Brother’s Keeper

By Lincoln Reed

A musket ball whizzed past Lizzie Ozark’s ear and smacked the skull of a neighboring soldier. Warm blood splattered her cheek. She chanced a look and stifled a cry.

Through the haze a hundred yards away, gray uniforms shifted, progressed, and reformed ranks. Injured comrades groaned around her feet.

Her regiment’s tattered Union flag advanced as Lizzie lifted her musket, aimed in tandem with a row of infantry, and fired. The acrid scent of gunpowder permeated her nose. Tears dribbled down her grubby face as smoke stung her eyes. Seconds later, a shrill whistle cut the air before a cannonball crashed.

Dirt plumed. Limbs cascaded.

Lizzie went flying and crumpled…

When her family received news that her brother, Rhett, was detained in a Confederate prison in Georgia, Lizzie had cut her hair and run away from home. Disguising herself as a young man, she’d enlisted and joined a regiment. If the Union wouldn’t free Rhett, then she would. Someone had to act. And who better to rescue her brother than his own kin? In the following months, two goals consumed her passion—find Rhett and stay alive…

The latter desire wrenched her awake now from stunned stupor. Lizzie blinked, dabbed her face, reached for her Springfield musket. All around, men scurried and retreated—their shouts like frantic murmurs in her ringing ears. Bones rattled underneath her bruised skin, but nothing appeared broken. She patted the trampled earth for her weapon but only grasped cold bodies piled on all sides. Her fingers brushed the torn threads of her regiment’s flag and returned to her bare crown, now free of her foraging cap. A searing throb stabbed her forehead like an invisible knife, temple weighing like a brick. Heavy eyes sagged…

Lizzie dipped in and out of consciousness as the day waned—a hot Tennessee sun burning overhead until at long last slipping toward the horizon, casting shadows across the quiet battlefield.

Plodding boots approached. Strange voices scuttled and echoed—Southern twangs and gruff mumbles. A rifle butt thwacked limp corpses. Bayonets stabbed uniforms of the fallen. Those playing possum gave muffled sobs and succumbed.

Paralyzing fear crawled into Lizzie’s stiffening limbs. She closed her eyes and dug her face beneath a nearby corpse as the Confederate vultures pocketed trophies. When a bayonet tip scratched her blue coat, Lizzie’s mouth snapped shut. The blade tested her ribcage with a short poke. Lizzie’s teeth dug into cracked lips until blood oozed into the earth. Her lungs screamed and her throat burned with nausea. The pause seemed to linger for an eternity until a scratchy voice blurted: “Time we headed back. Dead Yankees won’t hurt nobody.”

The man standing above Lizzie lifted the bayonet, grunted, and stomped away.

She remained as still as a log until the voices of Johnny Rebs receded into the nighttime wind. Lizzie ventured a quick glance at the mound of corpses draped in pale moonlight. She gagged at the stench of rotting flesh and eased onto her elbows. Where had her regiment retreated? How far was she from their camp?

She scanned the dark terrain and guessed her position. The Union line had withdrawn northward, abandoning her behind enemy lines. Lizzie muttered a prayer as she scavenged a Colt revolver from a dead officer and a canteen from a man who appeared no older than Rhett.

Can’t turn back. Not now. Come too far.

Find Rhett. Bring him home.

Save your family.

How far to Georgia?

Lizzie crept from the field and entered the forest. She followed the trickling cadence of running water until arriving at a humble stream where she knelt, plunged her face into the creek, doused her parched throat with cold liquid, submerged her canteen and—

A twig snapped. Lizzie raised her head.

Watery ambience muffled footsteps through the undergrowth. A gaunt face emerged from the tree line and slunk toward the brook. Blue moonlight revealed a torn and stained uniform. The Confederate halted, his haggard eyes locking onto Lizzie, bony fingers inching toward a revolver at his belt.

Lizzie’s heart galloped in her chest. She had to distract him, catch the man off guard. The first words she’d spoken in more than a day squeaked from her lips. “Deserter, are yah?”

Johnny Reb flashed crooked teeth. “Man can only take so much.” He squinted toward Lizzie, shoulders relaxing. “You must be as lost as me. Figured I was head’n south.”

With knees popping, Lizzie stood to full height, canteen in one hand, Colt in the other. Like a streak of lightning, an idea took shape, a solution to her problem. She studied the Confederate’s posture and gauged his weight. It might work.

Lizzie attempted a lower tone. “Know the way to Georgia?”

“Scrawny for a Yank, ain’t you?”

Lizzie steadied her legs. Could she aim fast enough?

Johnny Reb sneered as his hand closed the distance to his gun. “Yanks must be desperate, enlisting a young lady.” He chuckled. “That’s right. Can’t fool an old fox. Your voice tells all.”

Lizzie tensed. “Point the way to Georgia.”

“And if I don’t?”

She exhaled slow as all surrounding noise sucked into the steady hum of water rippling through the creek’s hypnotic tempo. Johnny Reb stood as quiet as a statue.

Rhett’s words returned to Lizzie—echoing in her mind like the whispers of a guardian angel. Festina lente. Make haste slowly.

Johnny Reb snatched his revolver. Lizzie aimed the Colt, cocked the hammer, and eased her finger against the trigger…

Two barrels flashed orange as smoke dissipated into the black canvas of stoic trees.

Johnny Reb fell to his knees, gasped, and collapsed—a bullet through his heart. Lizzie caught her breath and pressed a hand against the bloody scratch on her arm.

Fearing others might have heard the shots, she quickly stripped the Confederate and donned his soiled uniform. With her new disguise ready, Lizzie slung the canteen’s strap over her shoulder and advanced further into the darkness, heading south.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lincoln Reed is a writer, filmmaker, and professor. He holds an MFA in creative writing from Miami University (OH). More than 45 of his short stories are featured in online publications and print anthologies.

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