Spring 1863

 

He was alive. But how? Dizzy and fading fast, Jeffrey Couvion sank into the cool currents of the Mississippi River. Fighting against a watery death, he forced his way back to the surface and grabbed an empty wooden barrel.

There were bodies everywhere—and pieces of bodies. This was worse than any of the battles he’d survived. Fighting the nausea that rose in his throat, Jeffrey closed his eyes, shivered, and tried to remember the events before the explosion. He had almost been home.

They’d rounded the bend just before Chene Ruelle when he realized they weren’t slowing. He’d spent the afternoon below in his cramped cabin, alone. Thinking. He hadn’t even known about the race until he came out on deck, prepared to disembark. All the passengers had been talking about it, betting on which steamboat would win. Jeffrey had ignored them, keeping his eyes on the bank. All he wanted was to get off the boat and go home. He didn’t care which steamboat could go faster.

How was he going to tell his family about his decision? They would never understand. Just the thought of what he would do even now twisted his insides with worry.

But none of that seemed of importance now.

All that mattered was that he make it ashore alive. He’d been lucky. If this large wooden barrel hadn’t been within reach, he would be just like the other unfortunate souls sucked into the murky depths of the river. He kicked hard. The dusky orange of the setting sun glinted across the water. Nobody wanted to be caught in these waters after dark when the four-legged predators woke to hunt for food.

It was bad enough in the daylight, Jeffrey thought, trying not to imagine what lay beneath the water’s opaque surface. Between the water moccasins and the gators, he shuddered to think what might be tracking him beneath the water. If only he could put his feet on solid ground and get out of this river. Increasing the threat ten-fold, the predators would doubtless be drawn to the smell of blood on the water. He swallowed thickly and willed himself to not think about snakes… or gators.

Time lost all meaning as he focused on keeping his arms across the barrel and moving his feet. The pack on his back weighed heavy, and he considered discarding it. He didn’t know how far or how long he drifted. Jeffrey had never been particularly religious, but he found himself praying. He prayed with all his heart – the teaching from his childhood hours at Mass coming back to him like a second nature.

Relief flooded through him when his feet found solid ground, on the sandy floor of the river. The muted tones of twilight darkened by the time he dragged himself from the water.

Though his arms ached from clutching the barrel and his legs ached from propelling him through the water, he kept walking. His thoughts whirled, but he tried to focus only on keeping his eyes open and his feet moving. Moving until he could find someplace safe for the night.

Again, he considered dropping his pack and leaving it behind. He trudged along, pushing toward the top of the knoll.

He made it to a dry patch of land padded with grass and collapsed beneath a black willow tree, his stomach gnawing against his backbone

A couple of months ago, he’d lost his horse in a skirmish somewhere in Mississippi. The army required that he fight with his bedroll and supplies slung across his shoulders, but he never got used to doing that. At this moment, however, he was grateful not only for the habit of keeping everything he carried on his back, but that he had resisted the urge to drop it in the river. He’d somehow managed to keep up with everything except his rifle and his hat.

After removing the soaked blanket and leather haversack containing his bullets, he checked his canteen. It was still sealed. With a sigh of relief, he opened it and swallowed a third of the clean water he’d picked up in New Orleans.

Using the last of his remaining strength, he gathered up enough twigs, dry grass, and branches for a fire. Using the flint and steel from his pack, he managed to spark a flame. After what seemed like nearly an hour, a stream of smoke rose and the grass ignited. At the sight of the small flame, his eyes tearing, he nurtured the little flame until it was healthy enough that he could lie back and rest for just a moment. But the dampness of his clothes was enough to keep him moving.

Stripping to his cotton drawers, he laid his gray wool trousers and jacket across a tree limb near the fire. He glanced down at his socks, pathetic scraps hanging on his feet by threads. With a sigh, he peeled them off and tossed them into the flickering orange flames. They sizzled and for a moment, he thought they would put out the fire. Fortunately, they were too meager.

The tattered remnants of his socks were much like the tattered remains of his life. He’d fought hard for the Confederacy. Fought hard for two years.

The only thing was, Jeffrey didn’t believe in what he fought for. He didn’t believe the Southern states had the right to split up a union. A union forged on blood and freedom. He believed no man should own another, black or white.

Alexandra and Grand-père would never understand. Especially Alexandra. She’d never forgive him. His twin sister was Confederate through and through. Loyal to her state and to the South.

Perhaps it was best if she believed him dead. No one would ever know the truth. There were always lost bodies after steamboat explosions.

But how could he let her go through the agony? It would kill her.

But at least in death she would have no reason to hate him. If she found out the truth, she would be devastated at what he was about to do. The steamboat explosion had presented itself as the perfect solution to his plight. And allowed him to avoid telling his sister the truth.

Jeffrey Couvion was off to fight with the Yankees.