~ Becky's Rebel ~

by

Sherry Derr-Wille

Prologue

The wind blew across the Illinois prairie, as only a January wind could blow. Snow, mixed with filtered sunlight, sifted through the cracks of the makeshift prison, only recently converted from a corncrib.

Through his fevered haze, Joe Kemmerman wished some of the flakes would fall on him, to quench the fire that burned just below the surface of his skin.

Beneath him, the thin mattress did little to cushion his body against the hardness of the floor. He’d gotten used to sharing his living space with not only the five other gray clad prisoners, but also with the rats who were free to come and go as they pleased.

A chill raced through his body. For days now the fever had alternated with the chills to accelerate the extent of his illness.

"It’s numonie, Paul, I tell you, it’s numonie," he heard Backwoods say.

Joe mustered all the strength he could find to open his eyes and look at his brother. "Am I going to die, Paul?"

"Of course you’re not. Pa sent me along to protect you, remember?"

"You can’t." A fit of coughing cut off his words.

"Lay still," Paul cautioned. "You need to save your strength. The guard said he was sending for a doctor."

Joe closed his eyes and listened to the conversation going on around him.

"Don’t get yer hopes up, Paul," Backwoods warned. "They ain’t gonna send no doctor."

"But he said..."

"They say a lot of things. When are you goin’ to learn you can’t believe anything they say? They told us they’d ship us East, but they didn’t. They let us believe we’d get enough food and warm blankets. Have you seen any of it? They’re nothing’ but lying’ blue belly Yankees."

Joe agreed with everything Backwoods said, he just didn’t want to believe it.

How had all of this happened? Less than a year ago, he’d been nothing more than the youngest son of Mark Kemmerman. It was the war, this damnable war that had done this to him.

In his ramblings, he recalled his oldest brother, Luke. At the beginning of the war, he had enlisted. Letters were infrequent. Then, one day, they’d received word he’d been killed at Vicksburg.

Have faith, Joe Luke’s voice echoed in his mind. Paul knows Pa will make his life a living hell if you die. There’s no love lost between the two of them. He’s not like us.

Tears filled Joe’s eyes at the sound of Luke’s voice. How many months had passed since he could recall Luke’s face?

He turned his thoughts to the five other men who shared this nightmare with him. They had met just a week prior to being captured. At the time, only Backwoods was a seasoned veteran of many campaigns. His long dark hair and heavy beard hid his angular features in the same way his dirt and sweat stained uniform did his thin body. The other three men were as new to the business of war as Joe and Paul. He remembered them, not as they looked now, but the way he saw them when they first met. Billy Bob and Jimmy Roy Hastings came from a plantation in Virginia. Instead of standard issue, their uniforms were of fine quality material lovingly made by their mother. Even their hats carried a flare with a dark gray plume stuck into the band. In contrast, Bret Collier wore an expertly tailored uniform he said he had made by a tailor in New Orleans. He claimed to be a gambler, who enjoyed plying his trade on the riverboats that traveled the Mississippi River. With his means of livelihood temporarily gone, he decided to fight rather than starve.

We’re all so different, Joe thought, and yet here we’re all equal. Hard working, pampered, illiterate, none of it makes any difference. To these Yankees, we’re no better than animals.

He couldn’t help but remember their first military encounter. From that battle, there were only six men who weren’t killed. The memory of bodies which had, hours earlier, been his friends made him sick. The Mississippi field had been soaked in blood from gaping wounds and missing limbs turning everything red with the spillage of life.

Another coughing spasm wracked his body. His coughing brought up phlegm. To his surprise, it tasted salty and he realized his mouth was filled with blood.

Someone turned him onto his side, so the blood could run to the ground rather than down his throat. It would be better if I choked to death and died quickly, he thought to himself.

"What can we do for him, Backwoods?" he heard Paul ask.

"Nothin’, all we can do is try to make him comfortable and pray the good Lord don’t let him suffer too long."

Pray, the word echoed in Joe’s mind. His mother and Maria were the ones who prayed. Even Paul took his religion seriously. Joe knew he was more like his father. Mark Kemmerman shunned traditional religion. With death inevitable, Joe wished he’d paid more attention to Maria when she insisted he accompany her to church.

A blast of cold air indicated the door to the enclosure had been opened. Joe couldn’t stop the coughing. To his horror, he couldn’t catch his breath.

Dear Lord, he thought as panic set in, I’m dying.