ASSPg2

For weeks, they marched and laid waste to anything or anyone who tried to come between them and Savannah.
Olin followed orders, but the behavior of his comrades disgusted him to the point he preferred self-induced
isolation to the hoards of ravenous vigilantes and thieves many of them had become. He felt ashamed. Even
Avery had abandoned him, preferring the companionship of barbarians to the brooding loner Olin had become.

The destruction became more savage with each home that they destroyed. Olin was no longer talking, would
barely eat, and couldn't sleep. He'd heard they were approaching Savannah but didn't bother to ask anyone if it
were true.

He stood and watched a burning oak tree, one of the many that lined the quarter-mile-long entrance to the
stately plantation home. He stared at the tree, burning brilliant with orange and red flames and smoke billowing
into the night sky, because to look at the devastation behind him was too much to bear. He had done what the
sergeant had asked him to do and all he could do now was watch. He knelt down and sharpened his pencil with
his pocketknife. He pulled the last scraps of paper from his satchel and began to write.

Dear Ma and Pa:

I'm sorry I haven't written but they keep us pretty much on our feet all day and I'm dog-tired when we finally
stop.

I try to find words to describe the horrible events I am witness to, but they flee from my mind as though they
fear to be a part of the testimonial I am about to write. I don't feel real good about what is going on around
here and I pray daily for forgiveness of this treachery that is forced upon us all.

I'm sitting here writing because I'm afraid, Ma. I fear for the family who huddles together behind me watching
everything they own burn or carted away by our moral and God-fearing soldiers. I call them a family, but there
are no men of fighting age - not even Negroes. I guess they're either off fighting for the cause or dead. Only
women, an old Negro gentleman, and four young children remain. I wonder if they are even aware of the tears
streaming down their faces, now soot-covered from the standing too close to the fire. I'm compelled to tell
their story as I see it. I only pray reading it does not sicken you. You always said I was good at telling what
folks are feeling. If I don't tell someone I fear I will go insane.

A woman, I believe her to be the mother, stares straight into the fire, forcing herself to ignore the chaos
surrounding her. She holds her chin up and her back straight, as if refusing to let go of what dignity remains in
her. She seems torn between her desire for revenge deep in her heart and the word of the Lord. I can tell this
because I can see the crucifix dangling from the rosary she has entwined within her trembling fingers. She
keeps asking God why but she does not get an answer. Her heart grows bitter, and by tomorrow, will be as cold
as the ash on the ground that once was her home. She holds one small child, a girl, in her arms while two
young boys cling to her skirt.

The eldest of the two boys is easy to read. His gaze is fixed on the fire, yet his mind wanders. He pictures
himself running into the house, fetching the gun and killing us -all of us. He aches to protect what will some
day be his - the house, the land, and the valor of his prestigious family name. His anger is so intense it can
find nowhere to manifest - so travels through his body in a frenzy and causes him to shiver, despite the intense
heat from the fire. He holds onto his mother.

The youngest of the boys seems a bit of a dreamer and feels their loss more than the other two. Even at his
tender age, he realizes their genteel way of life is gone, as is the beloved literature and art collections of his
family. However, he is the one - the one who will not be embittered by all the destruction that is before him.
He will, in time, embrace the changes and make a contribution to a new era.

Beside the woman, stands a shorter Negro girl also holding a young child. She was probably anxious for the war
to start, to gain freedom for herself, her children, and her future generations. The look in her eyes says she
questions what freedom really is and whether it is worth giving up the security she had. She realizes there is no
turning back now and fears for her future.

The old Negro man stands behind them all. He stands back so no one else can see the half-grin on his face. His
dreams of freedom are about to come true. He resists the urge to join the soldiers and stands obediently
behind his master. He sees me watching them and his teeth emerge as his grin turns into a smile. He knows
the end is near.

I'm sure I'll look back one day and agree that this war was necessary and it succeeded in doing what it was
supposed to do. Nevertheless, right now, I can only see the devastation of war - the pain, the suffering, the
dying and the guilt.

I'll be home soon, Ma. Please watch for me.

Love, your son

Olin Fitzgerald
November 1864

Olin folded the paper and tucked it into his last envelope. He searched for the clerk and handed him the letter.
The clerk gave him a strange look and stuffed it into his shirt pocket.

He took one last look at the family, statuesque amidst the chaos around them. He saluted the old Negro
gentleman, who was truly the only man around worthy of a salute. The old man saluted back. The burning tree
became too weak at its trunk and toppled over. The burning embers exploded outward, like a million fireflies.

Olin gazed up through the smoke into clear black night dotted with brilliant stars and wondered if his ma was
looking at the same sky back in Ohio. He located the North Star and disappeared into the darkness. This was
the last the Union Army ever saw of Private Olin Fitzgerald.