Two Brothers, One War

Lucas Maxwell Hammerman

The sun was beating down upon the blue and grey covered bodies on the hilly terrain. A thin haze of opaque grey musket smoke settled where one hill ended and another began. The Blue Union Soldiers and the Grey Confederates tore up the battlefield. There were wet slippery areas caused by the constant flow of fresh blood from the lifeless bodies obscuring the ground; the terrain of Gettysburg was hazardous.

            For Gerald Jefferson, Jr., this was business as usual, just another day fighting for the Southern Cause. He looked up towards the morning sky and thought that the sun was focusing its inferno upon him. His wool uniform was now dripping with sweat, and it was hugging his skin, leaving no room for his skin to move without rubbing against the scratchy cloth. Yet, Gerald Jefferson was proud to have that grey wool clinging onto him as long as it meant he was fighting for the Glorious South. And fight he had, from the moment he left his loving parents and younger brother on the plantation in Tennessee. The plantation to which he felt he was entitled. Firm in his beliefs to both God and the southern cause, he said a prayer and swung his sword arm downwards like a gavel, deciding the fate of a union soldier as he ran to the center of the battle at Cemetery Ridge.

            On the far side of the hostile field, Edgar Jefferson surveyed the war grounds of falling comrades and foes, yet as much to his relief, he saw no family members. He pulled a photo of his family’s plantation out of his dirtied blue pocket. On the deck of the plantation stood his parents and misguided older brother.  While Gerald had fought for the South, Edgar believed in democracy not aristocracy, and fought for what he believed was right. Edgar had sewn the union flag into the moral fiber of his being to the point that a seam was absent. Charging into the thick of the battle Edgar said a prayer for himself and the Union and before firing his musket at an approaching figure in grey wool.

            It wasn’t long before Edgar had reached Cemetery Ridge, and took a look around him to see if there were any enemies approaching. From the corner of his eye he saw a man dressed in bloodstained grey clothes. All he was able to catch of the man’s face was a familiar handlebar mustache. He tried to rationalize, saying that many men had a mustache in that style. Edgar could not quell the gale of trepidation that was in his heartbeat.  The gust of the storm was turning his body to confront the man, and the first lightening bolt of a tempest struck as Edgar found his brother with a bloody bayonet poised to attack.

“Hello Little Brother” said Gerald as he dropped the bayonet down and took out a revolver.  Edgar seeing this, immediately drew his revolver, cocked it and replied, “Salutations Big Brother.”

“How are we gonna settle this fight you being a Yankee, I a Confed-”

“Traitor” Edgar interrupted.

 “Traitor, Yankee, Yankee, Traitor…be what we may we are still brothers.”

Edgar knew this and knew he didn’t want the other dead, nor did Gerald. Yet this is war. Edgar was dressed in blue and Gerald was dressed in grey. This was the battlefield, and Edgar was on one side and Gerald was on the other, both with guns in their hands, swords in there belts, and insurmountable differences in their ideals.

            As the bullets dance by in a destructive waltz to the one note tune of a gun, both men stood conflicted between their family ties and their respective principals. Both men, still not yet thirty, knew that despite the love they had for one another, the love for their causes was greater. For the two brothers everything amplified. The sun began to invade their thoughts and the sound of there own internal tears made the sounds of Gettysburg shrink to a whisper.  Soon the whisper was muted by the reverberating sound of a solemn truth.  They knew one of them must die.

            As each pulled their guns up to shoot, a cannon ball, like a bat, silently swooped down from the hilly tops and landed. When the smoke had cleared both men were laying one atop the other.  The uniforms, which were worn with a passion, the uniforms that had separated the brothers into confederate and union, were no longer two separate colors. Gerald and Edgar Jefferson’s uniforms were cleansed of war and colored in the one thing they shared. Blood.

As the battle ended, bodies were counted and coffins were made. For each pine coffin of the Union, a union officer wrote a letter. For each pine coffin of the Confederacy, a confederate officer wrote a letter.   All the while the July morning aged into the August twilight. 

Miles away in this twilight, Carol Jefferson stood on the plantation deck as the mail arrived. Taking it from the mail carrier she saw there were only two letters, one in a grey envelope shut with the confederate seal and one in a blue envelope with the union seal. Falling upon her knees, she cradled herself in her arms as she use to cradle her baby boys.