Winning Story of the Young Walter Scott Prize 2018.
The road to Vicksburg is a long one, but not without its scenery. Traveller’s are greeted by sweeping forests surrounding either side of the road like a great wooded embrace. In an automobile, this effect was enhanced; with the sky and the woods merging together in sweeping greens and blues.
So, as you can imagine, I was rather annoyed at having to stop.
But a gentleman has his duties.
Disembarking from the motor car, I straightened my clothes in a futile attempt to lessen the scorching afternoon heat. Finding myself in a glade – buzzing with life’s activity in a great orchestral drone – I made my way over to the crouching woman by the side of the road with roughly-cut hair who seemed to be oblivious of the heat despite her heavy clothing. The reason for my stopping.
She saw me before I could introduce myself; looking me up and down furtively like a forest animal. I cleared my throat regardless and began politely enough, “Are you lost?”
The woman took a moment before answering in a surprisingly well-spoken voice.
“You’re not from around here.”
I nodded as politely as could be expected. Something about this action made the crouching figure break into a smile, “From the north, I bet,” she elaborated as if I was not standing before her.
Glancing around, off putted by the strange woman, I continued my endeavour, “I saw you while driving past: alone by the side of the road. Do you need a lift to the town? Or at least some water?”
The stranger shook her head for a moment, before seeming to think better of it. “I’ll have some of that water,” she stated, coming to a decision, before continuing to mutter under her breath almost with contempt just loud enough for me to hear, “he’s the optimistic sort I bet...”
Ready to defend myself, if not sure why, I rebuked her, “What did you say?”
“You think that the Depression will end in a year and there won’t be another World War.”
Her reply stopped me. I’d never really been affected by the Depression and the War was before my time. Besides, surely one was enough? Another would be simply ridiculous. Yet, something about her words triggered a rising anger within me.
“What do you know about war?” I demanded.
At this, the woman finally stood up to face me. “It will make me a living,” she explained, as if I were doing something very amusing, “this place – all around you – it was a battlefield.”
Despite my self I looked around at the glade. Her words somehow made the flourishing wildlife seem more sinister; parasitical. Nevertheless, I objected, not liking her mocking tone.
“But the battle took place in the town.”
Shaking her head, suddenly irritable, my strange acquaintance elaborated on her claim, “The Siege of Vicksburg in 1863 was only the centre of the conflict, various other undocumented skirmishes happened in places like these.”
She spoke as if reading from a book. The factual detail of this astounded me and for some reason I had no doubt that she spoke the truth. “You seem to know your stuff,” I commented, impressed.
A sudden hooting from the woods briefly caught my attention as the woman dismissed my surprise with her reply, “I studied the civil war before the Depression hit. There were a lot of battles.”
That final sentence seemed to sum up the American Civil War quite nicely. Personally, I had always held a certain fascination for the varied battle tactics and daring manoeuvres which history boasted. “Was it a good skirmish?” I asked innocently enough, “was it a tale of heroic bravery and suchlike?”
The woman gave me a long, long look, to the extent where I became nervous, before eventually gesturing for me to follow her. I did as was instructed, trailing behind my newfound companion as we trekked into the swampish glade. After a short while, the woman stopped and, taking a small shovel from a pocket in her coat, unearthed some of the wet reed-infested ground. She did so in a regular rhythm, for several minutes, parting the earth floor with its sky-facing layer, until she found her prize: a faded yet still shining golden ring. I stood transfixed throughout the entire ritual. The patient archaeologist handed me the item as if it was nothing of value.
“A man went to war with this, a promise about what was waiting for him at home.”
I studied the ring as she spoke. Indeed, the afternoon light glinted off a name engraved into the polished metal, stating only: Anne. Before I could stop myself, a shiver flew up my spine, as if I was looking into a mirror and seeing death in my place.
Pleased by my reaction, my acquaintance continued, “And yet now, his faith is not even a footnote in history. We do not remember him. We do not know his name. But, nevertheless, he was as real as you or I. Such is the fate of us all.”
There was a pause in which I was lost for words. Around us the forest life continued as ever, oblivious and uncaring towards my conflicted thoughts.
“Well, that was depressing,” I said, suddenly wanting to break the silence, “do you still want that water?”
Seeming slightly disappointed, the woman nodded and we began to make our way back to the automobile, where I pulled out a bottle from under the driver’s seat. I gave it to her with a hand that I could not stop from subtly shaking. Noticing this, the woman grinned softly before proceeding to gulp down the water. Obviously, she had not realised her own thirst. Again, not wanting to be allowed to think to deeply, I filled the silence.
“It’s good to see that you’re productively working your way back up to prosperity, in any case – “
“I’m looting a war grave,” she interrupted briefly, pausing from her drink, “but, yes, go on.”
I repressed my opinions on that matter admirably before continuing, “My friends in town will never believe what happened here...”
“Friends?” the woman spoke up again, as if it was an almost unbelievable fact.
“Yes, I’m going to meet them in Vicksburg, for a book club,”
Again, there was a long silence.
Again, I filled it, gesturing to the car beside us, “In my trusty Model T, 1924 motorcar.”
The pride in my voice was uncontainable. At the time, I really did cherish that vehicle. The first one I ever had.
“Of course, now it would only sell for a hundred dollars or so...” I concluded reluctantly.
Something I said caused the face of my acquaintance to light up, as if suddenly struck by a thought. A surge of pride went through me that my cherished transport could cause such a reaction. I elaborated smugly, “It’s been a real friend to me on this journey of mine; travelling around the southern states, visiting friends and family. Taken me all the way from Chicago.”
Nodding slowly, still in thought, the woman replied, “I was saving up for a car like that before the Depression. Learnt to drive and everything.”
Suddenly turning to me, my new companion spoke again, “Look, you’ve been kind to me, giving me this water, so how about you help yourself to something from what I found today.”
I frowned, “You mean I can take whatever I want from your war loot?”
She nodded. For a moment my historical fascination conflicted with my respect for the dead. Seeing my indecision, the woman prompted me, “From dust they were made and to dust they have returned. What do a few trinkets matter to them now?”
Despite my earlier repulsion at the thought, I am sad to record that I agreed with her eagerly. Smiling, the woman pointed me towards where I had first seen her by the road. I now noticed that a bag – like its owner, worn at the straps – lay there, with the sparkle of hidden treasure inside.
I ran over to it like a child towards a present.
Crouching down as my acquaintance had done not so long ago, I opened the sack to reveal the articles within; buckles from uniforms, loose currency and the occasional rusted weapon glared back at me, as if from the tomb of a forgotten age.
However, before I could reach inside, I noticed that I still had that simple, golden ring in my hand. The lover’s name sat, set in the metal, as dead as ever.
“To dust they have returned,” I remembered the woman saying. Leaving only food for the now sickening plants and these items of tarnished metal.
As I thought this, I felt a breeze cross my face and the spurting sound of an engine starting. I turned just in time to see my automobile, that cherished transport, being driven away by the woman who had found a better way to make some money and survive. She was gone before I could even shout, her passage pushing the dust from the road into my face and making me sag to my knees in a coughing fit. Neatly reversing our original positions.
The sun stuck down on me. The glade buzzed. I lay on the damp ground for a few minutes, trying to catch my breath and my fortitude. Still by my side, the bag full of the dead’s property was my only companion. I realised that I would need to start making my way to the town at some point, but somehow, I could not bring myself to move. As if I was as lifeless as the dust blowing over me like the ashes of time.
So, there I lay, amongst the dead. On the long road to Vicksburg.