“Rising Scholars” is a column of Shadowlands Dispatch that features the work of talented high school and college students seeking to capture the good, the true, and the beautiful through the creative arts. Today, we are thrilled to share “The Confederate’s Violin Case” by Lauren Cole, a high school student at Libertas Classical Academy in Magnolia, Texas.

A young boy sat on a fence playing a violin. His dirt-crusted feet dangled off the edge as he melodically fiddled the instrument. The midday sun beat down on the top of his brown curls, yet his fingers never missed a beat. The maple-red violin, a gift from his mother, was his only treasure. Every afternoon, the boy sat on the fence and played till his fingers grew numb.

“Will,” his father shouted from the house, breaking the spell, “why don’t you quit that already!” For William, his father’s persistent dislike seemed to drift off with the wind, along with his melody.

“Just five more minutes,” William replied as he continued to play.

Fuming at his dismissal, his father rushed to the fence and yanked the violin out of his hands. “It’s ‘bout time you quit wasting your time like this, young man. You oughta grow up by now and start focusing on the farm.”

“Papa please,” William begged. Dejection covered his face at the thought of parting with his beloved possession. Longing and hope laced his voice as he pleaded, “Just a little longer.”

“You come inside, and I don’t wanna see this sissy violin again.” His father stormed back into the house, discarding the instrument carelessly on the grass.

William sat for a moment before picking it up again. He played a few quiet melodies, put his violin back in the case, and ran home, leaving his final notes to linger in the air.

“This is just great, Will! The war between the States has begun.” His father’s enthusiasm seemed peculiar to William, no longer a young boy in age but still at heart.

Pacing around the kitchen, his father divulged, “They need soldiers. You ought to march down to that old fellow they made commander and demand to join the South. I know you’re only 16, but if you fib a little on your age, they might just let you in. Just think, you’ll finally get over that violin of yours.”

Protesting didn’t sway his father in the slightest. The peace and tranquility of a blissful farm life seemed to dwindle in front of William’s eyes. But as the image of grassy fields faded, a more pressing picture replaced it. He recalled moments as a young boy of witnessing his father’s prideful smile when he grew his first crops or killed a deer. It was rare these days for William to see anything but embarrassment and reproach from his only parent. However, that smile reappeared at the mention of the army.

“I’ll enlist, “ Will said. “But you gotta let me take my violin with me.” He spied a bizarre mixture of anger, curiosity, and bewilderment on his father’s face. “I’ll hide my shotgun inside the case, Pa. It’ll work, I promise!”

“Foolish boy,” his father muttered, shaking his head. But William could have sworn he saw a glint of approval.

Once William created a pocket for his shotgun in the violin case, he traveled into town. Carrying only a duffle bag and his violin, William arrived covered in dust from the road. He lined up with the other volunteers hoping to join the Confederate Army. As soon as he enlisted, he nervously approached the rotund, elderly commander, just as his father instructed. “I’m William Thomson, sir. I wanted to thank you for letting a farmer like me be a part of your legion.”

“Don’t thank me just yet, son. You got a lot of work ahead of you,” the commander replied. He was about to walk away before glancing down and seeing the violin case clutched in William’s hands. “Why you got an instrument with you, boy? You gonna sing the enemy to death?” He and the men around him cackled.

“You don’t need a lullaby to sleep, do you?” another man chimed in.

William, fighting off a blush, forced a laugh along with them. “No, sir,” William replied. “This case hides my favorite shotgun. Didn’t want it to be stolen on the road or any of that sort. I thought I needed a little extra weight with the violin and all to be convincing.”

No less than a day had passed before William was sent with a scouting party to search for Union soldiers. As they traveled across an unfrequented road near the border, the violin case that carried his only weapon grew heavy in William’s hand. The sun had already set, and only a single torch lit their path. Before he could suggest they head back to the base, a group of bandits surrounded the men. Slurred shouts permeated the quiet night as the soldiers crammed closer together. It was not long until someone threw the first punch, although William did not know who. Bags flung across the dark street. Fists flew through the air. Dirt clouded the sky. William stood by helplessly.

With a racing heartbeat and labored breath, William glanced to the right. The young man beside him fought with one of the thieves over a bag. His friend struggled for his life, yet he only thought of one person: his father. Rushed with panic and adrenaline, William remembered the shotgun hidden in the violin case.

Bang.

Everything felt slow.

William stared at the gun shaking in his hands, unable to look at the body before him. His gaze rested on the violin case now blackened with the dirt from his stained palms. Every head turned to see the thief dead in the street; then, their gazes moved to William. As shouts commanded the thieves to leave, William defended himself: “I wasn’t gonna let them disrespect us like that, ya know? Try to steal from us. What if they had been the ones to hurt us?” But the real plea was to his own mind—a plea to justify the bang, to calm the hand that held the gun.

William and the other soldiers returned to town.

With the moon high above his head, William arrived at the barracks and stumbled into his room. His arm ached with pain after having carried the heavy case for hours. Perhaps it was the exhaustion or guilt or frustration that led William to remove the violin from its case and put it in the dim corner. He convinced himself it was only for a short time. He didn’t want to lose the violin. The instrument wouldn’t do him any good in war anyways.

For years, William carried the violin case with him into battle, into streets, and into homes. When the war had ended, he gathered his belongings, shoved the violin back in its case, and returned to the farm. Trodding down a dirt road with skin as thick as leather and calloused hands and feet, he saw a young boy. The child sat barefoot on a fence, playing a harmonica. The sun illuminated his face as the boy’s melody mixed with the chirp of the birds and the rustle of the trees. William rested his bag and violin case on the road. Opening the case, he saw that the maple-red violin’s strings were broken and its wood, chipped. The clean and fully loaded shotgun lay beside it. Glancing back up at the child on the fence, he wept. He picked up the violin and laid the bow across the once-white strings. But he could not play.

He did not remember how.

There was no music.

- Lauren Cole is a homeschooled junior attending Libertas Classical Academy in Houston, Texas. She enjoys tutoring, running, and volunteering at her church.