Letters to Abigail Page 3

the bearded face of Sergeant Blake appeared.

  “C’mon, sir!” Blake yelled, grasping Jonathan under both of his shoulders. “We’ve got to get out of here!”

  More agonizing pain flared from his shoulder as Blake dragged Jonathan away.

  Jonathan’s vision blurred more now. The last thing he saw before unconsciousness mercifully claimed him was Death standing surrounded by burning trees and black smoke.

  The dark angel pointed a bony finger at him, and Jonathan felt his soul go cold before blackness swallowed him whole.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Jonathan felt the warm, soft touch of slim fingers caressing his cheek. He opened his eyes to see the smiling face of his beloved wife hovering above him. Abigail’s deep green eyes looked back at him sadly. A soft white glow backlit her thick red hair pulled back behind an aquiline face.

  “My love,” Jonathan tried to say. His words came out in a harsh croak.

  Her lips parted to say something, but all he heard was ringing in his ears. His vision swam, and Abigail’s face faded away to be replaced by the dirty face of Sergeant Blake.

  “Sir,” Blake’s voice pierced the ringing, “you’re alright. We’re safe for the moment.”

  Jonathan struggled to sit up. Fiery pain radiated throughout his shoulder and chest. Kneeling beside him, Blake helped the lieutenant up into a sitting position. As the pain subsided, Jonathan took in his surroundings.

  He, Blake and two more men from Second Squad were in what looked like a dilapidated church. Several pews lay on their sides. Cracked beams and supports hung above their heads, and dim light filtered in through shattered stained glass windows, causing little specks of dust to dance around like lazy fireflies. A barricaded door stood at the end of a frayed red carpet bisecting the pews. The two other soldiers peered out broken glassed windows on opposite sides of the church, rifles at the ready. The smell of acrid smoke stung Jonathan’s nostrils and burned his lungs, causing him to cough.

  The racking coughs sent more pain shooting through his bandaged shoulder. Blood seeped through the gauze that covered his wounds.

  “Take it easy, sir,” Blake told him.

  “Where… where are we?” Jonathan asked.

  “I think we’re about five miles or so from the Little Blue River. We had to seek cover in this church, sir. That Behemoth was tearing us apart and we encountered another Confederate scouting party. I think we’ve lost them for now. We’re waiting for nightfall to try and make it to the rendezvous. I’m not sure who made it from the rest of the squad. We got scattered pretty quickly.”

  Looking at the diffused light coming in through the windows, Jonathan quickly assessed that nightfall would come soon.

  “Good work, Sergeant,” he commended his man. “Help me up.”

  Blake pulled him to his feet, and Jonathan gritted his teeth against the discomfort. His legs felt shaky, but he managed to keep his balance as the sergeant let go. Jonathan wasn’t sure if his mind was fully balanced yet. Between visions of the Angel of Death and his wife, he wondered if he had begun to go crazy. He had seen stronger men than himself succumb to madness in this war. Why should he think he held any special immunity to the insanity he had witnessed since joining the Union army? No matter what his educated mind thought he could handle, no matter what Officers Candidate School at West Point had taught him, he was as mortal as the next man, and just as fragile as any other human being when faced with overwhelming fear and death.

  But he didn’t have time for that now. He had men to lead to safety, and Abigail was waiting for him back home. Jonathan knew he would have a long letter to write to her when he had the chance to sit down with pen and paper again.

  “How is our ammo supply?” he asked.

  “Low, sir,” Blake told him. “I have a few bullets left for my pistol. I lost my rifle somewhere in the retreat.”

  Jonathan checked for his own sidearm and realized it was missing. As was his spyglass.

  “Conserve every shot,” he said loud enough for all of his men to hear. We move out as soon as the sun has fully set.”

  His men nodded gravely, their eyes still looking out the windows. Jonathan joined one of his troops peering out through a hole in the dirty glass. Directly outside he saw a graveyard backed up against a dark forest. His eyes were drawn to a large gravestone in the shape of a crucifix and the dark shape of an angel perched on top of the cross. A shudder ran down his spine.

  It’s only a gravestone, he reminded himself.

  The stone eyes of the granite angel blazed to life with a fiery red hue.

  Jonathan gasped, grasping the splintered window frame tightly.

  “Sir!” Blake shouted. “What is—”

  An echoing thunder of gunfire cut the sergeant off. Plaster flew from the thin walls as bullets tore through the little church. The remaining glass in front of Jonathan shattered, spraying shards in his face. He barely felt the stinging cuts from the glass, and hardly heard the round that whistled by his ear. He couldn’t take his eyes off of the statue on top of the grave marker as it came to life.

  The thing rose from its perch as it slowly melted from stone and into the towering Angel of Death—the same figure Jonathan had seen back on the ridge. In the twilight of sunset, the creature’s black robe was outlined by a pale blue glow.

  As Death came to its full height, Jonathan heard the whirring of gears and then the resounding ruffle of what sounded like hundreds of birds taking flight. Large, alien-looking wings unfolded from Death’s back. A blue steel frame supported the wing’s membranes of fabric that looked both artificial and organic at the same time. The membranes were riddled with holes that looked like rotting flesh. The whirring of gears Jonathan had heard were large tarnished brass cogs that came to a halt with the wings completely unfolded. He was struck by the notion that this supernatural entity had taken on aspects of the age of science and wonder that made killing in the thousands so much easier. It was if Death itself evolved along with mankind’s scientific folly.

  The dark angel started walking toward the church. The gears whined again as Death’s wings flapped slowly, stirring up dried leaves with every step taken.

  One of Jonathan’s men cried out from the other side of the room. Jonathon pulled himself away from the nightmare in the graveyard and turned his attention toward the scream. He saw Blake pulling another member of Second Squad away from the window he had been guarding. The man’s face had been blown off, but Blake didn’t seem to notice. As another volley of gunfire tore through the church, Jonathan’s right hand man was yelling incoherently at the top of his lungs, trying to pull the dead man to safety that didn’t exist for any of them. More bullets whistled past Jonathan as he stood by the window, his mind numb to everything going on around him.

  He realized that the soldier who had been standing next to him was lying dead at his feet. With detached thought, he wondered how so many bullets had missed him but had killed this good man.

  The ground began to shake rhythmically. The floorboards and pews quaked hard with every pounding step a Behemoth took somewhere outside of the church. Dust from ceiling plaster rained down on Jonathan, making him cough. Apparently the rebels outside weren’t planning on taking anybody alive. He thought that bringing in the Behemoth was overkill, but he realized that if he had such firepower at his command, he would probably do the same.

  The barricaded door blew apart, sending the furniture piled up in front of it flying. At first Jonathan thought the Behemoth had fired at the door, but he realized that Blake hadn’t reacted at all to the breach. The sergeant was holding the faceless soldier in his lap, waving a pistol around and yelling at the rebels to come and take them all. Jonathan admired Blake’s heroism in the face of overwhelming odds, but then he realized what they really faced was Death itself as the robed angel stepped through the shattered doors of the church.

  An air of despair fell over the worship hall.

  Jonathan heard the clanking metal beast come to a halt out in t
he graveyard as the gunfire subsided. One last shot rang out. Another piece of glass shattered. Blake stopped shouting, falling over dead on top of the man in his lap.

  Death stood in the doorway, but Jonathan realized he wasn’t terrified anymore. Somehow the insanity of the situation brought a strange smile to the lieutenant’s face. The juxtaposition of the wondrous mechanical killing machine—a pinnacle of man’s science—to that of the timeless Angel of Death—the supernatural antithesis of everything the Age of Reason sought to leave behind—was absurdly funny to Jonathan. He wondered if the marvels of science that man had created would ever compare to the unknown wonders of the universe. Or would mankind’s science ever conquer Death? What would become of all of the souls lost on future battlefields sure to come?

  With a wry smile in place, Jonathan met Death in the middle of the church, standing in the shadows of his enormous wings. The angel reeked of decay.

  He looked up at the glowing red fires deep in the darkness of the angel’s cowl.

  “I’m not afraid of you anymore,” he told Death.

  The servant of Eternity stared at him in silence.

  “I can’t go on with this war. I’ve seen too much bloodshed. Sent too many men to die. I miss my wife and I would rather wait on the other side for her than live out every day in guilt and fear. This war will never end.”

  Death glided quietly past him. As