A Bridge To Cross
written by: Ernie Stricsek
On either side of the trickling stream that divided the dense forest of pines and scrub oaks, the locals called “The Wilderness,” two men stood silent, horses tied to the trees behind them. They wore the uniforms of bitter enemies: one Union blue, the other Confederate gray. The air was tense, though the muskets of their respective armies were miles away. Here, only the creek ran between them – and a memory neither could drown in time.
Captain James Bartlett stepped down from the slight rise on his side of the stream. He moved slowly, hat in hand, a peace gesture for a private meeting that was arranged through a series of messages passed through cautious picket lines. On the other bank of the stream stood Major Redmond Downs, arms crossed over his chest, his LeMat revolver still holstered, his eyes roaming the woods behind Bartlett.
“Hello, Red,” Bartlett said first, his voice quiet, almost reverent. “It’s been a long time.”
Downs didn’t exactly smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Since the spring of 1862, I reckon. The day I saw you hauled off to Libby Prison.”
Bartlett let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “You should’ve seen me get out of that old tobacco warehouse!”
“I heard about that. They reported you were shot while trying to escape, and a passing side-wheeler chopped your body to pieces. Glad to see that was not the case.”
“We have a truce for a bit, I suppose. I’ve got some of that good Yankee coffee and pot to boil it in. Mind if I come over and sit for a spell, Red?”
They sat together on the bank. Golden sunlight filtered through the branches. Bartlett raised his coffee cup. “A toast, to when we were friends, before the war. Before everything.”
“To when we were friends, and before you took a liking to Miss Lizzie Haw,” Downs said, his mug tapping Bartlett’s.
“I suppose that’s what brought us here,” said Bartlett.
Downs barked out a sharp laugh. “We’re not here because of the war? No, of course, it’s Lizzie Haw! Still, the only cause either of us has ever really bled for.”
They sat for a moment, not saying anything. The only sounds were of the stream and the buzzing of the late spring insects. Bartlett broke the silence.
“I didn’t know she had written to you, too,” he said.
“She didn’t,” Downs replied, his voice low. “I saw her in Richmond last spring. Volunteering at the hospital. She looked tired. Strong still. But worn in a way she never was before.”
“I got a letter from her two months ago,” Bartlett said. “She’s in Baltimore now, working in a field hospital. She… she asked me not to hate you.”
Downs looked up from his coffee mug, startled. “She said that?”
Bartlett nodded. “She wrote that hate was too easy now. That it was pulling people apart faster than bullets could. She asked me to remember you as the man I taught how to swim.”
Downs chuckled. “Taught me how to swim? You saved my life, Jimmy. I was floundering in the Hudson, going down for the last count. I…. I never said thank you.”
“You didn’t need to, Red. You were my friend.”
Down’s face broke into a wry smile, “We weren’t friends yet. You barely knew me. You risked your life to save mine.”
Another moment of silence passed. Bartlett stood, unhooked his saddlebag, and pulled out a rolled-up scroll of paper.
“What’s this? Are you handing me one of your maps, Jimmy?”
“It’s a drawing,” Bartlett answered. “Something I did in camp a few nights ago.”
Downs unrolled the scroll. Although drawn on rough army paper, the sketch was beautiful. It showed a wooden bridge, with boxes of flowers on either side, arching across a narrow stream. He looked around the space where they were drinking coffee and realized this was the same spot depicted in the drawing. There were two figures on the bridge, standing in the middle, each wearing a different uniform. They were shaking hands.
“I have always believed that bridges were a kind of promise,” Bartlett said. “Not just a way across, but a way to say that I’m willing to meet you in the middle.”
Downs looked at the drawing for a long time before rolling it back up. He cleared his throat but couldn’t hide his emotion. “You always were the sentimental one, Jimmy.”
Bartlett didn’t argue. “Maybe I still am.”
The afternoon light deepened, shadows beginning to stretch long and quiet over the ground.
“Do you think she loved us both?” Downs asked suddenly.
Bartlett hesitated. “Yes,” he said. “But not in the same way. You were her fire. I was her calm. She needed both. Maybe, after all of this, she’ll need neither.”
Downs took off his battered hat and ran his hand through his hair. “Do you still love her?”
“I’ve never stopped,” Bartlett answered.
Once again, they sat in silence, the stream the only voice between them.
“I don’t know if there’s a future after this war,” Bartlett said finally. “Not for me. Not for Lizzie. Not for us. But I don’t want the past to go to waste because the present is broken.”
Redmond Downs stood and stretched. He looked again at the scroll in his hand. “We won’t fix the world here today, Jimmy. But maybe we didn’t meet to fix anything.”
Bartlett smiled and said, “Maybe we just came to remember.”
They shook hands. Each hoped it wasn’t for the last time.
As they turned to mount their horses, Downs stopped and glanced back. “Are you going to build that bridge you drew?”
Bartlett gave a faint smile. “I believe I just did.”
They rode away in opposite directions; the drawing of the bridge safely folded between memory and war.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
My story takes place in May of 1863, shortly after the Battle of Chancellorsville.
- A Bridge To Cross - August 16, 2025
- Time Traveler - February 9, 2025
- Interview Q&A With Ernie Stricsek - October 17, 2024
