Oh, Brother Where Are Thou or the Art of Love and War (by faust)

Homo Homini Lupus

“Cemetery Hill, July 1st

“My dear Juliet…”

The small camp fire gave only a little light, and Adam had to sit in an awkward position to prevent a shadow being created on the paper by his writing hand. He knew he should be resting, should be building up strength for the next day, but he also knew that sleep was likely to elude him, and that even if not his sleep would not bring any rest at all. The only thing that would give him some sort of relaxation was, indeed, this letter. A letter that would never be sent, just as all those other letters he had written never had been sent. He had carried them with him for a day or two, then thrown them into the campfire and watched how they slowly turned into ashes.

Those letters were…not really letters. He had seen many men writing journals—Leo did it, too, nearly every night—but Adam didn’t find a journal to be what he needed. The things he needed to shape into words and sentences were not things he wanted to keep. Not things he wanted to store somewhere to be able to come back one day and read them. What for? To remember? As if a man could forget those things. As if a man would not, on every single day of his life, wish, hope, and pray to forget those things and never have to recall any of them. Juliet of all people would understand the urge to write—and the need to keep it secret.

He smiled. Juliet would also insist that he’d send her the letters; she would read them and never say a word if he didn’t ask for one. She would listen if he felt the urge to talk, and she would understand—would understand also if he never talked.

Of course, he would never actually burden her with…with this. But he would pretend he did because telling her put things into perspective, gave him a distance he desperately needed to make sense of what happened to him, of what happened with him.

He crossed out the first words and started anew.

“My beloved Juliet,

Lupus est homo homini; that is the essence of today’s events: man is a wolf to man. And I, dearest, am not sure anymore if I am man or wolf.

Early this morning, we were ordered to march to Gettysburg to reinforce General Reynolds’ troops which were outnumbered by Confederate forces. We arrived there around noon and were sent north to…”

It had been a hot march. The sun had burnt down on them relentlessly, making them short-breathed and tired even before they’d reached their destination. Their knapsacks had become heavier by the minute, the straps cutting deep into aching shoulders. Goodness, Adam wasn’t unaccustomed to working in heat, but his heavy woolen jacket had given him the feeling of being cooked alive in a custom-made potbelly stove.

Upon arriving at Gettysburg, news had spread that Reynolds had been killed in action and that now General Howard was commanding officer of all present Union forces. Subsequently, Major General Schurz had been appointed temporary commander of the XI Corps, and Adam’s division put under command of Brigade General Schimmelpfennig, a man Adam couldn’t really assess. While, in the past weeks, he had come to know and appreciate Schurz as a thoughtful leader who stayed on top of things, had a knack for tactics and a keen perception for the enemy’s next move, he knew nearly nothing about Schimmelpfennig, only that the man was a decided supporter of nativism. He was an unknown quantity to Adam—and therefore something that made him uneasy.

All too soon, Adam’s bad feelings about this change in command would prove right.

“We took position in the north of town, below Oak Hill, in a terrain of farmland, featureless and plain. It wasn’t easy to defend in the first place, and soon we found ourselves attacked from two sides, heavily outnumbered and trapped in artillery crossfire, unable to find cover. A slaughterhouse, a veritable slaughterhouse. The noise—”

The noise. Adam stopped writing and ran his hand over his face, not even noticing how the edge of the pen ripped a long scrape into his skin. He stared into the low fire next to him, watched the sparks dance merrily and listened to the crackling embers’ gentle song.

The noise had been the worst. The noise: artillery, gunfire, and screams. Cannons, rifles, men.

Gunfire and screams. Shots from thousands of barrels, shouts from thousands of lungs, the overlying deep, dark thunder of bombardment—all that had accumulated into one single roar: a cacophony of dread.

“It was a slaughterhouse—and a madhouse. The air was thick with noise and smoke; it wasn’t easy to retain orientation. Half of the time I didn’t know where exactly I was or where to head—not realizing that there hardly was a way to go. Man after man fell, comrade, friend, foe…sometimes you couldn’t even discern which. Does it make a difference at all?

“They say it lasted barely an hour, but it surely didn’t feel so. It was a lifetime, no less. An eternity. As if my very existence consisted solely of this one roaring, smoking rage.”

Rage. Rage. Adam shuddered. He pulled at the edges of the blanket slung around his shoulder to close them over his chest. He snorted. No matter how many blankets he wrapped around himself, no matter how close he huddled to the fire, he couldn’t rid himself of the chill that had taken residence in his body, that made his hands ice cold and his shoulders shake from fatigue.

Rage. He closed his eyes and nodded to himself. Rage, that was it. The one thing that had taken him by surprise. He had felt rage during the battle, rage—and nothing else. Not excitement (even though there had been a certain element of anxiety among the corps before the battle had begun, or rather anticipation, a tense commotion not unlike the nervous hoof stomping of a race horse seconds before the start); not fear (despite the fact that he’d been sure he would not survive the day); not sorrow (that came later)—none of that, only rage.

He snorted. Whom was he kidding? His rage had been fed by excitement, fear, and sorrow, had been kindled by them.

He didn’t remember much from the battle, just smoke and noise, and rage. He had tried to keep track of his men in the beginning, but, of course, in the general mayhem he’d lost them soon enough. He had fired his gun, most of the time not even checking if he’d hit his target—there was always another man in grey leveling a rifle on him. A gun pointing in his direction was the only sure indicator that a soldier was indeed a foe, though. The Confederates weren’t as well equipped as the Union soldiers; sometimes they didn’t even have a uniform or wore one they had captured from a Federal.

Once he had used his bayonet. He hoped he would never have to do it again. The man he had stabbed had fallen down on his knees, only an arm’s length from Adam. His eyes wide in surprise, he hadn’t even clutched his blood-spilling chest; and then his mouth had curled into a small sad smile before he’d fallen face first into the dry topsoil. “Why?” he had seemed to ask, and Adam still didn’t know an answer to that.

“We were already falling back toward Gettysburg, when we were ordered to retreat through the town, thus bringing the fight into it. Smaller skirmishes everywhere, on the street between the houses, in gardens and yards. Some, I’m ashamed to say, sought refuge in houses, basements, anything with a fence to hide behind it.”

He had seen General Schimmelpfennig climbing a fence—but the general hadn’t made it to Cemetery Hill, so apparently his cowardice hadn’t served him at all and he had been killed or captured anyway.

Seeing the general setting such a bad example had enraged Adam even more, and he had started looking into the yards and back gardens, rousting men who had thought their fight was over—surely not making too many friends with that.

And then he had found Karl and Fritz Boettcher.

Hidden in the sheltered doorway of a house, little Fritz was sitting on the stairs, his brother settled between his legs on a step below him, the giant’s back resting on Fritz’s chest. Fritz stared at Adam, looking not a bit like the notorious mischief maker but like a frightened child.

“He’s too heavy, I can’t drag him anymore,” Fritz whispered.

Adam crouched down. The biggest part of Karl’s left arm was missing and his coat was a bloody mess, but the hole in his abdomen and the stump of his arm weren’t pumping out new blood. Even though he knew the result already, Adam searched for a pulse at the big man’s throat.

“He’s gone,” he said softly. “You don’t have to carry him anymore.”

“No, he can’t…he cannot, cannot be—” Fritz choked. He patted his brother’s pale cheek, rattled his shoulders. “Karl?”

“Fritz, he’s dead. And we have to leave. We have to go. Now.”

Fritz looked up, bewildered. “But you don’t understand: he…he’s my brother.”

“I know. I know it’s hard, but you have to—”

“And he’s dead.”

“Yes.”

Fritz shook his head. “He wasn’t supposed to die.”

“Fritz…we have to go.”

“No. I won’t leave Karl here.”

Adam sighed. “I know how you feel, really, but if you stay here then you are a deserter. You don’t want to be a deserter, do you, Fritz?”

The boy—Lord, he was a boy, a boy just like Joe, maybe even younger—winced but didn’t show the slightest inclination to move.

Adam sighed again. Joe, he thought, and then he adopted his big brother voice. “Go ahead,” he said. “Be a deserter. Be a coward. I’m sure your brother, wherever he might be now, will enjoy it.”

Fritz swallowed visibly. “I don’t…I’m not a coward,” he said defiantly. “But I can’t leave Karl here where he won’t get a proper burial.”

“Fritz, think! We can’t carry him, he’s too heavy. And he has got a coin, hasn’t he?” Adam fumbled at Karl’s coat. “He showed it to me, said I should get one, too.” He found the small medal with Karl’s name and corps and carefully laid it on top of the coat. “Look, whoever lives in this house will find him and see the coin. They will report his death and he will get a proper burial.”

“And a headstone.”

“And a headstone with his name on it, yes. Now let’s go!”

Adam didn’t know how they had made it to Cemetery Hill; somehow it felt as if he’d dragged Fritz with him the entire way. He also had no recollection of when the enemy fire had finally died down; the only thing he remembered was that eventually someone had stopped him, had held him until his struggle to get free had subsided, all the time yelling in his ear, “You’re safe, comrade, you’re safe!”

“Beloved, I’m safe now. For tonight, I’m safe. There’s an exhausted silence hanging over the camp. So many are missing. Leo…I haven’t seen Leo tonight. Nearly half of the corps has fallen or was captured—I will force myself to hope Leo is among the latter.

General Hancock arrived in the afternoon and has taken command over the forces. General Meade is expected later tonight, as are more Confederate troops. This is far from over, and I presume the worst is yet to come.

God help us.”

__________
What a cruel thing is war: to separate and destroy families and friends,
and mar the purest joys and happiness God has granted us in this world;
to fill our hearts with hatred instead of love for our neighbors,
and to devastate the fair face of this beautiful world. ~Robert E. Lee

Chapter 7

The Harvest of Death

“He’s a goner, Maxine. Don’t waste your time on a lost case when there are so many others here who still have a chance.”

Of course, Flora was right. But… “He’s so handsome.” Maxine pursed her lips. That was in no way a professional approach. In fact, it was highly unprofessional and exactly what Sister Mary Frances had cautioned her against all those years ago when she’d first started education at the nursing school.

The patient’s unnatural sleep became restless—again. He thrashed around on the narrow cot, mumbling unintelligible words and furrowing his dark brows while he restlessly turned his head from one side to the other.

Maxine put restraining hands on the soldier’s chest, knowing from the experience of the last few days that human contact was the only thing that would bring the man back into a more peaceful slumber.

“Maxine.”

“I…really, I can’t let him alone—not like this, not when…not now.”

Flora gave her a pitiful look, then sighed. “All right, have your way. But if I need you to help me care for a living soul—”

“He is a living soul.”

“Barely.” Flora shook her head and then turned and walked away, briskly, as if caring for a dying man was a major affront to…well, whomever. The living, maybe. Lord, when had she become a cynic?

“Mhmm…” The man’s moans got louder, and his hand went down to where his right leg had been before the spreading infection had forced the doctors to amputate it. Very often, it took the patients days to realise that an amputated limb had actually gone; and even when they were fully aware of its absence, it continued hurting them. It was a small blessing that this particular patient most probably would never register what he’d lost.

Maxine rubbed small circles on the man’s chest, something that always made him calm down. She wondered if his wife had used to do the same thing. “Shh,” she cooed, casting a quick glance around. “Shh, Adam, it’s all right. You’re safe here.”

At least he had a name. Many soldiers were unidentifiable. Some had small coins with their names engraved tucked in their pockets or hanging on a chain around their necks, some were lucid enough to tell their names; but far too many were brought in unconscious and without anything on them that said who they were. Adam had been one of those senseless men and, blessedly, had remained so throughout the whole ordeal he’d undergone. But he’d carried a letter in his pocket, addressed to “Mrs. Juliet Cartwright” and signed “Adam,” so they knew not only his name but also that he was married.

Maxine knew that many soldiers were married, that most had families at home, parents, siblings, wives, children; but knowing Adam’s wife’s name made it even more real, made the fear and desperation that woman must feel waiting for her husband to return tangible and haunting. And how devastating it would be for her when she eventually got the news that would shatter all her hopes.

And there was no doubt that that woman’s hopes would be shattered. Sweat drops on Adam’s forehead told Maxine that his fever was spiking again, and she was sure that his debilitated body wouldn’t stand another attack. To offer what little comfort there was, she wetted a cloth and wiped the sweat from his brow, cooing to him as if to a little child, what seemed to have become her mantra. “Shh, Adam, it’s all right.”

This time, it evoked a reaction. To Maxine’s utmost surprise, the man’s upper body shot up. His eyes flew open, and he stared at her, frantically, uttering his first discernible words, “I…no…mhmm…Ju—Ju—Ju—” And then all strength seemed to leave him, and he fell back, panting heavily.

“I know,” Maxine said. “I know, Adam. Don’t speak, save your strength.”

“No…Ju…” He broke off again.

“Shh, I understand. I’ll tell her.” And she would. She could acquire her address, couldn’t she? She would write his wife a letter, when all this was over and she would be able to put it into words, this desperation that made a man use his last breath to whisper his wife’s name.

His last breath? She bent over him. “Adam?”

He was silent. No more thrashing, no more moaning, no more head throwing. His handsome face looked tranquil. The pained crease over his brows gone; his features relaxed, his eyes focused on a world beyond comprehension. He was at peace.

Maxine swallowed a sob. Tenderly, she brushed over his eyes, closing the lids. “Farewell,” she whispered, and then she drew the thin blanket over his face.

“Maxine, quick!” The yell came from the other side of the hospital tent, and Maxine hurried to where her help was needed for fixing a man who actually had a chance to live.

Two thousand or so miles away, Juliet Cartwright woke from yet another dream about Adam telling her, in fluent German, that he did love her, but that she simply had to understand that there was a greater good that was more important than personal happiness.

“That’s bedlam, Adam,” she had answered, “complete moonshine.”

But just as Adam cocked his head and pursed his lips, and she squared her shoulders and lifted her right eyebrow in preparation for their habitual battle of wits, the desperate cries of little Henry penetrated the scene, and she left the place with a last regretful glance at Adam, who suddenly looked very serious and whispered, “I love you, Juliet.”

She wondered fleetingly why dream-Adam said those words real life-Adam never found necessary to utter, but she soon was distracted by more urgent matters, like changing a wet diaper and feeding a hungry mouth.

At the age of five months, Henry seemed to need less and less sleep, and so he didn’t take it too kindly when Juliet tried to put him back into his bed. He was dry and fed, and apparently he thought now it was time for entertainment—a view Juliet wasn’t inclined to share. Henry’s previous night had been a seemingly never-ending sequence of sleep and wake ’n’ wail, sleep and wake ’n’ wail; and the intervals between Henry’s awakenings had become shorter and shorter as the night had drawn out. Consequently, neither of them had gotten nearly as much sleep as Doctor Martin had pronounced healthy and normal. And now it was five in the morning, and Henry had decided that the night was over. How he could be as wide awake as he was now, was beyond Juliet—she certainly was dead on her feet and would have given a kingdom for an hour more of sleep. Alas, she didn’t have a kingdom to put into the bargain, and Henry obviously wasn’t interested in any commerce anyway: he made his discontent with his unwilling mother loudly known.

Babies, Juliet thought not for the first time, were merciless. She sighed. “Oh, all right,” she gave up, scooping Henry out of his bed. “You win.”

And so the family found a very tired-looking Juliet, uncharacteristically slumped in her seat, when they came down into the great room for breakfast that morning.

Henry was lying on his back on the settee in front of her playing with his naked feet. His toes seemed to hold a particular fascination for him, and apparently there was nothing more fulfilling in his world than to stuff them into his wet, toothless mouth and suck on them. As soon as he spotted his uncles, however, Henry stopped abusing his feet as pacifiers. He made a gurgling sound, flailed his little arms enthusiastically, and greeted his two favourite entertainers with a big, open-mouthed smile. Said entertainers returned his welcome by grinning like two lunatics, and, abandoning every thought of breakfast, crouched down in the narrow space between the settee and the coffee table.

Juliet, happy to be relieved of duty, slid aside making room for the uncle brigade. She was joined by her father-in-law, who cast a concerned glance on her before he turned his attention to Henry’s morning merriment.

“Lookee who’s awake already,” Hoss said in his funniest-uncle-of-the-world voice and tickled Henry’s belly until the baby squealed in delight. “Dootsie, dootsie, dootsie,” he then added genially.

Henry stopped squealing and frowned at his uncle.

Hoss laughed. “Are ya doin’ an Adam on us again, little rascal?”

“Of course, he is,” Joe chimed in. “He’s grown out of baby talk weeks ago. I’ve told you, he’s the smartest baby ever born.”

Henry grinned at Joe, and started to wiggle his arms and kick his legs rather energetically.

Joe picked a silver rattle up from the table and held it above Henry’s face, just in reach of his arms. The boy’s gaze focused on the rattle, his grin gave way for a look of utmost concentration, and then came back instantly as he snatched the toy out of Joe’s hand. Henry shook the rattle enthusiastically for a while until he stopped to try and stuff the elephant-shaped top into his mouth.

Both his uncles went forward to rescue the poor silver animal, and Henry was instantly distracted. With a quick motion he delivered a surprisingly well-aimed whack at Hoss’s head.

Joe exploded with laughter.

And earned a whack at his head for that.

Hoss wisely held his burst of laughter back, but to no avail. Henry quite obviously recognised a sophisticated game when he saw one, and kept on banging his rattle on heads right and left. From his gurgling giggle it was easy to discern that he had quite a pleasant time, and the simple fact that neither Joe nor Hoss shrank back an inch said that the pleasure was mutual.

“You two are lunatics,” Juliet mumbled when she moved between her brothers-in-law to see what all the giggling and cackling was about and found them being happily mishandled by her baby son.

Henry stopped his actions immediately, and smiled, as impossible as it seemed, even wider when he saw his mother.

“What, was that what you were pining for tonight? A scuffle with your uncles?” She pinched the baby’s nose fondly, and, leaning down, whispered conspiratorially, “Your grandfather doesn’t tolerate scuffling in the house, though.”

Henry listened intently, then puckered his lips and aimed the rattle at her.

Juliet raised an eyebrow. “You might want to think about it, Henry.”

Henry considered his mother, still with those puckered lips that made everyone think of Adam. And then his mouth melted into that fat smile that was entirely his, and he smacked the silver elephant on Joe’s forehead.

“Oh, yeah, yer right, Joe: that little rascal is the smartest baby ever!”

Hoss’s laughter nearly drowned out Ben’s low words, but Juliet heard them anyway. “Smart enough to keep his mother on her toes day and night.”

“Excuse me?”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop at least ten degrees.

Ben looked caught. He seemed to shrink a bit under his daughter-in-law’s glare—or maybe it just looked so, because Juliet straightened her back and lifted her chin, and with that she seemed to grow an inch or two.

“I don’t mean to criticise you, Juliet, but maybe some advice from an experienced—”

Some might think you can’t interrupt someone by drawing a breath, but Juliet proved that it was, indeed, possible. Never in the history of respiration had a breath carried more laboriously suppressed annoyance than the one Juliet heaved before she said, “I thank you for your consideration, but I am adequately supplied with all needful information.”

Ben squared his shoulders. “Juliet, dear, just let me share what I learnt from bringing up three sons. You are exhausted, and you needn’t be. Your health isn’t secondary to Henry’s wellbeing. But as long as you jump into action at every little sound Henry makes, he will never learn to sleep through the night.”

“So what do you think I should do? Let him cry?”

“Well, yes. If you know he’s fed and…otherwise taken care of, then—”

“Mrs. Beeton is quite adamant that one should not do such a thing. It would disturb the child who has no other way to communicate than crying.”

“Mrs. Beeton?”

Juliet tilted her head. “Mrs. Beeton, yes. She wrote in her book—”*

“You depend on a book?”

“I don’t see anything wrong with that.”

“Juliet, not everything can be learned from a book. For some things you have to rely on experience. Raising children isn’t like baking a cake.”

“Oh, now is it not.”

“All I’m saying is—”

“That I should let my child cry.”

“From time to time, yes.”

“And you tell me that from your experience?”

If Ben had been more observant, he would have been alerted by her sudden change of tone. Adam would by now have prepared an honourable retreat, but, of course, Ben was less experienced in arguing with Juliet. Until now, he had carefully refrained from it; and had Juliet not become as edgy as she had over the last few weeks, she might even have realised that his present bold foray originated solely from honest concern.

Juliet’s tone wasn’t scandalised anymore or indignant, it was…warning and sly at the same time.

“Well, yes. If I had—”

“So that’s what you did to Adam.” A statement, and a sentence.

Ben blinked.

“And you wonder why he’s so reluctant to admit it when he’s not feeling well?” She rose, as did the volume of her voice. “When he has learnt from early on that no one cares for his needs anyway?”

She looked sick; maybe that was why Ben let her get away with it. Or maybe she’d hit too close to home.

Whichever it was, it still hung in the air of the great room when after an awkward breakfast Ben sat down at his desk, the sleeping infant in his bassinet close by, and Juliet excused herself rather stiffly to go outside for a desperately needed breath of fresh air. Breakfast hadn’t seemed to agree much with her today.

Joe was glad that he had had a perfect excuse to flee the uncomfortable atmosphere in the house as soon as the morning meal was over. Pa had just signed a contract with the army involving four dozen sturdy horses, all well broken; and since Adam wasn’t at home, most of the breaking lasted on Joe. He’d announced that he wanted to get a head start on it this morning, and had left the breakfast table quickly, while his sister-in-law was still sipping at the cup of tea that had been the only nourishment she’d seemed to actually enjoy that morning.

He stood in the dim barn revelling in its calm quiet while he fastened the chaps on his hips, then wiggled the leather until everything sat perfectly. He wondered what was eating at Juliet. She hadn’t been that erratic and moody since…well, at least since Henry had been born. But then Adam had left and… Well, he guessed that answered the question. He left the barn, thinking that it might help if he talked to her. Their little chat after she’d bailed him out of jail a few weeks ago had been a real revelation, and maybe he could build on that.

He got his chance earlier than expected, as he found Juliet standing on the front porch, white-faced and breathing heavily, holding on to one of the posts for dear life. It went without saying that she denied anything was wrong but insisted that she was fine, very fine. Briefly Joe asked himself if perhaps Juliet had been left crying too many times when she’d been a baby, too, but very fortunately, he had just enough self-restraint to suppress the impending grin.

“Look, Juliet,” he started, boldly taking her hand. Which she didn’t pull back. “Pa means well. I know you know that, too. You’re tired, and he wants to make things easier for you. We all want to make things easier for you, if you’d just let us. Maybe Hoss and I can…well, we can’t do the things you do…” Lord, what had he gotten himself into, Joe thought as he felt his face flush. At least his embarrassment brought a small smile onto Juliet’s face. “I mean, we could look after him when he’s awake and wants to play, and then you could sleep for a spell, and, who knows, maybe you can even start writing again if we get him off your hands every now and then.”

“You want to look after Henry so I can write?”

“Yes, I’d love to. I know how much you’re pining to get back to your desk and deliver a broadside against…well, anyone.”

She tilted her head and studied his face for a moment, then her small smile reached her eyes. “You know that I…. You know that.” She squeezed his hand, nodding more to herself than to him. “Joseph, what do you—”

“Trying to steal yer brother’s wife again, Cartwright?”

Their heads shot around towards the man who’d so rudely interrupted them.

Letting go of Joe’s hand as if was wrong to hold it, Juliet asked, “Who is that, Joe?”

“Colston,” Joe spat. “Billy-Bob Colston.”

“The man you walloped?”

“The man whose jaw he nearly broke, ma’am,” Billy-Bob offered, slightly slurred. He fumbled at his gun belt.

Seeing Billy-Bob’s hand hovering over his Colt, Joe became painfully aware that he was unarmed. You don’t put a gun belt on when you want to break a horse. He pushed Juliet to the right and carefully, never taking his eyes from Billy-Bob, moved to the left, step by step putting more distance between him and his sister-in-law, thus getting her out of the line of fire.

“Billy-Bob, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“I don’t care whatcha meant to or not, Carwright. All I care for is that I ain’t eaten nothin’ solid in weeks, and that’s fer sure botherin’ me.”

Joe cringed. Really, he did understand Colton’s misery. “Tell you what, Billy-Bob, I’ll get Hop Sing to fix something real nice for you, something that makes you forget it’s stew and—”

“I don’t want no danged stew.”

“What is it then that you want, Mr. Colston?” Juliet’s words came unexpected, her clipped accent in sharp contrast to Colston’s drawl.

Billy-Bob blinked. He looked from Joe to Juliet and back. Slowly, with an unsteady hand, he produced his weapon.

“Now wait a minute, Billy-Bob—”

“No, you waita minute.” Shakily he aimed the weapon at Joe. “You think you get away with smashin’ ma jaw, jest because yer a Cartwright, but I’ll teacha.”

“I do think we will find an adult way to handle this, Mr. Colston,” Juliet said taking a step forward that, to Joe’s utmost horror, brought her back into the line of fire. “And I assure you we won’t need any arms for that.”

Before Joe could issue a warning, Juliet made another step up to Billy-Bob and pointed at his gun—a gesture that could easily be misunderstood as reaching for it, especially by a man as nervous as Billy-Bob Colston.

Sensing Billy-Bob’s tiny movement more than he actually saw it, Joe instantly went into action. He darted towards Juliet and tackled her to the ground, covering her body with his even before the echo of the shot had died down. He’d felt the impact of the bullet while still in motion, somewhere in his lower back, but the pain reached his consciousness only after a short, oddly disconnected moment of disorientation. What horrified him more than being hit, however, was the fact that his left hand had somehow come to rest on Juliet’s breast. His last thought before the world shut down around him was that neither she nor Adam would ever forgive him that.

__________
My dear, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battle field, it will whisper your name. ~ Major Sullivan Ballou, in a letter to his wife (1861)

*****

Chapter 8

Out, Out Brief Candle

Ben smoothed the blanket covering his youngest son’s body for the umpteenth time. As much as he wished otherwise, there was nothing more he could do. Nothing.

He had been a father for…how long? Thirty three years now, and this was the worst part of it: the times when you just had to sit and wait, sit and watch, sit and do absolutely nothing.

He smoothed the blanket again, pulled it higher on Joe’s chest. Maybe the blanket gave some comfort—or maybe not. He pulled it back down. Joe looked hot, which—according to the doctor and his own far too considerable experience in dealing with serious injuries—was to be expected. Even though the bullet had miraculously missed any vital organs, it had done devastating damage on its way through Joe’s body. The immense blood loss had made him cold with shock at first and then started a fever that rose slowly and steadily as the day went on.

He took the wet cloth from Joe’s forehead, soaked it in the basin on the nightstand, drained it carefully and placed it back. Well, there was something he could do, after all. As little as it was, as useless as it seemed, given the heat that radiated from his sick boy. He was rewarded with a low moan and an oh-so-small movement that pressed Joe’s face just so into his father’s touch. Ben allowed his hand to linger on the wet cloth for a moment, then let it slide down along Joe’s burning cheek.

“Shh,” he cooed. “It’s going to be all right. You are going to be all right.”

There was no further reaction, but for once Ben was resigned to it. Joe needed to rest, the doctor had said, needed to build up strength—and blood. Strength first, by sleeping, then blood, by…Ben had forgotten. Beef broth, most probably, or any other fluids, as usual.

Gingerly, he removed his hand from Joe’s face—let the boy sleep—and straightened his back. A sudden moment of vertigo took him by surprise, a feeling of nausea and complete weakness. Cradling his head in his hands, deliberately breathing in and out, it took him some time to get his body back under control. He needed to eat something. It was well into the afternoon, and he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast.

Breakfast. What an unpleasant affair that had been, with Joe and Hoss being so awkwardly silent and Juliet sporting a nearly violently restrained expression—and yet, in retrospect, he would gladly relive it again and again rather than go through the subsequent events one more time.

He leaned back into his chair taking a deep breath, just as he’d done when after breakfast he’d sat down at his desk. He’d found it difficult to concentrate on the contract lying before him. Hoss had felt the tension, too, had lingered in the great room, fiddling with his hat on the credenza first, then with the cushions on the settee, with a blanket on Adam’s blue chair, and finally with the lace on Henry’s Moses basket.

“She didn’t mean no harm, Pa,” he’d eventually started, but Ben had waved him off.

He knew that Juliet hadn’t meant to hurt him. She had just gone with the old proverb of offence being the best defence, and, in her impulsive way, had lashed out. Ben couldn’t help but chuckle. At times, his daughter-in-law displayed an astonishing resemblance to Joe, even though he was sure she would deny that with all her might.

It had hit him for the first time when Juliet had tried to placate him after Joe’d confessed she had to bail him out of jail. He’d sensed something was wrong even before he’d seen Joe’s injured hand when they’d come home from Virginia City. The way Joe’s head had hung, the way Juliet’s shoulders had been rigid beyond her usual upright carriage.

Joe had told his tale in a low voice, barely delivering more than the crucial facts. Ben had been livid: Joe should know better than starting bar brawls, and he had told his youngest that in unmistakable terms. Juliet had stood back, watching, listening; and only after Joe had retired, she’d spoken to Ben.

“Sometimes,” she’d said, and the unguarded misery in her eyes had told him she was not speaking solely about Joe, “sometimes your body does things your mind does not approve of. Sometimes you have no control…no resistance to…your emotions. Joe didn’t think. He just…felt, and did. He did wrong, there’s no mistaking, but he didn’t do it…willingly.”

“You’re not trying to tell me he’s not responsible for his actions, are you?”

“No, of course not. He is responsible, and he should have restrained himself, but…we all are human, Ben. And pain…hurt…makes you weak and more likely to lose control.”

There had been something in her eyes…and, oh, he had learnt to read her eyes, had learnt to catch the moment she let her shields down. Had learnt that the night they’d kept vigil over an injured Adam after his duel with Langford Poole, when he’d seen that endless love in her eyes—and the vulnerability that came with it.

This time, it was something akin to panic: fear mixed with hurt, and it had begged to come out.

“Is that what happened to you in San Francisco?” he had ventured, fully aware that Juliet most likely would stall again.

But she’d graced him with her trust. “I…I didn’t intend to—I would never do that, Ben. I’m not a coward; I wouldn’t steal myself away like that. I didn’t want to hurt myself. I wanted to…destroy, yes, destroy. I didn’t think, I just gave in to…misery…pain? I don’t know. I couldn’t stand seeing me alone in that mirror, and my hands…they just…” She’d looked down, slowly removed her white gloves, exposing her wrists, her lower arms. She’d traced the red scars with her fingers, nearly caressingly, then, suddenly, folded her arms over her chest. “I was in a frenzy, realising what I was doing only when it was too late already. There was blood and pain…and then I woke up in bed. Apparently Henry’s cries had alerted the chamber maid.”

It hadn’t been the first time he felt the desire just to take her in his arms, but the first time he’d given in to that urge. She’d surprised him by letting it happen, by burying her face in his shoulder. She hadn’t cried, not that he’d expected that from her anyway, but she’d done something far more haunting: she’d whispered, “He doesn’t even know what he’s doing to us. Why?” and then, even more subdued, “What have I done?”

Joe had been more explicit, later that night, when he’d finally come to Ben and spoken his mind. “Why doesn’t he care about us?” he’d said and then given Adam some less than flattering names. But all in all, it hadn’t differed too much from what Ben had heard from Juliet.

A soft sigh asked for Ben’s attention. He bent forward, and hovering over his sleeping boy tried to read some kind of growing awareness in his still face.

“Joe?”

“Let the boy rest, Ben,” he was startled by Paul Martin’s voice. “I told you he would sleep for a while. Better let him wake on his own account. He needs to rest.”

“To build up strength, I know. I just thought…” Ben turned around to face the doctor who’d entered the room unnoticed. He was met with a mug of coffee and a cheery smile.

“He’s going to be all right. It could have been much worse, but Joe’s a very lucky boy.” The doctor forced Ben’s hand around the mug. “Drink this, and then eat something.”

“I—”

“No, Ben, I mean it. We both know that you won’t sleep tonight, so have at least the sense to eat. Or soon you won’t be able to supervise your son’s each and every breath.” Paul patted his shoulder. “Relax, Ben. Keep Joe quiet, give him as much liquids as you can once he’s awake, and watch out for any signs of infection—that’s the one threat we have to be wary of.”

“He’s already running a fever.”

Paul checked Joe’s temperature with the back of his hand. “No, that’s just the aftermath of the shock and the advancing evening. If the fever isn’t down in the morning, then we can start being concerned, but we’ll cross that bridge only if we’ll get there.” He stretched his back, then clapped his hands decisively. “Well, I’ll better be on the go before it gets dark. No need to see me out, Ben, I know the way.”

The doctor was already out of the room, when he turned back and added, “Juliet should be all right in no time, too—in case you’ve wondered.”

He was gone before Ben could respond. Well, it might be better that way, since he didn’t even know whether to be outraged about Paul’s implied reprimand or ashamed for his tunnel view that had focused his attention solely on Joe.

Well, his focus had been slightly off from the moment he and Hoss had heard the shot. No, he hadn’t been able to concentrate even before that. He couldn’t focus on breakfast, he couldn’t focus on his desk work, couldn’t focus on Hoss’s attempt at consoling him. And then, while he’d still struggled to explain to Hoss—and himself—why he was hurt, yet not hurt by Juliet’s outburst, a shot and Juliet’s choked-off cry of terror and pain had brought them to their feet.

Ben would never comprehend why the first thing his eyes fell upon coming through the front door was Billy-Bob Colston, who stood next to the hitching rail, his face ghostly white, unspeakable horror in his bloodshot drinker’s eyes, his arms hanging limply at his side. Then the revolver that dangled in his slack hand slipped down and hit the ground with a soft thud. Billy-Bob flinched and stammered, “I ain’t…Lord, I didn’t meant ta…I didn’t…”, and his vaguely waving hand at last drew Ben’s attention to the messy heap at his feet.

They lay where Joe apparently had tackled Juliet, he atop her, both of them deadly still. There was blood, huge amounts of blood, more of it still pulsing out of a small hole in Joe’s lower side. It soaked his shirt, ran down his side in thick rivulets viciously glistening in the morning sun, formed large scarlet pools on Juliet’s light blue summer dress, flowed onto the ground below them, where it was received by the dry earth.

Hoss was busy carefully disentangling Joe from Juliet, mindful of his injury turning him over and to the side, thereby revealing the actual source of blood on Juliet’s dress: a much larger exit wound on his front.

“The doctor—get the doctor!” Ben bellowed to no one in particular, knowing that one of the ranch hands, who had hurried to the house from the nearby corral would be on his way to town in no time. They had brought down Billy-Bob already, but Ben didn’t really care. Questions, accusations, reparations, all that could wait. For now the only important thing was Joe.

Hoss had him in his arms then—and Ben was torn. He should see to his daughter-in-law. Make sure she was all right. But there was Joe and he was pale and shaking, and Lord, there was so much blood and his son, his son needed him…needed him…

“Give him to me,” he croaked, and Hoss obeyed.

As he’d carried his precious load up the stairs and into Joe’s bedroom, Ben had fleetingly thought that Juliet would be more comfortable with Hoss anyway.

He sighed. Yes, she most certainly had been more comfortable with Hoss, but still, he had the feeling he’d failed her. Would he have acted differently if they hadn’t had that silly argument earlier?

No, he wouldn’t. Joe had needed his help more.

But did he know that then?

Ben buried his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes with his palms.

It was completely useless to think about it any longer.

“Ben?”

Well, speak of the devil.

“I’m bringing stew.” Juliet stood in the doorframe with a tray of food, hesitant and shyly smiling, as if she were afraid to come in.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Liar.” She snorted, then her smile widened into something genuine and she stepped into the room and set the tray on Joe’s desk. “You must be starving.”

It was interesting to see how much easier Juliet could deal with defiance than with well-meant advice. But then again, how many people did he know who took well-meant advice gratefully? Especially when it was delivered unsolicited? Had he himself taken it gracefully when people offered unasked advice? Not always, no. Not when people had thought they knew better than he how to deal with his sons…oh, well. Apparently this was a problem older than the mountains. Of course, Juliet’s attack still wasn’t what Ben would have called a respectful correction, but his daughter-in-law wasn’t the most diplomatic person to begin with, and she surely wasn’t at her very best right now, with Adam gone, and Henry’s stressful nocturnal routine and her obvious indisposition.

“Here.” She handed him a plate. “Eat it, while it’s hot.”

The stew smelled delicious, and Ben belied his earlier words by digging into it with hearty appetite. He was already halfway through when he interrupted his meal to take a good look at Juliet.

She had changed her soiled dress, had cleaned herself up and apparently even done something with her hair. But her hands were shaking slightly, and her face was white, the sickly pallor more pronounced than in the morning. She looked decidedly unwell.

“Shouldn’t you rest?” Ben asked belatedly.

“I’m fine.”

Of course she was. She always was. Swaying on her feet she was, but she was fine.

“Sit.”

He must have taken her off-guard, or maybe she actually felt as faint as she looked; whatever the reason, she sat down on the edge of Joe’s bed—a tad too carefully for Ben’s liking.

“Were you injured?” he inquired.

“I—Why, I…”

“Were you?”

“Not really.” She pressed her lips together and looked…embarrassed.

“What does that mean: not really?” He reached for her hand. “What happened?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“Oh, thank you.”

“Juliet.”

She sighed. “The bullet that went through Joe somehow grazed my side. It’s nothing, really, just a scratch. It didn’t even need to be stitched. The…” She looked down and continued in a very small voice. “The whale bone must have deflected it.” She stared at her hands.

“The whale…? Oh. I see.” Ben hemmed. His daughter-in-law had been rescued by her corset. No wonder she didn’t want to talk about it.

And then the strain of the past hours, the pent-up tension erupted in laughter. It started slowly, with a silent chuckle low down in Ben’s stomach that worked its way through his body and up his throat until it came out of his mouth in an undignified snort that morphed into a fully grown belly laugh when Juliet looked up, scandalised, and then her indignant face dissolved into a display of pure mirth and she laughed with him.

Through the following days, when Joe was writhing with fever and pain, and the demons his mind tricked him to believe were real denied his body its desperately needed rest, and—again—Ben was restricted to do nothing, the memory of that shared laughter was the one thing that grounded Ben when he was tempted to give in to despair. The memory of a familiarity that would still need years to become something natural but perhaps had to be treasured even more just because of that, and—Henry.

Hoss and Juliet tried to relieve him from his vigil at Joe’s side every now and then, not always successfully. Sometimes Juliet confined her efforts to just setting the baby on his grandfather’s lap, and then Henry stretched his arms out to Ben trying to grab his nose or ears or just any part of his face, and that was nearly as refreshing as some hours of undisturbed sleep.

Henry, who was the spitting image of his father at that age, who showed even the same facial expressions as Adam—he also reminded Ben of Joe. He was sure Adam must have had some of Henry’s eagerness to touch people, to take a hold of fingers, noses, hair, and to put everything into his mouth that couldn’t be removed quickly enough; but he couldn’t remember a single instance, and it seemed so much more like Joe anyway.

He wasn’t sure if Joe felt that way, too. He only knew that his youngest was a natural when it came to fooling around with the baby, and that Joe never seemed to tire of making funny faces or entertaining noises for his nephew. He loved to watch him and Henry, just as he’d loved to watch Adam and Joe when Joe had been a baby. And as he had loved to watch Adam and Henry.

The Lord’s ways… In his weaker moments, Ben had feared he might never see Adam cuddling with Henry again. Never would it have occurred to him that Joe could be the one in danger. Goodness, Adam was the one jeopardising his life in war; Joe was supposed to be safe at home.

Safe. Safe from what? The war? The war had finally reached the Ponderosa, maybe long before Billy-Bob had come to take revenge for Joe’s violent reaction to the man’s unwise taunts. And now Joe could easily become the first casualty of war the family would have to mourn.

No. Not his son, not Joe. Not…not Joe. Ben squeezed Joe’s clammy hand between his, as if that was a way to transfer his own will into Joe’s weakening body. “You will be all right, Son. Fight, Joe, fight.”

“Fight, Joe, fight.”

Joe was floating. To him it seemed as if he’d been floating forever, as if his whole life he’d never done anything but float in that dark, haunted nowhere. At times he’d come closer to the surface, at times sunken even deeper into the abysmal nothingness. And then there were times when the nothingness was populated with figures that were vaguely familiar and with complete strangers, with animals and monsters, with places of which he seemed to have recollections and places he was sure existed only here, with sounds and shrieks, with feelings of pain and fear, of rage and anxiety.

Sometimes, when he’d been close to above, he’d heard voices he thought had a meaning to him, but every time he’d tried to reach out, to actually get in contact with what was outside of his confinement, something had pulled him back, some pain or fatigue—or a face he knew he would see nowhere else.

At first he’d been tired, cold and tired, and everything around him had been silent and peaceful. Then he’d felt he was burning, and there’d been commotion, and agitated voices. A warm, calming presence, soft hands—hands?—on his face, ”Shh, calm down, son” and then pain, searing pain in his side; his whole side had been on fire—no his whole body.

More voices, more hands. They had moved him. Didn’t they know they hurt him? They didn’t seem to care, they moved him and—pain, hot, hot pain—and tried to choke him with something startling cold in is mouth. And pain, pain, pain! Joe had then given in to the pull, to the voices that asked him to come down.

Down below, there was peace and war, all in one, or one after another, or nothing at all. It was confusing, terrifying—but better than being above and in pain. The voices outside had become low and insignificant, and Joe stopped listening at all and let himself slip down deeper and deeper.

The further he went, the better he felt. The pain vanished completely, as did the confusion; in the end, there was only a feeling of complete peace, and that grounded him, kept him there.

Oh, and Adam, of course.

He’d seen Adam several times already, far away, a blurred image somehow awash in red. He’d never really made it to him, had always been held back from going further by a voice from outside, by a person from closer to the surface or by his own fear. But now he was past fear; he moved on, steadily coming closer, making his way through the thick nothing until he was only an arm’s length from his older brother.

Adam wore an army coat that didn’t really fit him and concealed his whole body. His face was gaunt, his expression haunted; his hands seemed to tremble. To Joe’s utmost disappointment, he did not smile.

“Adam!” Joe cried, and he threw himself into his brother’s arms—only to hit empty air.

Adam stood three steps back from where he’d been a moment before, holding his hands up, palms out, in a defending gesture. “Don’t,” he said, “don’t touch me.”

Joe choked back a sob. He longed to hug him, but something in Adam’s face held him still.

“What are you doing here, Joe?” Adam’s voice sounded more tired than anything else. “You don’t belong here. Go back.”

“But I don’t want to go back. I want to be with you.”

Adam laughed humourlessly. “Believe me, you don’t want to be where I am right now.”

“Where…are you then?”

“I am where you’re not supposed to be.”

“But—”

“No. No but. You can’t be here, Joe. You have to go back, and quickly.” Adam made a small movement as if he wanted to touch Joe after all, but flinched back. “Pa…he needs you. Go back, Joe; be there for Pa.”

“Fight, Joe, fight.”

Joe looked around.

“Listen to Pa, Joe.”

“Fight, Joe, fight.”

“Adam…”

“Listen to Pa. He’ll guide you back.”

Adam’s figure blurred at the outline, became translucent; and when Joe reached out to him once again, he dissolved into the blackness.

Joe blinked, his eyes trying to penetrate the dark mist—and then there was Pa’s face above his. Tired, exhausted, smiling. Pa.

“Welcome to the land of the living, son,” he said.

Naturally, after that there was another frenzy. Joe was helped to have a drink, then Hoss and Juliet were summoned; little Henry in his mother’s arm made a fuss and didn’t take it very well that he wasn’t allowed in Joe’s bed, Hop Sing appeared with some broth, then the doctor came and with him some pain as he checked Joe’s wounds before he declared him out of danger. All the time, Pa sat in the rocker next to Joe’s bed, touching him whenever he could, making him drink water and herbal teas Hop Sing brewed for him, and saying very little, as if he didn’t trust his voice.

But words, Joe found, weren’t necessary at all. Pa was there, he wouldn’t allow nightmarish things to happen, and he most certainly wouldn’t dissolve into nothing. And that was enough.

Pa stayed with him through the next night, wiped his brow when the fever spiked again, held him when the darkness tried to lure Joe back, and Joe wondered if it really was Pa who needed him or rather he who needed Pa.

In the morning, Juliet brought a tray with something that looked like oats in milk and a cup of tea. She put it on the bedside table, then gave Pa a look. “Your breakfast is downstairs,” she said with royal air. “Hoss is already waiting for you.”

Pa opened his mouth, but Juliet lifted an eyebrow. “Please,” she then said, much softer.

After Pa had checked Joe for fever and eventually left the room, Juliet handed Joe the bowl and a spoon, and took seat on the abandoned rocker.

“Can you manage?” she asked.

“Just dandy.” Joe tasted a spoonful. “Oats. Couldn’t Hop Sing find anything that’s not horse fodder?”

Juliet looked unimpressed. “Miss Nightingale advises it for ill people. It’s easy to stomach and still nourishing.”

“Miss Nightingale.” Joe lowered the bowl. “You haven’t met Florence Nightingale, have you?”

She tsked. “I read her book. It’s a recognised treatise about nursing. Paul had recommended it to me.”

“She’s English, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“From where in England?”

Juliet leaned back and crossed her arms. She gave Joe an eyebrow and an amused smile. “Don’t start a hare, Joe.”

“What?”

“Don’t try to distract me. Eat your oats.”

“It was worth the try,” Joe grinned, then resigned himself to eat.

Juliet watched him intently for a while, then said without preamble, “Is it a special Cartwright trait to put other’s lives above your own?”

Joe stared at her.

She stared back.

“I couldn’t let him shoot you, could I?” he finally blurted.

“But…you could have died.”

Joe grinned impishly. “Well, I didn’t plan to.”

Juliet gaped at him as if she’d seen a ghost, then leaned her head on her hand. “Now you even talk like Adam.”

He chuckled. “Not the worst thing one could say to me. But honestly, I wasn’t…trying to sacrifice myself. I tried to get both you and me out of the line of fire.”

“Well, it seems that you weren’t too successful with that, were you?” Teasing. Two months before he would have taken it as an insult, now he had learnt it better.

“One can only try…”

“You shouldn’t have—”

“I should have. I have. And I would do it again, anytime.”

She looked at him, thinking, smiling. She nodded. “Yes. Thank you, Joe, for…that. I—” She looked down.

“…would do anything in your power to protect me, too, right, sister?”

Her head shot up, she stared at him, surprised. “Yes,” she then said in a small voice. “That I would. Brother.”

There was an uncomfortable pause, not really awkward, just…slightly uncomfortable.

Juliet reached blindly toward the desk behind her, until she got hold of a small booklet. “Shall I read you something?” she asked, opening it. “Beadle’s Dime Novels…The Trail Hunters or Monovano, the Shawnee Spy. This does sound quite…nice.”

She sounded slightly sick, but that wasn’t anything unusual lately; and Joe really, really wanted to hear her reading it. She was a good narrator, and anything would be better than continuing their earlier conversation anyway. Juliet seemed to think along the same lines, for she started to read at the slightest nod of Joe’s head—somewhere in the middle of the book, but Joe didn’t mind: miraculously she’d chanced on one of the most suspenseful parts.

“Ducking his head downward, like a crouching animal, and trailing his rifle, he started upon a half-trot, and a half-walk. He had a keen eye, and followed the trail readily. He was very careful not to disturb it, but to keep to one side. The last wish of Jenkins was to encounter the Indian who, he believed, was thus leading him on. His long companionship with Dingle had given him much skill in tracking a foe; and he felt confident that his ignorance would not bring him into a collision. From the evidence of the different signs, he was satisfied that he was an hour or so only in the rear.

“The pursuit was maintained with the persistency of the blood-hound, and soon resulted in another most important discovery—”

“Juliet.” It was Hoss who interrupted her reading. He lingered in the door, gulping nervously, giving Joe the shortest glance, kneading his hands. He looked afraid. “There’s a soldier downstairs,” he said. “He wants to talk to ya.”

___________
It is such a secret place, the land of tears.
~ Antoine de Saint-Exupery

*****

Chapter 10

Sky Blue

“Simple Simon met a pieman
Going to the fair;
Said Simple Simon to the pieman,
‘Let me taste your ware.’

“Said the pieman to Simple Simon,
‘Show me first your penny.’
Said Simple Simon to the pieman,
‘Indeed I have not any.’”

Saying the word “any,” Juliet tickled Henry’s belly and the boy, who’d anticipated this ever since his mother started reciting the nursery rhyme, answered with his usual delighted squeal. Hoss had been watching the repetition of this game for what felt like four thousand times over the past two weeks, but Henry did not cease to find it joyfully entertaining. He knew perfectly well at which point of the rhyme his mother’s wiggling finger would attack; sometimes he giggled even before she touched him. He was five and a half months old now, sat unsupported, and listened to his mother’s voice, gazing intently at her, his head cocked a little to one side, and his mouth ever-so slightly twisted into a half-smile, as if he was secretly amused about something only he saw or heard. He resembled Adam more and more every day.

Hoss buttered two slices of bread. When he offered one to Juliet, he wasn’t surprised when she declined with just a short shake of her head. Food and his sister-in-law didn’t go together well in the mornings lately, and at some time during their journey east, she had just stopped even trying to eat before midday. He wasn’t sure she’d eat at all if he didn’t push her to it. The long ride on the train hadn’t done her any good; she looked even more peaked than she had those last few days at home. For all that travelling by rail was far more comfortable than riding on a stage coach—with more space to sit, the chance to stand up and stretch your legs during the ride—there still was a lot of jiggling, and the constant noise of the engine and the rumbling of the wheels on the tracks.

Even though she’d first admonished him for following her—or “tracking her down” as she’d put it—Juliet’s annoyance at his insistence on accompanying her had soon been replaced by gratitude. Plagued by headaches, nausea, and sleep deprivation, and challenged by Henry whose waking hours had gotten longer each day and who demanded almost constant attention, she’d eventually broken down. She had not cried, not even after Hoss had pulled the blinds of their compartment to give her some privacy; but she had admitted she’d reached the end of her strength—and that she was with child again.

He hadn’t asked if she was sure. Her symptoms were familiar. It was incredibly close to Henry’s birth, but hadn’t Adam always told them to expect the unexpected with Juliet? Apparently that applied even to this.

“I don’t know how I am supposed to do this alone,” Juliet had said and stared out of the window at the landscape drifting by.

“But you are not alone. We’re with you. We…the family.”

She’d smiled. Sadly, Hoss had noted, and it had made him sad, too. “That’s not quite the same, isn’t it?”

“Of course not.” He’d searched for the right words, only there were no right words. Maybe Adam would have found something bracing for her, but Hoss was sure even his well-spoken brother would have struggled and failed to find what Juliet really needed. No, that wasn’t true. No one but Adam would be able to give her what she needed right now, because all she needed was Adam. “It’s better than nothing, though,” Hoss had finally said. “It’s better than being on your own.”

The look she’d given him then had nearly broken his heart. Gratitude, hope, forlornness, longing, and pain, all in her eyes, almost scary in its intensity.

“I’m not Adam, but—” he’d started, not quite sure where this would lead to but determined to heal the raw hurt she was radiating, to fix things like Adam would have fixed things, to make everything bearable for her—and himself, too.

Juliet had interrupted him by putting a finger on his lips—a more than unexpected gesture from his demure sister-in-law, strangely intimate, but of completely chaste tenderness. “You don’t have to be Adam,” she’d said. “You’re Hoss; and that’s…all you need to be.”

For the rest of their journey they’d talked about mundane things only, about what to do once they arrived at Gettysburg, about ordering food or coffee, about how to entertain Henry, about trains they’d need to catch and things they’d want to buy at their next stop. But something between them had changed: subtle little differences in the way they moved around each other, a new, easier and more open quality in their communication, and the mutual acceptance of each other’s proximity. Hoss didn’t hesitate anymore to take Juliet in his arms if he felt she needed that kind of support, and Juliet had more than once fallen asleep leaning against him with her head resting on his shoulder.

“He went to catch a dickey bird,
And thought he could not fail,
Because he’d got a little salt,
To put upon his tail.

“He went to take a bird’s nest,
T’was built upon a bough;
The branch gave way and Simon fell
Into a dirty slough.”

Juliet’s fingers made tiny steps up Henry’s arm, shoulder, neck and cheek to his nose, then slipped off and fell into his lap, tickling his belly as they went down. Henry giggled contently.

Yes, Juliet still looked unwell. But after two nights in a proper bed, and in the soothing quietness of Mrs. Milward’s boarding house in the middle of Gettysburg the overwhelming tiredness had left her eyes.

Mrs. Milward was a blessing. Upon arriving after another seemingly endless ride on a stage coach from their last train stop to Gettysburg, they’d come to realise that there were hardly any rooms to rent available. After three days of battle with thousands of casualties there had been more wounded soldiers to be tended to than the field hospitals had been able to manage. Consequently, both the Union army and the Confederates had confiscated farms, schools, public houses, parts of the Theological Seminary, nearly everything with an intact roof and transformed it to temporary hospitals. Only weeks after the battles, most of the sites were still occupied by convalescing soldiers—even though both sides had already begun to transport seriously ill but stable patients to better equipped proper army hospitals in Chester, Pittsburgh, or Alexandria.

Juliet had been determined to go and meet General Schurz immediately after arriving, heedless of the fact that she’d thrown up three times on the ride, or that Henry’d been screaming himself raw to protest the sticky, hot constriction of the coach cabin until, too exhausted to even sleep, he’d just hung in his mother’s arms, squirming and whining unceasingly. Hoss, who’d been hot and tired himself, and on the verge of becoming impolite, had collected every ounce of remaining self control not to shake her when he’d reasoned with her; that they needed to find a place to stay the night more urgently than to talk to the general—and that it would be more likely she’d get herself arrested than obtain any useful information by speaking to anyone in her present state of mind, if he’d read correctly the irritated twitch of her eyebrow.

Juliet had tsked and looked annoyed and as if she’d been composing a highly imperious, rebuking reply. Three weeks ago, Hoss would have had no other means to deal with that than letting it wash over him, ignoring her tone, and silently vowing never to provoke her again. But now he’d squeezed her arm and said, “please” and that he was tired and hungry—and Juliet had given in. Just like that.

By sheer luck, the second door he’d knocked at was Mrs. Milward’s. Mrs. Milward, who’d lost her husband during the first weeks of the war, had two free rooms, a big open heart for small tired babies, and had provided them with a hearty, excellently cooked supper, a cradle for Henry she’d acquired from the neighbour’s house, and nearly motherly concern and sympathy and the offer to look after Henry if required once she’d heard about their reason for coming to Gettysburg.

The reason they’d come to Gettysburg. Hoss spread strawberry jam over yet another piece of buttered bread before he started eating it slowly. Very slowly. He was procrastinating, he knew that, but Juliet was doing the same. The way she savoured her tea…she always took her time over that, but this morning she seemed determined to drink her tea cold. After having gone through all verses of “Simple Simon” she remembered or thought fit to be recited to Henry’s tender ears, she now turned her attention to the baby’s naked toes and jiggling one after the other declaimed,

“This little piggy went to market,
This little piggy stayed home.
This little piggy had roast beef,
This little piggy had none.
And this little piggy went
Wee, wee, wee, all the way home.”

At “wee, wee, wee” her fingers ran up Henry’s leg and leapt back to their old tickling spot on his belly. Screeching loudly, Henry went into raptures.

The reason they were in Gettysburg: find out what happened to Adam, see his grave, speak to someone who’d been with him in his last days on earth.

It sounded easy, and accomplishing it had in fact been easy, much easier than they’d anticipated. Much easier…and much harder at the same time.

The day before, they hadn’t been let in to General Schurz, which, to Hoss’s utmost surprise, Juliet had accepted without argument. They had been directed to the Gettysburg cemetery, though, and Hoss suspected that Juliet was more interested in going to Adam’s last resting place than being confronted with…well, anything else.

The cemetery was huge. Row after row of freshly dug graves, all adorned with wooden crosses, some with names on them, some without. Newspapers had talked about more than 7,000 soldiers killed during the three days of battle, and, Good Lord, Hoss had started to believe it, to actually understand it while they’d been walking through the endless alleys framed by earthen mounds. Line after line they’d paced off in the scorching heat of the advancing midday, reading the names of men they didn’t know, and yet each name had torn at their hearts, quieted their voices, made them walk closer together. Juliet had stopped once, to set an unlabelled cross straight and run her hand over the fresh soil underneath it murmuring something too soft for Hoss to discern any words.

“Those men,” she’d said upon getting up, making a wide gesture that included the whole grave field, “all have someone somewhere.”

Hoss had nodded.

“But they don’t know they’re here.”

He’d reached out for her. “Juliet…”

“Let’s go find him,” she’d waved him off. “Just…find him.”

Find him. It had taken them hours, but like Juliet, Hoss hadn’t been willing to give in to the heat and the sun and the desolation of the place before they had found him. He had never seen his own mother’s resting place, secretly always envied Joe for having a place to which he could address his grief, and he was determined to find such a place for grieving his big brother. Here. Although he felt sure he wouldn’t come back to this place ever again, he’d at least be able to carry a picture of it in his mind, a memory. Find him.

Then they had found him. A dried-up flower had lain on the grave’s soil, and that nearly had caused them to pass it by—but the stone had caught their attention. Few graves had stones, very few graves, and Hoss suspected it would take years to bestow every one with a proper marker. But Adam did have one. A stone, and a withered flower.

“Adam Cartwright,” the inscription read. “Brother not only in arms, 1830 – 1863.”

If Hoss had thought this cemetery was the most sorrowful sight he’d ever see, he’d been wrong. It was his sister-in-law’s blank, composed countenance that saddened him more than anything; her stony face that might have fooled him if not for the string of tears silently running down her cheeks.

He didn’t remember how long they’d stood there, staring at the incredible headstone, and the flower, and the soil: Adam’s memorial. Hours, maybe, an eternity or two. Until “Are you Mrs. Cartwright?” had made them look the other way.

A youngster, not older than Joe, but with the eyes of an old man. He’d had flowers in his hand, some daisies, and he’d looked at Juliet as if she was everything he’d ever wanted to see.

Hoss had stepped in front of her. “Who wants to know that?”

But Juliet had shoved him out of the way and whispered, “Fritz? Fritz Boettcher?”

The boy had nodded; and before Hoss had a chance to ask, Juliet had pointed to the right to a nearly identical stone and said, “His brother lies there.”

Fritz Boettcher. Fritz Boettcher from Adam’s letter.

“You commissioned the stone, didn’t you?” Juliet had asked.

“Yes. I hope you don’t mind. I didn’t know…” He’d looked down at his dusty boots. “I just…I wanted him to be remembered.”

Juliet had breathed heavily, but said nothing.

Fritz had shuffled his feet, separated his bunch of flowers into two equally sized bundles and deposited one on either of the two graves he apparently visited every day. “It should be marble,” he’d eventually said, pointing at the plain fieldstone on Adam’s grave. “I owe him. Without Adam…I’d be court-martialled at least, maybe captured by the enemy, or killed. Most likely killed.”

And then he’d told them how Adam had found him with his dead brother in his arms and how he’d dragged him through the streets of Gettysburg, saving him from desertion, capture, enemy fire. How Adam had talked sense into him, and how he’d found time in the middle of the storm to be a friend, a brother, a reassuring presence.

“He didn’t belong here,” Fritz had said. “And yet he needed to be here. His humanity…it made a difference.” He’d looked into Juliet’s face, nodded and then said it again, “It made a difference.”

Fritz had told them more, everything he knew. That the XI. Corps hadn’t been involved in fighting much on the second day of the battle, but that Adam had been sent to General Ward to deliver a message from General Schurz—and had never returned. That on further investigation it had turned out that Adam had been sent back with an answer, but hadn’t made it back to Cemetery Ridge. That he’d been found two days later, delirious with a festering wound in his right leg, and brought to the XI. Corps field hospital. And that Fritz couldn’t forgive himself that he didn’t find out all that until Adam had already died.

“The nurse said he wouldn’t have recognised me anyway, or that there’d been a visitor at all—but still…”

He’d arranged for Adam to be buried next to his brother Karl, and he’d ordered a headstone just like Karl’s to pay back at least something.

“…wee, wee, wee, all the way home.” That was not Juliet’s voice.

Hoss looked up from the crumbs of his breakfast on his plate to find that Juliet had handed Henry to Mrs. Milward and now looked expectantly at him.

“Shall we?” she said, and Hoss nodded. They should.

Fritz had told them where to find the nurse who’d been with Adam during his last days. The temporary field hospitals had mostly been taken down already, Nurse Maxine Tindell had moved with her patients to the Bushman farm—and that was where they went.

Nurse Maxine didn’t have much time, but she sat down with them in a small room where the nurses could rest during night watches. It looked completely unused.

She handed Juliet a letter with her name in Adam’s bold script on it, but without an address. “I wanted to find out where you live and send it once things slowed down a bit,” the nurse said. “He had it in his pocket. ‘Twas the only thing that told us who he was.”

Juliet stared at the folded paper she’d put on the table, smoothed it down, ran her fingers over the letters of her name, then laid her hands flat upon it and looked up.

“His comrade told me Adam was very ill and didn’t…” She gazed at her hands, started to run them over the letter again. “Didn’t…wasn’t in his right mind.” Now she folded her hands over the letter, clasping them tightly. She tore her eyes away from them, looking back at the nurse, and took a deep breath. “Did he, did he…” She bit her lip.

Hoss laid a hand over hers, caressing them with his thumb until he felt the tension ease. “Ma’am,” he took up where Juliet had broken off. “Did he…was he hurtin’ much?”

Maxine gave them a small smile. “He was delirious. He was very unwell, but I don’t think he really registered much. He was unconscious nearly all the time.”

Juliet opened her mouth, then closed it again, and looked at Hoss, pleadingly.

Hoss squeezed her hands. “He never woke up?” he inquired.

“Only once, nearly…at the end.” The nurse reached over to touch Juliet’s arm. “He woke up, briefly, and looked at me with bright, clear eyes. He wanted to say something, something important. He seemed completely lucid, impossible as it was.”

“What…?” Juliet’s voice was nearly inaudible.

“He tried to say your name, Mrs. Cartwright. I think he wanted to say that he…you know.”

Juliet pressed a hand to her mouth.

“Ma’am, I’m so sorry. This must be incredibly hard…but maybe…maybe it gives you a little comfort to know that his last thoughts were of you.” She patted Juliet’s arm. “He loved you, ma’am. He was a brave and handsome man, and he loved you.”

There was no reaction from Juliet, she just remained sitting there stock still with her eyes closed and her hand on her mouth.

Hoss cleared his throat. “My brother said nothing more?”

“No. He tried, but he couldn’t.” The nurse gave Juliet a sideways glance then looked back at Hoss. “It’s really amazing, Mr. Cartwright. Your brother looked nothing like you. Only his eyes…they were the same as yours, the same sky-blue.”

“We’re only half bro—” He broke off, dazed.

“Blue?” Juliet leaned over the table. “Blue eyes, you say? Not brown or greenish when the light…” She choked a sob. “Blue. Dear Lord in heaven, blue.”

And then she burst into tears.

___________
The universe is wider than our views of it.
~ Henry David Thoreau

*****

Chapter 13

And the Lord Taketh Away

There was blood almost everywhere. Blood on the blanket, blood on the sheets, blood on Juliet’s nightgown, blood on her hands, blood on her face even, where she had pressed her hands to her cheeks, to her mouth—perhaps to muffle anguished cries or just to keep herself in check—blood in her hair where she must have torn at it or pushed it back from her face; blood all around her.

The room was lit only by a single candle on the nightstand. Its flickerings illuminated the bed like a stark white and red island amidst a sea of black flaring shadows, or like a lit-up stage in a darkened theatre.

Juliet sat in the middle of the display, slightly hunched, with a pool of crumpled blanket around her. She was supporting her weight on one arm in front of her, the other was wrapped around her waist, and she was rocking back and forth, back and forth, slowly, almost placidly.

It was eerily still; not a sound came either from her or from the cradle, hidden somewhere in the darkness of the room.

Hoss wavered in the door way, afraid to ask, afraid to know, afraid to trespass. Finally, one soft word made it past his dry lips. “Juliet?”

She looked up. Her eyes were huge; dark like Lake Tahoe at night, and just as deep and bottomless. Fear?

“Hoss.” A mere whimper, he almost didn’t hear it. Yes, she was afraid. Terrified.

He crossed the threshold and stepped into the small circle of light. “What happened? Where…Henry?”

“Henry is asleep.” She looked into the dark to where the cradle must be standing, as if to make sure she said the truth, then back at him. “He’s asleep. He’s a good boy, sleeping through the night finally. As if he knew…”

She clutched her middle more tightly, nearly doubling over, and let out a small, suppressed cry of pain.

He knew telling her to stop holding back would be useless, and so he did the only thing he could think of and let himself down beside her, not even wincing at the thought that he was sitting in her blood. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the distraught woman in pain next to him. Hoss laid a hand on her back, moving it in small soothing circles.

Hands clenched on the blanket, she merely endured his caress, heaving deep shuddering breaths until her posture relaxed, and she sat up straighter, even leaning into his touch.

She cradled her hands in her lap, palms up, studying them intensely. With a sleeve of her nightshirt she tried to clean the blood from one hand, not comprehending the futileness of it.

“I’m losing it,” she eventually whispered. “Or maybe it’s gone already.” The wiping of her hand became almost violent, the dabbing more like punching.

He increased the pressure to her back, trying to make his presence more palpable, to make it an offer, a reassurance, an anchor. There was no doubt about what was happening, no doubt that there was no way to stop it. Nothing he did would change that. All he could manage was to be with her, awkward and surreal as it was, sitting here next to her, caressing her back and yet not really reaching her. Two people side by side yet miles away from another. Once again, he wished he were more like Adam, who always seemed to know what to do and what to say, and how to get through to her.

You don’t have to be Adam. You’re Hoss; and that’s all you need to be. Hadn’t she said that herself on the train ride?

He tightened his grip on her, and pulled her into his arms. “I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m holding you.”

He felt her breath warm and wet on his shoulder, where she’d pressed her face; he felt her body much bonier and lithe than he’d have expected in his arms, felt her softly melting into him—unexpected, inappropriately right. And alarming.

“Juliet?”

“I failed,” she said into his shoulder. Muffled, low, barely audible. “It’s my fault, I know it. I shouldn’t have…shouldn’t have…but how could I not have done it? I needed answers, I needed to look for…and we nearly found him, right? Hoss? We nearly found him, we’re almost there.”

“This ain’t your fault. This ain’t nobody’s fault.” Wasn’t it? Shouldn’t he have spared her this ordeal? Shouldn’t he have told her to stay at home and have gone all by himself? Shouldn’t he have read the signs better? Her exhaustion, her anguish? Shouldn’t he have realised the toll this all was taking on her? Shouldn’t he have stopped her?

“It ain’t nobody’s fault,” he repeated, shoving the jolt of guilt aside. He couldn’t afford the luxury of wallowing in guilt right now. Guilt was selfish, and this wasn’t a time to be selfish. He was needed. She needed him; strong, comforting—not self-incriminating.

Juliet apparently hadn’t heard him, or she just ignored his words—or didn’t believe them. “I failed,” she said again. “I failed to take care of my child. Of our child, Adam’s and mine. Adam’s.”

As she lifted her head from his shoulder, he could see her face, white as a ghost’s and almost as frightening. “It was Adam’s child, and I…I failed him. Them. I don’t deserve—”

“Stop it.” He thought briefly about slapping her, but settled for shaking her at her shoulders. “Juliet, you know that’s not true. You know you ain’t failing nobody. Not Adam, not the baby. Things happen. That’s all there is to it.”

He saw even more traces of colour draining from her face, as impossible as it seemed. She fell back into his arms, her body lying against his, boneless and heavy, as if there wasn’t any strength left in her to keep her upright.

“Hoss,” she breathed so low that if she weren’t so close to him he wouldn’t have heard her. “Promise me to look after Henry for me if anything…promise me. Promise me to keep looking for Adam, and when you find him, look after him, too.”

“I—nothing will happen, ya hear me? Nothing. Everything will be all right.” Don’t do this to me. For a brief moment the image of Adam flashed before his eyes, Adam in a Yankee uniform, who asked, “Where’s Juliet?” He shook his head to make his mind stop trying to put the unthinkable into words. This couldn’t be happening, could it?

“Promise me,” Juliet repeated.

And even though he was scared of the consequences, he said, “I do. I promise,” and then he felt her become even heavier in his arms, and completely still. Beneath her, the bed sheet soaked up every ounce of life draining out of her, the red creating an almost obscene contrast to the once pristine white.

He held her, helpless, not daring to let go of her, until he heard footsteps on the stairs. There was Mrs. Milward with the doctor, a grim looking middle-aged man who took a sharp breath at the scene before him; and then Hoss was ushered out of the room.

He stood outside in the hallway, unable to move, not knowing where to go or what to do, until the landlady opened the door and handed him Henry, who blinked sleepily at him, his twisting mouth already indicating the impending tears.

“Go downstairs,” Mrs. Milward said. “And take the baby with you. He can’t be in here now.”

“Is…will everything be all right?”

“I don’t know, I’m sorry. It doesn’t look…I don’t know. Prepare for anything.” She squeezed his hand, briefly, then turned and closed the door behind her.

And then Henry started to wail; and no matter what Hoss did, he kept crying for the rest of the night.

***

The sea was in turmoil. The water was murky, yet strikingly green, churned up by the winds of a thunder storm, the boiling waves crowned by white foam. In the sky, clouds were chasing one another, tattered shreds of dark grey, like rag dolls, mirroring the seething chaos beneath them.

His boat was sturdy, big and solid; even though he had to clutch firmly at the mainmast to avoid going overboard, he felt safe from sinking. Strangely fascinated, he watched the mayhem around him. At the edge of his vision he made out a shipwreck. It was an old ship, as far as he could tell, an English three-masted barque. Two masts were down, the stern half submerged. Lifeboats were scattered around the ship, desperately trying to stay upright in the angry sea; some had gone keel up already.

He thought he heard the seamen’s desperate cries over the roar of the storm and the waves, but it might have been his imagination. As his ship steered closer to the wreck, he saw that the boats were empty. One by one they flipped over and were swallowed by the raging sea, until one last boat remained—and this one was occupied. The figure in it was blurred; he caught a glimpse of something dark green, though it might have been only a reflection of the sea. A hand was stretched out towards him, an arm clad in green, nearly the same colour as the sea; but he was too far away to reach it.

The boat danced on the water; tossed by the waves like a nutshell, it was on the verge of capsizing. With certain clarity he suddenly knew he wouldn’t be able to reach the boat in time to save its sole passenger.

And just as he realised that, he heard the cry for help.

“Help me.” It was a small voice, nearly inaudible in the storm, not classifiable, most certainly not familiar—but not much had been familiar lately, anyway.

“Help me,” it said. “I need you.” It sounded nearly intimate, as if the caller knew to whom they addressed themselves.

He formed a mouthpiece with his hands and shouted, “I can’t reach you.”

“Help me,” the voice came back. “Help me, Adam!”

The shock of it awoke him. He was sweating, again, and breathing heavily. He reached for the mug of water he knew was standing on the bed table, and for the small book Bernadette had given him to record whatever clue with which his dreams fed him.

Not that he ever forgot anything he’d dreamt. It was as if he was trying to prove to himself that he didn’t forget things on purpose, that there was something bigger than he that kept the memories of his former life obscured from him.

No, he didn’t drink from Lethe willingly. He wanted to know. He wanted to remember.

Bernadette sometimes seemed afraid of what lay in the past, as if it could destroy the present. But the present was…nearly nothing. It was pain and illness, it was suspicion and distrust. It also was love, that one bright spot. Love and Bernadette, love and Bernadette, love and Bernadette. How could a man fall so easily, so completely, so deeply in love? He’d never fallen so quickly—well, maybe he had, but he couldn’t remember.

It was strange, weird: he could remember how to speak, to read and write, how to hold a spoon and to put on a shirt (now he finally was able to do it on his own again), he could remember things he’d read at some point in his former life; and he could remember his virtues, and how it felt to be in love. How to court a woman, and how to be a polite and friendly man. But he couldn’t remember who taught him to be polite and friendly, or why he knew that a black man wasn’t worth less than a white and that no man should own another. He couldn’t remember how he’d learnt that a woman wanted to be touched tenderly, and spoken to in a respectful manner.

He couldn’t remember what had made him the man he was—or what kind of man he actually was.

He had a vague idea of how his last days on the battlefield had gone, even though he still had no idea for which side he’d been fighting. All right, that last wasn’t entirely true. He had a pretty good idea of that by now—just no proof—but he wouldn’t share that particular information with anyone.

Random bits of memory came back to him every day. Sometimes triggered by a smell, a sound, a touch, something somebody said, a certain tone of voice. Nothing substantial up to now: memories of a chestnut coloured horse galloping towards him; a basket of strawberries on a red-chequered blanket; a ladybug on his hand; a porcelain music box painted with cherubs and flowers; an infectious giggle; red artist’s tights; a bed of cream coloured roses—things like that. Nothing that had told him who he was. Except that he was sure it did tell him who he was. Like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, all those bits were parts of who he was, of what made him…

Adam.

The voice in his dream had called him “Adam.” He had two names now, Joe and Adam. Joe, apparently someone close to him, and Adam…that was him.

“Adam,” he said in wonder. It did sound familiar, like something he’d known all his life. The most natural thing. He had no idea how he could have forgotten it at all. “Adam.” He chuckled. Couldn’t help but laugh. Another bright spot in his present life.

From a much darker part of his mind, though, it laughed at him. How small his world had become, how little he needed to be happy. Pathetic.

And yet it was enough. Step by step, he thought. And this particular step wasn’t as small as his sarcasm was trying to make it look. It was huge: he had a name now.

He smiled, smiled broadly still when Bernadette approached his bedside, carrying a bowl of water and a basket full of what looked like stripes of linen.

“Good morning. You’re in a good mood, I see,” she smiled, putting her things down on the bedside table. “I’m going to have to spoil it a bit, I’m sorry to say. But I promise I’ll be careful changing your dressings.”

“You’re always careful, m’dear.”

“I try,” she said, then checked his forehead and frowned. “You’re still running a slight fever, I’m afraid. Let’s see what awaits us under those bandages.”

As she reached out to pull down his blanket, he caught her hands. They were small hands, strong and gripping if need be, but feather-light and tender at other times. She tried to wrench them out of his grasp, but he didn’t let her. Just held them firmly in his hands.

“What…?” she laughed, a trace of insecurity resonating in her words. “I promised to be careful.”

“It’s not that.”

“Then let me…” She pulled again, to no avail. “What is it?”

“I’ve got a name.”

“Everybody’s got a—” She broke off. Sinking down on his bedside, she drew her hands out of his now-slackening grip and put them on his shoulder. Leaning closer, she said in a low voice, “You’ve got a name? You…know your name?”

He nodded. Smiled.

She swallowed. “You know who you are now?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Just my name. Adam.”

“Adam.”

“Yes.”

“Adam…who?”

“Just Adam. No surname.”

“Adam.”

He could see she was tasting the name, rolling it on her tongue. Something of it was familiar, something that triggered…an outstretched hand, long, elegant fingers, manicured but stained with tiny blue spots—ink? and then it was over, the image gone.

“Adam. A good name, Adam.” She smiled. “Adam.”

Her smile was beautiful. The joy in her voice was beautiful. He wanted more of that. More beauty, more smiling, more joy.

“I might be a sailor,” he gave her, and was rewarded with more.

“A sailor? Captain Adam.” More more.

“I dreamt I was on a ship on the sea.” He closed his eyes, trying to conjure the images of that last dream. “There was a storm, and someone called for my help.”

“Did you recognise that person?”

“No.”

“A man, a woman? Young, old?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t…really, I couldn’t see much. Everything was blurred.” He opened his eyes. “It was the first dream that wasn’t about the war. Strange, I realise that only now. It was about…well, not the war. Something private…civilian. It must have been significant.”

“So you’re Adam, the sailor.” She frowned. “Or Adam, the traveller?”

The traveller. It sounded…right, somehow. A traveller. A salesman, perhaps. But the calluses on his hands told the story of hard labour…so perhaps it was “Adam, the sailor” after all.

“I’d rather be a traveller,” he finally said, amused by his almost petulant tone.

“Maybe not knowing can be a blessing, too.” Bernadette nodded slowly. “You could start anew. Be what you want to be, who you want to be. A traveller, if you’re so inclined.”

“I prefer to know things. Bad or good, I want to know.”

“Even if it hurt you? Even if it would cost you…”

“The truth is never too expensive,” he said almost savagely—and he was sure he’d heard those words before from another person. A dark, velvety voice. Coffee-brown eyes…

“It could—”

“I thought I told you to change the patient’s dressing, not to chitchat with him.”

She jumped up at that voice, straightening her skirt and apron, checking her nurse’s hat. “Dr. Mabbs, I’m terribly sorry, I just…”

“Don’t blame her, doctor. It’s my fault, I—”

“I’m sure it is, Soldier. Don’t think I don’t see through you and your schemes.” The doctor stood straight and tall, his uniform straining around his massive middle. He made an impressive figure, a fact of which he seemed entirely conscious, and which he obviously even tried to enhance by squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin to peer down on his inferiors in scrutiny.

“I don’t understand…” Adam started but was interrupted yet again.

“Oh, of course you don’t understand. You don’t understand very much, do you? With that oh-so-convenient amnesia.”

“I don’t find it particularly convenient. What are you implying?”

“Implying? I’m not implying anything. I just put one and one together. Isn’t it funny how you know so much about this last battle—yet don’t remember to which side you belong? I call that very convenient, Mr. Yankee-Accent.”

There was more pointing towards the North, more than his accent, Adam was aware of that. Everything in him screamed that there was no way he’d be fighting for a society that supported slavery. Even though he understood the South’s striving for freedom and their feeling of having been overruled by the Union for a long time, he couldn’t believe he supported the idea that not all men should be free, no matter the colour of their skin. It was a part of him so fundamental that he hadn’t forgotten it, just as he hadn’t forgotten how to breathe, how to eat and drink.

Of course, he’d never share these insights with anyone here.

“Don’t take me for a fool, Soldier. I’m watching you, and as soon as I have proof for my suspicion I’ll have you transferred to prison.”

“I’d never take you for a fool, doctor. And I advise you not to take me for a fool, either.” He spat it, knowing it was the not the wisest thing to do—but he couldn’t help it. There was no way he could have swallowed those words or said them in a less hostile fashion.

Predictably, Dr. Mabbs picked up the gauntlet only too willingly. “Perhaps I’ll arrange for the relocation right now,” he sneered.

“You can’t do that,” Bernadette jumped in. “Without constant medical care he’d die. The infection still isn’t under control, he’s running a fever, he’s weak and…and…and ill, and….”

The doctor let her deliver her rant, mildly smiling like a father would at his babbling child. Only as she trailed off, he spoke again, deadly soft. “If that is the case, Nurse Lemont, then you might want to see to it that my orders concerning the patient’s treatment are followed without any further delay.” He waved an impatient hand. “Clean the wound, change the dressings. No chitchatting. Then see to your other patients.”

He turned and stalked away without sparing his patient another glance.

Bernadette was close to tears. “Adam, I—”

“Shh, not now. Let’s talk later. Tonight.”

She nodded, and carried out her instructions: cleaned the wound, changed the dressings. No chitchatting. Then saw to her other patients.

Adam soon fell into a troubled slumber. This time he found himself drifting in the raging sea, clinging to an upturned lifeboat. Through the howling storm he heard it again. “Help me, Adam. I need you!”

It was the voice of a woman, and he knew her.

__________

When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions. ~ William Shakespeare, Hamlet

*****

Chapter 14

Tides in Acheron*

In retrospect, the whole idea had been completely stupid. An idiot plan, if ever there was one. And yet it had sounded reasonable as they’d come up with it the night after Dr. Mabbs had issued his threat: wait until past midnight when everyone was asleep, put on some civilian clothes Bernadette would provide, tiptoe silently through the rows of beds, then down the corridors and out of the building. Sneak through Charlottesville’s empty nocturnal streets until they reached the horse and cart Bernadette would have left somewhere in the outskirts of town before coming to the hospital for her night shift.

It had been a scheme born out of desperation and baseless hope, out of ignorance and denial of reality; destined to fail. A lost race from the very beginning.

Adam would have laughed if he weren’t hurting so much.

Over the three days following the confrontation with Dr. Mabbs, Bernadette had done everything in her power to stabilise Adam’s condition. She’d cleaned his wound and changed the dressings three times a day, fed him elderflower tea to fight the persistent fever and tried to get as much nourishment into him as he was able to digest—and the constantly waning provisions would offer. He hadn’t regained as much strength as they’d hoped, but they felt they couldn’t postpone things much longer.

Dr. Mabbs didn’t repeat his original threat, yet he developed the unsettling habit of appearing out of nowhere and saying things like “You are very thorough, Nurse Lemont, aren’t you?” or “I do believe you’ve done quite enough for this patient, Nurse. Others are waiting,” whenever Bernadette was tending (and talking) to Adam, taking longer than strictly necessary. Bernadette always nearly jumped at the sound of the doctor’s voice, her eyes became wide and fearful, she got clumsy with whatever she was doing, and all she apparently was able to reply was a stuttered “Yes, sir.”

More and more, the Great Escape seemed to be indispensable for both of them, and Adam couldn’t help but feel he was helping her as much as she was helping him. It was a comforting thought, a familiar and pleasant feeling: he was taking charge, he was protecting someone—as if he’d slipped back into an old suit, a well-worn pair of boots…a once-lived life.

It didn’t need more than a whispered “Tonight” after yet another episode with Dr. Mabbs and a brief nod of agreement from Bernadette to settle the date.

It had been the only part of their plan that actually had worked.

Despite his best efforts, Adam must have fallen asleep for he was roused out of yet another dream in which he was drifting in a boiling green sea, desperately trying to follow the eerily familiar female voice whose pleas for help were slowly dying away, by a soft joggling at his shoulder. Momentarily disoriented in the pitch-blackness, not seeing but sensing a presence at his side, he couldn’t suppress a soft gasp.

“Shh,” Bernadette’s low voice came out of the dark. “It’s me, Adam. Only me. Shall I light a candle?”

“No,” he breathed back. “I’m all right. Just need to adjust my eyes.”

Bernadette didn’t respond. She just sat there next to him, motionless. He heard her breathe a tad too quickly, a tad too shallowly, and he reached out and took her hand, held it tightly, stroking it with his thumb. She heaved a deep breath, then put her other hand over his. They remained like that until he could see more than just her outline and whispered, “Now.”

The set of civilian clothes Bernadette had brought him turned out to be a pair of plain camel-coloured pants and a red and blue-chequered shirt. For a moment Adam thought his eyes betrayed him, but no: there was just enough light to distinguish the pattern and guess the colours.

“Couldn’t you find something less…chequered?” he asked carefully.

She sniggered. Quietly, very suppressed so not to wake anyone, but she sniggered. They were attempting escape, and she’d—

“You do want me to become a lumberjack after all,” he laughed softly, oddly comforted by her unexpected, untimely and…yes, stinging display of humour. Something was familiar about it, something that made the faint sting…enjoyable, something that reminded him that pleasure did not always come without pain. No rose without a thorn. And then there was that bed of cream coloured roses before his eyes again, and a burlap sack tied close with a red ribbon, a notebook bound in dark green with a meandering serpent embroidered on it, a stack of books, scarlet silk, a scarlet blood stain blooming on a grey vest, a long slim face with a thin moustache…. He heard a breathy voice saying “I promise to look after that Queen of Whiskey-flowers” and then a suppressed choking, and he turned his head, instinctively, to see the person who’d choked—but there was only Bernadette, panic-faced.

“Adam,” she said. “Adam, are you all right?”

“I am…I just need to…” He tried to conjure the slim face, the choking—but as always when he wanted to force them back, the memories just slipped further away, leaving him feeling mocked and somehow emptier than before.

“Adam, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I have another shirt in the carriage, you can change when we got there.” Bernadette’s whisper was urgent, her face still anxious.

He shook his head, as if that could rid him of all remaining traces of memory. This wasn’t the time for soul gazing. “It’s all right. I’m not—I don’t mind the shirt, it’s all right, honestly. Let’s just…carry on.”

By the time they’d finally gotten him into shirt and pants and a pair of boots, he was sweating and shivering, feeling more exhausted than he had any right to as he sat on the edge of his bed, breathing heavily. He didn’t care what colour that blasted shirt had or whatever hideous pattern—there was no way he would change his outfit anytime soon. And if there were the world’s finest garments on the carriage, he would not go through this ordeal again. Not for…a very long time.

This is not the way a gentleman would behave, a female voice with a very clipped British accent said in his head. She sounded like a governess. Had he been raised by a governess? He shook his head. No, not now.

He planted his feet firmly on the ground and pushed himself up. The world made a leap, then lurched to the side and slowly took him with it.

“Steady.” How Bernadette managed to keep him upright was beyond him. She was a head shorter than him, with a small frame, but there was a strength in her that surprised him not for the first time. “Are you sure you’re up to this?” she whispered.

“Sure.” A blatant lie? Perhaps—but a necessary one. “I—wait.” He reached down to the bedside table—at least this was possible without a problem, at least his head wasn’t hurting anymore and the nausea that had accompanied every movement for weeks was gone—and snatched up his notebook. Passing it from one hand to the other he wondered, where to—?

“Leave it here,” Bernadette urged. “It’s only dead freight. It will just weigh you down. And in more ways than one.”

“It’s light weight, and everything I have. I don’t consider it ballast.” He stuffed it into his shirt. The small book contained his life, at least all he knew of it. And even though he knew every single word in it by heart, he wouldn’t let it back, wouldn’t let anyone have it. It was his life. His. His everything. “Now let’s…”

The first step with his bad leg was pure agony. Even though Bernadette tried to support him, even though he leaned much more on her than he wanted, his leg shook violently, and buckled even under the slightest pressure. The second step was even worse. It was not a small wonder that he managed to stay upright at all; perhaps only the knowledge that he wouldn’t be able to get up if he fell prevented him from tumbling. Seeing that he wasn’t able to put any weight on his leg, it would have been only sensible to stop things there and then—but they were beyond sense already.

Bracing himself heavily on Bernadette’s shoulder, Adam half hobbled, half limped beside her past bed after bed. The other patients were lying in deep, mostly laudanum-supported, slumber—two or three were awake, drowsily watching them making their awkward way through the unlit room. One man gave them a lazy salute and a sleepy grin.

Somehow they made it to the door. It felt like hours since he’d woken up, and the biggest part of that time they’d spent in crossing the room. Adam didn’t want to think of the corridors that lay behind that door, the stairs that lay behind the corridors, or the streets that lay behind the stairs. He focused on the carriage that waited behind it all, the carriage with soft blankets on the wagon bed. The carriage that would take him to…some place. They hadn’t really talked about that yet, but there would be time for that. Later. First, they had to open the door and make it down the corridor.

Bernadette held a finger before her mouth—as if he needed the reminder. She carefully opened the door—

“Well, see to it, Nurse Waterman. And next time think before you wake me,” wafted in from somewhere out there in the hallway.

“Dr. Mabbs!” Bernadette’s face suddenly was white as salt. “We will never—”

“We wait.” Adam, leaning on the wall while Bernadette sounded out the situation, took her hand and squeezed it briefly. “We just wait until he’s gone. I can use the break. It’s a blessing, actually.”

“But Dr.—”

“Everything will be all right.”

“But—”

“Look at me, Bernadette. It’s going to be all right.”

She smiled, faintly, then opened the door again, just a slit.

A small sliver of light fell through the slit and down on the floor where it lay like a separation line between her and him—and so did the voice of Dr. Mabbs.

“Now I’m already awake, I can just as well look after the gut shot in room four. The Captain might need another dose of—”

The rest of the sentence was absorbed from the door Bernadette had hastily closed.

“Adam!”

He’d nearly cried. The worst had not been that their escape had been thwarted; the worst had not been that had Dr. Mabbs not checked on another soldier before he’d come to “the gut shot in room four” he’d have caught them right in the middle of said room four, like burglars or misbehaving children or escaping prisoners of war; the worst had not been that in their haste to get him out of his boots and pants and that ridiculous lumberjack shirt they’d aggravated his not yet healed wound, pulled open barely knitted flesh, torn overstretched skin—no, the worst had been none of those. The worst had been that he’d had to hobble all the way back, had to give back every gained foot, every hard-won inch, every goddamn step he’d made.

The way back had been even more taxing than the way to the door. Not only because he’d been worn out already—it was the thought that all his arduous labour had been for nothing, and the knowledge that even without the arrival of Dr. Mabbs their attempt at flight had been destined to fail.

They made it barely in time. Bernadette, having just secured the bundle of clothes they’d practically ripped from Adam under her wide skirt, was dabbing cold sweat from his face, when they heard the door open and Dr. Mabbs come in.

The bulky man walked through the room surprisingly noiselessly, paused somewhere and murmured something unintelligible, then moved back, softly speaking to himself, “Well, well, well. All is quiet.”

And then Adam’s notebook slipped through Bernadette’s nervous fingers and landed on the floor with a crash that echoed through the silent room like thunder.

“What the deuce…?”

Dr. Mabbs’s footfalls were much louder than before as they hurried to the back of the room. He was carrying a small oil lamp that sent out flickering vanguards of light and caught the hem of Bernadette’s skirt, then wandered up to her frozen face.

“For God’s sake, Nurse Lemont! You gave me the fright of my life.” The doctor held the lamp higher, and the flames casted shadows on his face giving it an almost demonic expression. “What are you doing here in the darkness anyway?”

Bernadette’s answer was a shaking finger pointing at Adam’s leg that lay uncovered upon the blanket, its bandage a mess of blood and pus.

Dr. Mabbs suppressed a curse, and then, barking out orders Bernadette followed without asking twice, set himself to undress the wound, prodded and probed it and pressed out more pus. The pain outclassed everything Adam had experienced earlier that night, but he passed out only when the doctor started lancing the wound.

He woke from a stinging pain as his leg was dressed in fresh bandages. His mouth was dry and he felt the telltale signs of fever and fatigue that seemed to have become an integral part of his very being. His head was lifted, Bernadette, and then a glass touched his lips and he sipped cool, slightly bitter water. Laudanum. At least sleep will come easy.

“I don’t know what you did to reopen that wound yet again,” Dr. Mabbs said, only inches from his face.

Adam felt a fine spray of spit going down on his cheeks and, disgusted, tried to move his head, but the doctor held it in place.

“I don’t know what it is,” he hissed. “But I strongly advise you to stop it—even though this time it seems to have been a blessing because it opened a hidden abscess.”

He let go of Adam’s face and turned to Bernadette. “And I strongly advise you to stop anything that exceeds what is considered usual between nurse and patient. Now clean up and then go home. Your shift is over.”

She had just nodded then, and silently watched Dr. Mabbs leaving, then had collected bloodstained cloths and surgical instruments in an enamel basin, and wiped the floor with a rag she thereafter had deposited it the basin, too.

Adam had tried to talk to her, but she’d given only short answers, never really interrupting her actions. In the end, after she’d taken the basin away, she’d come back wiping her hands on her apron, had sat down on the edge of his bed and heaved a deep breath before she’d said in a steady voice, “I love you, Adam. I won’t do anything that’ll bring harm to you.”

He’d stared at her, stunned by her bluntness and moved by her sincerity. Overwhelmed by the enormity of her words. Speechless.

“But I will save you, and if it is the last thing I do.” And then she’d leaned forward, taken his face in her hand and softly—oh, so softly—pressed her lips on his.

She’d gone right after the kiss, telling him he shouldn’t fight the pull of the laudanum anymore and should just allow himself to sleep.

But he found he couldn’t. He still felt her lips on his, still felt his heart beating quicker, the heat intensifying all over his body. He still felt her lithe body under his hands as he’d embraced her, her trembling and her softness. He still felt her hair tickling his face, her breath on his cheek. Still felt the want—and the shame about it.

He hadn’t said it back, hadn’t said he loved her, even though he did. He hadn’t said it back, and he was ashamed of that, too. But he couldn’t say it. He’d tried—but the words hadn’t made it out of his mouth. He wondered if he’d ever said them, at any time in his life. He thought he’d loved before, but could he be sure?

He didn’t know how he was supposed to live without the memory of those things. How he was supposed to assess his feelings when he had no memories to compare. How he was supposed to evaluate anything if he had no references from his past?

No doubt, a human being was more than just the sum of his memories. But without knowledge of his history, he felt bereft of his roots, of his base. As if the ground on which he was relying was a spit of quicksand: always threatening to give way—or to swallow him completely.

Bernadette tried to make him see the good in it. That he might be a blank page but didn’t have to stay one. That he could just grab the chance and fill that page with a completely new story. That he didn’t need an old history to write a new one.

She was right, in a way. But yet something kept him from writing the first word; something told him it was important to know what had been erased.

That dream, that ever recurring dream about the stormy sea and the pleading voice—that was important, Adam was sure of it. The person belonging to that voice, that familiar voice, she must be important. Somehow he was convinced that the key to his past lay in that person, that once he reached her, he would recognise her—and know.

Was she the reason he couldn’t tell Bernadette he loved her? Was it that easy? Was there someone else in his life?

He touched his lips with a tentative finger, brushed over them, then made a fist and pressed it against his mouth. Closing his eyes, he let the feeling of something at his lips wash over him, the memory of Bernadette’s kiss, gave it space…and time… And then he remembered another kiss. Another kiss, just as unexpected, just as exciting, just as…not-right. And a face: pretty like a porcelain doll, with a heart-shaped mouth and bright blue eyes that stared at him, wide and sad, as if he’d done something wrong.

She wasn’t the woman from his dream, of that Adam was absolutely certain. The woman from his dream meant a lot; the disappointed porcelain doll meant surprisingly little to him. And yet, her image had come to him as he’d tried to find out if there was someone somewhere waiting for him. Was she trying to tell him that there was no one important? That loving Bernadette wasn’t wrong?

With that comforting thought he finally gave in to the lure of the drug, and slipped into a healing sleep.

He started dreaming even before he was completely out, and his last conscious thought was to be surprised he wasn’t caught in the stormy sea again but instead found himself in field of fragrant, full-blown cream-coloured roses. Queen de Bourbons.

__________

One word
Frees us of all the weight and pain of life:
That word is love.
~ Sophocles

*River of pain in the ancient Greek mythology

Chapter 15

Crossing Bridges

Back in the saddle, hallelujah! Joe spurred his horse into a short gallop, just for the sake of it, just for the feel of not being restrained, just for a few minutes of revelling in that glorious sense of freedom only a good lope brought—or perhaps a stolen kiss behind the sheriff’s office. Doctor Martin wouldn’t exactly be happy if he could see him right now, and with good reason. Joe’s newly healed side hurt like nobody’s business whenever Cochise misstepped and he had to follow the horse’s movements to balance himself. Spending the day sitting either on horseback or on a hard wooden chair in Billy-Bob Colston’s jail cell and wandering down A Street to the telegraph office hadn’t helped ease the soreness, either. And so Joe allowed himself only a short spurt and reined his horse in before he could actually aggravate his side. Pa kept an ever-vigilant eye on him, and Joe knew that at any sign of discomfort he’d be confined to another round of nerve-grating staying-at-the-ranch-doing-nothing.

And, honestly, Joe had read enough dime novels, cleaned enough rifles and repaired enough cinches and halters. Had squandered enough time on that danged old settee. He needed to be outside, to be at the fresh air, to see people and places, to do things. To do things and maybe forget—

No, he wouldn’t. Wouldn’t forget. Not with those dreams about a haunted and lost-looking Adam he still had nearly every night; not with Pa’s face looking older, more tired, more lined each day—ever since two weeks ago, Hoss’s telegram had arrived with the grave news about Juliet and her baby.

He’d almost forgotten it all while he’d talked to Billy-Bob. The man had been a sorry sight: unwashed and with dirty clothes like most long-term jailbirds, he had the shaking hands and the gaunt look of someone who’d been deprived of his usual intake of alcohol for a long period of time and now suffered from the resulting inability to keep food inside. Sitting on his cot with slumped shoulders and his head hanging, his whole demeanour spoke of misery and resignation.

Billy-Bob had confirmed what Joe had heard from the sheriff already: the miner had lost his job at the Ophir Mine; and even though Joe was determined to talk to Mr. Hamish, the mine’s foreman, or perhaps even ask Pa to do that, he didn’t think it would help much. Maybe Pa would find another way to make sure Billy-Bob would be able to earn his living after having been acquitted of charges. A small patch of land at the outskirts of the Ponderosa, perhaps…

It hadn’t been easy to convince Billy-Bob that pressing charge against him and then hiring Hiram Wood as defence lawyer was the best choice of action. With Joe testifying for Billy-Bob and Hiram’s well-known ability to make juries see things his way, a non-guilty verdict was as good as guaranteed—but Billy-Bob had not seen it that way. In fact, he considered it another act of “Cartwright high- and mightiness” at first.

“Yer thinking y’can jest lock me away ferever, ain’t ya?” he had yelled and leapt up, but Joe stopped him with a dark glance.

“Sit,” he said. It did come out more sharply then intended, and was enhanced by Roy’s hollering from the office to “keep it down” or he wouldn’t allow Billy-Bob any more visitors—and it made Billy-Bob collapse down onto his cot instantly when what little gumption he’d had left just dissipated.

He remained sitting there for the rest of Joe’s stay, motionless but for an occasional shrugging of his shoulders and faint flutter of his arms, which might have looked almost comical had it not reminded Joe of a beetle impaled alive on a display needle.

“Billy-Bob,” Joe tried “it’s not what you think. I don’t want you to go to prison.”

“Then why’re you pressin’ charges?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do. Otherwise…people would think it fishy if we just drop charges. This way it’ll all be fair and square; and you’ll be officially cleared.”

Digesting this, Billy-Bob chewed the inside of his mouth and considered Joe through narrowed eyes for quite a while before he said, “And why’re ya doin’ this fer me, huh?”

“I…” Joe sighed and fidgeted on the hard stool, partly to find a more comfortable position, partly to stall for time to find out what exactly had made him do it. ‘Adam would do it that way’ was a valid motivation in Joe’s world, but he knew that others wouldn’t necessarily see it that way. “It’s…the whole thing…I mean, somehow I started it when I smacked you back then and I…I shouldn’t have…I’m sorry I did it, really.”

“Yeah,” Billy-Bob said. “And I’m sorry, too, I reckon. ’Bout the things I done said then, and ’bout…well, ’bout shootin’ at ya.” And then he shrugged and flapped his arms and finally looked Joe square in the eye. “I jest wanted to scare ya a little, not—Joe, I’d never hurt a lady.”

Joe had nodded, and then he and Billy-Bob had sat in mutual silence and watched dust particles dance in the small ray of sun coming through the cell’s tiny window.

Eventually Roy had come and said that Joe had stayed long enough, and that his jail wasn’t a meeting hall. Joe, who’d known he’d been stalling, had left only reluctantly and promised Billy-Bob to stop by again soon. And then he’d dragged himself to the telegraph office like he’d promised Pa—even though he didn’t agree with his father about the content of the telegram he’d been made to send.

Pa had been devastated by Hoss’s telegram. They both had been shaken by the news, but Pa…Pa had seemed more affected, more struck. He’d blamed himself that he’d not noticed Juliet’s delicate condition, that he’d not held her back—ignoring Joe’s reminder that he couldn’t have held her back because she’d left the house in the wee hours of morning, unseen by anyone.

Mourning the child that would never live and fearing for the mother, they’d included prayers for both, Juliet and her child, in the blessing before supper every day, but somehow it hadn’t given Pa any peace—not the way it used to. He’d aged visibly in only a few days, sleeping badly if at all, eating too little and thinking too much. Far too much.

One night, around midnight, Joe had caught him sitting motionless in Adam’s blue chair which he’d moved to stand before the fireplace, staring unseeingly into the embers. He’d hesitated, but just for a spell, and then he’d silently gone and squatted down next to the chair and put an arm around Pa’s shoulders.

“You gotta move on, you know,” he’d said softly. “Brooding won’t help you any. We have to keep—”

“Yes, exactly,” Pa had interrupted him. He hadn’t averted his eyes from the dying fire, as if he’d seen things in there Joe couldn’t. “Life goes on. What happened, happened; and there’s no way we can change it. We can only change what lies ahead.”

“What…?”

“This…insanity has to stop. Right now.”

“Which insan—I don’t know what you mean, Pa.”

“I’m calling them home, Joe. This family has made enough sacrifices.”

“But—”

“Juliet has lost her baby, she’s nearly lost her life—and all for a fruitless search. I won’t allow her to endanger herself more after she’s recuperated. She has to come home and find peace.”

“Pa, you can’t …Adam is out there somewhere, they have to find him!”

“Son, we have to accept that Adam might not—” He bit his lip, then squeezed out, “…be there anymore.”

“But Pa…”

“And if he’s out there, he will come back on his own eventually. After all those weeks, how good a chance do you think they have to find him?”

“You want them to give up on him?”

“I want them to stay safe. I want Henry to have a mother, I want Juliet to pick up her life again, I want Hoss to be relieved of the burden to carry them all; I want them to be whole and I want them to be at home, where we can support each other.”

Joe slowed Cochise down to a leisurely walk. No need to hurry, why not prolong being out for a spell? It seemed easier to think out here, as if the open range gave his thoughts wings. Perhaps that was what Adam had meant whenever he’d said he needed to clear his mind and then had ridden away and been gone for days.

Joe’s thoughts flew back to that night Pa had set his mind. He understood him, but he still disagreed. No matter if Pa said otherwise, abandoning the search for Adam seemed like acknowledging the fact that he was dead, like giving up, like betrayal.

And even though he’d done what he’d reluctantly promised and sent the telegram as his father had worded it, he fervently hoped that for once Hoss would not obey the words that admitted Pa’s defeat.

*****

“NO MORE SACRIFICES STOP COME HOME IMMEDIATELY STOP PA”

Hoss rescued the telegram from Henry’s wet grip and managed to fold it in half and put it back onto the nightstand before the boy could make another attempt at grabbing it again. Henry had obviously developed a taste for paper over the last few days. He crumpled up every piece he could get a hold of, be it a page from a book or a letter, and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing happily on it as if it were the most toothsome thing he knew.

Securing the baby on his lap with one hand Hoss reached down to the floor to where Henry’s newest toy had fallen moments ago, giving him a reason to look for something else to abuse. Ever since he’d discovered that other things than his own hands and feet could be toys, too, Henry had made it his habit to grab everything he could reach and then pick and prod at it, pinch and pluck—before he’d inevitably stuff it into his mouth. Mrs. Milward had finally made him a rag doll, to keep his hands from cups and saucers, silver spoons and, yes, papers.

Hoss plucked the doll up and handed it to Henry, who snatched it from him with a happy crowing and immediately began to pick at the thick blue zigzag stitches that marked the doll’s overalls before he diverted his attention to its face.

“Da,” he said, prodding one green eye. Then, looking up at Hoss’s face, he repeated, “Da.”

“Yeah, that’s his eye, ainnit?” Hoss said with a smile.

“Da.” Henry pointed to the other eye.

“Well, that’d be the other eye then, little feller.”

“Da, da, da, da ,da,” Henry cooed cheerfully.

“Shh.” Hoss glanced to the bed beside him. “Yer mother is sleeping.”

Henry considered him for a moment, then leaned back on Hoss’s arm and said very softly, “Da, da, da.” The doll went into his mouth and he chewed upon it with much enthusiasm, making little munching sounds.

“Atta boy,” Hoss chuckled.

His eyes went back to the bed where Juliet lay, pale and unmoving, but finally sleeping naturally and peacefully. He’d been keeping vigil over her for long days and nights, watching her fight for her life still and silent, in her own trademark containment. Countless times he’d held his hand under her nose to see if she was still breathing or if she’d gone already, quiet and dignified. Unnoticed.

Her stillness had perturbed Hoss. From his brothers’ sick beds he was used to flailing limbs, to head throwing and to speaking in the sleep. He’d calmed them after nightmares, held them down when delusions misled them into action and soothed them when they’d talked nonsense. He’d seen them writhe and squirm, and heard them groan and cry.

Juliet had done none of that. She’d lain there, completely motionless, the rise and fall of her chest too soft to be noticed, and even her breath so shallow that it couldn’t be heard. The doctor had said she was too weak to move, the blood loss too severe, that her body needed every ounce of strength to simply survive. But Hoss had suspected that that wasn’t the only thing that kept her silent: that she didn’t let herself go because a lady just didn’t do that.

Only once had she woken out of her stupor, and it had scared Hoss nearly to death. It had been in the early hours of morning, shortly before sunrise, and he’d just relieved Mrs. Milward from her night watch when Juliet had suddenly sat up. Her eyes wide, she’d stared into nowhere, her gaze focused, that much Hoss had seen, but on what? And then she’d stretched her arms out, as if she’d been trying to reach what ever she’d seen, and said, “Help me, Adam. I need you.”

After that, she’d never woken again. She’d worsened throughout the next few days, constantly getting weaker. They’d thought they’d lost her, not once but several times; and the doctor’s grave prognosis had fuelled their fears: they’d prepared for the worst.

Taking turns at Juliet’s bedside, they’d made sure she’d never been alone. And so Hoss had been on his own when a kind reverend had spoken a benediction over a tiny mound of earth at the Evergreen Cemetery. It had been difficult enough to find a man of God who was willing to do this small service. To his utter disgust, Hoss had learnt that the contains of the tiny bundle of cloth, that what should have been Juliet’s and Adam’s second child, was not considered a person, not someone with a soul by most people to whom he’d spoken. A clergyman from the Lutheran Seminary finally had shown mercy, and rendered the child the last service. It had given Hoss some peace of mind, and he’d tried to memorise everything of the short ceremony in the hopes that a rendering of his memories would help Juliet to find peace, too.

It had been Henry who’d made the difference, who’d brought a change in Juliet’s condition—about that Hoss was certain. Mrs. Milward had brought him into the bedroom one day, declaring that he needed to be nursed to maintain the milk supply—and from that day on, Juliet seemed to, well, not really improve, but not longer worsen, either.

The final breakthrough had come when Henry had made it very clear that he wanted to stay with his mother, and they’d let him sit on Juliet’s bed and play with the rag doll or sleep where he’d wriggled himself into the crook of his mother’s arm. Juliet had finally woken up every once in a while, had been lucid and responsive, and been able to stay awake longer at each time.

“Da,” Henry said again, and held the rag doll on his outstretched arm up to Hoss face.

“No, thanks,” Hoss grinned. “I ain’t hungry, right now. Funny as it seems.”

Then Henry turned around and held the doll out to the bed—and suddenly his face lit up into one of his fat, toothless smiles. “Da,” he cried. “Da, da!”

Hoss had no doubt as to why Henry was so happy. He looked to the bed, and saw Juliet, awake and smiling, her face still showing a sickly pallor but also reflecting the light of Henry’s smile. Hoss helped her sit up propped against a mountain of pillows he placed behind her back, then seated Henry next to her. Henry, obviously happy with himself and the world, waved the doll at his mother and excitedly babbled his “da, da, da” in never ending succession.

Being able to sit and to stay awake for a longer period of time was an achievement of the past two days, as was Juliet’s ability to eat nourishing food and actually keep it down. And the recovery of her unique talent to jump into uncomfortable conversations without a forewarning at any odd time.

“Have you sent back a telegram already?” she asked without preamble, while carefully removing the rag doll from the immediate proximity of her face. Then she turned her attention to Henry and, holding his hands and the doll down, said softly, “Mummy isn’t up to digesting rags yet.”

As always, Henry listened intently to his mother’s words, then he leaned forward and reached for her face. She laughed, took his hand and kissed the palm, which made Henry giggle. It didn’t distract her from her inquiry, though.

“Have you?”

“No. I’m not sure…”

“Not sure? We’ve talked about that, Hoss.”

Hoss looked down at his lap where he was kneading his hands. “I’m jest not sure…” He scratched at the back of his neck. “Perhaps we better go home.”

“I’m in no condition to travel anyway. And when I’ve recovered we’re going to continue looking for Adam.” She looked sharply at Hoss. Her eyes bright from the lingering fever but vivacious, they were a sparkling contrast to her tired face. “Or perhaps I will continue searching for Adam. I will not give up.”

He cringed. “This ain’t about giving up. But…I think Pa’s right, we’ve made enough sacrifices. You’ve made enough sacrifices. I don’t want you to hurt no more.”

“Going home won’t stop making us hurt, Hoss.” She held her hand up to stop him from replying when he opened his mouth. “And don’t tell me you are not hurting. I know you are. I’m sorry I poured this…” she made a vague gesture “…upon you. And yet I am so very glad you’re here with me…and Henry. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

He fidgeted on his chair. “It’s all right…”

“And I’d be very grateful if you stayed with me. But I’d understand if you’d rather listen to your Pa and go home.”

He stared at her. Her face was guileless, and yet…

And then she winced and her eye grew wide. “Good gracious, Hoss, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply…. It’s just, I can’t…I can’t go back. I can’t stop searching. I know Adam’s out there, and he’s trying to come back…I know that, Hoss. I don’t know why, I just feel it. And I can’t…just go and leave him alone. He trusts me to wait for him.”

“You can’t know that,” Hoss almost whispered. “He don’t even know you’re here.”

“But if he knew he’d trust me to stay.”

Hoss head spun. What Juliet said was plain loco, delusional, absurd—and yet, it made sense, in some twisted way.

“Are you doing this for Adam or for yerself, Juliet?”

She wrapped her arms around herself, pulled her shoulders up, seemed to practically shrink into herself. “For us both,” she whispered eventually. “For Adam and for me.”

“Then it’s decided.” He pried her hands from her shoulders, encompassed them in his hands, her small, pale hands in his big, tanned; and squeezed tenderly. “We ain’t givin’ up.”

She smiled, just a trace of a smile, and nodded. “No, we…ain’t givin’ up.”

__________

Once you make a decision, the universe conspires to make it happen. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

*****

Chapter 17

Night Shift

Before Dr. Mabbs had retreated to his office to engross himself in writing order lists, filling in forms and file cards, noting statistical numbers and whatnot annoying administrative bunkum the Confederate Army found necessary, the last patient on whom he had checked had been the nameless soldier with the Yankee accent.

Mabbs had examined the leg wound one more time, finding it healing satisfyingly. Most physicians would have taken the easy way and simply amputated a leg injured so badly. A Minie ball had destroyed a lot of tissue, shredded muscle, torn the iliotibial band, and finally lodged in the femur. By some miracle it had not completely shattered the bone, yet it had done considerable damage. The soldier must have been exposed to the elements for at least half a day and a full night—sufficient enough time to develop an infection caused by particles of clothing or other dirt the bullet had carried.

But Bernadette had pled with him not to remove the limb, and both Bernadette’s obvious conviction that he would be able to pull the man through and his own professional pride had made him pick up the challenge and try the almost impossible. And so, having stabilised the patient first, he’d worked on saving as many lives as possible first and then, late at night, come back and performed a little miracle.

He’d done it to prove to himself that after two years of serving in the slaughterhouses referred to as field hospitals he was still a surgeon worth the title, that he still could heal a patient opposed to just keep him alive. And to earn himself another of Bernadette’s admiring glances. Perhaps the latter had even been the superior motive.

Of course, when the nurse’s appreciative gazes had shifted their direction, when she had started to bestow those looks upon the patient rather than on the doctor, Mabbs had questioned the wisdom of his actions. At one point he’d almost been ready for just allowing the ever-rekindling infection to run its destructive ways. But he couldn’t. He loathed the ailing soldier with a passion, but the man still was a patient, and therefore the doctor’s charge. Dr. Mabbs had not sworn the Hippocratic Oath to violate it at the first possibility and gain personal advantage from that. And that Yankee wasn’t worth compromising his honour over anyway.

He had done everything in his power to fight the infection, to heal bone and tissue, and to restore as much of the patient’s mobility as possible. There would, however, remain an ugly scar where he had had to remove larger quantities of inflamed flesh that would not just grow back, a garbled mess of welts and protrusions; and the man wouldn’t have full use of his leg for a long time. He would, in a way, have to learn how to walk properly again and how to live with a constant pain—and that would take a very long time.

Looking down on yet another military form on which he had to meticulously file each ounce of medicine he’d administered over the last week, the doctor sighed. He had given the Yankee a generous dose of laudanum stirred into a small glass of water tonight.

“Drink up,” he’d said as he’d handed the soldier the concoction. “It’ll take away all traces of pain. You’ll sleep like a baby.”

Bernadette, who’d assisted him, had looked up in alarm, but he’d turned away abruptly, to check upon the patient on the next bed, whom he’d thought to have heard moaning. He’d soon found that the man had been perfectly well, and applied his attention back to the Yankee, who apparently had drunk his medicine already, for the glass in his hand had been empty.

He had redressed the wound, making sure the bandage would not slip out of position even if the patient passed a restless night despite the sleeping drug. He’d instructed the nurse to leave some additional dressings on the bedside table, just in case the patient needed them while he, the doctor, would be unavailable, buried in paperwork and not to be disturbed by trifles; and then he had left the room, heading straight to his office.

He stared at the form on the desk before him, briefly wondering if the Yankee was on his way out already. He dismissed the thought as soon as it entered his mind. For all he knew, the patient lay in his bed, drugged into a sound sleep. He’d taken every precaution to keep the man where he was until he, now sufficiently healed, would be transferred to prison the next day. He’d done everything anyone could have expected him to do.

He drummed his fingers on the desk’s dark wood. He was not helping a soon-to-be prisoner escape. He wasn’t.

As a rule, Dr. Mabbs did not drink alcohol while he was working. He needed both his wits and his hands working skilfully and precisely—neither he nor his patients could afford any clumsiness, be it of his fingers or his brain. Yet at times, after a particularly strenuous day, he indulged himself in a sip of whiskey when his work was done. For those occasions he kept an earthen jug of old Kentucky bourbon in his desk.

Stopping the drumming of his fingers, Mabbs leaned down and produced the jug from the depths of the bottommost drawer. A thimble full will do, he thought. Just a tiny drop to calm my nerves.

He found a small tumbler, only a little bigger than a thimble, and poured a stingy amount of the golden liquid into it so that the bottom was marginally covered. Swirling the drink in the glass a few times and inhaling the luxurious fume, Dr. Mabbs found himself unable to raise the glass to his mouth.

He knew there were surgeons who wouldn’t hesitate. He had seen them, in the field hospitals, and some even here, where things were supposed to be more regulated: doctors who drank to dull their senses, to block out the smell of blood and death, the moans and cries of ailing, dying men, the memory of their own restrictions, their failures. Men who got so accustomed to the daily inebriation, they drank till the pot was dry, and still needed more. More and more, to numb their anxiety.

He wasn’t one of those men.

He poured the whiskey back into the jug, his hands calm and steady, without spilling a single drop and replaced the bottle into his desk.

No, he wasn’t one of those men. He was a man of honour. A man who knew right from wrong. A man who did his duty.

And he had not helped a prisoner escape.

Dr. Mabbs picked up his pencil and finally started to fill in the form about the ‘distribution and administration of sedative and anaesthetic drugs,’ making sure he recorded the abundantly measured dose of laudanum he’d used on the unnamed patient in room four to drug him into oblivion.

No, he certainly had not helped anyone to escape.

*****

Bernadette Lemont had been a nurse ever since the first weeks of the war they all thought wouldn’t last long. Being a woman on whom the fine ladies who came to read and talk to patients but never soiled their hands with gore and pus looked down, she still was the one for whom the patients cried in the dark of night when their pain became too big and their dreams unbearable. Now she stood hidden in the shadows next to the window at the end of the first floor corridor staring into the night, contemplating her own delusions.

She wasn’t crying. There was no use in crying: it would change nothing. It was better to accept her fate right now—after all, she’d made her own bed, hadn’t she? Her mistake had been to fall in love; but who would fault her for that? Perhaps she had to be faulted for indulging herself in unrealistic dreams, but she couldn’t bring herself to regret that. It had been good while it had lasted, good and right and wonderful; and now it was over and done with, she had to move on—and never get lost again in fanciful dreams.

It was as easy as that, and as hard as that.

Bernadette tried to peer through the night, to get one last glance at what she could never have had, but Adam’s lone figure had been swallowed by the darkness already.

He had insisted on leaving without her help. “It’s better that way,” he’d said. “If I get caught, it’ll be only me.”

“But you’re still in pain, and clumsy. You’ll need help getting out of here unnoticed.”

“If I can’t even get out of the hospital on my own, how am I supposed to make it to Gettysburg?”

Of course, he’d been right. But still…she’d been reluctant to leave him right then. She’d known she would never see him again, and she couldn’t tear herself from him. Alas, it had to be. The more they tarried and prolonged Adam’s departure, the smaller his lead on possible pursuers would become.

She’d handed him a bundle of civilian clothes: the same camel-coloured pants as before and a matching, non-chequered shirt.

“I’m glad your choice of pattern is a bit more unobtrusive this time,” he’d said and arched an eyebrow.

She’d chuckled silently, and declared, “Well, I thought we’d better not attract attention with our gay apparel, should we?”

It had felt almost like being back to their comfortable companionship, but Adam’s next words had reminded her that there wasn’t a ‘we’ anymore, only a ‘he’ and a ‘she.’

“I’m going to be conspicuous enough, no matter what I wear. I’ll have to stay hidden as much as I can. At least until I’m sure I’ve reached Federal territory.”

She still wondered how he would be able to tell where he was, but he’d seemed confident enough that he’d find his way.

As she’d discreetly wiped away the small pool of clear liquid on the ground where they’d emptied the laudanum while Dr. Mabbs had busied himself with the other patient, Adam had changed into the new set of clothes. She’d been pleased to see that he’d moved much more smoothly than before, that even putting on the pants hadn’t troubled him too much.

She’d given Adam a rough sketch of the hospital’s ground and of Charlottesville’s main streets and buildings, a kind of treasure map—only that the cross on it marked the place where a horse was waiting for Adam, not a buried treasure. But then again, that horse certainly was a treasure much more precious to Adam right then than any strongbox filled with gold and gemstones.

She wished she could have gone with him and guided him through the dark. It was pitch black outside, a moonless night; and it certainly wasn’t as if a star shone down to lead Adam where the horse stood. He could easily get lost or pass by without noticing. The horse was crucial for Adam’s escape; without it he would never be able to put enough distance between himself and the pursuit that would begin come morning. She’d described the way he’d have to go three times and insisted that he’d repeated her instructions. He’d obeyed, smiling, and then assured her he’d be all right.

“I’ll only have to make it outta here without being corned by that lovely doctor again. Are you sure he’s not lurking in a dark corner somewhere?”

“He won’t be a problem, Adam. He—” And then she’d nearly let it all out. A part of her had screamed to confess it all, to beg him to take her with him. But another part of her, a much bigger, much more rational part, had kept her mouth shut and her face impassive and had let her say, “He will be occupied for a long time. He’s nothing if not thorough with his paperwork.”

Bernadette looked out of the window one last time. She knew there would be nothing to see, Lord, there hopefully was nothing to see—Adam had left the hospital hours ago and should be miles away already—but somehow she imagined that her heart would be able to go out, pierce darkness and space and reach Adam, making him see that she’d never stopped loving him, that she never wanted to hurt him, and that—that it would be all right. That he would be all right, and she…and even Dr. Mabbs.

There had been so many things she would have liked to tell him as they’d said their good-byes, things that had had to be left unsaid, and things that should have been said but couldn’t cross her lips.

“Stay safe,” had been all she’d been able to say, nothing else.

And Adam had whispered, “Thank you for my life,” and breathed a chaste kiss on her cheek.

She sighed, smiling to herself, and finally, sending out a small prayer for Adam, turned away from the window to go and check on her patients. She made her round through the silent hospital, opened every door, looked into every room to find everything as it was supposed to be. The lump of blankets on Adam’s bed would have fooled her into thinking it was occupied by a peacefully sleeping man if she hadn’t known it better. There was no need to inquire more closely.

Outside, the church bell tolled five times. Her shift was almost over. She smoothed her apron, adjusted her nurse hat, tugged a lose strand of hair behind her ear and knocked at Dr. Mabbs’s office door.

At his “come in” she entered the room.

Dr. Mabbs looked up. “Is everything in order, nur—Bernadette?”

“Yes, sir. Everything is quiet. No…particular occurrences.”

“Very well.” He put his pencil down and gazed at her for a moment, then nodded a few times. “Very well indeed.”

“Is there anything else, sir?”

“No. You may go home now.” He harrumphed. “And when off duty, if you’re so inclined you might want to call me Robert.”

All she could do was croak, “I’ll do that, si—Robert” and, stunned, watch how his face lit up in a true and genuine smile after that.

*****

Tiredness made Adam shiver. He’d spent hours in the saddle already, and even though riding had seemed familiar to him from the moment he’d mounted the horse, being up and about for such a long time took everything he had—which wasn’t much. After weeks of recovery his body had only just begun to build up strength. He still was thin as a rake, he still tired quickly, and he found himself shaking like a leaf after the smallest exertion.

If he hadn’t already known that, the walk from the hospital to the outskirts of the town would have proved it to him. Despite the chilly night he had been sweating heavily and struggling for breath as he’d reached the small stable where Bernadette had left the saddled horse for him. The fatigue had overshadowed even the spasms in his leg. In fact, walking had turned out to be painful but bearable. Just as earlier that day, it had seemed that the longer he walked—the more practise he allowed his leg—the steadier it became. How much of his stability had to be accounted to his cane, though, had showed when he’d tried to mount the horse.

Until that point, their plan had worked out perfectly. There had been a tense last conversation with Bernadette—too short to appropriately express his gratitude, yet too long to avoid awkwardness. Then, after Bernadette had left, he’d waited a few moments giving her time to get herself busy in another room. He’d taken the conveniently provided spare bandages with him, and his little note book, that was all. Bernadette had assured him she’d put everything he would need in the horse’s saddle bags: food mostly, a hunting knife and a blanket. She’d never owned a gun, and thought it would look too suspicious if she bought one, so he would have to go without. He’d left the letter for Bernadette on his pillow. There was nothing in it that could associate her with his escape, only a declaration of his feelings towards her—words he hoped would give her mind a little peace. It was the least he could do.

As he’d placed the letter, he’d been flashed with the memory of another letter, a bundle of letters, actually, in his hand, and he’d heard his own voice saying, “I wrote these in case of—” Then the letter were snatched out of his hand. He’d seen the hand ripping the letters from him: long slender fingers, delicately manicured yet marred with tiny ink spots—ink spots, again!—and heard her again, the British lady, who spat “I don’t need your blasted letters, I need you!”

It had been the same voice—Lord, why hadn’t he made the connection before?—it had been the same voice he’d heard in his dreams, the voice that had called for his help.

There hadn’t been the time to write it down, but he wouldn’t forget it anyway. Not again. It had accompanied him on the whole way, never left him. He’d heard it all the time, over and over again, that desperate “I need you!”, “I need you!”, “I need you!”

He hadn’t encountered anyone, not on his way through the sleeping building, not on the hospital grounds, not on the road to Charlottesville. It had been almost surreal to walk in the moonless night. While he’d seen only what was in close proximity, had distinguished first trees and bushes, then a few houses and fences only as dark silhouettes, and had felt the way under his feet more than he’d actually seen it, he’d still known exactly where to take a turn, where to walk straight ahead, where to duck and be particularly silent—Bernadette’s accounts had been precise and accurate. He’d found the shabby stable with no problems at all.

And then he’d had to get on the horse. Keeping most of his weight on his good leg, he’d secured the cane to the saddle. That had been the easy part. But the short moment he had had to put full weight on his bad leg to get his left foot into the stirrup he’d felt a sharp pain radiate through almost the entire limb. Uttering a suppressed groan, he’d clung to the saddle to keep himself upright while the irritated horse had leapt forward and then made some nervous side steps.

“Whoa, boy,” Adam had cooed. “You gotta be a little patient with me, I guess.”

He’d scratched the horse behind its ears, and after a while it had calmed down enough to eventually stand still. Adam had gritted his teeth and tried again, this time prepared for the pain, and succeeded. Until that point he hadn’t given it any consideration how accomplished a rider he might be, but as soon as he’d sat on the horse, he’d felt at home. Moving in harmony with the animal had seemed completely natural, as if he’d done it all his life. Well, apparently not a sailor after all, he’d thought wryly.

The horse stumbled. Adam’s eyes flew open. Instinctively reaching for the saddle horn, he stabilised his seat, found his centre again and prevented himself from falling. He’d nodded off. It clearly was time to take a rest. But had he put enough miles between Charlottesville and himself already?

He estimated he’d done around 30 miles by then, more than half the way to Culpeper. He had stayed on the straight road leading north-northeast, as Bernadette had advised him. Not that there’d been another way to go: with almost no light he couldn’t ride safely through the completely dark forests. The road had met the Rivanna River twice and then a few smaller streams. As Bernadette had predicted, the rivers were narrow at the junctions and not very deep, and Adam had easily found fords to cross.

The real challenge would come later, 120 miles further ahead, in the form of the Potomac River. Rumours said the Union Army had built a pontoon bridge somewhere near Berlin only weeks ago, and Adam hoped fervently that it hadn’t been dismantled already.

And that his horse would play along. It seemed to be a reliable horse, well-ridden and already accustoming itself to its new master, and it had trusted him to guide them safely through the streams. But a pontoon bridge was something else entirely. How the horse would take to a moving surface, Adam couldn’t imagine. Perhaps it would trust him enough by then to at least be led over the bridge, but if worst came to the worst, he’d have to leave the animal behind and make the last sixty miles on foot.

Even the thought of that made his leg cramp. Not that riding itself was very comfortable on his leg, but it certainly was easier than walking. Walking sixty miles wasn’t really an option. He’d have to get his horse over that floating bridge, no matter what it would take.

Perhaps you better cross that bridge once you’ve reached it, he thought wryly and chuckled to himself. He should be able to arrive there in four or five days, maybe even earlier, depending on how good the terrain was. That was the crux, really. Using the road would get him quicker to where he wanted to be but he’d be in danger of being spotted; riding through the woods was safer but the uneven ground would slow down his progress considerably.

He spurred the horse back into an easy trot. Better make the most of the last minutes before sunrise. He would retreat into the woods then, find a hideaway to rest and eat, and then carry on. For now he needed to make as many miles as possible before anyone noticed his escape and alerted the military. If he was lucky, that wouldn’t happen until reveille, and no one would expect he had a horse. Then the search would start late and be limited to the immediate vicinity of the hospital, to a perimeter of a few miles only. By the time they realised he had means of transportation and send out wanted telegrams to other towns, he might already be relatively safe in Maryland. If Maryland, being a border state, was safe for him at all.

If he was not lucky, the Home Guard had already been alerted and was chasing him this very minute.

He couldn’t help but look over his shoulder. There was still no one on the road, but the fact that he could actually see that there was no one told him he’d stayed long enough out in the open. The horse didn’t take well to being turned towards the uninvitingly dark woods, though. Flattening its ears and whinnying pitifully it fought Adam every step.

Finally he brought the horse to a stop, giving it time to calm down. He tried the cooing words that had done the trick when he’d had problems mounting. He didn’t know whether it was the soothing words or the fact that the sun slowly rose in the west, but the horse’s nervousness subsided eventually.

Taking a deep breath he gently nudged the horse forward into the shrubbery, when he heard a shot and a cry from behind him: “Hold it right there!”

He didn’t think twice. Digging his heels into the horse’s sides he forced it into a fast trot. Tired as both the animal and he were they wouldn’t stand a chance on the open road, so he went straight into the woods.

The forest was thick, and Adam was thankful for every single ray of early morning sunlight that made it through bushes and the closely growing trees. As if the horse felt that they were chased by predators it no longer resisted him. Passing so closely to tree trunks Adam’s boots almost scraped them, jumping over small bushes, turning at almost impossible angles, the horse followed Adam’s guidance perfectly. The ground was broken, full of holes and loose stones, and no sane man would urge his horse on like Adam did, but it was his only chance to escape capture. He stood in the stirrups, ignoring the pain that flared up in his leg, trying to balance out the horse’s uneven gait. He didn’t see much of the path, but even if he could see it he wouldn’t be able to dodge most of the irregularities—there just wasn’t enough space to avoid them.

He brushed past shrubs, ripped his pants on briars and more than once had to duck his head to avoid low branches. On and on he went, with his heart racing and his ears ringing; never daring to slow down and listen to hear if he still was followed, never even looking back for fear that his shifting weight might prompt the horse into a fatal misstep.

In the end, it didn’t take a glance backwards. Whether from one slipping branch on the ground too many, one grass-covered hole too deep, or one patch of soil too slippery, Adam felt the horse stumble and going over its ankle; he heard the telltale snap of breaking bones. Freeing his feet from the stirrups as the horse collapsed under him, he pushed himself off it with his hands on the withers, and somehow managed to avoid getting trapped under the heavy animal as it hit the ground hard.

He crawled into the nearest bushes, tried to get up and run but to no avail. He found he couldn’t move, couldn’t make his body work. Could only lie and listen to his frantic heartbeat, to the horse’s pained panicky thrashing, and to the eerie quiet beyond that.

__________
A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark…
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Paul Revere’s Ride

Chapter 18

The Bottom of the Pit

He couldn’t get rid of the blood. It kept sticking to his hands no matter how often he tried to wipe it off on dew-covered leaves, on small patches of sharp-edged grass, on bare soil. He still saw traces of dried red in his cuticles, under his finger nails, in the ridges and creases of his hands; he still smelled the metallic tang. It was a constant reminder of what he’d done, of what he had had to do. Of what had to be considered a mercy and yet been barbaric and disgusting.

He hadn’t really thought about the blood before he’d cut the horse’s throat. Then one short and precise incision had severed the jugular and unleashed a fountain of blood, and he’d had to keep the panicked animal’s head down, firm and tender at the same time. It had been over in a few moments—or taken a lifetime, Adam wasn’t sure about that. The only thing he remembered clearly was that he’d stroked the horse’s neck with his thumb while keeping it down, and that he hadn’t loosed his hold for a long time even after it had become completely still.

While he’d lain there, clinging to the dead animal as if that could shelter him from connecting with the world outside that small cosmos of pain and guilt, yet also of surprisingly peaceful quietness, he’d suddenly remembered another horse that had to be put down. And a pair of eyes…sky-blue eyes, the inherent friendliness of which was overshadowed by desperation. Then a voice, new to his flashes of memory yet so very familiar. “Adam,” it had said. “I cain’t do that. I jest cain’t.”

And Adam had whispered into the hide beneath him, “It’s all right, Hoss. I’ll do it.”

Hoss. For a moment he’d tried to match that name with a face, but he’d been too tired to waste energy on something that had proven to be futile time and again. He might remember some names and faces, but they all didn’t mean anything to him. He might collect pieces of the puzzle that was his life, but he couldn’t fit them together to one big picture. It was as if no piece matched another, as if they all belonged to different images. And he couldn’t decide which of those pieces belonged to the one image that might have been the key to everything else.

Eventually he’d become aware of his surroundings, of the chirping of early morning birds, of the rustle of creatures in the underbrush, of the sursurring of insects. Of the sun warming his back, of the morning dew seeping cold through his trousers, and of the stench of sweat and blood that roused him out of his stupor.

Whoever his pursuers were and whatever had made them lose track of him, they could still be out there. On his frantic race he must have left traces. If the men who’d chased him knew who he was, if they hadn’t encountered him by chance and only followed him because he’d taken flight, if they were really looking for him they would follow his trail. And they would find him, sooner rather than later.

And so he’d wiped the knife on the saddle blanket, had unfastened the saddle bags and his cane, and set off.

Searching for a way that wouldn’t be easy to follow, he’d been digging his way through the thickest shrubbery, taking the most broken ground, not caring which direction it led him, ever since. And while the rising sun gave him a vague idea of where he was heading generally, he had no idea how far he might be from the road—or to where he would have to turn to get back there. For all the brightness of the progressing day, he just as well could be stumbling through a coal-black night. Whichever direction he took, his surroundings looked the same, west looked like east, north like south—and he wasn’t immune to the irony of that last thought—as if he’d reached the centre of a green nowhere.

Moving on was arduous work. Tired beyond comprehension and hurt by every limping step he took, he struggled to stay upright. His bad leg was aflame with pain, his right arm and shoulder hurt from leaning on the cane, his head swam from exhaustion, hunger, and thirst. He didn’t dare to stop and rest for fear of falling asleep, and in the fog in his mind he couldn’t keep track of thoughts like “I need to drink.”

What little stability the cane provided decreased as the shadows grew shorter, then longer again. More and more he had to zigzag his way from tree to tree to lean on the trunks for additional support. He stumbled over fallen branches, dents and mounds, stones and tufts of grass. Each step he made was a major challenge, each yard he covered a triumph. He didn’t care anymore that it took him ages to force one foot before the other, that he had to stand and catch his breath after each of those strenuous movements, or that he was drenched in sweat. His mind told him to move on. On, on, on, and on. He’d forgotten why or where to or how, he just knew he mustn’t stop.

And then he lost his footing. Fell over a rock or a tree stump, over a twig or a leaf, an ant or a grain of sand. Fell like a sack of potatoes, face first, into the dirt. He couldn’t get his arms up fast enough to break the fall, the cane got caught in the brushwood and went flying, and Adam was down before he could see where it landed.

Not that he cared. As he found himself lying in the dirt, breathless and sweating, tired and hurting, he stopped being concerned about anything. It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore. It was over. Time to give up, Cartwright.

There, his name finally came naturally to him again. But that was all—all that was left. He might know his name now, but other than that he was just as lost as he’d been when he hadn’t remembered anything. “A babe lost in the woods” Bernadette had called him once, and he’d laughed. Back then it had seemed amusing. Now he actually was lost in the woods—and weak and helpless as a baby.

He was finished. There was no way he could force his aching body another single inch forward. He needed to sleep, to rest, to recover—but if he did his hunters would find him. If he was lucky they would string him up on the nearest tree instead of taking him back to Charlottesville to let him rot away in prison.

And if by some major miracle his pursuers had given up already or lost track of him, how was he supposed to make it to Gettysburg? Even if he got some rest, even if his leg hurt a little less after some sleep, he wouldn’t be able to cover 150 miles or so without a horse—and he wasn’t even sure that he would managed it if he had one. Every improvement in his leg he had thought he felt earlier in the day certainly had turned out to have been an illusion. If he was to make it to Gettysburg—or anywhere—then it would be on a cart.

He was tired. Lord, he was so tired. To sleep, to die… flashed through his mind. To sleep—perchance to dream. He closed his eyes.

And if he just slept? Slept and woke up hours later, better rested, less aching, and no longer hunted? He would need help to make it any further. He was lost in the middle of nowhere, and he couldn’t carry on without help. He snorted. Turned laboriously onto his back and squinted into the clutter of sunlight and shadows, of sky and leaves high above him. No one would find him here. No one. And even if…. He would need a whole streak of luck to be found, and found by someone who would be willing to help an escaped prisoner of war. And luck…luck didn’t seem to be his best friend right now.

A soft breeze moved the leaves in the tree crowns. Adam watched the play of light and darkness. No, he wasn’t delusional enough to hope he would be found by some friendly people. On the contrary, he hoped he wouldn’t be found at all. Wasn’t it enough that he’d endangered Bernadette with his escape? Helping him would cost her dearly if it ever came out. Could he with a clear conscience accept any more help from anyone?

He closed his eyes again and sighed. No, he couldn’t drag more people into this. His life wasn’t worth the sacrifice of others’. His life wasn’t worth…much. Or was it?

He didn’t care. Too tired to even think, too exhausted to roam his scattered memories, he just wanted to sleep—preferably for…ever.

The saddlebags had landed only inches from his shoulder as he’d fallen. He reached out without looking, rummaged in them, and found the knife. There still were traces of the horse’s blood on the blade, crusted and dry now; they looked as if they’d been on it since the knife had been forged. He wiped the blade on his shirt.

Not that it mattered whether the knife was clean or not. Only it did matter. Somehow.

The blade caught a glittering spark of sunlight, its reflection dancing on the greenery as he turned and twisted the knife. A clean blade for a clean cut.

A man’s skin would be much easier to cut up than a horse’s. A man’s blood would run out much faster than a horse’s. A man’s life would end much more smoothly than a horse’s.

He brought the blade up to his throat. Used the tip of it to scratch his jaw where a running bead of sweat tickled him.

Hesitated.

Pressed the edge of the blade against the soft skin of his neck just above the collarbone.

Waited.

To sleep—no more—and by a sleep to say we end the heartache…. The added pressure brought relief, and hope. The promise of a dreamless sleep. Peace.

Now.

*****

“The point is, Mrs. Cartwright, that there aren’t many military hospitals left here in Gettysburg.” Surgeon Major Harrington tried to keep the impatience out of his voice, but he was aware that he wasn’t doing a very good job with it. “Most casualties are healed by now. Those who are not will be evacuated to Washington and Philadelphia within the next weeks.”

“Then we have to hurry and—”

“With all due respect, ma’am: no.”

She blinked. Frowned. Shook her head.

Her brother-in-law gave her a worried glance. He’d done that a few times already, and Harrington thought the man had every reason to do so. The lady looked as if she’d been ill recently: deadly pale, her face almost haggard, her clothes fitting a little too loosely, her hands trembling when she didn’t clasp them. Interestingly, that didn’t make her look frail. As she sat there opposite him, straight and upright, her chin slightly raised and her jaw decisively set, she couldn’t have appeared more imperious if she’d been perfectly well. And her tone matched her air perfectly. “I’m afraid, I don’t understand, Major.”

Surgeon Major Harrington had been trained to command men, to deal with undisciplined soldiers, insubordinate orderlies, and ill-tempered superiors, and with enemy fire. Not with persistent women. And certainly not with distressed women. He would, however, try his best.

“Ma’am,” he started, cautiously avoiding her piercing gaze. “I don’t think further searching for your husband will make much sense. If he were in one of the remaining infirmaries we’d know of it. The same goes for any other hospitals he could have been taken to. We would know.”

“You would?”

“We have lists.”

“Lists.” It was amazing how much doubt she could put into one single word.

“Yes, lists.” Well, he could be imperious, too. This was a question of honour. “The Army of the Potomac is very well organised. We have lists of all our wounded. And of all our soldiers who were taken prisoners by the reb—by the Confederates. Your husband is on neither of them.”

She didn’t understand. No, she didn’t. That was plain to see. The big man beside her seemed to have a vague premonition, but he didn’t say a word. Harrington sighed. He didn’t like it, but someone had to say it—and apparently he had to be that someone.

“Look, Mrs. Cartwright, you have to…understand. It has been more than two months since the battle. If your husband had been treated in any of our hospitals, we would know it. If he’d been taken prisoner, we would know it. But we don’t—and that means that he…that he is gone.”

She frowned. Her brother reached out and took her hand. Harrington saw her struggling against his grip, trying to pull her hand away, then giving up.

She didn’t say anything, she just looked blankly at him.

“He’s fallen, Mrs. Cartwright. There’s no other explanation.”

No reaction.

“He died a hero, Mrs…. ” He took a deep breath. He didn’t want to fob her with platitudes, but platitudes were all he had to offer. They were all he’d been trained to provide. And so he rushed to deliver them all. “He died a hero, fighting for his country. For the unity of this great land, and for the equality of all men. Perhaps that will be a comfort for you: that he didn’t die in vain but to ensure a great victory that will lead to—”

“Rubbish.”

“Pardon?”

“That’s…ridiculous.”

“But…”

“You do have lists of the wounded and of the imprisoned, do you not? You surely have a list of the fallen, too, don’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“Is my husband on that list?”

“No, but—”

“Then we don’t know if he’s dead, do we? There’s no proof.”

“But the only logical conclusion—”

“I don’t accept that.”

“Ma’am, you have to—”

“No.”

“Now, Juliet…” Cartwright spoke up the first time since his initial “Howdy, Major,” but the lady silenced him with a sharp look.

She sat up even straighter than before; and Harrington could see how she deliberately squared her shoulders. “I want to talk to General Schurz,” she said. “Now.”

Harrington frowned. “Ma’am, that’s not possible.”

“That’s what you told me two months ago, too. But I won’t take no for an answer this time.”

“Mrs. Cartwright, you can’t talk to General Schurz because the general isn’t here anymore.”

“He isn’t?”

“Most of the Army left Gettysburg in early July. Surely you must have noticed that, ma’am. Naturally, General Schurz went with his corps.”

“So he was gone already the first time I inquired after him? Why didn’t you tell me back then?”

“At the time that information was confidential.”

She gave him an annoyed look. As if the idea that any information could be withheld from her was an insult in itself. “Where is he now?” she demanded.

“I can’t tell you.” Harrington took care to lace his words with all the authority his position as commanding officer gave him. “That information is con—”

She wasn’t deterred. “Don’t think you can cow me into refraining from further inquiry, Major Harrington. And don’t take me for a fool. The newspapers say the Army has been following Lee to the south. They have crossed the Potomac and are advancing into Virginia. I assume that is correct?”

Harrington took a deep breath. “Ma’am, please. I do not take you for a fool, most certainly not. But I am not entitled to share information that might be war-deciding. I can’t tell you anything beyond what’s in the newspapers. Which is, indeed, correct.”

She nodded. And surprised him. “I understand.”

“Ma’am,” he tried again. “Even if you were able to talk to General Schurz he wouldn’t tell you anything other than I’ve told you already. Your husband is dead. The wounded were identified, the captives were identified. But not all the fallen were identified. Many were buried on the battlegrounds, many were…unidentifiable. The list of the fallen is the only list that’s not exhaustive.”

She shook her head. “No…”

Harrington sympathised with her. Of course, she was refusing to face the truth; but the sooner she would accept the unthinkable, the sooner she could start to cope with it, to heal. He glanced at her companion, his eyes silently begging for assistance. But Cartwright’s eyes didn’t seem to see anything. He, obviously, had accepted the truth already, and was fighting for composure.

“I am very sorry, ma’am, sir. But be sure, your husband, your brother served—”

“He isn’t dead.” Suddenly she stood. Very tall, very upright. “I know he isn’t—” She gasped, clutched her chest. Her eyes lost focus, what little colour she had drained from her face, her mouth worked wordlessly. She swayed.

Cartwright leapt to his feet and caught her before she fell. He eased her back into her chair. “Juliet, you cain’t go on like that.” He was a big man, tall and broad. But his voice was soft and tender—as if he were talking to a small child. “You’re making yerself sick again.”

She accepted the glass of water the major handed her with a nod and a weak smile, and drank while Cartwright hovered over her, supervising her cautious, tiny little sips.

There was something intimate in that scene, as if they were in their own private bubble, and Harrington felt like an intruder watching it. He looked away, down at his hands, at the papers before him on the desk. A case sheet, the chart of a patient who’d had his leg amputated weeks ago and who was still fighting an infection of the stump. One of those patients who would have to stay for some more weeks until they could be transported to a permanent hospital in the bigger cities.

There were so many of those men. In the first days after the battle they had had to care for 21,000 wounded. A good hundred physicians for 21,000 injured men. Harrington didn’t want to think about the percentage of men who’d died in their care. There were so many they had healed or to whom they still were tending, and he would rather focus on them.

The Army had been long gone, but the medical corps was still picking up the pieces, and sometimes Harrington feared that they hadn’t got a dustpan big enough to gather all the shattered remains. Having to deal with Mrs. Cartwright and her brother-in-law made him realise once again that cleaning up the mess the war left behind would entail much more than just healing the wounded.

The glass being placed onto the desk made Harrington turn his attention back to his visitors. Cartwright was crouching before his sister’s chair. He was holding both her hands. “Let’s go home,” he said. “Home.”

The lady still looked as if she’d seen a ghost. Her voice was a mere whisper, and yet there was a determination in it that Harrington found hard to resist.

“This is not the end, Hoss,” she said, shaking her head. “It can’t be.”

*****

More pressure. Just a tiny bit more, just a whit beyond the comfortable. Breaking skin, and then more and—

“… end the heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation devoutly to be wish’d.” Had he said it aloud? Perhaps.

But perhaps it had been only in his mind, just as her voice was now.

“And just because Marlowe has said that, you think I’ll accept it?” she said. Her voice the same soft, pleasant alto he’d heard before. The same sophisticated, precise diction. The same clipped British accent.

Only this time he remembered how he had answered. “It was Shakespeare who said that, Juliet.”

“Oh, Marlowe, Shakespeare, whatever you call him.”

“Yeah, whatever you call him. I prefer Shakespeare though; and I just love his immortal words: Come live with me, and be my love; and we will all the pleasures prove that hills and valleys, dales and fields, woods or steepy mountain yields.”

“Now that is really Marlowe, Adam!”

“Oh, Marlowe, Shakespeare, whatever you call him, Mylady.”

He actually felt her. Felt how he held her tightly to his chest with her face buried in his shoulder, and how she trembled with silent laughter. Felt more than he heard her whisper, “Say it again, Adam.”

“Say what?”

“The…immortal words.”

“Come live with me, and be my love…”

He remembered how content he’d been then. He remembered.*

And he remembered more: her eyes, green, dark with worry, and deep as the ocean; and a whisper. “Promise me you’ll come back.”

“You know I can’t promise that.”

“Then promise me you’ll try.”

“I will. I promise.”

Then a kiss. He remembered the kiss. Passionate and hungry, long, savouring. Right. No regret, no guilt, no reservations. Just love. Home. The place where he belonged, his destination. His…Juliet.

And then a flood wave of images washed over him. Sparkling green eyes, kind and tender first, then stormy and passionate. A shower of faint freckles on pale cheeks, a stubborn set jaw, soft red lips; a waterfall of dark golden locks on crisp white bed linen, long, slender fingers, ink-stained, ghosting over his dark chest hair, his navel, and further… The same elegant hands holding a book, a pen, a teacup, gesturing animatedly, tending to a newborn. The black-haired baby nursing on a creamy breast, sleeping peacefully in a Moses basket, kicking his arms and legs: Henry, his son. Snippets of conversations: “I see you and me together. And that’s the most beautiful thing I can imagine.” “We’ll be late…” “Oh, I most certainly hope so.” “This isn’t your war, Adam.” “What about Henry? What about me? Us?”

And he remembered it all. He remembered.

“Forever,” he’d said as he’d kissed her for the last time. Her. Juliet. His wife. His love and his anchor.

And she’d whispered it back, that promise: “forever.”

Reluctantly he pulled himself out of the memories—his memories—gathered the saddlebags, stored away the knife. He looked around, spotted a place to his right, a patch of flat ground covered with grass and moss sheltered by a large elderberry bush. He would go looking for his cane later, when he was rested. For now he was content with stretching out on the soft ground and giving in to the overwhelming desire for sleep.

He closed his eyes and let himself slip back into the sea of memories, where he was welcomed by the face he’d hoped for, so familiar he couldn’t believe he’d ever forgotten it. Juliet’s left eyebrow was raised and she displayed that endearing lopsided smile as she greeted him, “Well, it’s about time, wouldn’t you say?”

Her silvery laughter gently escorted him to sleep.

__________

Memories and dreams are precious things, Adam. They’re always there when you need them most. ~ Ben Cartwright in “Elizabeth My Love”

*****

Chapter 19

Smile, Fortuna!

He slept. Woke up, drank one, two sips from his canteen, ate a small amount of the grub he found in the saddle bags, probed at his red-swollen leg, listened to the buzzing quiet of the forest, then fell back into slumber. At times he woke to moist darkness, then to blazing hot brightness.

And he dreamt. Dreamt of a big ranch house surrounded by giant pine trees; of cattle, huge herds of cattle grazing on rich, green pastures; of horses in a corral, and of himself, breaking a wild sorrel. Dreamt of people: men on horses, women in a busy street, ranch hands, a sheriff with a silly moustache and friendly eyes, a doctor with a soothing voice, an old lady with a frilly dress who said “young chap” to him; of sky blue eyes under a ten-gallon hat, of an infectious giggle, and of a strong, reassuring hand on his shoulder.

He wasn’t always sure if he was dreaming or waking, found himself often reaching out into empty air to keep an image from fading away, a person from leaving, or even a sound from decaying, devastated at the loss of a happy memory: the touch of a soft hand or the sense of being where he belonged. Other times he was relieved to find himself able to leave a particularly horrid vision and wake up in his green refuge.

Once or twice he thought he heard the rustle of underbrush, the distant sound of shouts, hoof beats, gunfire. But whether in his dreams or in reality, of that he couldn’t be sure—and in all honesty he didn’t care, either. Whenever he was completely lucid and aware of his whereabouts, the air around him was warm and quiet and the grass beneath him soft and pleasantly fragrant. And that was all he needed, all he desired.

He lost track of how much time passed by. Not being able to accurately distinguish dream from reality made counting the changes from light to darkness and back useless anyway. He let himself drift, caring just for the most basic of needs, and felt his sense of security grow as he slowly metamorphosed into a somewhat natural component of the woods. His presence didn’t seem to disturb the forest’s balance anymore—he felt indiscernible.

Eventually he woke up to crisp morning light, alert and fully aware of his surroundings, of the fact that he, indeed, was not dreaming anymore. He pried himself free of the blanket in which he must have entangled his legs during one of the more violent dreams and, stretching his arms and back, sat up. The persistent ache in his shoulders and neck had abated, the pain in his leg subsided to a tolerable level. His weariness had given way to a sensation of cautious optimism. To say he was well and rested would have been an exaggeration, but he was feeling…capable of dealing with himself and the world again.

Determining that his first concern had to be his well-being, for everything depended on his ability to function, he made a quick survey of his provisions. Bernadette had stocked the saddle bags well: there were strips of beef jerky, some apples, a half-empty packet of hardtack. He must have lived on the other half those past few days—which explained the almost empty canteen, and the dryness in his mouth.

He sighed, then resigned himself to a breakfast of hardtack and apple. The biscuit didn’t get any softer or juicier, but it seemed to go down easier when combined with bites of the sour fruit. He had visions of flapjacks covered in honey and then of two men sitting at a dinner table, a pile of pancakes between them. “Hey, Joe, gimme another pancake” and “Joe” threw one, exactly hitting the other’s held-out fork. He remembered the men’s faces from his dreams, they seemed familiar…he couldn’t put his finger on it, not quite, not yet, but he was sure…very sure that he was close to it.

Sloshing the water in the canteen, he decided to use some of the sparse leftovers to clean the wound on his leg. The bandage was crusted with a yellowish clot, and he had to dampen it to be able to pull it off without causing new damage. The upper leg was still slightly swollen, warm to the touch and a little red. The newly grown skin on the huge wound area was tender, discoloured in vivid red and angry violet, and in some places broken-up and seeping clear fluids. Dr. Mabbs had said that it wouldn’t get much better, that with time the colouring would fade into a more natural shade of pink, and the breaks would heal, but that the cratered expanse of scar tissue would remain for ever. All he could hope for, so the doctor had said sounding almost pleased, was that the skin would become more elastic eventually, softer, less taut, less irritable, and perhaps—perhaps—a little more even.

With a fresh, moistened bandage Adam carefully sponged the secretions away, then redressed the wound. Buttoning up his trousers, he smiled wryly. There certainly were more pressing matters concerning him at the moment than the disfiguration of his leg: find water to refill his canteen, for example, find food before he ran low on vittles, find a way back to the road, find the strength to make it to Gettysburg.

The first would be easily achieved. This part of the county was crisscrossed with rivers, creeks, and brooks—it was what made it green and lush. On his way through the forest Adam had stumbled through countless small rills, and he was sure that whatever way he chose he’d come across another streamlet soon. Finding food would be more of a problem. His provisions wouldn’t last forever, he had no gun to shoot game—and he couldn’t make it another 120 miles on a diet of blackberries.

The road…the road had to be east. He’d left it turning west, which meant he had to go east to get back to it. The sun was still rising, there was no question where east was. Piece of cake.

And finding strength? He nearly laughed. Strength. A man had to do what a man had to do, and that was that, wasn’t it? Strength. What little of it he’d built up those last few days at the hospital had been exhausted by his frantic flight through the forest, and the sleep after he’d collapsed hadn’t given him much back, even though he must have rested for two days at least. For all that he had thrown off that all-consuming fatigue, after conducting the simple tasks of eating and refreshing his bandage, his hands were already trembling from the strain and he felt sweat prickling under his clothes. No, there wouldn’t be much strength for him to find—rather than on strength he would have to depend mostly on determination.

Now he did laugh. He winced at the croaky sound, but he laughed. Determination. Determination he possessed in abundance.

“Promise me you’ll come back.”

“You know I can’t promise that.”

“Then promise me you’ll try.”

“I will. I promise.”

Yes, determination. He had promised her. Back then, as they had parted, and over and over again in his dreams. He closed his eyes and saw the image again, that one memory that had arisen in his dreams time and again, had pushed itself forward to the front of his mind, and had always imbued him with love, with desire, need, lust: Juliet, standing naked with her emerald ball gown pooled around her feet and her hair flowing down her back, her chest heaving, her eyes dark with want; her creamy, almost translucent skin an alluring promise of softness and her half smile an invitation to take—and to be at home.

“I will,” he said out loud. “I promise.” And then he shouted it into the woods: “I will!”

*****

Over the day, however, he wore out almost all he had, drew upon his last reserves—both of strength and determination. Racing his horse through the greenery until its collapse had gotten him deep into the forest, and making the way back on his own two feet—or three, as he thought wryly, since the cane should be counted, too—naturally took him much longer. He tried to pace himself, made sure to take a rest, eat, and drink from the newly filled canteen whenever he was slowing down, whenever his leg protested too much, whenever he found himself meandering along rather than walking straight on. As the day advanced, though, he felt his energy waning. It took more and more effort to get up again, to stay upright, to put one foot before the other, to ignore the ever-present pain.

But…the road. He wanted to make it back to the road, at least back to the road—no matter how far that might be. Orientating by the sun, he hoped he was heading straight to the road. He did not encounter his dead horse on the way—a fact of which he was shamefully grateful—but considering the heedless zigzag he’d taken after he’d lost his mount it wasn’t surprising. And yet, coming across the carcass would at least have confirmed he was going in the right direction.

The road, he started to chant inwardly at some point, always in time with his strides. The road, the road, the road. It kept him going, kept his steps steady, kept his mind distracted from the fact that he was bone tired. The road, the road, the road. The road, the road, the road. The road, the road, the road…

In the end he nearly didn’t notice finding the road. The sun stood low already, the trees cast long shadows: dusk was approaching fast, and Adam decided he’d gone far enough for that day. Road or no road, he was done in. He had to find a spot with a soft mattress of grass and a sheltering bush, somewhere to rest safely, to stay the night, to restore his energy, his strength—and his determination—and then move on the next morning.

He’d just spotted the perfect place when he heard the shot. Suppressing the urge to bolt back into the depths of the forest, he let himself slide to the ground and then lay still and listened.

The shot had come from not too far off, yet there hadn’t been the impact of a bullet anywhere close to him. Whoever had fired had not aimed at him. He had not been discovered.

Where there was a gun, though, there was a person, and where there was a person there possibly was a trail, a path to the road—or even the road itself. And so he braced himself on arms and knees, and carefully crept towards the direction from which the shot had come. He covered only a few yards, then paused and listened, crept onwards, paused and listened again.

Then he heard a man crying out in pain, and godless swearing.

Getting back on his feet and into a crouch, Adam squinted into the green. He saw shadows behind the bushes, silhouettes, colours that didn’t belong to the woods. As he cautiously moved closer to those shadows, he made out more voices, faintly lamenting, from people in pain, in distress. Then there was begging: “Massa, please” and a bark: “Shut up, vermin! Shut up, or I’ll end yer misery jest here’n—Goddamn it!” The curse merged into another howl of agony.

Eventually there was only a thick shrub separating Adam from the source of the voices. Leaving the saddlebags on the ground behind the bush, he drew himself up, clasped the knob on his cane tightly, stepped out of the greenery into the open and found that he, indeed, had come upon the road.

Before him, a wagon lay tilted onto its side, the tail of the broken tongue looming into the air, its dark silhouette a stark contrast to the waning day’s purple lit sky. Pieces of broken wheels were shattered over the dusty road; remnants of a fractured axle, two almost identical fragments, lay at a tidy right angle to each other next to the cart. The wagon’s bottom was burst, the side planks smashed.

The only thing still intact was the iron cage the wagon had carried. It lay amidst the wreckage, its bars still shaping a stout cube, its door still closed, its lock still shut. In the cage Adam saw people. Three men, two women, bleeding from cuts and scrapes. One woman was cradling her arm to her chest, the other was trying to staunch the blood flow from a wound on one of the men’s cheek with a scrap of her ragged skirt’s hem. They all were staring at Adam, wide-eyed.

He made a movement towards the cage and the people—Lord, who puts humans into a cage? Oh, he knew who did such things, knew it darn well, didn’t he?—but was stopped in his tracks by a barked order.

“Hold it.”

He froze, then turned slowly to the other end of the wagon’s remains. There was a horse, dead on the road—not another dead horse! shot through Adam’s mind—apparently shot by the driver of the cart, who lay on the ground with one leg bent in an unnatural angle: clearly broken, most probably hurting like hell.

For all the driver’s apparent misery, Adam found it hard to sympathise with him. And that sentiment wasn’t exactly diluted by the fact that the injured man had levelled his rifle at him.

He raised his hands. “I’m unarmed,” he said, astonished at how steady his voice sounded. “I just want to help.”

The rifle didn’t waver. “Where ya come from?”

Waving the cane vaguely in the direction from which he’d come, Adam gave the man a wry smile. “Outta the woods,” he said. “Been hunting. Horse threw me.”

“Huntin’? With that there thing?” The rifle made a short movement to the cane and back to Adam.

“Was all I could get a hold of—shoulda grabbed my gun, but…” He shrugged.

The man nodded, but didn’t drop the rifle. He looked at Adam through narrowed eyes. “You ain’t from hereabouts, are ya? You ain’t soundin’ like no Virginian.”

So much for trying to blend in. Better try something else, Cartwright. “Wasn’t born here.”

“You don’ say’.” The rifle was once more adjusted. It pointed directly to Adam’s heart.

He drew a deep breath, trying to ignore the chill that went down his spine, then frowned at the man. “Listen, do you want me to help you or do you want some chit-chat? If it’s the latter I’ll have to pass. I’m not in the mood to tell you my life story right now. I went out to bring down a little game this morning, dang horse spooked, I got thrown and I’ve spent the rest of the day hobbling through the scenery. Now I’d really like to see that I make it home before nightfall. So, take your pick.”

The rifle was lowered, then laid on the ground. Within easy reach, but at least not pointed at his chest anymore. “Hold yer horses, fella. Just wanta be sure yer one of our’n, with all them Bluebellies so close by now.”

Adam raised a questioning eyebrow and made a gesture towards the leg. As the man nodded his approval, he knelt down and carefully peeled the torn, bloodied pant away from the injured limb.

“What Bluebellies?” he said while assessing the damage. He didn’t need to be a doctor to see the shank bone was broken—not with its ends protruding through the skin.

“Them Yanks down at Culpeper? Didn’t ya hear?” The man hissed when Adam touched a sensitive spot, but continued to talk through clenched teeth. He spoke hurriedly, without pausing longer than it took to squeeze out a short groan or a choked cry, and apparently with no intention of stopping, lest he be tempted to concentrate his attention on what was being done to his leg. “They done made headquarters there after that battle three days ago.” Jerking his head towards the cage, he snorted. “That’s why them niggers o’er here all agettin’ lose. Thinkin’ they can get to Culpeper afore abody catch them.” He laughed. “Weren’t countin’ on ole Tiberius Quake, though. I catch them all…”

Adam stopped paying attention. He set out to treat the break: tore the pant leg further open—Those are trousers, Adam, the other are…unmentionables, admonished the indignant alto voice inside his head—cleaned the wound as thoroughly as possible, selected some pieces of wood from the wagon debris that he could utilise for splints. He worked mechanically, as if he’d done it before, without thinking about what to do next—which was just as well, because his thoughts were occupied with digesting what he’d just heard.

Things whirled in his head, ideas and hopes, facts and wishes. The Union Army was now headquartered at Culpeper. How far was he from Culpeper? Twenty miles, perhaps less? A day’s march, not more. Heck, his corps had covered more than twenty miles a day on the way to Gettysburg, marching under a scorching sun and wearing thick army coats and heavy accoutrements. Of course, he’d been fully able-bodied then…but now he’d have to carry only his own weight, and he’d walk in the cool of the night.

Could it be? Could it really be that in the end fortune was favouring him?

He turned his attention back to Quake. “I’ll have to set the bone straight. This’ll…hurt.”

“Oh, yeah, and everthing ya done so far was jest a cakewalk.” Quake snatched a small piece of wood from the ground and, stuffing it into his mouth, nodded. He managed to squeeze a “Gerron with it” past the bit—and then passed out with a short cry as the bone snapped back into its proper position.

Adam let go of the foot at which he’d been carefully pulling. He put the rifle out of Quake’s reach, yanked the man’s belt from his waist, and bound his hands with it. He searched Quake for the keys to the cage and took them to the prisoners, handing them one of the men.

“Can you manage?”

“Yes, mas—”

“Adam. My name’s Adam.”

The man hesitated and searched Adam’s face for a moment, then he nodded. “Toby,” he finally said, pointing at his chest.

“Right, Toby, see you get your people out here, I have to…” He gestured back to Quake.

“Help him?” There was mystification in Toby’s voice, doubt, and caution.

“Well, I can’t let him lie here with his leg busted and bleeding, can I? He’d likely die.”

“He’s a slave hunter.”

“And?”

“How can you free us and let him live?”

“He won’t be able to come after you, will he? There’s no need to kill him.”

“Are you one of them, too?”

“I’m a fugitive, just like you. A Federal, on the way back to my corps.”

“Then why…?”

“Killing him won’t make the South change their ways, will it?” He was glad Toby didn’t point out that as a Union soldier, Adam had been doing just that: killing individuals to make a society change its ways.

He returned to the still-unconscious man to splint and dress the broken leg. Searching for something to use for a bandage, he tugged at his shirt first, but decided it was too filthy. The slave hunter’s own clothes, shabby as they were, would serve the purpose better.

As he secured the splints with strips torn of Quake’s shirt, Adam was overcome with another memory…

”In and out, slick and clean.” He was using one of his shirt sleeves to bandage a wound on his brother’s leg.

“Adam, I ain’t never gonna tease you again about wearing them clean shirts,” Hoss said.

And he couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow and come back, “The only reason I wear them is because I knew you gonna get shot one day.”

Then his other brother, Joe, was skidding around a boulder, joining them—both in shooting at some rustlers and in teasing each other mercilessly.

He had brothers. Good Lord, he had brothers. Those two men…Hoss and Joe…brothers, his brothers. And Pa…they’d been rescued by Pa in the end. And it was there, all there, crystal clear in his mind.

The feeling, the relief was almost dizzying.

With a soft touch to his shoulder, Toby brought him out of his reminiscence. “Thank you…friend. We better be on our way now. Won’t be long before they find Quake here, and we—”

Shaking his head, Adam interrupted the man. “It’s almost night. No one travels this road in the dark. Quake won’t be found until morning—and we’ll be in Culpeper by then already.”

“We?”

“We. We’re headed the same way, aren’t we?”

Toby nodded. “Yes, sure…”

“Then we should be staying together. If you want me with you, that is.”

“Sure.” He cast a glance over his shoulder, back to where the others stood waiting. One woman was helping the other putting her arm into a sling; the two men were watching him, apparently anxious to go. As he looked back at Adam, he nodded again, then broke into a grin. “Sure.”

They didn’t speak much after that. Adam fetched his saddlebags from where he’d left them in the bushes, they settled Quake somewhere at the roadside, providing him with Adam’s blanket and a half-full canteen they’d found in the remains of the cart.

One of the women gave him a shy smile as he distributed half of what was left of his provisions promising the rest for later; the other touched his hand and then, briefly, his cheek. “God blessuns.”

The men accepted the food wordlessly. Their eyes, however, spoke volumes as they hungrily wolfed it down.

And then they set off. Walking one after the other, a small band of tired, worn, yet determined figures. They hadn’t gone long when Adam felt someone lifting the saddlebags from his shoulder. He turned around and saw Toby’s smiling face.

“Let me carry that for you,” the man said.

Adam frowned. “You don’t have to. You’re not…”

“I know. But I’d like to.” Toby clapped on his shoulder. “Bear you one another’s burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ, says the Good Book.”

Adam didn’t argue. He was exhausted, hurting, kept upward only by sheer willpower: he was grateful to share the burden. With every step his load seemed to get lighter, his future brighter. Less than twenty miles to Culpeper, less than twenty miles. What could possibly happen in less than twenty miles?

Well, anything and everything. Fortune had been a very fickle lady lately. But then again, he was used to dealing with erratic ladies, wasn’t he?

__________
Here is the rule to remember in the future, when anything tempts you to be bitter:
not, “This is a misfortune” but “To bear this worthily is good fortune.” ~ Marcus Aurelius

Chapter 20

Dawn

Major General Carl Schurz poured himself a cup of jasmine tea, freshly brewed from his personal stock. Supplies were generally low and not easily restocked in Virginia. The Union blockade restricted imports to the point of irrelevance, and ever since the North had taken control of the Mississippi River, the eastern confederate states suffered also from shortages in beef and pork and other native products. Eccentricities as jasmine tea were absolutely unavailable.

The tea was Schurz’ very own little luxury, an indulgence to which he treated himself with due reverence, first thing every morning just before sunrise, and this morning was no exception. Clarion wasn’t far, and soon life in the camp would start with its usual busy tension. The men knew they could be sent moving again, and they seemed aquiver, almost buzzing with restless energy and anticipation. For now, however, everything was still quiet, and General Schurz, wrapped in his thick army coat against the chill of the mid-September morning, savoured both the peaceful silence and the hot, fragrant tea.

***

Perhaps the fever was a blessing. Perhaps Adam would be even colder if he weren’t burning from inside—on the other hand, perhaps his hot skin made the fresh morning air appear colder than it actually was.

Or perhaps he was just going insane. One minute sweat made his back prickle and he wanted nothing more than to shed his filthy clothes and let the cool air dry and refresh him; the next he was shivering and chattering his teeth, and longed for an additional coat, a campfire, or—frivolously—for a warm bed.

A bed. A kingdom for a bed, Adam thought and allowed himself to slip into another waking dream.

Crackling from the fireplace, crisp white bed linen, a warm, soft body curved around his, clever fingers sneaking out, touching; the smell of honey in a golden disarray of locks, the warm breath of quiet laughter on his neck, nibbling lips on that spot below his ear, a whisper: “love,” the pull of blessed oblivion, falling, falling, falling—contentment, blissful quiet, peace: heaven.

He was jarred out of his vision as he stumbled, nearly losing his cane in the process, but kept upright by a steady hand under his arm. Hours ago, it had become apparent that Adam’s saddlebags weren’t the only burden to share—that Adam himself was becoming more and more of a liability for the group. In spite of all his rekindled determination his leg wasn’t able to withstand the continued strain, and the surge of new strength that had carried him so far was waning constantly. Toby and one of the other men, who’d never told Adam his name, had taken turns in supporting him after they’d noticed he’d been lagging behind, barely able to stay on his feet.

At one point, he’d asked Toby to leave him behind, to carry on without him, not to risk getting caught because he was slowing them down. Toby had flat-out refused that.

“We’re in this together,” he’d said. “If you stay behind, I’ll stay behind, too.”

“You can’t. You’ll get caught.”

“Then you better keep movin’.”

And so he had kept moving.

No, Adam decided, the fever was not a blessing. It made him vulnerable to the allure of the dreams, of a false sense of security when he should stay alert and attentive. It made his head droop when he should keep his eyes up and watch out for troubles—even though their journey had been almost undisturbed so far.

As predicted, the road was deserted at night. Only once, still in the late hours of blue dusk, they’d heard hoofbeats behind them, and quickly ducked into the underbrush at the side of the road.

A small group of riders had passed by without noticing them. They’d ridden slowly, and Adam had been able to catch snippets of their talk, which had been about women and drinking, and about avoiding Union patrols—and not with a single word about hunting fugitives.

That encounter had remained the only incident, but it had warned them to stay alert and vigilant, to hark into the quietness, and to watch out for movement in the shadows. In the beginning, they’d taken short breaks every once in a while, eaten a little, drunk a little, talked a little. Once they’d even laughed a little—when they’d found that what they thought to be a sleuth-dog tracing them had only been a snuffling weasel.

After that, they didn’t take any breaks anymore. Determined to reach their destination before dawn, they just carried on. Too tired to even talk, too exhausted to think anything beyond putting one foot in front of the other, they just stumbled forward.

On a strange, entirely academic level, Adam wondered if his overexertion was a result of the newly-flared fever, or the fever a result of the overexertion—and if it was possible to establish a quotient for measuring the height of a fever in relation to the amount of sleepless hours. Not that it really mattered, but trying to work it out distracted him from dreaming about soft beds…and soft lips.

It also distracted him from the fact that he spotted the notion of pink on the eastern horizon, the promise of sun-up, daylight—and new threats.

The others must have noticed the subtle change in the colours of the night, too. In silent agreement, they all picked up speed, drawing on last reserves, anxious to get into safety before the concealing night fell. They didn’t know how far they’d made it already, how close to the Union headquarters they might be—surely it couldn’t be too far away anymore, could it? They must be almost there, perhaps just one more mile, or two, or even less than a mile, or—

And then it was over. Abruptly, suddenly, irrevocably over. A dog’s bark, a bellowed order “Hold it!” and the clicks of rifles being cocked put an end to their flight. In the dim light of the beginning dawn, they faced half a dozen or so guns trained on them, a panting and snapping bloodhound straining at its leash, and then an oily voice, “My, my, what do we have rooted up here, huh?”

***

General Schurz had just emptied his third cup of tea when his solitude ended. Lieutenant Di Scompiglio, the general’s new adjutant, entered the tent precisely six minutes later than expected, bringing with him a waft of cold air, the smell of morning dew, and a bundle of papers.

“Dispatches, Sir,” he said with a lazy salute and threw some telegrams on the general’s desk.

Schurz cleared his throat. “And good morning to you, Lieutenant,” he said in a pointed, but not unfriendly voice.

The young officer ducked his head. “Good morning, Sir.” He reached down and arranged the telegrams, shoving them into a small tidy pile before he looked up again. “New orders, I believe, Sir.”

Almost like a puppy waiting for his masters approval, Schurz thought as he saw the captain’s eyes, and he hid a grin. “Very well, we shall see—what the…?”

He was interrupted by loud voices in front of the tent. Then the canvas at the entrance flapped open and, along with another draught of fresh air, two corporals accessed the office tent.

Schurz drew himself up. “Gentlemen?”

“Corporals Fenman and Moeller, Sir.” The soldiers stood to attention. “On sentry duty tonight.”

“Report, Corporal.”

“On patrol, we picked up six persons. Five negroes and a white man.”

Schurz sighed. That wasn’t something uncommon. The newly established headquarters of the Army of the Potomac must appear like a piece of the Promised Land right in the middle of the slave country. The tempting nearness encouraged slaves to try and escape from their masters, and while some lucky refugees made it to the safety of the camp, others were caught before they’d even got close.

Patrols occasionally found horrific evidences of failed flight attempts in the near vicinity of the camp: not all slave hunters brought the escaped men and women back to their owners, but instead tortured and killed them where they’d caught them and left their bodies lying in the dirt or hanging on trees as a warning to others.

This time, however, it seemed they were lucky to have caught a slave hunter before he could pursue his dirty business. Of course, now this man had to be protected from being used as a warning to others himself. Union soldiers were no saints, either.

“Only…the white says he’s one of us.”

“Pardon?”

“He says he belongs to the Union Army. Can’t prove it, of course. But, Sir…” The Corporal looked at Schurz almost apologetically. “Sir, he says you know him.”

Well, that was something uncommon. Despite himself, Schurz was intrigued. “So, I’m supposed to know him. Can he prove that?”

“He says his name’s Cartwright, Sir, Adam Cartwright, and that you’ve met.”

Adam Cartwright. Yes, he knew Adam Cartwright. And yes, he had met Adam Cartwright, who’d brought him regards from his wife, one of Schurz’ most memorable students in London all those years ago: the outspoken Countess of Barnstoke. He remembered his amusement as he’d thought that Cartwright must be a very courageous man to marry the countess. Later everything he’d heard about the man’s performance had proved that he was fearless and spirited, yet considerate and level-headed; and Schurz had intended to promote the man to the rank of lieutenant right after the battle at Gettysburg. But it never came to that because Adam Cartwright was—

“He’s dead. Cartwright died at Gettysburg.”

“He sure looks dead,” the corporal said with a short smile, then shifted his features back to seriousness. “Sir, he says he’d been captured and then escaped from the rebels. Seems quite certain you can identify him.”

Schurz stroked over his beard. Cartwright. He had sent his former secretary, Paul Hansen, to Cartwright’s home to inform the countess of her husband’s demise. He’d always had a soft spot for the well-read lady, who’d been so different from the bloated aristocrats with which he mostly had to deal, with her surprising interests in politics and social justice—and the art of newspaper making. When he’d learnt of Cartwright’s death, he had found anything except a personally delivered message to his widow completely inappropriate. It had been more than just a gallant gesture—it had been a late bow to a kindred spirit.

“Bring him in.” It was worth a try, wasn’t it? Perhaps it was time for a small miracle. Perhaps there would be a reason to send another, much happier message to her ladyship. Perhaps the story was true, and there was a man his soldiers could look up to. A hero. Fodder for the troop’s morale.

What the corporals dragged in didn’t look like a hero, and certainly didn’t look like the man he claimed to be. Adam Cartwright, as Schurz had known him, was a man with the powerful constitution of a dray horse, tall and broad-chested, with shiny black hair, the healthy tanned skin of a man used to working outdoors, and with bright intelligent eyes. A man who’d stood proud and straight, his pose perfect and his attire flawlessly neat.

The ragged, filthy scare crow the corporals held upright between them bore no resemblance to the man Schurz remembered. This man was emaciated, almost skeletally thin, his face gaunt and what was visible of his skin underneath the days worth of stubble appeared dull and ashen-grey; the overgrown hair was matted and clinging to his scalp. The worst, though, were his eyes: fever-bright, they still looked…extinct. There was no spark, no light. They were almost dead.

Although his attempt at standing to attention failed miserably, his voice was steady, if croaky. “Sergeant Adam Cartwright, Sir. We met shortly after I enlisted.”

Schurz frowned. The man could be Cartwright—or he could be any man. “I’m sorry, I don’t seem to…”

“Leopold Hohmeyer introduced us. Perhaps he can—”

“Sergeant Hohmeyer is dead. He fell at Gettysburg. I’ll need something more to be sure you are who you claim to be.”

“Leo is…? I knew he was missing, but I’d hoped…well…” Pain flickered over the man’s face, but he allowed the emotion to be seen only for a brief moment. “Sir, when we met, we talked about my wife. She was your pupil in London.”

“Yes…?”

“You said she…” He emitted a short, soft laugh, and his dead eyes lit up—like embers rekindled by a fresh breeze. It changed his whole face, and suddenly there was a fire that seemed familiar. “You said she was more interested in your involvement in the German Revolution and the hidden meaning of Die Forelle than in properly pronouncing ‘ouch.’”

“Auch,” Schurz corrected automatically. Die Forelle—The Trout—and Lady Juliet’s very imaginative analysis. Yes, he remembered having told that story in a conversation of which only he and Cartwright could know. He smiled. So…a happy message for her ladyship after all. “Sergeant Cartwright, I’m very glad you made it back to us. I expect a full report as soon as you have recovered from…your ordeal, but for now—Sergeant?”

Cartwright’s face had gone slack while Schurz had been speaking, and now it lost what little colour there had been in it. Schurz saw the man’s eyes rolling back and his body going limp, but before he slumped down to the ground, the corporals tightened their hold on him and kept him standing.

“Sir?”

Schurz waved his hand emphatically. “Hospital, quick.”

He watched the corporals half-carrying Cartwright out, and then kept gazing out of the still open entrance at the camp’s tents, that glowed in a curious blend of orange and pink in the merry light of dawn.

Good news, indeed. Not just for her ladyship. Whatever Cartwright’s full story was, he had escaped from Confederate imprisonment, and that was the kind of tale that made the rounds. The kind of tale that created legends—and heroes: leaders the men would follow everywhere, blindly and without fear. Exactly what the XI Corps needed.

Schurz sat down at his desk and absently picked up the telegrams Di Scompiglio had deposited there earlier, shuffling the papers without really looking at them. Eventually he arranged them into a neat stack, put them back and decisively smoothed them down.

“Lieutenant.” He looked up and cleared his throat. “Get a promotion document ready.”

Di Scompiglio jumped in his seat. The paper he’d just been folding into what looked like a boat flew out of his hands and onto the floor. “Whazza…?”

“Lieutenant!”

“Sir, I’m sorry, Sir. I…I didn’t quite catch that. ”

Schurz glared. “Lieutenant Di Scompiglio, do get a promotion document ready. Now. If you please.”

“Yes, Sir. For whom?”

“Why, for Sergeant Cartwright, of course. He will be promoted lieutenant.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And, Di Scompiglio, send a telegram to Major Harrington. Cartwright has to be removed from the death roll. And the family must be informed.”

“Yes, Sir. Um, Sir, which first?”

“Which? Which which?”

“The, err, promotion or the tele—”

“The telegrams, naturally. The administration has to be up to date. See to it.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Schurz sighed. Sometimes he missed his former secretary. Paul Hansen had been so much more efficient.

He picked up the telegrams again, and finally read them—still distracted at first, but then with increasing attention. Emitting a low whistle, he read one a second time, digesting it word by word. Finally, the comparatively quiet weeks of reorganization came to an end for him and his men: the XI Corps would be cut lose from the Army of the Potomac and dispatched westwards to succour the Army of the Cumberland at Chattanooga, Tennessee.

They had been sent again to front and centre.

***

“…and therefore this court declares William Robert Coulston not guilty as charged. Mr. Coulston is to be released from detention immediately and unconditionally. Court adjourned.”

Billy-Bob sagged in his seat, head buried in his hands. There were some subdued cheers from the audience, that were almost drowned out by the usual overall mumbling and shuffling of chairs and feet.

Joe found it difficult to swim against the stream of outward-pressing spectators, but eventually he made it to Billy-Bob’s seat. He proffered his hand.

“Congrats, Billy-Bob! You’re a free man now.”

“Well, yeah, thanks to ya. I know that.” Billy-Bob frowned and looked around the room—everywhere but at Joe’s hand. He crossed his arms.

“I told you everything would turn out all right.”

“Reckon ya done said so.”

“What’s the matter? You’re free. Let’s go and celebrate. I’ll pay.”

“List’n, Cartwright, yer done whatcha said ya’ll do, and I reckon I hafta be mighty thankful fer that. But I still ain’t got no job, and I figger there ain’t no one givin’ me no job in this here town ‘cause I’m still the one who’d been shootin’ atta Cartwright.” He leaned back in his chair and spit on the floor. “Seems ta me, there ain’t no reason fer no celebration.”

Joe cringed. “Billy-Bob, I told you I’ll think of something. I promise you I—”

“Seems yer gotta do a lotta thinkin’ then,” Billy-Bob drawled. He scratched his head, then fingered his jaw and squinted at Joe—and grinned. “Won’t go an’ jest smack a man so easy again, will ya?”

Joe grinned back. “Nope, I reckon I won’t.”

“Good. But I ain’t gonna wet ma dry withya anyway. The boys are waitin’ fer me o’er there already.”

He stood, waved over at the entrance, where Joe could see some men waiting, and left without another word. Joe was about to shout after Billy-Bob, but he was stopped from doing it by Pa’s hand on his arm.

“Let’s go, Joe.”

“But, Pa—”

“Let’s go.” Pa squeezed Joe’s shoulder, then pushed him into motion and led him outside.

Joe tried to find Billy-Bob in the crowd, but the man was nowhere to be seen. Most probably he was already “wetting his dry” in the Bucket of Blood saloon with his miner-friends.

“I just don’t understand—”

“Billy-Bob is not your friend, Joe.”

“But I—”

“Joe.” Pa took his shoulders and turned him around to stand face to face. “Billy-Bob is glad that he’s a free man. And he’s thankful you spoke to his favour at court. But, after all, from his point of view, you are the reason he got into this mess to begin with.”

Joe sighed. “Yeah, but I just wished…”

“That he’d forgive you the way you forgave him?”

“I guess…yah.”

“Come time, he will. I’m sure of it, Son.”

“Not if…Pa, he needs a job, and I promised him I’ll see to it.”

“So.” Pa tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. “And how exactly are you going to do that?”

Joe put on his most winning smile. “I thought that perhaps I could talk to Mr. Hamish from the mine.”

“Hamish made it very clear that he doesn’t want to see Billy-Bob anywhere close to the Ophir anymore.”

“But that was before Billy-Bob was cleared. Now he has no reason—”

“Billy-Bob is a drinker. Hamish might not want a drinker down in the mine.”

Joe snorted. As if Billy-Bob were the only drinker down there. Heck, most of the miners were drinkers. Joe guessed it was the only way to cope with being constantly deprived of fresh air. The thought alone… Gosh, he was so glad his own job entailed being out on the open range, with a wide clear blue sky above, and horizons far, far away. That view surely didn’t prompt a man to hit the bottle.

Well, and if that just didn’t kill two birds with one stone. “He could work for us.”

Pa looked incredulous. “I don’t want to hire a drinker, either.”

“Pa…”

“And, honestly, the man doesn’t want to take a drink with you. Do you really think he wants to work for you?”

All right, that was a valid argument. “And what about…give him a small patch of land? Make him his own master? There’s that small part far north on the Ponderosa, you know, the one with the little lake by the trees…” He trailed off when he saw Pa shaking his head.

“Joe, do you really want me to give a patch of land to a man who’d shot my son?”

Joe tried not to grin. “Well, it has been known to happen before.”

“I will not…. Oh, well.” Pa threw his hands. “All right, I’ll…I’ll speak to Mr. Hamish.”

Joe giggled. He couldn’t help it, it was too funny. “You’re like Juliet,” he spluttered. Throwing his hands theatrically, he exclaimed in a high voice—much higher than Juliet’s alto, he realised even while he emitted it, “oh, very well!” labouring to let the ‘r’ roll from the tip of his tongue.

Pa glared at him and shook his head, opened his mouth to reply something—but then his face changed in a split second. Only a moment ago all paternal authority and patronising qualms, he suddenly looked like a spooked squirrel. He stared at a point somewhere behind Joe’s shoulder, then ducked his head and mumbled, “Let’s get our horses and go home. Quick.”

“What’s the matter?” Joe frowned. He turned his head, slowly…

“Don’t look,” Pa hissed.

But, of course, Joe couldn’t resist. And he was rewarded with a quite peculiar view: in the distance, he saw what looked like a flock of flamingos but soon turned out to be none other than Widow Hawkins, all pink feathers and quills, who was hurrying up the street, waving a pinkish, frilly bundle of an umbrella at them.

Her voice could be heard even though she was still a few houses away. “Benjamin, Benjamin!”

“Oh, Lord, not now.”

“Pa, don’t you want to say hello to your friend?” Joe lost the battle with the impending broad grin. “Perhaps she wants to invite you for a nice cup of sassafras tea?”

“I don’t—”

And then the widow joined them, breathing heavily. She handed her umbrella to Joe—who fiddled with it for a moment, then tried to hide it behind his legs—and held fast on Pa’s arm. “Benjamin, dear boy,” she wheezed. “I have…I have this…” She fanned herself with a small piece of paper.

“Clementine, what…?”

“Oh, do excuse me, my dear boy.” She took a few deep breaths. “I just met Mr. Beyman from the telegraph office who was on the way to you with this,” the paper fanned with a flourish into Pa’s direction, “and I told him I wanted to see you anyway. He was glad he didn’t have to make the way and so he—”

Pa’s patted the widow’s hand. “Clementine, give it to me.” How he managed to keep any kind of impatience out of his voice was beyond Joe.

“Oh, gracious me. Of course, Benjamin. How very inconsiderate of me. Here you are, my dear.”

Pa took the telegram, read it—and stumbled. Mrs. Hawkins caught his arm and steadied him, beating Joe to it. There wasn’t much left of the loud, exaggerated person who had just cornered them. Instead, there was a compassionate friend, watching Pa with eyes full of concern.

Joe’s grin melted. “Pa?”

The telegram was thrust into Joe’s hand, and he forced himself to read it—and then Billy-Bob Coulston was forgotten, the Ophir mine, little patches of land, and all that; and the future consisted only of one thing: Adam was alive.

Oh, and of the fact that “’Arry’s” tights might be hung over the fireplace at the Ponderosa after all, for Pa had taken Mrs. Hawkins around her waist and was whirling her around, high in the air, laughing like a madman while she was squealing, “Coo, Benjamin, what a jolly good day!”

And that it was, wasn’t it? A truly jolly good day!

__________

However long the night, the dawn will break. ~ African proverb

*****

Chapter 21

To Honour and Obey

It was amazing what a few nights of undisturbed sleep, some hearty meals, and the knowledge of being among friends could do for a man’s health, Adam thought as he put on freshly laundered blue uniform pants and a starched grey shirt. He was still sore in many places, with his right shoulder still aching, his right leg still stiff and uncooperative whenever he attempted to put weight on it, the tender scar tissue still easily aggravated by the friction of the trousers wool on the light bandage. He wasn’t exactly “healed”—the army doctor who’d treated him had been very clear upon that—but he was as good as they were able to make him right now. Everything else would need time.

“That rebel surgeon did an excellent job,” the doctor had said. “Outstanding.”

Unfortunately, that didn’t mean Adam would have full use of his leg anytime soon.

“Think in months rather than weeks.” The doctor had prodded at the scar very carefully, and raised his eyebrow at the tell-tale twitch and Adam’s sharp intake of breath. “Or years, perhaps.”

All in all, the surgeon hadn’t told him much more and nothing much better than Dr. Mabbs: he would have to take it easy for a long time, give his body time to build up strength and his leg time to re-grow bone material and perhaps even a little muscle tissue. He would have to depend on a cane for an unforeseeable time, would experience pain, especially at weather changes and under stress, and would most likely limp for the rest of his life.

It didn’t sound too bad. Seemed quite manageable, actually. Now that the all-consuming fatigue he’d felt for so many days had gone, now that he could eat and drink as much as he wanted and could handle, he felt ready to go back to normal, to do something useful. Now that he didn’t have to be taken care of anymore, he wanted to start taking care of things himself again. He didn’t mind the pain, or the cane, or the limp. Those were things he could deal with. But being inactive was something that ate at him, had actually eaten at him ever since he’d been wounded—but now he finally would be able to change that and to go back into action.

He stuffed the wool shirt into his pants, fastened the buttons on the fly. He smiled wryly. The uniform he’d been given had seemed to be made for a man with a much slighter build. It looked like something his brother Joe could wear. But when he’d pointed that out to the orderly who’d brought it, the man had snorted.

“When was the last time you looked into a mirror?” he’d said and looked pointedly at Adam’s bare chest.

It had been that very morning, that last time Adam had looked into a mirror, as he’d set about shaving. He’d been taken aback by the gaunt look of his face, the prominent dark rings under his eyes, and the hollow cheeks. He’d decided then that shaving—and exposing the full extent of his emaciation—could, and should, wait. So he’d just trimmed the wild growth into something resembling a groomed beard.

Of course, he hadn’t seen more than his face in that mirror, but he didn’t need to see more to know that his long sickness had taken more than a pound or two from him. And as if to prove it, the Joe-sized uniform pants hung loose and low on his hips and had to be bundled up with a belt to sit as they were supposed to.

Perhaps when Fritz had said Adam was only skin and bones he’d not exaggerated after all.

Fritz. For some reasons Adam had not expected to see the boy ever again, but he’d woken from a nap yesterday afternoon to Fritz Boettcher’s excited face.

“You’re a sorry sight,” his comrade had greeted him. “Skins and bones. But seeing you only half-dead sure is an improvement.”

Adam’s mind had still been fuzzy with sleep or he would have drawn the conclusions himself. But as it was, he’d asked, “Improvement over what?”

“To thinking you’re dead, of course.”

“You thought me dead?”

“I knew you were dead.” Fritz nodded for emphasis. “Adam, you died in a field hospital. There were witnesses. I buried you.”

“You…I—what?”

“You—well, a soldier who was thought to be you died. He was brought to the hospital nearly dead. They tried to save his life, amputated his leg, but he died after a few days.”

“But how did they think it was me? You must have recognised—”

“Adam, you know how it was. There wasn’t time to go around and ask people if they knew a wounded man. They concluded who you were from what they found in your pocket: General Ward’s message and the letter to your wife.”

General Ward’s message. God, that had been how…. It was amazing how things meshed together, how every bit of new information now dovetailed into the last holes in his memory: the papers General Ward had given him to deliver to General Schurz, his frantic run through enemy fire, the bullet that had taken him down, his futile attempts at getting up and not failing his mission, the soldier who’d appeared out of the smoke and noise and to whom he’d handed the general’s papers. He remembered it as if it had been only yesterday: how he’d reached into his coat and taken the bundle of papers out. He must have caught the letter, too, accidentally, and so—but…but he hadn’t written a letter to Juliet. Not while he was at Gettysburg.

Unless…Oh, my. The letter that wasn’t a letter. Lupus est homo homini, man is wolf to man. The diary…that wasn’t a diary, either. And certainly not a letter. But of course, it must have looked like a letter to Juliet. He had written her name on it. Not her address—for it was meant never to be sent—but her name. Oh, yeah, he’d had to write her name on it, of course, he had. Had to tidily write her name on a letter he was about to throw into the fire the next day. Why hadn’t he burnt it right away, why? He could only hope…

“They didn’t send it, did they?”

“What?”

“The letter. They didn’t send it to Juliet, did they?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask her about it.”

Now Adam had been truly confused. “Ask whom?”

“Your wife.”

“You talked to my…? How? When?”

And then he’d heard the whole story. Fritz, bereft of the protection of both his older brother Karl, who’d died in his arms the day before, and his sergeant and substitute guardian, Adam, had been as careless and vulnerable as only an always closely supervised younger brother could be, and subsequently been wounded in one of the very few minor skirmishes in which the XI Corps had been involved during the second day of the battle.

He’d been devastated when, upon regaining consciousness after a few days, he’d been told that Adam had died, and Fritz would never have the chance to tell him how much he felt he owed him. He had arranged to have Adam buried next to Karl on one of the large cemeteries that somehow had seemed to materialise everywhere in Gettysburg. Left behind to heal properly when the Union troops had moved southwards following Lee’s army, it had given him time to see to everything, including to commission headstones for both Karl and Adam. During those weeks of recuperating, he had visited the graves daily. As he’d gone on the cemetery the day before he’d been sent after his corps, he’d met Juliet and Hoss there—to his utter surprise but also to his great comfort, for talking to them and telling them all he knew had made him feel he’d done at least something—if not for Adam, then for his family.

The longer Adam thought about it, the less of a surprise it was for him. Of course Juliet would want to see his burial place. Adam had seen death notices to other soldiers’ dependants, and he knew how formulaic those were, how vague and empty. Naturally, Juliet would want to know more, would want…answers. As a reporter—and a person who loathed being ignorant—she knew that answers didn’t come to you on their own. That answers were things you had to pry from people, you had to look for, you had to ask for. Like Adam, she hated to be inactive, to be not in charge.

Oh, no, it wasn’t a surprise she’d gone and searched for answers herself. It was a surprise, however, that the family had let her go.

Well, maybe not.

No one, at least no one of his family, would be able to hold Juliet back if she’d set her mind to something. No one would have been able to keep her back from going on her quest. Joe would rather wrestle a mountain lion than cross Juliet, Pa was too concerned he might not find the right tone and inadvertently hurt her, and Hoss was putty in Juliet’s hands anyway.

At least they’d had the sense to send Hoss with her. Hoss, of whom she thought as a friend, a confidant, a brother. Hoss, who’d catch her if she fell. Hoss, who’d offer his broad chest to lean on, and his heart, unconditionally. Hoss, the only one of them from whom that offer would be unreservedly accepted.

Hoss…who’d be just as shattered as Juliet, but would still find the strength—and the love—to recognise Juliet’s distress behind her wall of impeccable manners and composed indifference, and to tear down that wall and keep her from falling apart behind it.

Lord, what had he done to his family? They had thought him dead. Not missing: dead.

Adam had been glad to learn that General Schurz had seen to it that a telegram had been send to the Ponderosa. But of course, that telegram wasn’t enough. Not by far.

I need to write more letters home, he’d thought. Long letters, happy letters. Let them know I’m all right. Always. But how could he ever make it up to Juliet? All the letters in the world wouldn’t make her forget, wouldn’t take away what he’d put upon her.

He’d have wallowed himself deeper and deeper into self-incrimination had not Fritz pulled him out of it as he’d told him about how they’d found Leopold Hohmeyer’s mangled body in a swale at the outskirts of Gettysburg—and Brigade General Schimmelpfennig alive and kicking in the garden of a private town house, where he’d stayed for days, hidden in a shed to avoid capture by the enemy, until the battle had been over.

“They said he was smart. A hero of some kind,” Fritz had hissed. “A hero, Adam, because he was clever enough to hide from the rebels.”

He’d leaned forward and looked at Adam with an intensity in his eyes that had seemed foreign on his mercurial face, whose youth miraculously had not been touched by the war. “Thank you for not allowing me to become that kind of hero,” he’d whispered and squeezed Adam’s hand. “Thank you.”

And again, he’d reminded him of Joe then—more than ever.

Adam slipped into his boots, put on the Prussian blue coat, buttoning it methodically. He was straightening the coat tails as the orderly came back into the room.

“It’s time, sir,” the man said.

Adam checked the fit of his coat once again. This time, he would face General Schurz a proper, immaculate soldier. He brushed over the shoulder straps—one golden stripe on each end, insignia of his new rank—adjusted his collar. Grabbing his cane, he turned to go.

“Coming.”

*****

The report General Schurz received from Lieutenant Cartwright was interesting, enthralling—but didn’t contain very much usable information. Cartwright had spent two and a half months recovering in a hospital, not transferred to prison only by sheer luck and because of the fact that while he’d been suspected to be an enemy, no one had actually been sure he was one. Of course, no one would have spoken openly around him or given him any other opportunity to gain information.

Schurz was sure Cartwright himself withheld certain details of his adventure, too. Nothing crucial, just…the exact course of his flight remained woolly, his escape almost unbelievably lucky. The general suspected that the friendly nurse whom Cartwright had only briefly mentioned had played a much bigger part in the whole scenario, had been more deeply involved than the lieutenant let on. A gentleman never tells, Schurz thought, and he was torn between wry amusement and faint indignation. He had a hard time refraining from inquiring further—and keeping a smile to himself.

Cartwright’s encounter with the fugitive slaves seemed another lucky coincidence—both for him and the escapees. The lieutenant, however, was determined to see the advantage clearly on his side.

“I’d never have made it without Toby and the others,” he said. “They had no cause to burden themselves with a white man, and an injured one to boot, yet they took the risk. I’m forever in their debt.”

He didn’t seem to be aware that the refugees were in his debt, too—an oversight that Schurz registered approvingly and that made Cartwright a man after the general’s heart.

Schurz had fought in what he called two wars: first, in 1848, the March revolution in Germany, now the war between the Northern and Southern States in his new home country, America. Both times he’d stood up to help make his country a better place, a place where people could live in freedom and self-determination. All people, no matter their background—or colour of skin.

He’d always been a political man, one who knew the importance of social justice, of education for everyone and of freedom of will. He had become immersed in the abolitionist movement and in politics shortly after he’d emigrated to the United States; he’d supported his wife Margarethe as she’d opened a Kindergarten in Wisconsin, which practised the idea of offering every child a preparation for primary school, no matter their ancestry, a few years ago; he had left his position as ambassador to Spain to come home and support his country in the war against the Southern Rebels—and against slavery. Cartwright seemed to be cut from the same cloth. A patriot, yet not blind to what went wrong in his land. A man with a deeply inhered humanity, and a determination to make things right, tofight for what was right.

Which didn’t make it any easier to tell him what Schurz had to tell him.

The general was brought out of his musings by a soft hemming.

“I’ve heard Toby and the other men decided to enlist,” Cartwright said, perhaps a nuance louder than strictly necessary—was he repeating himself? “Maybe it could be arranged that Toby will be assigned to one of my squads. I would very much appreciate that, Sir.”

General Schurz sighed inwardly. And here it comes: the difficult part of this conversation.

“Lieutenant, I’m afraid…” How to say it, how to phrase it without making it a repulse? He cleared his throat. “Lieutenant Cartwright, you won’t have any squads.”

“Pardon?”

“I have here,” Schurz picked a paper from his desk and waved it in Cartwright’s general direction, “a report from Surgeon Major Waterman. It states clearly that you are not fit for military service.”

“I understand, sir. For how long will I have to be off duty?”

Schurz leaned back in his chair. He put the paper down, not even pretending he had to check it. This time he sighed audibly. “For ever,” he said.

Cartwright stared. He didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, didn’t frown. He stared.

Then he puckered his lips, closed his eyes, briefly, and looked back at Schurz. “Why?”

“Because you are not fit for military service. And you won’t be for a very long time.”

“But I could—”

“No. You can’t. You are, Lieutenant—and please forgive me my bluntness—you are crippled. You were informed about the extent of your injuries, I believe, and about the time they will take to heal—if ever.”

“But there surely are ways—”

“We need able-bodied soldiers, Lieutenant. We want this war to end as soon as possible, we want to defeat Lee and his Rebels as soon as possible—and we need fit and strong men for that. Not men who can’t stand without the support of a cane.”

There was a short flash of irritation on Cartwright’s face, come and gone so quickly that Schurz could have imagined it—had he not fully understood where it came from.

“Please, don’t think we don’t honour what you’ve done for this army, for this land. Because we do. We were lucky to have a man of your integrity and spirit with us. You served us well, very well. Now it is time we serve you. You’ve done your part, now let us do ours.”

“I’ve served for less than five months.” It sounded flat. A mere statement. But a glint in Cartwright’s eyes said there was more. Frustration? Or…shame? “This is my country, General. I want to fight for my country. Can’t you relate to that?”

“I think you know that I can.” Schurz kept his rebuke short. Cartwright would understand him anyway. He was a smart man.

And as it was, the lieutenant looked down, for the first time. “I’m sorry, sir. That was uncalled for.”

“It’s all right; I understand this isn’t easy for you.” Herrgott, yes, he did understand. Of course, he did. If he just could find a way to make it more…graceful. “Lieutenant, I—”

Distracted, he broke off. There was commotion in front of the tent, angry voices, “No, you can’t—the general is in a meeting, he can’t be disturbed.”

He turned to Lieutenant Di Scompiglio, who, with his slouched shoulders and bowed head, looked as if he’d prefer melting into the ground to having to observe more of the conversation, and gestured towards the disturbance. “Take care of th—”

He choked on the word as he heard another voice from outside. “You will not. Touch me.” A woman.

Then a man, a soldier. “Ma’am, you can’t…”

And another man, warningly. “She done told ya, fella. Ya better listen to her.”

And then the entrance flap was moved aside and revealed a woman, who slapped at a hand that tried to hold her back. With two long strides she reached the middle of the tent, her eyes finding and never leaving Schurz’s.

“General Schurz,” she spat. “I’ve travelled a hundred and twenty miles in the past three days, and I will not be dismissed by your underlings. I demand…”

Her eyes had left Schurz’s face while she’d spoken, as if something had told her the general was not the most important person present, and started to scan the tent. She trailed off as her eyes caught on Lieutenant Cartwright.

She heaved a deep, shuddering breath. Her angry features melted into something Schurz was sure was supposed to be a stiff upper lip. Her face was chalk-white; and for a moment Schurz feared she would faint—but he knew her better.

A man brushed past her, a civilian, a big man with a baby in his arms, and crossed the tent towards Cartwright, who’d risen from his chair and whose eyes darted back and forth, from her to him. The big man pulled him into a bear hug, with the baby somewhere between them, then held him at arms length and looked him up and down. “I’m sure glad to see ya, Adam,” he said, grinning broadly. “Even though there’s not much ta see. Boy, yer even punier than Joe.”

The Countess of Barnstoke still stood rooted in the middle of the tent. She stared at her husband, her eyes bright and watery, her features pale yet composed. “There you are, Adam,” she finally said, much higher pitched than before.

“There I am.” Cartwright’s voice was hoarse and barely audible. “There I am. And there are you.”

She made a soft sound. A choked sob, a suppressed cry, something of that kind.

He cleared his throat, then raised an eyebrow, smiled lopsidedly, and put a hand out to her. “But why are you not here?”

Now she allowed herself a sob, and a cry “Adam,” and she flew into his arms, pressed her face to his neck—and then Schurz took Lieutenant Di Scompiglio by the sleeve and dragged him out of the tent.

*****

She was beautiful, so beautiful. More beautiful than in his dreams, more beautiful than he deserved her to be. She was warm and soft, affectionate and familiar, strong and caring: his wife, his friend, his family, his anchor, his home. His everything.

She was too pale and too thin, her curls lustreless and limp, and her cheeks hollow. And yet to him, she was beautiful. The most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

As she’d stood proud and tall in General Schurz’ tent, agitated and demanding and so present, Adam had yet been afraid she was just an apparition, another fever-induced hallucination, another waking dream. But then Hoss had appeared and embraced him—and no one could ever mistake Hoss’s materiality for a figment of his imagination.

Or Henry. Henry, who’d hung groggily in Hoss’s arm but had raised his head after the hug had pressed him into Adam’s chest, and stared wide-eyed at his father’s face, stretching his hand out to investigate the beard. If those two were concrete, Adam had concluded, Juliet couldn’t be an illusion either.

Her choked words had made her even more real. Her choked words, her unreadable face, her rigid stance. She’d been real and there, and he’d been overjoyed and terrified; and it had taken all his courage to look into her eyes, where he knew he would find only truth, no pretence.

Her eyes had been deep with pain and hope and—relief?—and something else that Adam knew had been reflected by his own eyes: love.

Although that love seemed different to what they had had before, seemed tainted with desperation, with doubt, and with unsated longing. It wasn’t a new facet of an old accustomed feeling, it was another dimension of it, unfamiliar, unsolicited—a dark version of something that should be bright and luminous.

There and then he’d sworn it to himself that he would do anything to make the desperation in Juliet’s eyes go away, the hurt, and the doubt; and to replace it with trust and fulfilment, and with certainty.

And yet he was writing this letter. While Juliet was nursing Henry in the adjoining room, and waiting for the chamber-maid to get a bath ready, he was writing this letter. He didn’t want to, and yet he did want to, he had to, he couldn’t help it, couldn’t look at himself if he didn’t write it.

“To the Secretary of War, Sir Edwin Stanton.

“Dear Sir,

“I apply to you to ask for an exemption. After having sustained a severe injury during the battle at Gettysburg, I was mustered out of military service. I do realise my physical limitations. However, I am convinced that I can contribute to the cause of the Union in other ways. As an engineer…”

Juliet would understand. He couldn’t just sit back and wait until others ended this war for him. He’d hardly done anything as of yet. He had accomplished nothing, changed nothing; suffered and brought suffering—but what for? The war still raged on, men still died on the battlefields, freedom still was a word just for white people, North and South still were further apart than moon and earth.

Juliet would understand he couldn’t just go home and be glad it was over for him. He wasn’t a coward, and he wasn’t a quitter.

There were many ways he could still be useful for The Cause. The Union Army was experimenting with new materials, first of all with vulcanite, the new, almost magic substance acquired by heat-treating raw rubber. General Blair had used rubber pontoon bridges instead of the usual wood and canvas constructions, which were heavy and hard to transport, and difficult to repair when damaged; whereas the vulcanite version was lighter, slightly flexible and more durable. Ever since Goodyear had invented the method of vulcanisation, people had come up with the most amazing applications—the rubber pontoon bridge, however, seemed a particular remarkable example of the use of the new material.

Even though Adam had not dealt with vulcanite during his studies—having been invented in 1848 it had been just too new a thing to be part of his curriculum—he was sure there were more ways to make use of it, and he saw himself developing those new uses. Uses that might help the Union Army to gain that little advantage over the Southern troops that could make the difference. It was only one of a thousand ways he could think of as to how he could still be valuable for the army.

He wouldn’t shirk his duty just because things had been rough on him for a time. He wasn’t that kind of man.

Juliet would understand that, wouldn’t she?

Through the door to the next room, he heard her singing to Henry. Adam couldn’t suppress a wry grin as she narrowly missed a high note in Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. She never made it through a whole song without slipping a half-tone up or down on occasions, but Henry didn’t seem to mind. In the past two days, Adam had witnessed him falling asleep without complaint to his mother’s singing more than once.

It was hard to admit, but he nearly hadn’t recognised Henry as he saw him again after almost half a year. He’d known the baby in Hoss’s arms was Henry—but his son had changed so much, he could have been any baby.

If he stayed with the army he would miss even more of Henry’s progress, and more of Juliet being a mother.

Would she understand his motives?

I need you! He remembered. She’d said that, months ago, and he had not fully understood it— he knew that now.“Adam, don’t do that to us, don’t leave us. Don’t leave me. I couldn’t bear…”

And yet she had had to bear it. Had to bear it and more, had paid a heavy price. She’d told him about the miscarriage, in a soft voice, her gaze averted from his face. First he’d thought she didn’t want him to see her vulnerability; only much later he’d realised she was ashamed. Blamed herself. He’d embraced her, said that they would have another child, but he hadn’t taken the burden from her, understanding too late that she had not just told him, but confessed it to him. Now he was helpless, speechless, felt he’d failed her, had ceased to be there for her again.

Would she really understand it if he left her behind again? But other men left their wives behind, too. It couldn’t be helped.

He took up his pen. “I would like to offer my knowledge and skills in the field of—”

The screeching of the door being opened by Hoss interrupted him.

His brother’s gaze swept through the room, then settled on Adam. “Where’s Juliet?”

“With Henry.”

“And you?”

“What do you mean?” Oh, he knew what Hoss meant. For reasons Adam couldn’t quite fathom his brother didn’t tolerate it well if Adam left Juliet’s side for more than a short moment.

Hoss had changed, too. He was protective towards Juliet, more protective than Adam would have thought Juliet would allow anyone to be, and seemed to consider the two of them a unit. Towards Adam, though, Hoss was…edgy. He made it plain he was happy to have found Adam alive and that he was concerned about Adam’s physical shape, but he also seemed to have something weighing on his mind, something that made him moody—Hoss, moody!—and testy: a kind of suppressed anger just below the surface, ready to boil over at any given time.

“Ya know what I mean. Why ain’t ya with her?”

He was willing to let Hoss get away with the tone, but not with the interference. “I’m hardly accountable to you.”

“Yer…what are you writing there?”

“I’m writing to the Department of War. I want to…” He trailed off because Hoss already had picked up the letter.

It took Hoss about ten seconds to read it, and less then one to crumple it into a very small ball.

“Are ya crazy?” he said so softly, it sent chills down Adam’s spine.

“I—”

“Are ya crazy?” A tad louder. “They’re letting you go, and you wanta talk ‘em around?”

“Hoss, I can still make a contribution. I can still fight for—”

“Are ya crazy?” Quite audible this time. “Do ya ever think of Juliet? Pa? Joe? Anyone but you?”

“Hoss, let me explain, I—”

“Are ya crazy?” Now it was a definite roar. “I don’t need yer explainin’. This ain’t about you, Adam, and the dadburned army. This is about everyone hurtin’ because yer not thinking about what yer doing to them.”

“I know this isn’t easy for the family. It’s not easy for a lot of families, and still there are men fighting out there for a good cause. I know—”

And then white hot pain exploded in his chin, blinding him for a moment. He was propelled through the room, hitting the opposite wall before he couldn’t even flail his arms. Unable to stop the momentum or to cushion the impact, he crashed into unyielding solidity; stood there, stunned, for a second or two and then slowly sagged down.

Baffled, he stared at Hoss’s face, which suddenly appeared only inches from his, and which didn’t look quite as shocked as Adam would have hoped.

“You don’t know nothing,” Hoss spat. And he did the thing Adam hated so much: he stabbed with his index finger at Adam’s chest, emphasising his every word. “You don’t know nothing. You ain’t been there as Joe caught a bullet because he’d defended yer honour, you ain’t seen him hurtin’ because of he talk and the looks he got, you ain’t seen Pa aging overnight when he thought yer dead, you ain’t heard Juliet trying not to cry. And you ain’t seen the blood when she lost that baby, ain’t heard her blaming herself fer it ‘cause she thought she’d failed ya, ain’t been sitting next ta her bed and watching her fade. You don’t know nothing.”

Slaps, those words were slaps, each and every one. And they hurt even more than the punch to his face. Fingering his hurting jaw, he tried to give Hoss a small smile and winced as it pulled on his split lip. “I guess I deserved that one,” he said. “Hoss, I had no idea…”

“It’s over, Adam. Yer done yer fighting. Yer busted, and now you ain’t fit fer fighting anymore.” Hoss’s voice had gone soft. Soft and patient and soothing. It sounded as if he was talking to a stubborn child who didn’t realise he was only hurting himself. “You hafta go home and heal. Yer place ain’t here—yer place is home. Come home, Adam.”

“I…” It sounded so easy. Go home, heal. But things weren’t so easy, were they? “The country…” The country what? Needed him? The country had just told him it didn’t need him anymore, hadn’t it?

“Yer family is part of the country, too. Maybe it’s time to fight fer them.”

He nodded. “Yah.” It was so easy.

Hoss offered him a hand, pulled him to his feet. “’m sorry, fer the….” he said, gesturing to Adam’s jaw. Then he put his arm around Adam’s shoulders and squeezed, just once and only softly as if afraid to hurt him again, and whispered, “Welcome back, older brother.”

The door between the two rooms opened and revealed Juliet cloaked in her dressing gown. “Henry is asleep now. Adam, are you don—” She broke off as her eyes fell on him. “Good gracious, what happened here?”

They answered her in a chorus. “Nothing.”

Crossing her arms and looking pointedly at Adam’s chin, she raised an eyebrow. “Oh, yes, I see.”

And then she sighed and drew small circles on her temple with the tips of her fingers.

“Are you all right?” she eventually asked. It was addressed to Hoss, not to Adam, and that was almost like another slap.

“Yes, ma’am, I am. We are, now.” Hoss gave her a smile. “I gotta go now and see iffen I can find out where’s the nearest train station.”

He walked out of the room, and Adam watched Juliet’s eyes follow Hoss leaving and closing the door behind him. The clack of the door latch still echoed through the room when Juliet turned to him.

“What…?”

“Nothing. Nothing…worth talking about, anyway.” He rubbed his chin. “Honest, Juliet. It’s like Hoss said: we’re all right now. I promise.” I promise, again. And he didn’t break promises, did he? No, he did everything to keep them. Always.

She studied him for a moment, then tugged at his sleeve. “Come with me.” She took his hand and pulled him with her. “The tub is big enough for two.”

It was, especially for two people as thin as they were. Adam had been shocked the first time he’d seen Juliet naked, and a look at her face had told him she’d been just as shocked to see him skinny as a rake. They both had to put some meat on their bones.

As it was, they fitted perfectly in the tub. Adam leaned comfortably on the backrest, Juliet lay between his legs, her head resting on his shoulder. They’d shared washcloth and soap, helped each other scrub their backs, and now they were relaxing, enjoying the peaceful quiet of the room, the warmth of the water, and the long-missed closeness.

Juliet laid her hand on his bent knee, then let her fingers trail down the leg towards his hip. They stopped at the scar.

“It looks so painful,” she said.

He shook his head. “It isn’t. Well, not much.”

He couldn’t see it, but he sensed her raised eyebrow as she said, “Sure.”

“It could be worse. It was worse. It’s getting better every day.”

She laid her hand on it, cautiously, barely brushing the tender skin, as if she wanted to shield it—protect it? Heal it? He covered her hand with his.

“It’s not a pretty sight, I’m afraid.”

She leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss on his thigh, just above their clasped hands. “No,” she said. “It isn’t. But who cares?”

He leaned forward, too, and kissed her neck, buried his face in the soft hollow between her shoulder blades. Yes, who cared? He had his scars, and she had hers. The small, nearly invisible silvery line on her side from the bullet that had nearly killed Joe—and if not for his youngest brother perhaps Juliet. The fine web of faded scars on her wrists, a criss-cross of faint, thin lines, and the thicker, still reddish welt on her left palm, all evidence of how she’d destroyed the standing mirror in their hotel room in San Francisco with bare hands, testimony of her desperation—and her temper. It had been another incident about which she’d felt the need to tell him in a fashion more reminiscent of a confession than an explanation.

And then there were other scars. Scars in the shape of worry lines and sadness.

He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her back with him, until he leaned on the backrest again, and she lay on his chest. He kept his hold on her, tightly, and as she turned her head to look at him questioningly, he held her even tighter.

“You’re right, that scar…I don’t care if it’s there or not. I can’t do anything about it anyway. But…” He closed his eyes, just for a moment, praying he would find the right words, then looked back at her. “There are scars I can do something about.”

She frowned. “What…?”

“The scars of…the baby.”

She closed her eyes, shook her head. “No, Adam. There are no scars from that.”

“There are. I can see them, in your face.”

Her eyes flew open, wide, wide open. Brilliantly green, bright with shock and something else. Fear? Unbearable pain. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“Shh. There’s nothing you should be sorry for. I am sorry I wasn’t there when it happened. I am sorry you had to go through that without me.” He cupped her face, traced his thumbs over her cheeks, over her lips, brushed her eyes with his fingertips. “I want to erase those scars,” he whispered. “I will do everything I can to make them vanish.”

He wanted to kiss her, but she turned her face away. “I don’t deserve that. It was my fault the baby—”

“It wasn’t your fault. It just happened.”

“But if I had stayed at home, if I had rested, if I had taken better care of myself…”

“…then it would have happened anyway. Juliet, if rest were needed for that, how could any farmer’s wife ever carry a child to full term?”

There was a long moment of silence, and it took Adam everything not to break it. Finally, he felt Juliet nod.

“That’s true…” She sounded surprised, as if that thought had never occurred to her. “It’s true, but still…Adam, I wanted that baby. I wanted it just as much as I wanted Henry.”

“You’ll get that baby.” He felt her stir, taking in a deep breath, but forestalled her words. “I know, not that baby. But another one. We will have many sons and daughters. It won’t take away the pain of losing that baby, but perhaps…it will make it bearable.”

She pressed her face into his neck, in that old familiar way, and it was answer enough. Then he heard her mumble against his skin.

“Pardon?”

She pulled back a bit. “The beard. Shave it off.”

“What do you have against the beard?”

“I don’t like it.”

“Does it tickle?”

“It obscures too much of your face. I can’t see…I want to see those dimples once you start smiling again.”

“I am smiling.”

“You aren’t. You’re…there’s something on your heart.”

She’d always been that way, had always seen right through him. Had always known how to read him. There was no point in trying to deny it.

He tried it anyway. “There’s nothing—”

It was of no avail. Naturally.

“Oh, taradiddle! What is it?”

It was marvellous to have her back. It was even worth having that imperious tone of voice back, because it meant she was truly back. And stronger than she looked. Strong and smart and able to help him through the fog in his mind.

He took a deep breath. “It’s just…I feel…I haven’t…” It wasn’t easy to put into words. “I’ve achieved nothing.”

“You’ve achieved nothing? What makes you think so?”

“I enlisted to fight for my convictions. To help change this land. Make it a good place for everyone. To reinstate the union. But all I did was get hurt and captured, and then escape again. I did nothing that changed anything. I brought misery to my family, but what for? I didn’t make a difference. And now I’m crippled and not fit to fight anymore. And I’ve achieved nothing. All this was for naught.” There, that was the crux of things, the gist. The unvarnished truth.

Juliet managed to turn around in the narrow tub, to face him properly. She raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“I—”

“Are you blind, Adam? Or don’t you want to see it?”

“See what?”

She sighed. “The boy, for example. Fritz Butcher.”

“Boettcher. What about him?”

“Boettcher. He’d be dead without you, Adam. Executed for desertion.”

“He told you?”

“Yes.”

“But that’s not…enough. I didn’t enlist to—”

“It doesn’t matter why you enlisted, it matters what you did. You saved his life and his honour. Because of you, his family won’t have to mourn two sons.”

He didn’t point out that the war wasn’t over yet, at least not for Fritz Boettcher, who could die the very next day. He knew that that wouldn’t make her argument invalid.

“And the escaped slaves. Where would they be without you?”

“That was a coincidence. I didn’t plan to—”

“Which doesn’t undo it. Adam, you saved their lives. Theirs and Fritz’s. And you might not have performed some military exploits, but you were a part of an army that won some important battles. Wars are not won by outstanding heroes, but by a group of men fighting together for their cause.”

“I never wanted to be a hero, I just wanted to…do my duty. To make a difference.”

“You made a difference. Ask Fritz, he will tell you. You made a difference because you were there.”

“But only for a few weeks. It’s not enough.”

“Not enough? How many weeks more would make it enough? How many slaughtered Southern soldiers would make it enough, Adam? Ten more, a hundred more?”

He shuddered. “No…”

“It is enough, Adam. You did your best, and your best is not killing people but saving them, protecting them.”

She was right; she was so darn right. He pulled her back to his chest. “Why do you always know to say the right things?”

She melted into him. “Because I love you.”

They didn’t say it very often, never felt they needed to say it. Which made the words even more special now.

“What a happy coincidence,” Adam said, holding her even tighter, “that I happen to love you too, Mylady.”

She chuckled. “Indeed, you do. I’ve got evidence.”

“What?”

She wriggled the small of her back against him. “There.”

There she was, his lady. Unashamed, teasing, flirtatious.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t intend…”

“I’d be offended if you weren’t…responsive.” And she leaned into him even more.

But they didn’t make love that night. They got out of the tub as the water cooled down, towelled each other dry, and went to bed, naked as they were, yet they didn’t make love. They just lay and held each other, wept in each other’s arms, laughed in each other’s arms, and talked and recreated their bond. No, they didn’t make love—they loved. And it was the deepest they’d ever gotten into each other.

__________

I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended-up where I intended to be. ~ Douglas Adams

*****

A/N:  On a side note: Major General Schurz and Brigade General Schimmelpfennig are real people.

The story of Schimmelpfennig hiding on private property during the Battle of Gettysburg is historically verified. He didn’t receive a very good press for it.

Carl Schurz was a politican before and after the war. He is famous for his response to an often cited quote, which reads: “The Senator from Wisconsin cannot frighten me by exclaiming, “My country, right or wrong.” In one sense I say so too. My country; and my country is the great American Republic. My country, right or wrong; if right, to be kept right; and if wrong, to be set right.”

 *****