by Charity Chapman
Seeing his friend and fellow soldier, Robert Jacobson, struck in the chest by a soaring Union mini ball in the heat of battle at, there at Gettysburg, had left an impact on young George Strong would never leave his mind. The rain pelted his clothes and dripped down from the rim of his hat, as his feet scuffed across the damp green grass. A dozen white tents in his camp were left in the distant background with the stretch of lush trees and the towering twin round tops in the background. He knew the risks of leaving, but had convinced himself that he had just seen too much tragedy to be able to go on another day with uncertainty about his own life.
As he now crossed by a pond, whose waters reflected the grayish white of the dreary sky, he observed splash after tiny splash, his mind soon wandering to the last time he had truly seen Robert at ease. It had been the day before, when he'd seen him being praised by General Lee for the kind speech he had shared about the late great Stonewall Jackson. He then recalled memories of the times before the war, during the months of grueling training that the two of them had endured while in the Virginia Military Institute. Not all the training in the world could have prepared them for what had came next though, when they departed for Harper's Ferry in the western half of the state, where a civil rights extremist named John Brown had invaded the peaceful town to raid it's arsenal of weapons. He remembered how Robert had said that he was like the courageous big brother that he had never had but had always wanted, when the two of them had been standing with other soldiers, outside of the building that Brown had hid in. This particular memory had been one that had eluded his mind forever, and he thought it sad that it had taken the emotional strain of the loss of his friend for it to return, but then he asked himself in his mind, '...What would he think of me if he knew I was giving up?'
Hours later, in the rising chaos that was Pickett's charge, a young Confederate rushed bravely ahead of the other boys in gray, the strong determination in his face unable to be mistaken as he waved his hat high in the air, his own proud rebel yell joining in with the others and in his other hand, was a small gun. The young man was George Strong and the gun was the one Robert had been armed with, which he had taken with him so he would never forget the wonderful friend that God had blessed him with.
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