveled and wiped his nose with a bloodstained hand. “But, Pa, I thought you got killed at Gettysburg.”
“Don’t matter none,” said a firm voice. “Ya got chores to do. Your ma’s depending on you, son. Now git on home.”
Benjamin Hayes groaned. Excruciating pain coursed through his limp right arm. “I’m trying, Pa.” Unable to see, all he could do was feel his way through grass and over jagged rocks that scratched his chest. He slid down a slope and slammed up against something hard, like a log. Bone-tired, he gripped into tree bark with his fingers, but his mind began to fog up.
“Pa?”
Only a chorus of crickets answered, and he slumped face down on a bed of fallen leaves. In his dreams, he was back home, and he saw fields of corn silk glistening in the afternoon sun. His girl, Emma giggled as she ran and hid between silver birch trees; he chased after her in a ritual of passionate playfulness. Her shoulder-length red hair swayed from side to side while she kept looking back to see if he would catch up and take her in his arms.
Just as Hayes reached out, he awakened to a barrage of artillery shells. Thinking he was back in the heat of battle, he peeked over a moss-covered log, and tried to stay hidden among the shadows of red maple trees. Nothing stirred in the early morning twilight. Confused and unable to distinguish between a dream and the bitter reality of war, he staggered to his feet and leaned against a tree trunk.
Parched, he drank the last few drops from his canteen. “Water,” he whispered with a weak, gravelly voice. He took a step, stumbled through the forest, and searched for a stream to quench his thirst.
Pine needles crunched under the soles of his boots. Realizing the sound was a dead giveaway of his position, he froze and listened for any signs that the gray coats might be lurking close by. Instead, he heard the cooing of a mourning dove high up in a willow oak tree, and he looked up at the bird perching on a branch.
Sensing that it was safe, Hayes inhaled the cool air, observed his surroundings, leaned his back against a tree, and felt the sway of its branches in the breeze. Sunlight flickered through golden leaves; he noticed dew drops glistening like jewels. He reached up, plucked a leaf and savored the moisture with his tongue.
“Ah,” he let out a sigh of relief and sucked up more driblets. With his mind a little clearer, he looked at the bloody hole in his right bicep. It had stopped bleeding. The lead ball must’ve gone clean through the muscle. Since he’d seen so many shattered bones from musket shot, this was a miracle he welcomed. With renewed hope, he daubed his wound with damp leaves.
He brushed back thick brown hair and remembered the small tin can of honey his ma had given him before he left the farm a few months ago and pulled it out of his haversack. “Here, take this,” she had said. “It’s a good healer for wounds.”
After smearing it on the red, swollen hole in his arm, he ate some hardtack and headed north. Soon, the sun glared over his head, and the wool uniform held in heat, but he kept going. Sweaty, thirsty and weak, he stopped at a pine tree, and discovered a small pond that was so close, he had a powerful urge to run and dive in. But he also knew that oasis could be a kill zone. Wary of rebel sharpshooters hiding in the bush, he plopped on his belly and peeked through knee-high grass waving in a breeze.
Desperate for water, he rose up slowly and crouched. Just as he stood up, a dove flew out of a dogwood tree. Startled, Hayes dropped back down.
“Well, I’ll be hog tied!” yelled a man from the other side. Chuckling, he said, “If that don’t beat all! I got me a Yankee.”
Hayes kept low. He couldn’t see anyone hiding on the other side of the pond. His only weapon was a hunting knife on his belt.
“Bet ya want some of that water,” said the rebel hiding under shadowy trees.
Private Hayes let out a deep sigh and shook his head. “Yep.”
“Me too,” said the rebel soldier.
“Looks like we’re stuck between a bull and a bear.” Hayes glanced at the pond that was so close, he could smell the musty air.
“Reckon so.” Chuckling continued in the shadows. “So, the way I sees it, we both need water.” There was a pause. “Am I right, Yank?”
“Yep,” said Hayes. “You go first.”
“Well, that’s right neighborly of you, Yank.”
“Glad to oblige, Reb.”
A breeze swayed green leaves and branches with a swooshing sound. Hayes licked his left hand finger and held it up ever so slightly. “Yep. Wind’s shifting,” he muttered in a low voice. He leaned back and observed dark clouds sweeping in from the south, then yelled, “Storm’s a comin.”
“Yep,” said Reb. “Mighty interestin’ how we both come across this ole pond at the same time.” He paused and studied how branches swayed back and forth, and noticed pressure building up in his ears. “How about a truce, Yank? We’ll both fetch us some water down there. I promise I won’t shoot if-in you’d be agreeing.” He scratched his scruffy black beard and listened for an answer. “How’s that?”
“Nah.” Hayes peeked through the high grass again and sensed a trap. “I know you Johnny Rebs. You’re all alike. You gray coats killed my pa.” He leaned his head back and looked up at the black cloud. “Ain’t about to forget that.”
“Aw, come on, Yank.” He exhaled and wiped the sweat from his brow. “We’ve all been fightin' and killin'. You ain’t blaming me personal like. Are ya?”
Hayes thought of the endless slaughter; hatred grew darker in his weary soul. “You filthy Rebs!” He spat it out so fast, he gasped for air. “If it weren’t for you rich slave holders, I’d be back on the farm with my family.”
Warm moist air whistled through the oak trees. Reb gripped his empty musket with both hands. “Ain’t got no slaves.”
“What?” Hayes peeked through the grass again.
Reb exhaled. “You heard me, boy. I’m just a poor farmer from Kentucky.”
Hayes lifted his head a little higher to make sure he heard it right. “I thought all you southerners had slaves.”
Reb licked his dry, swollen lips in frustration. “Look, Yank. Ain’t got no time for this. I’m as thirsty as a dog in the heat of summer.”
Hayes shook his empty canteen and said, “Yep. Know the feeling.”
In that standoff between two exhausted soldiers, they heard childish giggling from a stream flowing into the pond. Just then, a little girl came running through a patch of red and orange flowers chasing dozens of butterflies. She had pig tails and wore a tanned-colored dress over her dark skin. In her right hand, she carried a wooden bucket and smiled happily while dipping it in the water.
“Hey, child.” Reb crouched above the grass and waved. “Fetch me that water. Come on now. Be quick about it.”
She stopped and looked up, but then, she went back to filling up the bucket while the butterflies circled above her head like a golden halo of wings.
“Hey!” Reb yelled louder. “I’m talkin' to you girl.”
Hayes lifted his head up and tried a softer tone. “Hello, little one.” When he made eye contact, he said, “Can you give me some water, please?”
She glanced back and forth at each man with a wary expression, and struggled to carry the bucket of water with two hands. The thirsty soldiers watched and knew there was nothing they could do to get a hold of that precious liquid.
“Well, Yank.” Reb leaned against a log and kept his focus on the girl. “I reckon that was mighty dumb of us.”
“Yep,” said Hayes. “It’s a wonder she didn’t go screaming and high-tailing back up that hill.”
Reb squinted his eyes and watched the girl struggling as the water sloshed in the bucket. “Mighty curious, don’t ya think?”
“Yeah, how come she’s all alone and trying to carry that heavy bucket?”
“Don’t make no sense.” Reb furrowed his brow and temporarily forgot about his thirst. “That child ain’t much taller than a bunny in low grass.” He sighed and shook his head.
Hayes looked on and became increasingly worried about the girl and less for his need of water. “She can’t be much older than my 6-year-old sister. Where’s her ma?”
Reb winced as the girl stepped ankle-deep in mud, and the water sloshed out of her bucket. “Do you see that Yank?”
“Yeah, she could be heading right into quicksand.” Hayes crouched a little higher in the grass, and his jaw tightened.
The girl became distracted while butterflies settled on red flowers, then she set the bucket down on a dry patch and tried to step out. But she staggered, screamed, fell backward and splashed in the muddy water. In a split second that seemed like an eternity, the men watched as she disappeared until a tiny hand rose up and sank down again.
“Don’t shoot Reb! I’m going after her.” Hayes leaped to his feet and ran to save her, then plopped his belly and felt in the ooze with his good left arm. “I can’t find her.” He gritted his teeth and groaned while groping deeper for any sign of the little girl. “God help me.”
“Hang on, Yank!” Reb stood up, but limped in pain with a wounded leg. He stumbled, fell, got back up and ran to help.
“There she is.” Hayes felt an arm and tried to pull her out, then struggled to his feet. “She’s stuck. Give me a hand.”
Reb stepped waist-deep in the mud, grabbed the girl around the waist and pushed her little body as the Yankee held on. “Bring her in.”
“Aw,” Hayes groaned, then lifted her out with his left hand. “I got her.”
“Help me Yank!” Reb was up to his waist and sinking fast.
“Hang on!” Hayes set the mud-covered girl on a patch of grass. Relieved to see her sitting up and spitting out brown water, he turned and leaned with his left arm stretched out, but couldn’t quite make it.
“No Yank!” Reb lowered his arms and continued to sink deeper. “You’ll fall in and we’ll both be goners!”
“You’re right.” Hayes glanced at oak trees and found a broken branch leaning against a log, and grabbed it. “Okay, take hold of this.” He plopped on his rear and dug in with his boot heels while gripping the branch with his one good hand. “Come on!” He groaned and leaned way back.
Reb pulled himself hand-over-hand on the branch, crawled out and plopped down. He breathed heavily and chuckled. “We did it!”
“Yep.” Hayes slapped Reb on the back and turned to see the little girl standing beside them with yellow wild flowers in her hand. “Well, you seem okay,” he said while kneeling and focusing on her black-gem-like eyes. “I reckon you’ll look better once I get some of that mud off.” He took off his neck bandana, dipped it in a stream of fresh water and wiped her face. “There, that’s better.”
She looked up and her innocent smile showed that she had a missing front tooth as she gave each man a share of her blossoms. Although she didn’t speak a word, they thanked her and were smitten by her simple gesture of gratitude.
Hayes put the flowers on his right ear, then asked, “Where’s your ma?”
Instead of answering, she leaned over the bucket, took a cup attached to a rope on the side, scooped out water, and handed it to Hayes.
“Much obliged.” Hayes tried to go easy, but gulped it down. "Ah, that's mighty good," he said while handing the cup over to Reb.
Thirstily, the confederate soldier slurped the water. Some dribbled through his thick black beard. “Thanks.”
Satisfied with their first taste of water, the weary soldiers walked with the girl over to a small farm house. Thick clouds darkened the afternoon sky, and rain drops pitter-pattered the ground, then just as they stepped up on the porch, it poured off the eaves like a waterfall. Strong gusts of wind blew over a ridge and swirled around the badly damaged structure, and banged loose shutters against the walls.
“Hold it,” Hayes whispered and took the little girl by the hand. “Something ain’t right.” Low rumblings of thunder echoed through the valley.
“Yep.” Reb nodded. A fusillade of bullets had ripped through the wall. He peeked in a shattered window. “Ain’t no sign of folks hereabouts.”
Wary, Hayes knelt with the girl and asked, “Is this where you live?”
She nodded, stepped through an opened screen door, and ran into a cluttered room with clothes strewn on the floor. Glass crunched under their feet as the blue and gray uniformed soldiers followed her to the bedside of a shaggy-bearded black man. While he breathed heavily, the little girl crawled up and snuggled beside him.
“Is that you, Butterfly?” He gasped and stared blindly at the ceiling.
She responded with a kiss on his cheek.
“He looks bad off,” said Reb as he leaned closer.
“Yeah.” Hayes placed his hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Take it easy. We’re here to help.”
"I…can’t see.” He wheezed and reached out to Hayes. “Not much time.”
Hayes took his hand and saw the anguish in the man’s wrinkled face. “What happened here?”
“Men attacked at night.” The old man’s chest heaved in a desperate attempt to breath. “Killed ma mastah and his wife. Slaves ran off.” His voice became weaker as he wheezed. “I…I hid Butterfly girl in cellar.” He coughed. “She don’t speak none after her ma died.”
Hayes looked at Reb. “Get the bucket. He needs water.”
Reb left the room. The old man gasped again and said, “Take care of Butterfly.”
“It’s all right.” Hayes gently squeezed the man’s hand. “Try to rest now.”
The dying man tried to lift his head with a blank stare. “Promise me.”
Hayes felt the man’s weakening pulse and knew he had to say something. “Don’t worry. I promise I’ll take care of her.”
The old man lowered his head. Wind fluttered curtains away from the broken window, The man let out a deep sigh with his last breath. Butterfly girl’s eyes widened in shock, then she began to cry on his chest.
Reb came back in with the bucket and looked over at the girl sobbing louder. “Is he dead?”
“Yep.” Hayes gently rubbed Butterfly’s shoulder and felt her little body shivering in fear and sorrow. Thunder crackled and boomed. The storm had swept closer.
Reb looked over with a worried expression and glanced at Butterfly. “Well, who’s gonna look after the girl?”
“I am.” Hayes picked up Butterfly and cradled her in his arm.
“Ah, come on, Yank,” Reb yelled over howling wind banging shutters outside. “You ain’t got but one arm.”
“I’ll manage.” Hayes set Butterfly on a chair and softly touched her cheek with his palm.
Reb shook his head and huffed, “I might’ve known. You blue bellies just come march-in here and take over like you own the place.”
The Yankee’s jaw tightened with the bitterness of battles fought over many months that seemed to go on for years. “Well, all I see is a southerner wearing a stinking gray coat.” Private Hayes narrowed his eyes with increasing hatred of his enemy; thunder rumbled overhead.
“Why you dirty Yankee!” Reb gritted his teeth and shoved Hayes against the wall.
Private Hayes grabbed Reb by the throat. They fought and growled like wolves as the wind battered and shook the house. Frightened, Butterfly screamed, jumped down from the chair and made a strange moaning sound.
“Fra…,” she tried to speak and beckoned with watery eyes. “Fra…ah.” She grabbed each man’s hand and pulled in an attempt to get their attention.”
Hayes felt the girl’s tiny fingers in his palm. Aggression flowed out of him; he knelt and focused on her. “What is it, Butterfly?”
“Uh, maybe she needs to go potty,” said Reb while he leaned closer.
“No, that ain’t it, dummy.” Hayes glared at him.
Butterfly pulled on their hands and tried to bring them together. “Friends.”
“Well, I’ll be a bug-eyed squirrel!” Reb chuckled and forgot about his rage. “Did you hear that, Yank?”
“I sure did.” Deeply moved, Hayes kept his gaze on the little girl and said, “You can speak.”
Butterfly glared with a stern expression like a parent scolding her children and tried to pull the men closer. “Friends.”
“Um, well okay,” said the Yankee as he focused on the girl’s eyes. So you want us to go about like nothing’s happened?” He sighed and glanced at Reb. “Wow! After all the slaughter of men who’ll never see their families again…now she wants us to forgive and forget?”
Butterfly pulled on their hands again and yelled. “You be friends.” She glared as though she meant serious repercussions if the men didn’t comply. “Or we die.”
“Whoa.” Hayes felt her little hand gripping his palm and noticed a glint of stubbornness in her eyes. “You sure drive a hard bargain.”
A bolt of lightning struck a tree; Reb looked on in awe. Electric energy flowed through Butterfly’s fingers and into his palm. Shocked, he pulled his hand away and shuddered. “Stay away you witch girl.”
“Take it easy Reb,” said Hayes. “Butterfly’s just a child.”
“Well, maybe.” Reb cocked his head and stared at the girl as though he expected her to transform into a dragon. “I don’t much like the way she’s a lookin' at me, Yank.”
Hayes shook his head and sighed. “You Rebs are all alike.” He chuckled. “You’re so superstitious, it’s a wonder you don’t trip over a black cat at night.”
“Hey, don’t mock the dark side.” Reb waved a hand over Butterfly’s head. “I’ve seen black magic at its worse.”
She looked up and giggled. “He funny.”
“Yeah, you’re right Butterfly girl.” Hayes reached out to Reb and asked, “How about a truce?”
“Reckon so.” Reb grinned and shook hands with his former enemy, then he looked down at the girl. “Happy now.”
Butterfly held their hands, nodded and smiled. “Uh, huh.”
