Ira Whelan's False Hope

The rain fell down in frigid sheets. Ira Whelan stood alone on the gelid deck that was once the Petersburg train station. Now all that remained of the once bustling establishment was the foundation of a prodigious building, and the sooty frozen planks that lay under him. It was winter in West Virginia, and it was the first one after the war’s end. If Ira would’ve had shoes, perhaps the cold weather wouldn’t have bothered him so considerably. However, he was forced to be content at feeling tiny fractiles of cloudy ice and snow drift between his toes. The dark-colored ice was everywhere, staining the whole mountainside an intense ebony. It drifted from town to town, emerging from homes that had once stood tall and erect, but had hastily been

The young men with the confidence of a pack of lions marched by, singing gay songs of the lovers that were waiting for their return. Ira shuddered at the thought that almost none of the men would walk this path again. Most would forever lay in a shallow, unmarked grave along the roadside, with families who were persistently waiting for their return. Ira was oblivious of the fact that he, too had a false hope. It was a false hope that when he were to return to the modish house that he had for so long called his home, it would be perfectly erect. There was no doubt in his mind that his family would be vigorously and exuberantly awaiting him when he returned to the large plantation. Like most soldiers who were returning from hell on earth, he could not perceive that the Yankees could hand him worse luck than he already had experienced. He also could not envision that any southern man or woman, of any color, would refuse to do any type of amiable service to a fellow member of the lost Cause. With this aspiration of the warm bed and meal that Ira dreamed was awaiting him, he knocked on the dismal colored door and waited for the occupant to acknowledge him. It was over five minutes and three more raps on the door before the inhabitant of the self-effacing home greeted

Unfortunately, the poor man died suddenly of a heart attack. I suppose after he discovered that after the Yankees took over the rails he’d be out of work, he couldn’t bear the thought of it. So until an unfortunate member of his family comes to take it off my hands, I am the sole inhabitant.”
“You are a squatter?” Ira cried. He had grown up on the principle that squatting was never accepted. Even as he was starving and shelterless, he felt a pang of guilt that he, too was now squatting in another man’s home. This is all wrong, something in the back of his mind called. However, everything in his life was currently wrong, and he chose to ignore it.
Uninvited, he sat down on an empty barrel that was, in fact, somewhat sturdy. His mouth watered unintentionally at the smell of the strong homemade whiskey that lay under him, and he wondered if the man had made it illegally. Almost if he could read Ira’s thoughts, the man poured some into a small metal cup and offered it. Ira took it swiftly.
“Where are you headed, boy?” He sat down across from the barrel he was seated on and drank from his cup slowly.
“About eight more miles.”
“Which