Melancholia

            Reuben sat on the bench reflecting on the War, his marriage, his family, his sorrow, and his guilt. Beside him sat his revolver, cold, hard, loaded. Next to the gun was a crock of rye whiskey. He twisted the cork off, cradled it in the crook of his arm, and took a long swig. It was not his first drink of the day. It burned as it passed down his throat. A few more gulps might numb the pain. Nothing would make it go away. The darkness in his soul was crushing. It came like waves, pounding him into formless nothingness. The anguish was unrelenting.

            He had come back to his Iowa farm one last time to collect his things. The place still held some of his clothes, his military documents, and some warm memories. Gone was his estranged wife and the three kids he held so dear. Knowing he was coming, Margaret had taken the children to her parents’ house. For all he knew, it might be years before he saw them again. He barely knew the two youngest. Thankfully that damn hired hand, Cochran, was nowhere around either. He couldn’t tell for sure, but Cochran’s relationship with Margaret seemed too cozy. Who am I to talk? Reuben chided himself. It was he who had first strayed from the marriage.

            He reached down for the jug and took another gulp of the liquid fire. The world would still not go away. Setting the jug down, his hand fell on the gun. Was this the end? Could he do it? Should he put it to his temple or mouth? Either way, it would be quick. Would anyone care?

            He had survived where others had perished. He was home, but somehow lost in the unrelenting trauma of war. Familiar faces and things no longer held the same meaning. He slept fitfully. Sometimes he woke up screaming. Other times he wept. His health hadn’t recovered. He often had a fever followed by the shaking chills. His belly churned at the thought of food he once found savory.  His flesh hung loosely from his frame. The faith that once comforted him was also gone. Along with it went hope, security, and purpose.

            His failed marriage wasn’t his only problem. His last act as a Union officer continued to haunt him.  He had been in command. It was he who offered up his saber in defeat. His hopes of sparing his men from harm had not worked out. They had suffered. Some were dead. It was on him. As their commander, he was responsible.

The Holbrook brothers, John and Charles, were dead. Good boys, young, dedicated to the Union cause. Their abolitionist parents had gone out of their way to assure Reuben that they did not hold him responsible for the loss of their sons.

            A prisoner at Andersonville, Dorence Atwater, had secretly documented the deaths at the camp. Reuben’s friend, Fred Buckmaster, was on the list. He had died of his wounds shortly after Reuben left for Camp Oglethorpe. Two more of Reuben’s men, Daniel Himes and Ephriam Cobb, were on Atwater’s death list. The Confederate prison pen at Florence, South Carolina, became the final resting place for I Company troopers Jacob Graft, Nehemiah Solon, and James Swift.

            Only two of the men had made it home before Reuben. Oden’s Galvanized Rebel ruse to get released from Andersonville had left questions about his loyalty. James Mason from Company K had escaped and somehow made it to Union lines. In the process, his health had been destroyed. The end of the War brought more news on the fate of the others. The O’Connor brothers had made it through. They were in Atlanta. William Patrick, Joe Ramsey, Bill McNulty, Mike Gallahar, and Jeremiah Cronin were with them. All were put back on duty. The last time Reuben saw them, they could barely stand. Now the Army expected them to march? They were scheduled to come home when the rest of the Third Iowa was discharged in August. Ben Tulk, John Frush, Joe Fletcher, Sam Eddy, and John Davis were luckier. They were already being repatriated upriver for discharge at Davenport.

            Reuben knew his men would not be coming home as the vigorous, healthy young men they once were. They’d require months, maybe years, to recover from the ravages of the Confederate prison system. Maltreatment, disease, and malnourishment had emaciated their bodies. Like most prisoners, their spirits suffered as well. Fortunately for them, they would not feel the guilt and shame of their commanding officer.

            It was unusual that all his men had been accounted for. God only knew how many other Union prisoners lay in unmarked mass graves all over the South. The Rebs hadn’t been very good at keeping records.

            Though there was joy upon his return to Centerville, Reuben was racked with sorrow and guilt. He had taken to drinking. His fling with the nurse at Keokuk was now common knowledge. Margaret was suing him for divorce, alleging adultery. She wanted the farm and the kids. His time away at war had hardened his feelings, but he longed desperately to reconnect with his children. Now they had been taken from him along with his spirit, dignity, and honor.

            Honor. That was the final blow. He had been unfaithful. He had fallen for the kindness of the widow who had nursed him. He had taken her to dinner, to her home, and to bed.  It was wrong, but he couldn’t change it.       

            He’d served for such noble causes. Preserve the Union, make men free, protect home and family. Had it all been for naught? Everything he loved was gone. All taken by the War and his personal failings. He could never forgive himself. The damage was irreversible. He picked up the gun. It had the power to kill. It could be used for good or for evil. It didn’t care who pulled the trigger or why. It clicked as his thumb pulled the hammer back.

            His thoughts were interrupted by his dog, Cassie. She came around the corner looking for something. She was a hunter. Maybe she sensed a rabbit nearby as she sniffed the ground. Reuben put the gun down when she spied him. She forgot about the rabbit. He had everything she needed. She approached the bench and gazed up with her soft brown eyes. Reuben reached down reflexively to gently stroke her head. He could feel her warmth as she nudged the palm of his hand and gave a soft moan. Then she laid her head on his lap. Tears ran down Reuben’s grizzled face.

There was still good in the world. Perhaps there was hope.

Index: Unbowed: The Saga of a Civil War Cavalryman-