I wandered for hours without food or water, but miraculously, I had managed to get out of Vicksburg—thank God Almighty. I could still hear the cannons rumbling in the distance, the sound horrifying; I couldn't imagine what it would be like to see someone take a direct hit. At least I felt safe… or so I thought, because the wound burned as if it were burning me from the inside, making me shed tears of pain.
I needed to stop, take a quick rest stop, even if it was just for a moment. But I was terrified that the Yankees would find me. However, the pain overcame my fear, and I decided to dismount. I walked slowly to a log, not too far away. I tied the horse to a tree and let myself fall, exhausted.
Furthermore, I began to observe the surroundings, seeing the dark, swaying trees that reflected a lonely atmosphere. The dry trees, the cold ground, and the sky covered in a dull gray. In the distance, the smoke from the cannons still rose. The entire landscape conveyed an image of despair and defeat.
I lowered my head and noticed the wound was still bleeding faster than I could control. I had nothing to treat it; there wasn't even a Confederate encampment anywhere near these parts. I wasn't a doctor, nor did I know how to treat a wound like that, but I knew I had to do something before it infected my entire insides.
I gathered some grass and cotton and pressed them onto the wound with another piece of cloth I tore from my uniform. Then I struggled to my feet to continue. But before I could continue, I had to drink water, or I would die of thirst rather than the wound. Fortunately, I found a nearby stream. I staggered to it and drank. The water was dirty and stank, but in my condition, I didn't care. I drank until I was thirsty and remounted my horse, determined to continue my long journey to Texas.
Although… I thought about how complicated and risky it would be to return. I was still in Mississippi, and I had to cross all of Louisiana to get home; that would take several days. I knew Louisiana was also at war with the Unionists, and traveling alone was practically suicidal, but if I could make it south of the state, maybe I could avoid the battlefields.
I've decided, I'll begin my journey to southern Louisiana. I no longer cared about the risks; all I wanted was to get home as soon as possible. I'd had enough of this damned war. I'm not a man of war; I just want to live in peace for the rest of my life. I trusted —or wanted to trust— that I'd find a small, untouched village that hadn't yet been taken by the Yankees, where someone could help me. Please, God, I beg you with all my heart: don't abandon me.
Hours passed, and I wasn't getting anywhere. The heat returned, boiling over my exhausted body. Fatigue and despair mounted, until I felt like I was going to collapse. My mind gave out first; I couldn't bear the suffering any longer. The dizziness drove me mad, and I just wanted to fall. "Damn it!" I closed my eyes and fainted, still mounted on the horse.
The hours continued to pass. I don't know how long I was unconscious, but the horse, however, didn't stop. I was awakened by the scorching sun, feeling my face, arms, and sword burn. I took off my hat: my hair was as dry as straw, and my scalp as arid as the desert soil. My skin was beginning to peel, my lips cracked, my mouth dry, and my eyes red with dryness. I had no water, not even a canteen to drink from. Thirst returned with a vengeance, dominating my mouth full of desert sand. I urgently had to find another stream, but I had no more energy, and my vision was blurry. It was due to the intense heat and the wound in my stomach that was getting even worse. My fear grew, and I was beginning to worry.
Then the horse stopped. I couldn't see well, but I knew we'd arrived somewhere. At that moment, I lost my balance and fell off its back, landing in what appeared to be a watering trough. The water brought me out of unconsciousness, and I sat up and saw the horse drinking from the trough. I looked up and saw the surroundings: a small, very small village, surrounded by dead fields. Everything smelled of burnt wood and a slaughterhouse. But there was water, and I drank without thinking. The water was hot and dirty, but my body demanded more to quench my thirst.
After drinking this contaminated water, I could barely move. I got up, tied the horse to a post, and walked toward the village. My body wobbled, and my steps were slower than a turtle's, my feet dragging in the sand. The pain in my wound grew worse with every movement I made, but I need to call for help.
I managed to reach a shadow and dropped to my knees. Then, I leaned my back against the wall and slowly closed my eyes. I couldn't keep walking, I couldn't even scream. I just had to wait, hoping someone would find me, or else I'd die right here.
Instantly, a chilly wind woke me, interrupting my painful rest. I opened my eyes, startled, to find something standing in front of me. I strained my eyes and saw a small silhouette. My eyes were blurry, so I strained my eyes even more. When my vision cleared, the silhouette I had just seen was that of a little girl. She was wearing a peasant dress that looked very battered. Her face was pale, revealing a disturbed yet uncomfortable look. She regarded me suspiciously, as if I were a filthy thief.
I didn't understand, but maybe... she was right: I was dirty, smelly, and bloody. But... I was still wearing the Confederate coat, and yet, this little Southern girl still saw me as an enemy.
"Who are you?" she asked. Her voice was soft, as if she expressed confusion.
But her eyes narrowed slightly as she continued to stare at me, and she tilted her head to the left side. Her distrustful gaze chilled my blood.
"H… help me… please…" I whispered with the last bit of strength I had left, straining my vocal cords.
At least she'd go get help. They'd come for me, and I'd be safe, that's what I thought.
She frowned.
"Why do you want me to help you?"
I had no more strength, nor could I answer her question. All I did was close my eyes again, and my head hung limp. The blood from my wound continued to flow. I thought this was the end for me. But then, the little girl grabbed my feet and dragged me. It seemed very strange to me. How could she have the strength to drag me such a long distance? But there was nothing I could do. She led me to a stone house with a wooden roof. The interior was messy, with the same smell of burnt wood... and something worse, dead flesh.
Then she put me down on the floor and started rummaging through a drawer full of tools. I watched her through narrowed eyes. What was she looking for? Suddenly, she pulled out a saw and approached with a crooked smile. She looked at me as if I were a broken toy and uttered strange words.
"I could see you have a gunshot wound. Just trust me… let me help you," she said in a high-pitched voice that made my blood boil.
I couldn't scream or move to save myself from this crazy little girl. I was trapped. This was worse than war. She'll do… overwhelming things to me, I don't want that!
"What the hell are you doing, Jill?"
A male voice was heard interrupting the little girl's activity. A very unpleasant-looking man appeared, resembling an old peasant. He roughly snatched the saw from the girl's grasp.
"Go to your room!" he yelled at her.
Jill angrily crossed her arms and pouted. And obeying the aberrant-looking man, she left
The man approached me out of curiosity and curiosity. He looked like a grumpy old peasant. He was bald, thin, and his eyes were almost blind. He stank of onions, making my stomach churn when he got too close.
"I'm sorry about Jill's behavior. She's not... a very normal little girl. Now let's see what you've got," he said, his voice rasping, as if it were scratching his throat.
He touched my wound with his filthy fingers. I felt a chill. Was he as crazy as the little girl? I was so scared; I didn't want any of these crazy people to do something completely horrible to me.
Then he grabbed a bottle of liquor, took a long swig, and forced me to drink. The alcohol burned my throat. I drank half the bottle, unable to resist. I felt dizzy instantly; I'd never drunk so much. Then he poured the liquor over the wound. Now, he grabbed a pair of rusty tweezers and extracted the cartridge case deep in my stomach. It all happened so fast, and the man laughed a mad laugh, banging his head.
"That was so easy," he said, showing his yellow teeth
He poured liquor on the wound again until the liquid seeped into it. I imagined this might relieve the swelling in my flesh and the edges of my abdomen. Well, this man looked very unhygienic, and I wasn't convinced I was completely healed; it could have consequences in the near future. Then he took out a needle and thread. Where had he gotten them? Still numb, I could barely understand what was happening. He sutured me, and the pain dissolved into the alcohol and exhaustion.
"Well, rest," the old man said, his words fading in my mind. "Tomorrow, a special day awaits you…"
And then, because of all the alcohol I consumed, I completely passed out.
"....."