The dread that comes from the defenseless and mysterious proceeds toward spontaneous superstition within the deep mind of the ignorants. In my case, I don't know if it was ignorance or simple incompetence, but the truth is that logic ceased to make sense in the face of what I saw. I was blind to the obvious, and when I finally opened my eyes, what I saw was so horrendous that I preferred to close them again. Sometimes, the most brutal reality is the one that breaks the blindness... but at a price. He who understands the incomprehensible pays for it with peace of mind.
My name is Jonah Wylie. I woke up from a prolonged blackout, confused and in pain, with no idea where the hell I was. My eyes burned and stung with every attempt to keep them open. I discovered I was still mounted on the horse, my head resting on its neck, its coarse mane brushing against my face. The vast, scorching sun had baked my skin until it was dry and cracked, like that of a molting reptile. In my abdomen, a severe, swollen wound throbbed with excruciating pain as a rifle cartridge brushed against my intestines. I gritted my teeth as I felt that hell blaze inside me. I had torn off a piece of my clothing and pressed it against the wound to staunch the bleeding, although, it had little effect.
The reason I was in the state I was in was because I managed to escape the Union ambush in Vicksburg, Mississippi. They cornered us without warning, and within seconds, the air was filled with gunfire and lead. Many of my comrades were cut down without a chance to defend themselves. I was lucky—if you can call it lucky. I crawled toward a stinking lake, hiding beneath its stagnant waters, among animal carcasses and clouds of mosquitoes that devoured my face. Afterward, I took refuge in rough brush, the cartridge still lodged in my stomach. The pain was unbearable, but I knew that if I moved, if I made the slightest noise, I would die.
Having not been found or captured by the enemy forces, I waited until they had left far from the battlefield. At that moment, I took the opportunity to take a sheltered horse and mount it with great difficulty due to the immense pain that continued to interrupt the slightest movements of my limbs. Finally, once mounted, I quickly escaped this horrifying and terrifying hell that continued to torment my mind. The horse ran for several kilometers, its movements shaking my body, making me nauseous and increasing the pain of my wound, even my entire body. But, if I wanted to escape all this war to seek a safer refuge, then I shouldn't complain no matter how painful the steps were. I was very afraid, afraid of death, so it was better to sacrifice all this physical suffering I continued to endure along the way until I got away from the military camps.
I just wanted to live. That was it: peace, silence, and some land to work. I was just a simple farmer, but now I found myself in an absurd struggle between pain and death.
A few days ago, before all this happened, I was living quietly on my uncles' farm in the countryside of Houston, Texas. I was always a peculiar young man, not given to conversation, even with neighbors. When I lived with my parents, we were isolated from any town, and I grew up without knowing any voice beyond that of my family. But with my uncles, things changed a bit. Over time, I learned to socialize, especially with my cousins, while we worked the crops. It was a hard life. The lands were vast, and the effort was never enough. Later, my uncles bought slaves, and the burden of work suddenly eased. It was an obvious, if uncomfortable, change. I just wanted peace, and this seemed the only way to achieve it.
During these times, everything was going fairly smoothly for me, believing my life would be as monotonous as ever. It was a simple life I dreamed of: perhaps one day marrying a young peasant girl, having children, and tending the land. But everything changed when the Texan generals forced me to enlist in the army to defend the states occupied by the Unionists. They needed more soldiers; many already knew all was lost. Even so, I didn't have the courage to refuse the order; unfortunately, I prepared to join the Texan army. My uncle, at 52 years old, was drafted along with me. My cousins were younger; they were left behind. At barely 19, I was sent with my uncle to Corinth, Mississippi. They needed us there.
Unimaginable fear chilled my veins. I struggled to breathe, and my hands trembled. I thought about my parents, their tragic fate in 1854, and how close I had come to a different life. Although this horrendous fate disrupted the peace I was regaining while living with my uncles, I struggled to recover. Then we were separated. My uncle was assigned to another camp. I was left alone among strangers. We were all young, nervous, and all with the same desire: to return home. For that reason, no one had the energy for barracks jokes toward the rookies.
During the days, they trained me with a rifle. I was never a professional shooter; on the farm, I hunted with my cousins for dinner, but never with the intention of killing a man. Although I had to be prepared as quickly as possible, the training was short, and the fear, long. I knew I wasn't ready to face the Northern Blues. I felt like I was falling apart inside. And then, the order came. We were sent to Vicksburg, Mississippi, accompanied by some troops to face the terrible and bloody battle. The Union ambush fell upon us like a curse; shots rained down, screams and blood. My comrades died in such horrific ways that my mind refuses to recall them. No matter how hard we tried and sacrificed to confront our inner cowardice, it was completely useless. Some were shot, others were cut in two by the cannons, and still others screamed until they could no longer stand.
Horribly, I witnessed young people die in the worst possible ways, ways my words couldn't express, or were simply too nauseating to name. Sufficient for what I mentioned above.
Instead, I was one of the few survivors. I hid like an animal, or rather, like a coward. I went under the stagnant water of a filthy lake mentioned at the beginning of the story, with a rifle cartridge stuck in my gut. I didn't know if I would bleed to death, if they would catch me, or if I would even be able to get up. But I still had hope of survival. One thought sustained me: sneak back to my home in Texas to reunite with my family. I don't know what happened to my uncle. The last thing I heard was that he was assigned to another camp. Maybe he's still alive, maybe not. I won't know until I finish this long journey, which I'll call my itinerary.