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”

***

*He remembers the epilogue of The Art of Setting Priorities

This month’s words were cow, luck, coal, dustpan, and footing.