Summary and Explanation: I never thought I would write a WHN story for “Interlude”, and I haven’t. Not really. What happened is that I could not not write, and I guess this is what came out of it. These are vignettes that give little glimpses into Adam’s life during the war, some are scenes that may have taken place during “Interlude”, as well as some that happen “after”. I’m not sure I ever find the time to write enough scenes to make this into “a real story” at one time, yet here they are, in no particular chronological order, just so I have them all in one place. One never knows what may happen.
Rating: K+ Words: 13562
Doolittle, beta-reader extra-ordinaire – I owe you everything!
Interlude Series:
When We All Die
Vignette 1 – The Hospital
Ben rushed into the big building that served as the Nashville hospital, but he didn’t see any of the surroundings until he was well into the house and it was too late to turn back. Heart open wide and fear ruling his mind, he hurried through the long corridor that led towards the main hall where the nurses had told him Adam would be, but he hadn’t stopped to see their pitiful glances. Tired and worn out from his travel, he didn’t want to remember that the journey had almost cost him his life. Instead, he hastened towards the long room of the hospital that had once been a barn and now served as the hospital, because the losses at Stones River had been too much, too much.
He was exhausted, and the fear and pain had transformed him, he knew it had. It had taken him four weeks, four endless horrendous weeks to get to Nashville, and he didn’t think he’d ever be able to forget them: not knowing whether his son was still alive, not knowing, always fearing, always praying…and still not knowing anything. He had been forced to take notice of outside life, as much as he had wanted to be left alone, but Kansas City had been a city torn by the war, and he had almost risked his life there.
Ben halted his steps in front of the big doors to the main room. So near, so near, and yet, he knew he might be too late. Almost he cursed his fate that gave him so much to suffer, but why, why had he to constantly quarrel with life, why did he have to fight to protect his sons when he knew he couldn’t do it? Why did he have to live the life he lived, why did his sons have to live in constant danger? He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat, and the sickness he knew was rising in his stomach. He was tired; his mind exhausted and empty except for the one thought that had kept him alive all these weeks.
“Sir?” He jerked. A nurse stood in front of him, her eyes wide and too old for her young face, and he tried to smile at her, but didn’t know whether he succeeded. His body felt suddenly too numb to do anything.
“Major Cartwright, Adam Cartwright,” he choked, his voice raspy from disuse and endless hours of thinking nonsense thoughts, and she furrowed her brows for a moment. Ben watched her face, anxiously waiting, knowing that in a second she would turn her sad eyes on him and tell him how sorry she was. His stomach clenched tight at the thought, and he knew he wasn’t prepared, no matter how often he had tried to face the possibility in his nightmares.
“Main Hall,” she said, “right here,” and her eyes were still absent as if she wanted to remember something important, perhaps the face that the name applied to, but she gave up. There were too many soldiers to be cared for, too many, and no one could remember all of them.
She slowly opened the doors for him who still stared down at her and turned back on the floor. “To the left, I think,” she called over her shoulder.
Ben took one step into the room and shivered. As his eyes fell on the seemingly endless rows of beds in front of him, smelt the searing fumes of disinfectant, he could see how it must have been four weeks ago when the horror had been fresh, when it had invaded this hospital and brought chaos over all of them. For a second he didn’t see the sober beds and linens, the sparse furnishings, but a room filled with dirty, bleeding, dying men, broken and filthy, moaning, crying for their family, could smell the stench coming off the hundreds of wounded and unwashed bodies. He felt a tremor running through him and blinked. The beds were white again, the patients still, the order restored. He could still smell a faint trace of blood and pus, but that was gone now, eliminated by disinfectant. He shivered again. The room was freezing.
Left row she had said, and he walked down the left row and tried not to breathe too deeply, tried not to hear the hollow sound of his footsteps on the stone floor, one after the next, sounding lonely, alone in the midst of this hell. Bodies were lying on small cots, bodies too thin to be called humans, and he caught himself desperately wishing that Adam wasn’t here after all, that somehow he wasn’t as badly wounded as that telegram had said, that his son didn’t have to stand the smell and cold, the fumes of disinfectant, the moaning, the pain and suffering and desperation that threatened to overwhelm him.
Row after row he saw, soldiers after soldier, beaten bodies too many to count, most of them still, lying on their beds like rag dolls cast aside in the great storm that tore the country, tossed aside, like the useless things they were, body after body, soldier after soldier, and the rows didn’t end.
They were lying quiet and peaceful as corpses, covered with thin rags that were the blankets of hospitals that didn’t care either way, in a hospital that had seen too many die to still care, and yet they did, because they couldn’t do anything else.
Row after row, and he knew that he would never forget what he had seen here, would never forget the place, the bodies lined up for inspection, covered in thin filthy blankets where the flees played their sordid games, lying on sweat-soaked grimy linen, bloody coverings only just hiding the horrible wounds that would kill sooner or later. The smell of blood and pus was overwhelming, as was the stench that came from the creatures that passed as human beings, and row after row he went, his eyes searching, his heart weeping. He gritted his teeth as his nails bit into the palm of his hands and bloodied them, so hard was he trying not to break down and cry because of the pain he saw here.
Row after row, bodies, blond hair, dark hair, straight and curly, lying still or trashing about in their fever, calling out to people long lost, memories and ghosts that haunted them in their troubled sleep. When he couldn’t stand it anymore, he looked up and rubbed a hand over his face, but the rows didn’t end, and he had just seen the beginning.
Dark hair, dark hair, a long body, a tall powerful frame, and the most wonderful amber eyes he had ever seen. Dark hair, slightly curly when wet, but mostly groomed with care, cut shorter or too long… but it would be long now, too long, and so it would be curly, wouldn’t it? Dark hair … on a blanket, but this man was too small and his ear was missing, and …this one leaned on the cot, and his mind was blind to this hall and the horror it held.
Rows, and rows, and Ben choked with pain as he went on, searching, not knowing whether to pray or not, but it wouldn’t have helped, as God wasn’t here at this place, wouldn’t know about it.
Dark hair, and a blanket clutched tight. Thin white hands like a skeleton’s held the fabric and clutched it to the man underneath it, and Ben could see the shivering, frail body trembling beneath the blanket. Like a sleepwalking man he saw the emaciated body tense under the movement that would take hours to complete, saw the motion of the spider-like fingers when they needed minutes to close around the thin blanket, and he stumbled forward and couldn’t tear his eyes away from the fingers that moved ever so slowly with the blanket and tried to hide the broken body underneath it, but Ben had seen the shock of black hair, had seen the long dark lashes flutter, and he rushed over to where the man lay he had been seeking, his son, his boy, who was dying.
Vignette 2 – A Night During the War
The night was silent, peaceful, like balm on his skin. It wrapped him into its soft star-flecked folds, engulfed him in violet darkness and offered rest much needed, and gratefully he closed his eyes, content to just sit and rest, to leave, for a moment, all obligation behind him.
Careful not to jar his wounded shoulder, he shifted slightly into a more comfortable position, then settled once more into completely immobility, melted into the night. Behind him, he knew, the others were sitting around small campfires, most of them half-asleep by now, comforted by company and warmth alike, and he sighed at the thought of them cuddled next to each other, their faces alive in the firelight.
He didn’t want to join them, though, not yet. He hadn’t known it before, but a few moments of solitude each day, the chance to be alone with his thoughts and self, the chance to questions his beliefs and convictions, had become as important to him as bread and water.
Gentle sounds from a lone guitar drifted through the silence, and with closed eyes he smiled, sighing deeply when the soft notes danced all around him, filling the night with longing, and secret desires. Amused, he noticed his fingers twitching, then stopped abruptly when a cracking in the undergrowth announced someone approaching.
The next moment, however, a low voice, hardly louder than the whisper in the wind, floated through the darkness, and he relaxed.
“Sir.”
He opened his eyes, albeit reluctantly. “What is it, McKenzie?” he asked gently.
The sergeant crouched down next to him. “Some of the lads would like to share a drink, sir.” He gave a slight shrug and stopped, not needing to elaborate. Soldiers, before a battle, sought the presence of officers known for luck and professionalism, sought it like a talisman that would ensure their survival. That Black Cartwright had more luck than he deserved was well-known among the troops.
Adam threw the darkness a longing glance, then nodded. “Tell them I’ll join them in a minute,” he said.
For a moment he watched the sergeant disappear into the darkness, then he got up himself, mentally bidding night and privacy good bye.
They had to wait another night.
Vignette 3 – Reunion
BEN
“Adam?” Ben didn’t even hear his own voice when he fell to his knees next to the small bed. His eyes were fixed on the face in front of him, but all he could do was stare at his son’s once handsome features that were now sunken and pale, lips bloodless and cracked. Still, it undeniably was the face of his son and Ben wasn’t going to complain.
Again he called his son’s name, but Adam merely shivered. He lay on his side, utterly still, black sweat-soaked curls clinging to his head. His hands, clutching the thin blanket to his chest, were shaking, and just as Ben watched, Adam’s body tensed in a sudden convulsion. Not waking up he turned his head to the side and moaned softly, then grimaced when a dry cough ripped through his body.
Ben reached out his own trembling hand and softly laid it on Adam’s, enclosing the frail limb with his warm one. He could feel the constant tremors that ran through the weak body in front of him and unconsciously tightened his grip, the strength in his fingers, so unlike the other, a promise, reassurance.
“Adam,” he tried to whisper, but the words stuck in his throat. With his hand he brushed Adam’s cheek instead, touched the hot feverish skin that was drawn tight over the bold planes of jaw and cheek bones, held the head of his beloved son and felt the tingle of the curls on his palm, the rough stubble of the beard that scratched his skin.
His hand travelled over thin shoulders then, but Adam didn’t move at all. Ben felt the heat rise from the blankets and wrinkled his nose when he smelt the faint smell of gangrene and infection rise from the sheets, but Adam’s long fingers, thin as the hand of a skeleton, were cold as ice. They gripped the thin blanket as if their hold was the only thing that kept Adam from slipping away, his only grip on a reality that was painful and cold. Ben took a deep breath, then laid his hand once more on Adam’s forehead.
“I’m here, Son. I’m here now. Don’t you dare give up on me.” Desperately he willed Adam to open his eyes and acknowledge his presence, but his son neither moved, nor did the long black lashes flutter.
Wearily Ben closed his eyes for a second, then turned to get up, but a voice near his shoulder forestalled him.
“Excuse me, Sir?”
Surprised he lifted his head. A nurse stood in front of him, eyebrows raised in her grim face, hands on her hips.
“This man needs quiet.”
Before he could say anything, she had already moved forward to take his arm and guide him outside, but then his mind finally registered and he shook himself free.
“I’m Ben Cartwright,” he answered, meeting her eyes square on, but even so he could tell she was not overly impressed. Still, her stance relaxed just a fraction as she acknowledged him.
“Mr. Cartwright.” As her gaze wandered over the bed and Adam’s weak frame, checking, confirming, her features softened, however. “I didn’t know who you were.” Then she looked at Ben again, taking in the dust-covered clothes and slumped shoulders, the fatigue in his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Cartwright. I’m Sister Carole and … ”
Ben swallowed. “My son?”
Once more her eyes moved over him, critically judging, comparing, but whatever she had seen must have spoken in his favour because she gently touched Ben’s arm.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Cartwright,” she said.
Alarmed, Ben could see her eyes fill with sympathy, and it took all of his self-restraint not to grab her arm and shake her in horror.
“Please, Ma’am “, he beseeched her, “I need to know how he is and what happened to him.”
She sighed deeply, obviously pondering what she should tell him, and Ben let his eyes plead for him. “Tell me.”
Quietly she nodded. “Outside.”
XXX
She led him to her office, a small room that was fitted only with a desk and chairs. Subconsciously he wondered how many family members had been told of the death of their fathers, husbands, sons, brothers in here, then sighed and sat down, rubbing a hand over his face before he raised his eyes to hers.
“Mr. Cartwright, I don’t know what …”, she began, but Ben held up a hand, interrupting her at once.
“Please, ma’am … “, he squinted, barely holding his impatience in check. “I have been travelling for the last three weeks just to get here and see my son. I just want to know what happened to him, how he is and when he’ll recover.” He saw that she opened her mouth to protest, but he forestalled her, and his voice made it clear that he indeed thought in terms of “when” and not “if”. “Tell me.”
For a second the nurse didn’t answer, and when she looked up, her eyes were bright in her washed out face.
“Mr. Cartwright, I don’t know whether you expect a miracle, but …”
Ben could taste blood in his mouth where he had bitten the inside of his cheeks trying to hold himself back, but impatience and the desperate need to know easily overruled politeness. “Just tell me!” His voice was like ice now, and Carole succumbed.
“He took two bullets, one in his side, one in his leg, and lost a lot of blood. The wound in the leg got infected. The one in his side is clean, but it doesn’t heal as fast as it could because he is weak from blood loss and the infection that set in.”
Ben was quiet when she had finished, trying to absorb what she had said.
“Why didn’t you…?” He muttered, hardly able to finish a thought from the hundreds that raced through his mind.
“I don’t know what you think we are doing here, Mr. Cartwright.” Her voice had a definite edge, but she tried to remain calm. “The doctors tried as much they dared. We clean the leg wound every day, lance the abscess, drain the pus, wash the wound, but it doesn’t help. There’s nothing we can do. He is getting weaker with the fever that burns his body.” She cast Ben a sympathetic glance.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Cartwright. I wish I had better news for you.”
Ben was quiet. His mind tried to absorb the things she had just told him, tried to filter them, organise them, but they just went on whirling around in his head. Finally he looked up at her and tried to find his voice.
“Thank you, ma’am”, he said.
XXX
Deep in thought he wandered back into the ward. Again he let his eyes sweep over the rows of beds where the other soldiers lay, saw the endless white of the bandages and blankets. He shivered, and not only because of the cold.
Sighing softly, he sat down on Adam’s bed, and gently touched his son’s shoulder, needing the physical contact to remind him of what he hadn’t yet lost.
Then he closed his eyes, suddenly beyond weary, and tried to think of all the things that had to be done. He needed to send a wire to Hoss and Joe, find a hotel room …
There was a low, embarrassed cough behind him, startling him from his thoughts. Another young nurse stood in front of him, holding a bowl of water. She smiled shyly as Ben stood respectfully.
“I’m sorry, sir, but it’s time to wash him.”
She moved to Adam’s side, but Ben took the bowl from her. Meeting her protesting eyes, he tried to assure her.
“Please, ma’am”, he said softly, “he’s my son. I’d like to do it myself.”
ADAM
There was pain. There wasn’t anything else.
It was pain that ran through his body like molten lead, pain that ripped through his body and tore sinew and muscles, pain that his world consisted of. White-hot clumps of agony scythed through flesh and mind and left faint echoes of lightening before they struck, again and again, leaving him weak, vulnerable, shivering on the white sheets, waiting.
There wasn’t anything else.
Sometimes, for a few precious heartbeats, the pain would collect in his leg, would allow him a moment to breathe and gather his mind before it returned to send exploding shafts of pain along his spine and through his chest. On bad days the wound left him writhing on his cot until he passed out, gladly exchanging the whiteness of the sickroom for the darkness of his nightmares.
He hadn’t decided yet what was worse.
Pain left him choking, trembling with fear like a child when he was awake. Darkness sat on his chest and sucked out the marrow of his life until his limbs turned into lucent vessels of smoke.
In the darkness he moved over battlefields, moved, half-blinded, through suffocating clouds of gunpowder, over ground covered with torn bodies not yet dead that silently cried for their mothers, for beloved that had been left behind in another life.
Cannons shook protesting, groaning earth and sent crowds of ravens into the sky to watch over their feast. Soldiers ran past his ghostly shadow, hurrying along the ever-moving front line, back and forth in an ongoing scarlet tide, their number decreasing whenever more corpses joined their comrades on the ground, bodies and faces torn, lost to the past and the part of him that still had had hope. Mist rose from the saturated ground, lifting the ghastly tune of marching boots to the sky. Watching, he shivered.
In the darkness, his hair was frozen to the ground and he couldn’t lift his head, until smaller, softer hands on his cheeks told him not to worry and made him lie down in the cold. Every once in a while blurred faces appeared at the edges of his consciousness, distorted images of dirty men, bringing voices into his vacant world, so many voices. MacKenzie was there, and Hutten, and others he didn’t recognize but he let the sound of their voices lull him into oblivion and dulled pain, swinging softly on the excruciating tide that now seemed to rule his life.
There was another face, though, another voice, one that forced itself rudely through the pain and ordered him from the battlefield, and because, just because, he wanted to see that face again, he wondered whether he should not to give up living just yet.
Vignette 4 – Memories of Past and Present
I
The night was dark, the air saturated with the miserable rain that beat against the window panes. It was the kind of rain he had used to watch, at home, a long time ago, had watched the drops unite and merge with the wind until they were powerful enough to assault all living things in a demonstration of power, all creatures that hadn’t managed to find shelter in time.
Even before, he had huddled under whatever shelter there had been, planks, holey canvas, or in draughty cabins – it didn’t matter, at night. All he had been looking for had been a moment’s respite from the wind drilling into him, numbing every nerve, every thought, together with a little warmth to assure himself that his hands hadn’t frozen, his heart hadn’t died of cold just yet.
He shivered at the memory. The room was tiny, barely enough to hold the bed with the threadbare blanket and the desk, and the little light from the only candle hardly sufficed for writing. Water had already begun to seep through the cracks where the wood had warped with age and the onslaught of the weather, but at least the roof didn’t leak and in the morning he could get hot coffee from the tavern owner.
For a moment he closed his eyes, feeling the glass of the window deathly-cold against his hand. He would have almost smiled. It was a night for memories, and already now he could feel them flooding his mind, pushing forward to be recognized and mourned, and with a sigh he gave up all resistance and surrendered.
Outside, the storm was raging, screaming, howling, shaking the absurdly fragile shelters lined up in the field, tearing everything that hadn’t been fastened securely.
Watchfires flickered in the onslaught, dozens of minute lights strewn over the meadow. Huddled silhouettes cowered in their shapes. The window panes rattled in another attack.
Adam silently watched, a shadow in the darkness. Sleep would be a long time coming.
II
It was the quiet that set his nerves on edge. The house was asleep, the main rooms deserted and void of life. The fire had been allowed to die down until only the embers cast their dim light into the huge room, illuminating the dark that crept from the corners and stole the day’s contentment until all that was left was distress and misery.
The floorboards creaked under his feet as he halted on the stairs, suddenly afraid to enter the room that threatened to engulf him with its emptiness. Never before had he been afraid of creeping down into the kitchen for a midnight snack, of stealing away to discover the night’s secrets while his family slept in the rooms upstairs. Now there was a letter in his pocket, stained, wrinkled, with a script that was hardly legible, a letter that had ripped his family apart with hardly a dozen words.
The room was empty, his father gone because his brother was dying. Joe sat down on the steps and watched the shell that had once been the centre of his life.
III
The room reeked of pus and unwashed men, an odour that had made him gag when he had first encountered it. By now he hardly noticed it anymore as he made his way down the rows of decaying, rotting flesh kept alive in once white and sterile beds. Some bodies moaned and grunted, cried out with the crucial hold of their nightmares that tore at their skin, lacerated limbs, shredded flesh. The screams of those who escaped their mocking dreams only to find themselves in the nightmare of reality were unbearable.
Most of them were silent, though, quietly slipping into death or blessed oblivion without ever muttering a word, without leaving a name, or friend, or family member to remember.
He preferred the quiet ones. If he tried hard, he could almost pretend that they weren’t here, were not in this room, were not dying along with his son. If he tried hard enough, he could perhaps will him to live, force something of his own spirit into the lifeless body because there was nothing else he could do except deny that his son was dying.
He could hardly believe how thin he had become, how skeletal his wrists were, could hardly believe that a body so emaciated should recover and live. The leg wound festered and stank, his flesh wasted away. And Ben, worn from endless days of watching his son suffer, was beginning to wonder what kept him here, chained to a life of pain agony.
He ran a hand over his face and wearily sat down, tired beyond fatigue, knowing that his body would give in soon, would betray him when he could least afford it. Already now he didn’t dare leave his son alone for any prolonged period of time, too fragile was the grip he had on life, too high was the risk of losing him in a moment of inattentiveness, one moment of giving in to his own body’s requests.
With deep unease he thought back to the previous evening. They had almost lost him when the fever suddenly spiked that night and the precious quinine, reserved for emergencies like that didn’t help. The doctors had worked all night to bring the fever down, had in the end cautiously approached Ben to ask his permission to douse his son with ice water. “Kill or cure” they had called the procedure, admitting that either it saved his life, or that his heart would stop from shock.
“His heart is strong”, he had whispered in response, voice hoarse from fatigue, his eyes burning.
His son had survived, holding on to the barest thread. The doctors claimed that it was a miracle, leaving no doubt that he wouldn’t survive another fever attack.
A whimper came from the bed, hardly more than sound carried on breath, but Ben turned towards it, frowning when he saw the dark brows creased in pain. When he searched the pale face, however, he saw his own reflection in the two dark pools of amber that stared back at him.
Vignette 5 – Ramblings
Distant sounds,
Footsteps on frozen leaves and
Frost-covered ground that was lying
Asleep, waiting.
Sounds in the distance
Ground vibrating with
Marching feet bound with shreds and
Good-will;
Soldiers, tattered, blood-stained
Dirty, marching towards heroic fates,
And destiny, uncertain death.
He snorted at
The thought, moving softly in his hideout,
The cold affecting his thinking.
Troops were passing him, and counting he swore
Under his breath, watching faces of boys,
Young men, praying they wouldn’t be the ones,
That they would move on and not face him
The next day, the next week,
Praying that he wouldn’t be the one.
Vignette 6 – A Decision
The sun was warm on his skin, soothing, full of promise. Eyes closed, he settled back, unconsciously spreading his hands so that they may gather as much energy as possible. Warm orange-red shades danced behind his lids, dissolving, emerging all at once in a never-ending dance of his heart’s blood, of life.
Lazy stirrings of wind rustled his hair, touched skin with cool fingers and sent tiny ripples of gooseflesh down his spine, but the sun hot on his skin, warming something within that had slept for too long, something that had almost died in his perpetual winter.
It was easy to blend out that part of himself that had, not too long ago, been selfish, dissatisfied, longing. There was no space for it to exist here, in the sun, in the first slow awakening, yawning, of Spring, no space for restlessness in this place of content, of cautious happiness.
He knew without doubt that he felt at ease here and, what was more, at ease with himself. The faint noise that managed to climb over the garden walls was filled with the hectic activity of the city, calling drivers and neighing horses, their regular steps on the ground, the laughter of the children chasing after them.
Still, he might have been completely alone where he sat, with soft wisps of conversation lulling him, floating around him without ever touching his consciousness, the sun warming his body and soul, caressing his skin under an abundance of blue.
It was the low shuffle on the pebbles that covered the path that stirred him from his doze and, without bothering to open his eyes, he smiled when something heavy was settled on his legs.
“Thanks,” he murmured, then squinted against the sun to catch a look of embarrassed but well-meaning guilt cross his father’s face before it settled into its usual indulgent growl.
The blanket tucked in, Ben sat down next to him, closed his eyes and sighed, he too enjoying the first warm days of March after the long winter.
For a long time they just sat in silence, content in each other’s company. He had almost dozed off again with the fragrance of the fresh soil in his nose when his father’s voice pulled him from his orange-red oblivion.
“Have you thought about what you want to do?”
The question was innocent enough, and yet he wondered how some unfortunate words strung together always managed to put the addressed on edge. For the moment he decided not to respond, even though he knew that he couldn’t postpone the answer forever.
“I’d like to turn over because my bum hurts, “he said instead, then grinned when he saw disapproval of his sergeant’s best language flicker across his father’s face. His hilarity was short-lived, however. The next moment he bit his lip as rough hands, competent with practice, deftly turned him over. The morning’s shot of morphine was still working, though, and, while his father checked the dressing, he slowly let out the breath he had been holding when the pressure on his side eased.
“Thanks,” he managed, noting with dismay how breathless he still sounded, and over the noise in his ears heard his father grumble in response, while at the same time he knew that he had only postponed the inevitable decision he had to make sooner rather than later. He didn’t even suppose he had fooled his father with a ruse as crude as this one, but for the time being it had bought him another moment in the sun, another moment that he could pretend that there wasn’t a decision to make.
It was the sun, he had decided a week ago, that had changed him, not the last months. The warmth was too tempting, luring him away from decisions he ought to have made eons ago, dazzling his senses, stroking his mind. There was nothing in the sun but warmth, present existence, pure and undemanding.
It was tempting and …
“Adam?”
There was his father’s voice again, calling, and he knew he owed him, so, with an effort, he opened his eyes. It had been his father who had suggested that the doctors cut away the rotting flesh and wash the wound with boiling water, his father who had insisted on honey to dress the gaping hole, his father’s stubbornness that had sat on his chest and demanded him to live.
The face in front of his was blurred this time, but he would have recognized its worried outlines blindfolded. Mind sluggish with morphine, he blinked to clear his vision, nevertheless, and if he hadn’t lain down already, he would have sat down in expectation of bad news when he saw his father’s face clearly. As it was, he managed a short twitch of an eyebrow, an amazing accomplishment under the circumstances.
“Bad news?”
His father’s mouth quirked.
“Depends,” he answered, and Adam knew his father was watching his face for a reaction. “Rosecrans wants you back.”
Adam closed his eyes. His decision had been made for him. He just wasn’t sure whether he liked it.
Vignette 7 – Scars
Ben
Thoughtfully Ben regarded his son. Sitting outside in the sun, sharing the few warm hours of each day had become a habit they were both enjoying, and Ben, after a quick glance to make sure that Adam was indeed fast asleep, settled comfortably into his own blanket and blinked lazily at the idle sun above. He was thankful for these rare hours outside the hospital room, for they gave him a respite from the odour and whitewash walls that made up the rest of the day and constricted his mind. These were the few hours of the day when forgetting what lay inside the house and behind the garden walls, when ignoring the knowledge that they were both living on borrowed time was the easiest. These hours were his paradise, a cocoon that helped him preserve a kind of sanity, were a shelter for his tortured being – and one that he only too gladly would have liked to wrap around Adam as well. Ben sighed.
Adam’s eyes were closed, his face relaxed in the midday calm, a look of innocence only just touching his hollowed cheeks. And yet Ben couldn’t help but notice again the lines that had buried themselves deep into his son’s features, the pale skin that contrasted so strongly with lash and hair, showed the frail transparency of people not … not really there. Ben swallowed hard, trying futilely to dispel the sickening taste in his throat that rose whenever he tried to think about that for which he had no words, for what was impossible to explain in terms he knew. The sun let red glints sparkle in Adam’s hair, but all Ben could see was the life which wasn’t there anymore – and mourn it deeply.
It was true, Adam had survived, yet Ben couldn’t help wondering which part of his son they had lost along the way. As he watched, the dark brows suddenly furrowed in sleep, making Ben hold his breath in anticipation, but whatever troubled images haunted Adam’s dreams passed and his face relaxed. Ben sighed, adrenaline ebbing away, then ran a hand over face, even though recognizing the gesture to be as useless as he felt himself.
Adam had changed, in ways that Ben felt unable to discern. There seemed to be an indefinable, yet undeniable air of harshness, of relentlessness surrounding him, making Ben feel as if he was looking at a likeness of his son that had been painted impatiently in harsh, broken brushstrokes, giving a fleeting impression of the man beyond the canvas yet daring anyone to attempt and come closer. Ben shook his head, futilely trying to subdue the shiver that crept through his body. Sometimes, he thought, it was like sensing the shadow of something immense, yet intangible, lurking within his son’s mind, without being able to grasp the concept that at any moment the dragon could awake irritated, and hungry. Unconsciously, Ben loosened his collar, then, realizing what he was doing, threw Adam a guilty look and forcible relaxed his hand. Adam slept on, quite unperturbed, yet the uneasy feeling remained.
It was no use denying, however, that there were moments when, being near Adam in close quarters, Ben felt decidedly uncomfortable, and the thought sent another wave of green and purple guilt racing through his flesh. It was more than simply not knowing what had happened to his son during the months they had lived separate lives, and Ben was only too aware of the fact that the lines in Adam’s face, the scars on his body could possibly be the only things he would ever truly know about those months.
The scars told the story that Adam was unable and unwilling to relate, were the diary unexpectedly found beneath a pillow of granite. Seeing them for the first time, he had felt like entering the forbidden garden, exploring where he had no right to step. Of course he wouldn’t have been able not to notice them while caring for Adam, washing, shaving, dressing him, and yet they all told a story Ben felt ill at ease to witness.
There were quite a few marks he was familiar with, and others he had forgotten during a life filled with necessities, like the thin white mark along one hip, courtesy of tumble down a tree as a child. Then, there were others that simply took his breath away and scratched his throat in their ugliness, scars in the most unexpected places, varying in size and gravity, scars that Ben had never suspected to exist.
A nurse passed and Ben, startled from his thoughts, hardly managed to turn the frown on his face into a smile as to not attract her attention. Pensively he let his eyes follow her before his gaze came, once again, to rest on Adam.
Quietly he regarded him, noticed for the millionth time the hollow cheeks, the emaciated body beneath the blankets and resisted the urge to turn away and avert his eyes.
Truth was that Adam had changed in two ways. There was that harsh, steely side that Ben could only just begin to fathom, even though he thought it was something he could understand if only he tried hard enough. There was, however, that other side, the silent, still one, and Ben, shocked to the core, saw his son’s life slipping through his fingers like sand running through an hourglass.
It hadn’t always been like that, and Ben wondered whether it wasn’t just him who was unable to cope with the change that he saw in his always active, always restless son.
Something wet suddenly struck Ben, and first drop of a fast approaching rain cloud, making Ben shiver. All of a sudden he felt lost, out of place in that foreign place, and for a moment, just a moment, he wondered what he was doing amidst chaos, amidst a hopelessness so tormenting that it numbed his thoughts.
It wasn’t Adam who had been restless, Ben thought, it had been Joe. He had been the one unable to keep to one place for long, always searching, looking for something new to discover, afraid he would miss something of his life. If Adam had been restless, their constant moving had concealed it well. His restlessness had manifested in other ways, in questioning that what happened around him, in a constant urge to get to the bottom of the things that made up his world. Adam’s quiet side, his pensiveness, his thoughtful observing had always been directed at something, something to observe, something to discover. It had always had purpose, and now, Ben thought when he saw Adam stirring in the cold wind, all purpose was lost. The bile in his throat tasted bitter.
Vignette 8 – The Visitor
When Ben returned from town, Adam wasn’t alone. A young man with dark hair was sitting by his side, deeply engaged in conversation. If Ben had had any doubt, the uniform would have been a dead give-away, but even without it, everything in the young man’s stance cried out “soldier”, and Ben was surprised to discover that his first instinct was to rush into the room and drag the other man out.
As it was, it took considerable effort to halt his steps and not barge into the room and interrupt the discussion, but it was the appeal of what he was seeing that actually made him lean against the doorframe and watch.
The younger man was talking excitedly, gesturing with his hands while he spoke, the gleam in his eyes mirroring the tension in his body. His whole countenance was a stark contrast to Adam who appeared even paler, even more fragile in the company of the spirited young man opposite him. And yet, there was something in the way Adam held himself, the way he moved, that was different, and Ben was swallowing hard at the kaleidoscope of feelings racing through him when he realized just where the difference lay.
Immobile though Adam might be, physically unable to direct his body at will, Ben could detect a glow, a spark in his features that hadn’t been there in the almost three months that he had been here now. The realization hurt, more than he dared to admit, and stabbed at his heart with little pikes of jealousy.
It seemed as if up until now, he had watched Adam from his own world’s perspective, trying to, wanting to pull him back into the old image he had of him, even when he knew that here he was the outsider, the one who didn’t fit in. For a moment the urge to run, to leave this foreign place behind, became overwhelming, but still the fascination to watch Adam was stronger, overruling even his sense of decency that told him to leave the men their privacy. It definitely was a fascination.
From what Ben could see of Adam’s face, it wasn’t hard to judge that Adam was deeply engrossed in the conversation. There was a healthy flush colouring his pale cheeks, and his stance was attentive in a way that Ben had thought he would never see again. Perhaps, he realized painfully, the words Joe had said to him at home were true, and they had truly lost Adam to this inferno, this hell … this task. For weeks he had tried to instill some purpose into Adam’s daily routine and had failed dismally to wake his son from the stupor into which he had fallen.
It wasn’t that Adam consciously ignored him. There were times, though, when Ben could almost sense Adam’s concentration slipping away from him in the middle of a conversation, could see his eyes glaze over even while he spoke and would know that his son didn’t have the energy or the will to pull himself back from whatever dark place his thoughts had drifted to, would know that the topics he tried to interest Adam in had become meaningless to him.
It had taken another man – a stranger – the course of one afternoon to draw a response from Adam.
Ben sighed. Mentally, he was resolved to be content with whatever helped Adam find his way back to himself, to swallow his pride and helplessness for the sake of his son. Now he only needed to convince his heart of it, as well.
Laughter sounded, followed by a sharp intake of breath, and Ben quickly looked up. Adam was bent over, holding his side and gasping for air, and Ben’s heart leaped.
He had already lifted his foot in alarm when he finally registered that Adam, seeing one of the nurses rushing towards him, had raised his hand to signal that he was alright.
Ben slowly exhaled, the flow of adrenaline only slowly ebbing away. Shaking his head and not sure whether to call Adam’s visitor to task for making him laugh in the first place or simply be thankful that he had, Ben beckoned the nurse to him.
It was Carole, as he saw now that she turned towards him and, feeling suddenly foolish, pondered for a moment whether to just let the question that lay on his tongue slip away. Then, feeling even more foolish for considering not to ask, he nodded a greeting.
“Carole,” he said, and, when she smiled, only just resisted the urge to take her arm and lead her a few steps away. “The young man talking to my son – do you know him?”
To his surprise, a flush slowly suffused her delicate features and for an instant he had the impression as if she bit the insides of her cheeks to keep a smile from spreading over her face. Even so, the gleam that radiated from within her was unmistakable and he knew he had to rethink his rather superficial impression of the younger man.
“That’s MacKenzie,” she explained after a hushed quick glance into the room, before raising her eyes to meet Ben’s. “He’s a sergeant in Major Cartwright’s regiment.” Her hands subconsciously straightened her skirt as she answered, but Ben’s thoughts were already wandering. He hardly realized when she, with another backward glance, skipped away from him and back to work, his sober mind connecting all too easily the name under the fateful cable that had upset his world with the man now talking to his son.
Slowly he turned back into the room, determined to meet the man who had alerted Adam’s family, only to realize worriedly that the conversation must have moved on to a much more serious topic. The sergeant’s face was stony, his body rigid. The earlier playfulness had disappeared, only to reveal the intimidating man beneath. Still, there was a sadness displayed on his features that could only be surpassed by the raw and naked grief on Adam’s face.
Disregarding manners and uncertainty, Ben rushed forward. Before he reached them, however, MacKenzie stood, kepi in hand, and Ben, rather than addressing a man he didn’t know and hadn’t been introduced to, let him go by, resolved to try and express his thanks at a later time.
“Mr. Cartwright, Sir.” MacKenzie nodded respectfully when he passed, and Ben, startled by the other man’s recognition, stopped and bowed his head in greeting. Momentarily distracted, he let his eyes follow the sergeant to the door and, watching as he quickly threw a kiss down the hallway towards where Ben suspected Carole was working, wasn’t able to suppress a smile.
A quick glance in Adam’s direction, however, expelled any thought of romance from Ben’s mind and let him hurry to his son’s side.
“Adam? Are you alright, son?” He quickly touched Adam’s shoulder, waiting for a sign that Adam acknowledged his presence but his son didn’t answer.
He sat where MacKenzie had left him, his face a pale and expressionless mask, eyes cast down, hands clenching the stick that Hoss had made for him. For a moment he just sat lost in thought, then gave a rigid shake of the head, and Ben, with a sudden and horrible sense of foreboding, knew that he didn’t want Adam to speak, didn’t to hear what he knew Adam would say.
When Adam finally turned to him, his eyes were burning with an intense and miserable determination, and Ben’s heart sank.
“I need to get back to work.”
Ben sighed.
“I know,” he said, recognizing the sad, understanding smile on Adam’s face for what it was. In his mind, Ben was already choosing his words. He had a telegram to send home.
Vignette 9 – Homefront
It was late afternoon when Hoss returned home, the uneventful day, filled with everyday problems that had needed solving, leaving him pleasantly tired and content with himself. It had been easy today, the way the problems had waited in line until one was solved before the next one presented itself. The fence had been repaired, the horses would be ready to be moved to the summer pasture by next week, the colt born early would survive.
Whistling softly, Hoss finished grooming his horse, already anticipating the meal Hop Sing would have ready, knowing he had earned it. Granted, it was still early in the year, the most hectic weeks were still ahead of them but his father’s absence – and his brother’s, for that matter – was noticeable even so. It had been decided that Joe was to deal with the books while their father was away, and, judging from the lines on his face, he did so meticulously. Even so, it didn’t stop Joe from complaining good-naturedly, and it was clear that, no matter how much he wanted their father to be with Adam, he would only be too glad to have him return and take over the books again.
Hoss smiled. It seemed to him that even though he had to take over some of Joe’s chores, he had gotten the better deal for once, being able to spend his days outside, being able to work with the animals he loved so much – and let them take his mind off things he didn’t want to think about.
True enough, when Hoss entered the house now, Joe was seated at the study’s desk, so deeply in thought that he didn’t even hear his brother enter. Hoss, grabbing an apple from the side table, curiously wandered over when Joe didn’t respond to his greeting.
“Don’t drown in it, Joe,” Hoss grinned, then almost choked on his bite when he got the first proper look at his brother’s tired face, the dark eyes burning into his.
“What happened? Did we lose the contract?” Hoss’ suddenly sober mind imagined three dozens of scenarios, none of which would explain the pale grimace that had appeared on Joe’s face.
“No, nothing like that.” Joe sighed, then lifted one of the papers that littered the desk. Hoss squinted in the semi-gloom, but Joe was already picking up another letter before throwing Hoss a helpless look. “We got more letters from Pa today.”
“What … ?” Hoss, for a moment unable to grasp the news and understand why Joe seemed unhappy about it, just gaped at his brother, but Joe, caught in his own confusion and not noticing the turmoil he had caused his brother, continued.
“It seems that there have been some problems with the delivery.” Miserably, Joe once again gazed down at the papers spread on the innocent surface, and Hoss, following his eyes, couldn’t help shuddering when he saw the rusty red that had soaked the precious letters.
“Lordy!”
“It’s not theirs.” Joe sounded distracted; absently he stared at the letter in his hand, then back at the ones spread out before him. Hoss, only slowly recovering from the shock, had the impression that he only just refrained from throwing it down.
“We got three letters today and I can’t put them in order.” For the first time a look of disgust flashed over Joe’s face. “The dates are unreadable because the … the … ,” Joe swallowed and tried again, “the blood dissolved the ink.” Frustrated, he put down the spoiled paper and ran a hand over his face.
Incredulous, Hoss just stared at him. “After more than a month we finally get letters and you’re concerned with the dates?” Unable to grasp the idea that his father had written and Joe hadn’t told him at once, Hoss stopped Joe with an impatient hand. “What does he say?”
Joe, quite surprised at being addressed like that and only just now seeming to notice the blue stare that Hoss directed at him, sighed.
“They are alright, I guess,” he shrugged, and Hoss felt ill at ease seeing the troubled look that had appeared on his brother’s face, despite the reassuring words.
“Look, I can’t really put them in order,” he repeated, rubbing his forehead as if the answers he sought had to be lodged there somewhere, then picked up one of the letters again. Hoss, hands itching to pick up one of the letters and have a physical connection with his father, and at the same time reluctant to touch the spoiled paper, was at a loss what to say.
“Here he says that all is fine and that he and Adam enjoy sitting outside. Then this one,” Joe grabbed another letter with his free hand, “says that Adam’s leg got worse again. So, is that before or after the other letter?” Helplessly Joe stared at Hoss, then all of a sudden slumped into his chair, looking defeated.
Not quite knowing what to say and still unable to believe that a few letters should present an unbridgeable problem, Hoss silently, carefully, picked up one of the letters that Joe had let fall onto the desk.
It was an eerie feeling just to hold the letter. The dried blood had stiffened the paper, had rendered a good part of the words unreadable, and Hoss shuddered to think that a man’s life had been spilled over his father’s ink. Still, he couldn’t help but be thankful that their father, in great foresight, had taken enough paper with him; the lines that had not been drenched in blood stood out clearly on the worn paper, each single word a headstone. Suddenly cold, Hoss grit his teeth and tried to focus on the meaning behind the words instead.
“… has much improved during the last week.
I cannot deny, however, that I am worried by the look that haunts your brother’s face occasionally. He is still not awake as often as I would wish, yet during the rare moments when the pain has subsided enough to allow a few lucid minutes there is an awareness in his eyes that I cannot place.
I wish for Hop Sing daily. Adam has, as had to expected, lost weight. I do not wish to trouble you, nor keep the truth from you when I write this. Let it suffice when I relate that the first day your brother tried to raise himself, he fell down in a dead faint, frightening me, just returning from the yard, and the nurses. Fortunately, his heart appears still strong enough after his ordeal, and when we arrived by his side, his eyes were already fluttering. When I scolded him for his reckless behaviour, though, there was a smile on his face that made my heart glad. That moment I felt sure that God had answered our prayers… “
Swallowing with difficulty, Hoss let the letter sink onto the desk. Joe’s face was carefully blank, his gaze lost in the finite darkness of the room. From the kitchen Hoss could hear the reassuring sound of HopSing preparing dinner, and, thankful for the distraction that helped ground him and took the unreal feeling from him, he got up to light the lamps, to dispel the shadows, the darkness that had crept much too close.
When he returned to the desk, however, Joe sat where he had left him, and Hoss realized that they had yet to speak. He cleared his throat, grasping the first words that came to his mind.
“That don’t sound too bad, doesn’t it?” he tried carefully, yet his optimism soon sounded forced when he saw that his brother didn’t react.
Wordlessly, Joe held out another letter, and Hoss, to his surprise, noticed his growing reluctance to even touch the stained paper.
” … I am worried. General Rosecrans has made his wish known that Adam return to service; when that may be, I do not know, for Adam’s relapse has made a prognosis impossible.
I pray for his recovery as I know you do. The darkness is growing around him; I do not know how to breach it. His doctors, as they tell me, have seen it happen before, to lots of men, yet neither can they tell me when to expect a turn for the better, nor whether I should, but I cannot … “
Hoss blinked and wiped a hand over his burning eyes, but the rest of the lines had been drowned in blood, and feeling suddenly sick to his stomach at what the image might imply, Hoss, closing his eyes, took a deep breath, then another and yet another until he was certain that he had his heartbeat under control again. Then, feeling Joe’s eyes on him, he, with utter care, opened his hand and let the fateful paper glide to the desk. Only then did he look at his brother, the helplessness he felt inside himself mirrored in Joe’s eyes. The clock beat in a steady rhythm.
“What do we do now?” Joe’s whisper was barely audible, and Hoss had never felt so unable to answer a question as in that moment. There was a despair growing inside him that he knew was only a tiny part of the despair their father must have felt when he wrote the letter, and unreasonably, he mentally wanted to punch Adam for causing them so much sorrow, only to apologize the next moment, scared at what his irrational and childlike wish could cause.
“I wish…,” Joe started, then paused, as if all sensible, all possible words had left the world. Hoss, as unable as his brother to answer the unspoken questions hanging in the room, cleared his throat, then swallowed hard. His mouth was dry, his tongue glued to his teeth.
“Maybe … ,” his voice caught and he tried again, “surely Pa would have sent a telegram. If anything had happened to Adam, I mean.” Then, despite dreading what the last letter might say and yet unable to bear the suspense any longer, Hoss nodded towards the last letter.
“Let’s hear the rest,” he said, and Joe, with a quick look at the writing, letting the tiniest grin flash across his face, began to read.
“… strangest request today – he wants to take a bath. You can imagine my surprise at what I first thought a dream at best, at worst a hallucination, but it appears your brother is quite serious. It made me wonder, however, whether he is aware of the condition his leg is in. The wound only just closed, and I fear that the slightest jolt, slightest pressure will open it again and spoil a month’s hard work. However, remembering the earnestness in his eyes at his request, I’m resolved to try – after consulting with his doctors – yet where I am to find a bathhouse in this madness is still beyond me.
I am still no nearer to discovering what happened at Stones River, beyond the newspaper reports, or the circumstances of his wounding. Adam claims that he doesn’t remember and I have not had the nerve to confront or force him, his health still being fragile. The nurses tell me he must have been shot January 2nd, the last day of the battle, for he was among those brought in late, but they know hardly more than that. I am told to try and contact his superior officer, yet I have not received a reply so far. Another nurse advised me to seek the sergeant Joe mentioned, Ser. Maj. McKenzie, yet I am still ill at ease to leave Adam for the amount of time it would take me to find this McKenzie, and I am convinced that sooner or later we will find out. I had hoped that Adam’s willingness to share his thoughts and relate what happened would return with his ability to control his body, but it appears my hopes have been misled. Still, I need not complain. It is a gift that we are able to share the hours we have together, outside in the sun, and I wish you could see the difference in his countenance and demeanour, for he appears much more relaxed and comfortable. I do not dare imagine what he would suffer cooped up inside.
For now, rest assured that your brother is improving daily, the regular sunbaths doing their share, no doubt, yet do continue to pray, as I do.
Your loving father, Ben Cartwright”
Slowly Joe lowered the letter and, over its rim, looked at Hoss. It wasn’t quite clear what he thought; the feelings mirrored on his face could, at best, be described as thoughtfulness, impatience, unsatisfied curiosity and, to a good measure, Hoss thought, longing, and he suddenly dreaded where he felt Joe’s thoughts to be going.
“If I had stayed there …,” Joe let the statement hover in the room, hover threateningly between them, and Hoss, his fears confirmed, turned passionless eyes on his brother, determined not to let doubt grow between them on top of guilt.
“… if you had stayed there, you’d be dead,” he answered tonelessly, noting with bizarre relief the shock displayed on Joe’s paling features. Then, satisfied that his brother had understood, he added in softer tones, “We couldn’t have prevented what happened, no matter what.”
Joe ducked his head. “I guess you are right,” he whispered, running a hand through his already unruly hair and, casting his eyes around the room, taking in the emptiness of the familiar space, his unhappy eyes came to rest on Hoss once more, quietly asking for an answer, for guidance. Hoss sighed, feeling cold and empty and at a loss himself, and he took the clattering of plates that sounded from the kitchen like a life-line.
With a bout of energy he didn’t feel he got up, hoping with his example to lift the mood that had become suffocating. The news they had gotten hadn’t been as depressing as it could have been, he reminded himself.
“First of all, we eat,” he said, “then we sleep.” As he saw Joe’s surprised face, ready to argue, he turned his back and headed towards the kitchen. “Tomorrow we go to town and send a telegram, then we make sure we don’t lose the deal with the horses.”
There was no sound from behind him, and Hoss smiled in grim satisfaction. At dinner, they would ask Hop Sing when Adam would be allowed to take a bath, at night they would wonder whether the order of the letters had any significance, and pray for their brother’s recovery, their father’s return. By day they would distract themselves with work, by night they would light the lamps so that the darkness wouldn’t swallow them, wouldn’t consume their fears. Perhaps there would be other letters.
Hoss took a deep breath. It was something to look forward to.
Vignette 10 – Another Day
When Ben arrived at the hospital the next day, he found Adam at his usual place in the garden, buried deeply in blankets. Another chair, in expectance of his arrival, had already been placed next to Adam’s, and Ben settled into it. He knew that they drew sympathetic glances from the nurses, knew when one of their sorrowful looks settled on his silent son a moment too long. It had taken him days to realize that their sympathy encompassed him as well as Adam, and, not quite knowing how to deal with their concern, he had remained distantly polite, feeling uncomfortable under their scrutiny. It hadn’t changed their regard for him, and he wondered what exactly it was they saw in them. For the moment, though, he decided to dismiss all speculation and turned to Adam.
“It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?” Ben asked cheerfully, trying to penetrate the even-tempered mood that surrounded his eldest. He didn’t really expect an answer, yet not saying anything would have felt equally awkward. Adam had been pensively quiet for the better part of the last two days, limiting his conversation to the simplest requests. Ben had obliged him, in the face of his silence feeling as helpless as he had been when confronted with his son’s injuries for the first time.
Sometimes Ben wondered whether they had unwillingly invented a new kind of one-sided conversation where he provided both his questions and Adam’s responses, wondered whether there would be a time when he wouldn’t expect an answer at all. At the moment he didn’t feel uncomfortable with the silence, though, strange as that was. With a last glance at Adam and a sigh, Ben settled back in his chair, determined to enjoy the time they had together.
If he was honest with himself, however, he was missing his home, missing the daily challenges that made his life interesting. Here, his days had the repetitive quality of a train running on its track, with so much diversion as a trip to the post office. For a depressing moment Ben guiltily wondered whether his presence made a difference for Adam, then mentally berated himself for his doubt. His presence had made a difference, and he still had three sons instead of two. Still, doubt continued to linger in the back of his mind and not even the warming sun on his face could dispel the coldness growing inside himself.
So caught up was he in his sombre thoughts that he almost missed the harsh words from the unused throat.
” … I thought my hands were frozen.”
Ben almost turned into stone. For a moment he didn’t even dare to breathe lest he find he was dreaming, then he hesitantly risked a glance in Adam’s direction.
Adam had his hands spread out in front of him, moving them softly in the warm sunlight so that the shadows wandered over his fingers and created landscapes on his skin. To Ben’s surprise, however, he wasn’t looking at his hands at all, but beyond them where a small kitten was sitting in the grass, purring softly in the sun. For a moment Ben was confused, then he realized with a start that from Adam’s perspective it had to appear as if he just had to reach out to touch the soft fur, feel the warm, breathing body beneath his hands that for him was as far away as the moon.
Ben swallowed hard, unsure whether he should comment, should distract Adam from his dark memories. The sight alone made his heart ache, yet never before had Adam been so aware of his surroundings, had he willingly related anything that had to do with the events of Stones River, the events that had brought them both here. The temptation was too much. Ben held his breath as he waited for Adam to continue, praying, hoping for him to continue, resolved to interfere should the strain prove to much for Adam’s fragile health, resolved to wait another two seconds before pulling Adam from the past that held him captive.
Just as he opened his mouth, however, no longer able to stand the absent-minded look in his son’s eyes, Adam went on, his voice cracking with misuse, void of any emotion.
” … the boys were wet through, shivering so hard that some could barely hold their weapons. ” Ben saw Adam’s fingers grasp the blanket that had been spread over his legs to control the shaking in his hands and subconsciously clenched his own fists, willing himself not to reach out, not to interrupt.
Adam’s eyes wandered over the gleaming lawn, the blooming trees in the yard. “It had been sleeting for days … the ground was a quagmire of freezing mud. All wood was soaked, we hadn’t seen a fire in days. Wheeler attacked the supply wagons … for a few hours we thought we’d start the new year on an empty stomach.” Adam’s mouth twitched, but Ben could find nothing amusing in the bitter tale.
“Rosecrans had been reluctant to seek out Bragg, we all knew that. Still, Buell had lost command because of just that hesitance, so there wasn’t really a choice. New Year’s Day was rather quiet; we moved across the river with Beatty’s boys and started building a second platform on one of the heights there for the artillery that was to follow. Most of the boys spent the day resting as well as they could, huddled in what miserable tents they could come up with, the others dug up the hill to even it out, using the exercise to get warm.”
The ghost of a smile scythed over Adam’s face. “MacKenzie joked I couldn’t plan a level ground in a desert so he had to come and do it all by himself.” His gaze was on the kitten as it languidly stretched and returned to licking its fur. “He made such a fuss that most of our boys and men from other companies started to cut in when they saw him work, even though they could have relaxed. The fool.”
“Surely he only meant to help … ,” Ben spoke without thinking, wanting to bite his tongue the next moment, but Adam just offered a bitter-sweet smile.
“Of course he meant to. All lambs do, don’t they?”
It took Ben a moment to recognize the subtle irony well concealed behind the even words, and even then he wasn’t quite sure whether it was irony at all. Even as a child, Adam had had the tendency to hide behind walls made up of words, and he had honed that ability ever since. It worried Ben that the light-hearted irony that had been directed at his brothers, even at himself at times, should have become so much darker, so much more subtle – and so much more bitter.
Ben swallowed. “What happened then?” he asked, suddenly not as all sure that he wanted to know the answer.
Adam turned to look at Ben, his face calm, in his eyes something that Ben could only think of as a detached curiosity.
“When Breckinridge attacked Beatty the next afternoon,” he said, eyes still intent on Ben’s face, “we were still there, flattening the hilltop. Of course the boys couldn’t just stand by and watch.” Adam turned away, staring bitterly at the cat. “When the attack came, they stumbled down the hill, falling, sliding, risking their neck to be shot the next minute. Breckinridge was relentless, driving us back, over the ford, through the freezing water that numbed every move.” Adam’s voice had become lower, deeper, yet there was that wistful, almost dreamy look on his face that told Ben that his mind was miles, and weeks, away.
“The boys tried to withstand, but they slipped wherever there was a space, looking like drowned rats drawn from the earth, mud-covered, ragged, shabby creatures that stumbled for their lives and died if they stopped … horses don’t like to tread on bodies and … ” Adam’s voice lost itself in the silence and Ben, not knowing what to say, didn’t say anything.
In vain he tried to dispel the images that invaded his head, images of masses of bodies flooding down a stream, masses treading, shuffling through a quack mire of blood and bodies, half swallowed by mud and sludge. Ben shivered.
“If it hadn’t been for Mendenhall and the artillery we had installed on the first platform the day before, we wouldn’t have made it at all.” Adam’s sober voice pulled Ben from the blood-soaked pictures crowding his mind, confirming what Ben already knew of the battle’s outcome.
In fact, from all the newspaper reports, from all the inquiries he had started himself, from all the people he had asked for information he had assumed, realizing quite well now that his mistake lay precisely within that very word, simply assumed that Adam had been behind the lines attacked that day. He had thought that Adam had been with Crittenden, his commanding officer, had thought that he should have been safe because his regiment had already been attacked two days ago – an attack that Adam survived – and had wondered just when Adam had been wounded.
Grimacing in disgust at his own naivety to even remotely think of a war as “safe”, Ben realized with a shock that he had, despite all prior knowledge of war, all awareness of his son’s character, still managed to delude himself. He turned back to Adam, yet his son’s eyes were back on his hands as he stretched and tried each muscle and sinew, watching each finger move with such concentration that Ben involuntarily shuddered.
“Adam?” His voice caught, but it was as if Adam hadn’t heard him.
“I thought my hands were frozen,” he said quietly. Tilting his head back, he half-closed his eyes and sighed when he felt the warm rays of the sun on his face.
“When I came to, rain was running in my ear, my nose and eyes. There was a weight on my back that nearly suffocated me and drove my face into the mud. I knew there was a body under me because I could feel the uniform buttons on my skin, and I wanted to push myself up and away from it, only my hair had frozen to the ground and I just could find the strength to raise my head … ”
Ben just sat in silence. Adam whistled lowly to get the kitten’s attention, then smiled softly as it came meandering over.
“A beautiful day, isn’t it?” Adam let his eyes run over the lawn, the blooming apple trees, then took a deep breath, and, closing his eyes in contentment, he smiled gently. “I never thought I’d live to see another.”
Vignette 11 – Being Found
“Can you see him?”
“Look over there!”
“Major!”
The voices that advanced to his ear were disconnected, floating through his conscience like fireflies, impossible to follow, impossible to catch. Some drew closer, some drifted away, and with a detached fascination he listened to them in the darkness. It was a comfortable darkness, he decided, warm and quiet, covering him with its weight, shielding him from the voices that grew louder and he retreated into the soft folds of gloom, waiting for them to pass.
“Major!”
Impatient hands lifted the weight from him, leaving him vulnerable, shivering with the sudden loss of his refuge, and then, within moments, the world was suddenly turning upside down and he cried out in protest when his unsuspecting body shot bolts of pain into his mind, trying futilely to escape, to no avail. Cold, clammy fingers moved over his face like spiders, and shuddering with revulsion he tried to jerk away.
“Major, can you hear me?”
The voice, so close to him, slowly registered, calling his attention from his acute misery, and he frowned, trying to remember fleeting memories, yet when he tried to open his eyes, light shot into his skull, melting his eyeballs, and he flinched from the pain, this invasion of his darkness.
“I got him! He’s alive!”
For a moment the words echoed in his head, yet when they had faded, something heavy settled on his stomach, suffocating him, and feebly he tried to push it away, determined not to serve as a crow’s feast. His hand, however, was caught, and with the strength in the hand that held him came a sense of direction, a sense of memory, and of pain that whipped through his body like quicksilver.
“Major”, the voice close to him insisted, and he winced, cursing MacKenzie for not letting him die in peace.
“… hear … ya … “, he croaked, forcing words past his parched throat, yet the sergeant must have understood, for the weight on his body lifted. Instead he felt his head lifted and fought the dizziness that felt like a stone in his mouth, felt something cold pressed to his lips, felt something that tasted like iron run down his throat.
Then his head was laid down, and, thankful for the solid ground beneath him, he took a deep breath, wondering if they could just leave him alone.
His wish wasn’t granted. An army of voices arrived, growing to an unbearable level, yet before he could attempt to voice his protest, hands dragged him upward, and his mind and body exploded in agony.
Vignette 12 – When We All Die
It was dark when he awoke, and blissfully silent. The buzz of voices had gone, barely scratching his conscience, leaving him with an abstract notion of pain in a body that seemed somehow detached from him, and he exhaled slowly, thankful for the respite which he knew wouldn’t last.
For an instant he was tempted to take an inventory of the assembled aches that assaulted him, but quickly discarded the idea, knowing he didn’t want to focus all too much on pain that would sear the moment he concentrated on it.
Instead, he tried to focus on the things outside his body, things he could sense without having to open his eyes and surrender to the world. It was dry where he lay, the surface beneath him even, soft and smooth enough for a real bed, and he turned his head to feel the cloth beneath his cheek, to take in the fragrance of clean sheets and blankets and sighed softly. Then, just as he was preparing to open his eyes, a voice came floating from the darkness, MacKenzie’s voice.
“How are you feeling?”
He considered the question, turning it around in his head. He was still debating whether he actually felt or wanted to feel anything, when MacKenzie turned up the light, so that a dark gloom flooded through the room, replacing the pitch-black darkness of before.
Groaning he turned his head away, then, after several more moments felt steady enough to open his eyes. Slowly the shadows around him materialized into their true shapes, forming a desk, chair, MacKenzie, and he felt his mouth twitch when he looked at his sergeant.
“How bad?” he asked softly, noting with dismay how weak his voice was.
“Shoulder and leg, sir.” The answer came quietly, impersonally, and he wondered how close he was to death for MacKenzie to mask his voice with indifference. “You’ll get better soon.”
About to die, he decided, then flinched when he felt ice-cold fingers on his cheek and forehead. The touch, fleeting as it was, seemed to draw all warmth from his body and he shivered as the cold spread through him, wincing when the movement sent sparks of pain to his skull. Tensing against the throbbing that started in his head, he laboriously tried to pull his straying thoughts back together, struggling to remember.
“Perkins?” he asked, his eyes following MacKenzie retreating through the room, even though the sergeant’s silence was answer enough. “Harper?”
“Dead, sir.”
Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, yet the sheets had lost their innocence, and the refuge was lost. When in the night the fever claimed him, he silently followed.
~The End
Last updated: 10/05/2008
