Georgia, My Heart

The pear tree sat triumphantly on the horizon where it always had, catching the early rays of sunshine spilling over the forest at the edge of the fields. The forest behind the man, the one he had dragged himself through the previous night, was little more than a bad memory as he took in the glorious, golden canopy of smooth, green leaves kissed by dawn. Lucky to not be in its pungent flowering season, the weary man donning a brown uniform torn to shreds and splotched with blood smiled, splitting his dry lips.

A few pears dotted its branches here and there, drawing the ghost of a smile from the haggard man. He hadn’t eaten since the siege of Savannah had started to unravel three days back. That tree had always been there, always fed him with sweet memories and sweeter pears. Over the years it had become not only a staple of the grounds but of his memory.

“Must be October,” he croaked. “Never liked fruiting...in September.”

A horrible cough wracked his frame as his hands came to his knees. Blood dripped into the grass while he struggled to catch his breath. After the spell passed, he cast bloodshot eyes up to the tree. Fifty feet away at best, the branches waved in warm welcome. Another few acres away, just past the clump of massive oaks, slept a moderately sized home, but he couldn’t make it that far, not after fighting his way through a forest filled with shadows, dying men, and red coats. The pear tree was his best shot at a moment’s rest. Just as it had been as a child when he’d explored too far and tired himself out.

“If I can just…”

Staggering, the man managed three more steps before collapsing into the tall grasses of Savannah, Georgia. His hometown. The smoldering city and the cries of dying soldiers had faded with the hooves of angry British horses and terrified rebels but they still rang through his ears as he lay in the dirt unmoving. Unwilling to leave, they cluttered his eyes with unshed tears.

Facedown in the dirt, he supposed it could be worse. He could be back on that battlefield. Gunshots, screams, and the gurgling of men trying to call out echoed in his mind as he stared at the black dirt. Images of fallen friends danced in front of his eyes. He shuddered involuntarily. Elias was dead. The ice cream shop they had gone to as children had burned.

Savannah had been such a pretty city.

“Rich dirt,” he mumbled. His father once called it God’s dirt. “Isn’t,” he muttered to himself, fingerings tightening their hold on the earth. “Ours.” He rattled out a thick cough. “Not God’s.”

He groaned. Though he tried, he was simply too exhausted to keep his eyes open any longer. Slowly, they slipped shut. That’s how it starts, he thought. Just a rest an’ they never get back up. How many friends had he tried to jostle awake only to find that they had died during the night. Alone. They just wanted sleep. Sleep. How nice sleep sounded.

“NO!”

The man wrenched open his eyes.

Sunlight turned the hazel irises into spun gold. Flecks of darkness swam through them. Black earth stared back at the man as his ragged breathing pressed him further into the ground. A breeze rolled over the skin of his shoulder exposed by a long jagged slash in his brown woolen coat. He had wanted those new uniforms, dreamt of fighting in them and coming home banged up but with a permanent symbol of freedom he could hang in his closet. The first uniform of the country he fought to help create.

“Blue,” he whispered, his breath puffing against the grass, causing it to sway. A sad half-smile cracked the blood caked onto his cheeks. “Pa’s favorite.”

Shifting with a grimace, he managed to drag his right arm through the wet earth and out from underneath his body. Dropping it in front of his face with a hard plop, the man focused on the tiny, stitched-in letters his mother had insisted on sewing into his uniform.

“Daniel Whitt.”

The black letters blurred. He was proud of his beaten-up, brown coat. The cuffs had gone black from the dirt and there were stains that refused to come out with any sort of scrubbing. This brown coat had kept him safe and hidden from enemy eyes. It was his uniform. Although even he had to admit it wasn’t much of a uniform when compared to the opposition. The King’s men had smooth, clean, red coats and buttons that dazzled in the sunlight while he and his fallen friends were clothed in whatever they could find. Elias had hoped for white ever since he’d seen a Frenchman saunter up in their pale uniforms accented by baby blue.

Daniel clenched his eyes shut.

This had been their last conversation before the bullets started flying and red coats stomped through the town. They’d fought before, bickered like brothers usually did, but the palpable fear in the air had riled them. Daniel had stormed off, shouting “we’ll talk about it later” over his shoulder without looking back. He didn’t want to hear about how elegant and powerful they were. They set off the next morning, shoulder to shoulder, and by then, there wasn’t time to apologize.

To tell him I loved him.

“Woulda looked good in white.”

“Blue would have been better, brother.”

Elias. Daniel let out a long, raspy breath. He’s all right. Understanding shattered his heart. I’m going to die. He’s not okay. He’s dead!

“Eli...Oh God, Eli.” A rough sob escaped him. “I killed you.”

“Danny,” Elias said, his voice pressed up to Daniel’s ear. “Danny, I’m all right. Not mad. Not at you.”

Daniel squirmed on the ground, uncomfortable in his guilt.

“You did your best. Pa needs you to come home now. Go home for me?”

“Elias, I… I love you. I should have-”

“I know, Danny. Love you too. Tell Ma, okay?”

The presence hovering around Daniel’s ear vanished. Letting out a coughing sob, he struggled upright slipping on mud and his own blood. The breeze increased to a strong wind and the scent of rain and smoke rolled off the nearby battlefield. Thunder growled above and the delicate drops of the starting storm hit his neck. Nothing, not even the power of the skies could mask the feral screams tearing from his throat as he navigated to all fours.

Now acutely aware of a throbbing pain in his head and a jagged, white-hot pain in his abdomen, Daniel began to move. His brother had never asked anything of him. Not the last slice of pie. Not first pick at dinner. Not even to be first in the bath. Nothing. But he had asked for Daniel to go home, to tell their mother he loved her.

This was not how he had expected to return.

He made it to the tree, sufficiently cried out and soaked to the bone by the torrential downpour. Leaning back against the scaly bark, Daniel pulled open his coat only to stare at a long, red gash no doubt created by some murderous Englishman and his sword. It was hardly immediately life-threatening. Without much fuss, he tucked the wound away beneath his coat and hugged his arms around his belly.

Elias was gone.

Looking up through the tree branches, Daniel’s innards felt raw as they twisted and tangled with poisonous grief. The tears fell again, hot in contrast to the cold rain. He would never sit below this tree with his brother again. This tree, that had been planted by their father for his sons, would never see the both of them again.

His heart burned. As Daniel sat there, staring at the canopy and warring with his failure as a brother, he decided at last to rest.

The feeling had left his legs. His arms were heavy. The world spun and swirled around him, hardly conducive to walking. Everything pulsed with the rhythm of death. He shut his eyes and prayed to slip away.

Instead, he was woken some time later still drenched and very much alive by the terrified screech of his mother.

“Daniel? Oh God. Oh God, it’s Danny!” The voice faded abruptly as it angled away from him. “Alex. Alexander!”

Her feet clopped against the ground as she took off toward the home. Daniel tensed, his light brows pulling together as he remembered the thumping of hooves again and what they heralded.

“Death is coming,” he muttered, thinking of telling his mother that her favorite son was dead. With a shiver, he slammed his eyes shut, ignorant to the tears tracing paths down his cheeks. “Death already arrived.”

The shivering wouldn’t stop. Suddenly, his teeth were clacking together and dry, gasping sobs aggravated the wound sliced across his stomach. His brother was dead. He couldn’t even bring him home from the battlefield. Elias had only been allowed to enlist under the pretense that Daniel would keep him safe. Elias, he thought, hopeful brown eyes replaced with glassy shocked ones in his mind. Elias, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I was supposed to…

Warm arms wrapped around him. He refused to open his eyes.

“Daniel. Danny, it’s Pa. I got you. I’ve got you now.”

The soft voice of his mother floated in from the periphery. “Is Elias-”

“Shut up, Abigail. Shut up.” A soothing hand combed through his hair while his father spoke harshly to his mother. “Don’t ask him. No. Don’t you cry. You can’t, Abigail. You can’t.” His voice dropped as he clapped one hand over Daniel’s ear, the other ear smashed against his father’s chest effectively locking him out of their conversation.

Then, the words were turned to Daniel, “I’ve got you, Danny. Shh, it’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. Don’t you worry about Elias right now. We’re gonna fix you up right as rain, all right?”

“Pa...Pa, Savannah…”

“I know, son. I know.”

“Ma?” Silence met his ears. “Elias loves you.”

The shuddering returned with a vengeance as his mother’s footsteps pulled away. The trauma of loss rattled his bones and he was helpless to control it.

“C-can’t st-st-stop.”

“Shh, son.”

“They’ll...they’ll come b-back,” he gasped.

“Danny, you listen to me. If they come back, I’ll manage it.” Strong arms tightened their grip around Daniel who began to thrash weakly. “Quiet, boy. Rest.” The snarl dissipated, leaving Daniel with only the hazy impression that his father had once seen war himself. “You’ve earned it.”

With a whimper and a final, blurry glance back at the pear tree, Daniel slipped under.

A whispered, “Good boy” soothed his turbulent sleep.

It was dark when he next opened his eyes but the space was unforgettable. He had grown up in this room. Without needing the dim light of the candle at his bedside, Daniel knew the bathroom was a door down and that because of his tendency to sneak out, his parents’ room was across from his own. Running a hand down his chest, his fingertips stopped at a large white bandage wrapped around his abdomen. He sucked in a deep breath. It was over. He’d survived. Elias hadn’t.

Dropping his head to the right, Daniel let out a shaky breath. There, on the nightstand, sat a bowl of freshly picked pears. Beside it, were two empty whiskey glasses, his father’s finest and a small note with his father’s scratchy writing on it.

“Call for me when you wake.”

Daniel reached for a pear, letting it drop into his lap. Sorrow bubbled up in his throat as he weakly called, “Pa?” His hands became clammy, panic edging into his voice. “Pa?” Elias was dead. “Pa!” Daniel’s stomach dropped. No doubt he’d fired a shot that had killed someone’s brother too. “PA! Oh God, Pa!”

Thunderous footsteps raced to his side as his nails bit into the edge of the pear.

“I’m here, son. I’m here. You’re home.”