The next morning dawned bright and cheerful. Harry stood on the charred threshold and gazed around the barren landscape. To his right was a small patch of miserable looking plants. "The kitchen garden," he thought to himself with disgust; not for the Drewry's but for the men who had reduced the family to such straits. Where formally there had been fields, there were wide spaces of blackened dirt.

"They sowed the land with salt when they left." The girl speaking was a spitting image of her mother--minus the gray hair and haggard lines. Her voice held neither hate nor animosity. It was flat and matter of fact; as though she were in a daze. Harry looked hard at her and she returned the stare unemotionally.

Suddenly, Harry saw Francis staring at him in the gloom of their first night after battle. It was the same unemtional flat look and tone. He heard Francis asking, "Who won?"

Harry shook himself and the gloom disappeared along with Francis. In his place stood his sister, her face lit up in the morning sun. "She's still in shock," Harry told himself. There was plenty to be in shock over: the loss of her father and a brother, her home, her possessions...her way of life.

"What do you have in the garden, Meredith?" he asked, gesturing to the dejected looking plot. She vaccantly followed his arm with her eyes, then said, "Oh, vegetables, you know." Harry nodded encouragingly, "Sure. What kinds?" She shrugged her shoulders and started to aimlessly wander toward the garden, "How would I know? You're the farmer."

It was true, Harry was the son of a small time produce farmer. He had grown up with dirt between his toes and up his fingernails. He had never gone to school and could not read, although he was pretty fair at mathematics, having learned at his father's side at the markets. How he had ever come to be on intimate terms with the son of a wealthy plantation owner was beyond him. He sighed ever so slightly as he followed Meredith to the edge of the garden patch.

As he surveyed it, he realized that all the plants were volenteer and much in need of tender care by someone who knew what they were doing. He smiled as an idea hit him, "Meredith, would you like to learn what the plants are and how to care for them?"

At first he was afraid she would say no, but after a moment she said, "I think I would." And suddenly, she stood from where she had crouched down, exclaiming, "Harry, nothing will ever be the same again, will it?" She held out her hands toward him, hands that previously had seen no real toil. Startled, Harry said nothing at first. "Harry, say something! Don't just stand there!" She sounded panicked and began to sob. Harry reached out and took her hands, which were still extended and gently drew her toward him. Laying her head on his broad shoulder, he started to say all kinds of comforting nonesense, feeling that she needed this cry and would be better for it. "Everythings gonna be alright, Merry. Don't you worry none. I'm here now and I'm gonna take care of all of you...."

After the fury of the storm was over, Meredith pulled away, wiping her nose on the back of her hand in an unladylike fashion. "I'm sorry," she mumbled, looking at the ground. "What's this one?" she added as she poked at a wilted plant with her bare toes.

Relieved, Harry grinned and spent the next hour explaining which plant was which, what they liked, and how to tell if the fruit was ready.

To be continued...

The boy paused, pulling a battered gray kepi down over his eyes. He squared his shoulders resolutely and lifted his chin a trifle. He started down the narrow path that wound through a burnt and sparse wood.

The boy's eyes were green, set rather widely in his square face. Shaggy brown hair poked out from under the the kepi in unruly wisps. There was no hint of fuzz on the steady chin or the still child-like upper lip. Indeed, the boy, though broad was short for his age. Recently having reached 17 years of age, he stood just inches over 5 feet. His coat sleeves revealed thin, sun-browned wrists and hands. Big hands made to seem larger by the shortness of the sleeves. In a similar manner, his gray woollen trousers were too short for him. His bare feet were dusty and brown, calloused to leather-like toughness by time.

Upon breaking out of the wood, he stood still. A variety of emotions chased each other across his hitherto calm, solid face. He drew his hand across his face and once again resettled his gray kepi.

                             *****************************************************

The scene before him was one of desolation and destruction. The setting sun lit up the skeletal remains of what had once been a fine house. Behind the ruins of the home was a charred barn. Here and there a board had been replaced, denoting that the place was not abandoned. By the doorway was a small fire ring, in which the remains of a fire was barely smoking.  A lone chicken scratched in the dust before the derelict barn.

The chicken continued to gleefully scrape in the dirt as the boy aproached, glancing at him occasionally with a beady eye. He stood on the threshold of the barn, the doorway being covered only by a thin, but neatly mended blanket. He lifted his hand to knock on the jam, when his movements were preempted by a challenge from within--and the sound of a hammer being cocked.

"Mrs. Drewry?" the boy asked slowly and cautiously.

"Who is it?" repeated the same feminine voice in determined tones.

"It's me, ma'am. Harry. Harry Finch."

As soon as the words left his lips, the blanket was flung aside and he stood looking into a pair of wary blue eyes. The woman who stood before him, one hand holding the covering back and the other clutching a revolver, was thin and drawn. Her formally brillant brown hair was now mostly gray. Her dress was stained and worn, but neatly mended. Behind gathered five children, three girls and two boys.

She said nothing for a few moments, but looked the boy in the eye. Suddenly, she burst into tears and threw her arms about his neck.

"Harry!" she cried, "Is it really you? Oh, my poor boy, my poor boy!"

Harry wrapped his arms around the weeping woman, understanding fully that the 'poor boy' she was referring to was not himself, but her own son, Francis.

                            ***************************************************

In 1862, at the age of 14, the two boys had snuck off to join the army. They were allowed to stay, both of them becoming drummer boys for the Georgia Infantry. Francis was killed in '63 when a cannonball tore through him. Harry saw it happen. Never would he forget it. During the next battle, he had picked up a rifle and joined the fray. From that day until the surrender, he was a soldier. He ended the war as a Corporal and a sniper.
 
Now as he tried to comfort Mrs. Drewry, he wished yet again that he had never convinced his best friend to run away with him to war. Though the same age, Harry had always felt a responsibility for, if not a superiority to Francis.

Mrs. Drewry gained control of herself, "You've seen your home place, no doubt?" she asked, while wiping tears from her eyes. Harry nodded, "That's one of the reasons I came here. I knew you would take me in--if you were still here," he added.

Her eyes hardened momentarily, "Oh yes. We are still here. I will not leave until I'm dead!" Hary smiled briefly in spite of himself, "Neither will I," he promised, "neither will I."

To be continued...