The Patting Hoofs

A civil war solider rides the death wagon to his final resting place.

The Patting Hoofs

By Cleve Sylcox

 

Over the patting hoofs roars the sound of cannon fire. Distant, but yet he can tell where the report came without looking up.

He muses himself considering the thought, looking up. After all, he has no legs. The rebel cannon saw to that.

He lies on his back with his eyes wide open with one arm rocking back and fourth in rhythm to the wagon sway as it rolls across the hard uneven trail. Soldiers looking into the wagon find it freighting as the arm rocks to and fro, as if beckoning them to come near…to see the ravishes of war. They do not approach but turn away repulsed by the sight.  

He doesn’t bother looking long at them as he knows most will have a place near him in a grave.

They are headed for certain death, pity.

Feelings of concern flee replaced by cold heartlessness, apathy… he could careless for them. They continue their march regardless of his preview… why should he be bothered, death awaits them as it does him.

But life lingers…Why? Why is he allowed to live while so many around him die? He stares into the deep blue sky chewing on this thought while watching clouds of smoke float high over head. White clouds also float lazily along. Every now and then he hears a bird chirp.

As they approach another group of soldiers he hears their chatter. Small talk about home, girl friends, family…farms. In his mind reflects his wife’s image. Her long beautiful hair draped around her shoulders, her ruby lips, and wonderful smile as she turns from her dresser to greet him. How he longs to hold her again…feel her lips upon his. The image fades to blackness as the creek of the wagon interrupts his thoughts.

He listens to the rolling of the wagon wheels on the soft dirt road through its deep dust. Occasionally the soft rolling changes to hard grinding as they roll over gravel or a large rock in the road vibrating the wagon to the point he fears the rivets will pop out.

The patting of horses hoofs along with the horse’s bay causes him to focus beyond the carriage of death in remembrances of life.

The simply things he misses; soap, clean water, clean clothes, and the smell of morning with bacon and eggs, coffee; the smell of a fresh cut field; the smell of hay in a loft; the feel of smooth clean sheets; rocking in his chair playing his banjo while watching the sunset over the hill at Judges Junction; the clucking of chickens, and even the grunting of pigs; they all seem so close but yet as he opens his eyes they rush from him, fading into the obscurity of mind and reality.

The sky fills with dark, impenetrable clouds. Lighting streaks across the heavens as god’s breath bends the trees whipping them all around. The horse rears, the driver yells steadying the mare. Dust swirls in a dance before him passing through the wagon in a waft that blows haplessly away.

Rain falls.

The cool rain brings reprieve to his parched lips as the wetness greats his leathery tongue. The wind subsides as the driver flicks the reins snapping them on the wet back of the mare. The mare bays in objection then pulls the wagon forward with a jerk through the slushy mud. The rain continues its relentless downpour and he raises his hand to shield his eyes. His focus is on the distant bend while he listens intently to the hoofs patting on the muddy road.

Somewhere in the mist of twilight his eyes close never to open again. The rain washes the blood from the wagon in streams of crimson leaving a trial of red along the road.

The horse’s hoofs continue their pat fading into the fog of night.  

 

End

 

Reviews

[Doreen]

This is such a good story. It's so sad and bleak. I love the detail and descriptions. The story grabbed me and kept hold. Nicely done.