Socks Without Holes
By Colleen Nester
Copyright 2013 Colleen Nester
Red liquid, smooth as a silk ribbon, mixes with the cool water of the narrow creek. It’s not long before the entire stream of water is colored crimson. Sleeping stones are painted like rich rubies while underwater sand is dyed. A brisk wind gallops through the thick air. The chill feels good after an early morning march.
Bang!
My knees shatter the running water. I catch myself with my black-powdered hands. Warm blood squirts out of my ear; and I can feel my head slowly draining. Everything seems muffled: the sight of careless murder, the smell of exposed organs, the sound of firing guns, the feeling…the pain. Gazing up with tired Irish green eyes, I am frozen as a blast of dirt and rock slaps my sweaty face. To me, the noise of the explosion is delayed by three seconds.
“Cedric!” shouts a voice, strained and alarmed.
I am now sitting, watching the Confederate flag rise over the forest hill in the white smoke. Trees snap as cannons shoot. Rocks are chipped as bullets fly. Then the men come, out of the bushes and shrubs, welcoming death with every forceful stomp. Dressed in blue wool coats, they charge to battle. I watch them, knowing at least five will soon be joining my bloody rest.
Boom!
“Cedric!” I hear again; this time closer.
I am suddenly pulled up to my feet. I look to my right and see 33-year-old Theodore Hall—a brown-skinned man with muscles as full as grown melons. Theodore’s eyes are deep and wild. His upper lip is coated with blood from his broken nose. Only five minutes in battle and the man has already won a fist fight with a Southern.
“Hall!” I yell.
I feel the speed of a furious bullet pass the left side of my face. But I can’t hear it go by. My eyes widen as I realize the deafness in my drowning left ear. Hall drags me away from the creek and hides me in a nearby bush, which is barely large enough to cover a well-fed fox. I put pressure to my deaf ear, praying the flow of blood will stop leaking onto my muddy fingers. The forest starts to turn and bend. I gaze up at Hall for a fraction of reassurance of something called reality.
“I can’t hear—”
Bang!
“What?” shouts Hall, ducking from soaring pebbles and twigs.
“I said I can’t—”
Zoom!
“Stay—”
Boom!
“here!”
Bam!
“Hall!” I scream. Theodore Hall rolls down the steep, rocky hill and into the red stream—an iron bullet through his neck. I crouch down as much as I can behind the small bush. My heart aches as I cover my ears. I think of my hometown in Ireland: proud and special and welcoming all at once, blanketed in green, yet raising hills of potatoes.
Something erupts near me.
My back is whipped.
Oh how I miss my mother’s warm, homemade bread.
When I lift my heavy eyelids, I first notice a reeking aroma. I scan the area—the infirmary (or also known as the second hell of war). A stressed doctor comes over to me, giving a simple glance that says he is bored of repetition. I lie stiff on the wooden board, which is scratched by previous uncooperative patients. I actually spot some left-over puss beside me. The doctor checks my wounds with cold hands (I thought I had less), and gives a rare satisfied smile.
“Go on and get back out there, son.”
A day has passed since my loss of hearing in the left ear. The unbalanced feeling annoys me greatly. I feel as though I am missing half the world. Not to mention, my wounds are not helping with my mental pain. The rare healing herbs used on my arms and back are wearing off. The sting returns; and the area down and all through my spine begins to burn from the forgotten splinters of wood.
I walk around the Union camp, dodging falling tents and spilled pots of muck. Ahead is the row of wealth-wishing merchants; or more commonly known as sutlers. I see my fellow men giving in to the sellers’ ridiculous prices. One of the soldiers throws a sack of tokens on a table. The sutler bends to grab something; the soldier is then glad to be handed a half-pound of tobacco. Although others would normally throw tokens away for sugar and yeast, I am on a mission to find a needle and thread. My uniform is badly cut and torn. There are, unfortunately, no extras on sight; and with winter coming, I know I will freeze without patches protecting my sensitive skin.
I walk to the first sutler I see.
“I don’t have thread. Sorry.”
The second.
“All out.”
The third.
“You’re outta luck.”
The fourth.
“What color?”
“Blue.” I reply.
The fourth merchant bends down to search in a wooden box that is cluttered with various objects. I wait at the entrance of the tarnished tent. I am amused by its several stitches of repair, meaning the seller must have what I am looking for. The sutler comes back, shaking his head.
“I guess I used it all up. Back at Stones River. But I have extra coats.”
“I’ll take one.”
The short man goes back to the depths of his shop, picking up one of the Union uniforms from a neatly stacked pile. As he whips the firm, blue wool around, knocking the excessive dirt off, I take a closer look at the man. Standing only five feet tall, the sutler wears a knife-trimmed beard, which is the shade of a crackling fire. His eyes are sea blue and his hair is tangled underneath a leather golf hat. He wears a striped vest with a ragged buttoned shirt underneath. His pants are past his scrawny ankles and roll over his borrowed Union boots.
“How much does it cost?” I ask.
“Three tokens. It’s no picnic getting a prize like this—especially one in good condition.”
“Where did you get it?”
“I don’t remember exactly. Might have been Stone’s River. Maybe somewhere else. But the man wearing it didn’t seem to mind—dead and all.”
He chuckles, and then hands the coat to me.
“Hope you like purple,” he says.
I stare at the blood stains on the blue wool.
“You took it off a man?”
“I’ve got boots. Socks. Shirts. Hats. And other supplies that I see are useless, but are apparently life-savers for you poor bastards.”
“And how do you get them?”
“Well I take them of course. Once the smoke clears I do my shopping and then catch up with you blood-lovers. But because of your speed, you usually make me drop things.”
I don’t know how to respond. Instead of getting into a debate with the merchant, I then ask,
“Will this fit me?”
“Should. What’s your name?”
“It’s Cedric. Yours?”
“An Irish boy, eh? They call me Mutt. How about you come back and play a game later? If you win, I’ll give you some socks. But otherwise it’s a token. Deal?”
“Alright.” I say, and turn to leave.
Once the moon greets the dozing sun, I decide to return to Mutt’s tent. Inconspicuous fires are made outside of the rows of propped cloths. I see Arthur Wallace, the man who shares a tent with me, chugging strong alcohol from a smuggled bottle. He waves to me, wondering who I am. It’s no question that he’s drunk.
I soon arrive at Mutt’s shop. A wooden barrel stands in the middle with a stack of cards waiting to be held deviously. Mutt waits in a broken chair that is propped up by a box of canteens. I sit in the opposite seat on the right, which is in much better condition due to me being the guest.
The sutler and I play poker all night long, discussing random topics that are easy to talk about. It isn’t until the game is finished when I declare the sly sutler as a friend.
“Even though you owe me a token?” smiles Mutt.
“Another round and you’ll owe me a bottle of wine.”
“I’m all for it.”
Perhaps I can join Wallace and his wild festivities.
A blaring horn rings in my good ear. I awaken with a heavy head and sit up from my grass-covered bed. Wallace suddenly vomits in my boots. He sits back and glances at me.
“My apologies” grunts Wallace.
“It’s alright… I’ll just get some from the sutler.”
“There’s a sutler who sells boots?”
“Along with other things. He and I played poker last night, betting on socks without holes.”
“Who is this sutler?”
“He says people call him Mutt.”
Wallace raises his eyebrows in concern. “That bastard is not to be trusted.”
“Why not?”
“I hear he’s insane.”
I sigh and shake my head. “Who isn’t these days?”
With a soft, bluish-purple sky with wispy clouds of gray, everyone rises from their graves and begins to pack their supplies. After a short while, the general with the signature bark-brown beard orders us to follow him to “glory”. Before leaving for good, I take one last visit to Mutt’s shop. I place my smelly boots on the barrel. Mutt stares at them peculiarly.
“I’ve got some tokens,” I say.
Mutt hands me a new pair of black boots, which curls my toes at the front (it’s better than stomping around in torn socks).
“Another battle today?” Mutt asks.
“That’s what I’ve heard. I just hope I don’t lose anymore friends.”
“Who’d you lose?”
“Theodore Hall. I didn’t know him too well, but we were stuck on the train ride down here and got to know each other a bit. His family is apparently still chained in the South.”
“What about you? How’s your family?”
“I emigrated from Ireland a year ago. My father is a baker and my mother a seamstress.”
“At least someone now knows something about you.”
The trumpet bellows once more, trying to herd us like cattle. I vaguely return Mutt’s smirk. I take the boots, say goodbye, and then quickly add that I hope to see him again. Mutt gives me a wave of farewell with sealed lips. I turn away and hear him start to pack up his things.
Union blue creeps through the gaps of the dense forest. Snorting horses trot over fallen leaves that indicate an approaching winter. I grip my firearm while walking in time with my fellow men. My chapped lips are sliced with rows of pink. This forest looks the same as the one the day before—bewitched. The morning mist brings an eerie tone to the towering trees. I feel the air get thinner, and then hear the steps of the mustached men behind me become shorter. The thought of death lurks all around us—I can feel it sharing my breaths.
A cannon fires. The war begins.
I don’t dare look at the explosion behind me. The orders of the general are loud but unclear. I run for cover, sheltering my good ear from flying bullets and cannonballs. Crouching behind a small boulder, I place my loaded gun on the rough stone and fire without thinking. A gray coat drops, and then another. A Northern cannonball lands and Confederates are in frenzy.
My glassy eyes suddenly spot a faceless opponent charging towards Wallace.
No, I think, not again.
I steady my shaky hands and blink for one last time. Whispering the Lord’s Prayer through grounded teeth, I sprint to attack the enemy. Wallace soon realizes the sudden danger and is prepared to fight, but I get there sooner. I slam into the Confederate and knock the both of us down. Luckily, I’m quicker on my feet, and jump up before the dirty Southerner can even collect his thoughts. With cool sweat seeping from my hairline, I don’t take much time to aim my gun.
“Cedric!”
Bam!
Too late. Blood pours out of the slavery-lover’s skull. Wallace stands from his knees and thanks me. He doesn’t stay for long though, and is soon rushing to take out a beefy enemy. I stand with locked knees while staring down at the man I shot. I somehow recognize the vibrant orange hair and short height. I then turn the dead man over, and see an old friend lay cold. Flurries of crystal-like snow start to gracefully fall from the sky. But they are quickly hidden by white manmade smoke that shadows the entire land. My lungs fight the smoke with a dry cough, but I ignore any throbbing pain. My eyes are glued to the dead Confederate. I then unbuckle the sly sutler’s boots and pull off his socks.
“At least someone now knows something about you.”
###
About the author:
Colleen Nester resides on the East Coast with her family, and is looking forward to the start of her college career. Ever since she could hold a pencil, she has been writing novels, short stories, scripts, and just about every other form of storytelling. She is an avid fan of superheroes (Iron Man and Wolverine are her favorites) as well as theatre, film, and apple pie. Her goal is to entertain readers of all ages and to touch their hearts with her words. Colleen is currently student-directing her original children’s play that her high school is performing, as well as working on a new novel.