A good friend gone

Those of you who have been reading this blog may have noticed that my most faithful commenter was a woman by the screen name of nlindabrit.  I have received word that she passed away this morning, and I am distraught.

Linda Sherlock was an acquaintance of mine who I met on the Big Valley Writing Desk discussion forum on Yuku.  She lived in the UK, so I have never met her in person, but I and many others have always experienced her online presence as one of grace, generosity and kindness.  She has always been extremely encouraging of other writers, and I have greatly appreciated the faithfulness she has shown to this blog and my amateur attempts at my first novel.

Three days before her death, she posted how excited she was that she had won a Western story contest.  I'm glad she had this success, but am very sad that she will not be around to experience any more of the successes that I'm sure were ahead of her.

I shall deeply miss her - one of the reasons I was so faithful to post a new chapter every week was because I was eager to see what she would say about it.  It's going to be hard to keep this blog going forward - I shall feel her loss anew with every post.  But I should be doing her memory a disservice to stop writing now.  So the book when it is done will be dedicated to her memory.

Farewell, Linda.  You shall be sorely missed.

Linda's blog can be found here.

Chapter Fifteen
Modesto: 1880


“She died a few days later,” Clay told Marguerite. “Jacob and I nursed her, but it was as I’d warned her and her father. Perhaps she was too worn by her griefs to fight back.”

Marguerite lowered her eyes. I was one of those griefs. She turned away from the thought. “The men who were hanged? Were they ever found?”

Clay leaned forward in his chair. “No. Colonel Lieb informed General Grant, but Grant was besieging Vicksburg and he let the matter drop. Unfortunate, because it was not, by far, the last time that the rebels murdered black prisoners, or their officers. Fort Pillow, Poison Spring. . .Well, I wasn’t there. I was invalided out of the army and I made Jacob promise to come here when he got out.”

“I would never have known that you had lost an eye,” Marguerite said.

Clay reached up and tapped his right eye – it made a slight tinkling sound. “Good, isn’t it? I found a glassblower in San Francisco who’s a master. Not many people know.” He reached toward her. “Are you all right? It’s a lot to hand you all at once.”

It was a lot to hand her all at once, and she was not sure how she felt. She had borne a grudge – no, she had hated her father all these years. The picture that Clay painted of him was not the one she held in her mind. She glanced over at the portrait. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. For the first time in more than twenty years, she felt homesick. Not the first time, only the first time you’d admit it.

“Should I stay with you, or should I leave you alone to think?” Clay asked.

His tale had taken up the entire evening and much of the following day – it was now well past the dinner hour, but no one had disturbed them.

Her hands clenched themselves. “I need to paint,” she said.

Clay nodded understanding and stood. “I’ll tell Rory you might need some company later. She’s good at offering comfort without even realizing it.”

“I know,” she said. “I’ve already been the recipient of it. All of you are.”

She took up her brush as Clay left. She could feel hot burning tears behind her eyes, and she turned her gaze from her sister’s portrait. She had told herself she never wished to see Pamela again, but even then, she had known it was not true. At this moment, there was nothing she wanted more, but she could not bear to contemplate gone forever.

Her father – she could not paint him. The images in her mind were too jumbled, and Benjamin. . .no, not yet. Not yet. She squirted several daubs of paint on her palette and began painting the tall dark figure that stood behind her sister on her canvas.



Clay saddled a horse and rode to the orphanage. School would be out by the time he arrived, he hoped, if he rode slowly. Spring flowers bloomed by the road and in the pastures – he regretted that he so seldom took the time to notice. Telling his tale to Marguerite had reminded him that life was short and uncertain.

He timed his ride accurately – the children were sprinting down the steps as he arrived, and he bounded into the schoolroom. Molly was busy putting away books, but she dropped them on the desk as she saw him enter. “What is it, dearest?” she asked. “Are you unwell?” She looked at him with concern.

“No. But I wanted to tell you – there’s something I have to do, but I’m not sure I have the courage.”

“You do,” she said, taking his arm and perching on the desk. He perched beside her, clasping her hand. “You’re the most courageous man I know. What is it?”

“Something you said to me when we first met, and something Jacob said to me the other day. And I’ve been talking to Marguerite, and I realize I don’t want to carry this corruption into our marriage, Molly.”

She knitted her brow, trying to understand him. “What corruption?”

“Lucy,” he said. “And Jim. And my suspicions, and my hatred.” He clasped her hand tighter. “I need to go talk to Jim Gardner, and find out what happened, and try to forgive her.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Do you believe that will help?”

“I don’t know. I watch Marguerite and how she’s trying to reach an understanding through her art, and I wonder if to know all is really to forgive all, as they say. And I’m afraid to know, because then I’ll know for sure that I drove her to it, yet I can’t go on this way, not and be any kind of man to myself, or husband to you.”

Molly slipped her arm around him. “You’re right. This has hung on you for too long, you need to find release. Bear what responsibility is yours, and let the rest go.”

He smiled. “One reason I love you is because you don’t sugarcoat things. Will you lend me your courage, dear?”

“All I have,” she said. “Do you want me to go with you?”

“No, I have to do this alone.” He stroked her hair. “But you’ll be with me, nonetheless.” He kissed the top of her head and jumped down from the desk. “Now I’d better go before I lose my resolve. Come to the ranch for dinner – however it goes, I think I’m going to want you near me afterward.”

Molly agreed and walked with him to his horse, kissing him warmly before he departed.

Clay’s horse slowed at Jacob’s gate, and Clay had to apply his spurs to get him to move forward. Clay smiled grimly – even horses were creatures of habit, and he felt that he was crossing a boundary to some strange world himself.

The house looked much as he remembered it, with a fresh coat of yellow paint and freshly turned flower beds. As he looped his horse’s reins at the porch rail, Sarah opened the front door. She paused for a moment before exclaiming. “Clay Palmer! As I live and breathe!” She clattered down the steps, hands outstretched. “What brings you to my door? And what’s kept you away so long?” She took both his hands, reached up and kissed his cheek.

He was not sure what he was expecting, but this warmth overwhelmed him. “I’d like to talk to Jim,” he said. “Is he around?”

“He’s in the barn,” Sarah said. “Oh, he will be glad to see you!”

Clay rather doubted it, and he began to doubt himself. If Sarah did not know of Jim’s infidelity, would Clay’s coming here today throw her a bombshell? He sincerely hoped not – he had enough on his conscience as it was.

He walked behind the house to the barn. He opened the door, taking a moment for his eye to adjust to the dim light. “Hello?” he called. “Jim?”

Jim came out of the tack room. “Who’s there?” He squinted toward the door.

Clay realized he was back lit, so he moved into the dimness of the barn. “It’s me, Jim. Clay Palmer.”

Jim stood frozen a moment, then, “Clay! Oh, my word! Clay! I never expected to see you here again. What brings you?”

“Are we alone?” Clay said. “I wish to speak with you privately, if I may.”

Jim looked back over his shoulder and called, “You still up there, Abby?”

Abigail Gardner peeked over the edge of the hayloft, book in hand, spectacles on her eyes. “Yes, Daddy. Do you need me for something?”

“It’s all right, dear, go back to your book,” Jim said. “Just checking.”

Abigail brushed straw from her pigtails and disappeared into the hay.

“Let’s go into the tack room,” Jim said. “I do my accounting in there. We can be as private at you like.” Clay followed him – there was only one chair, which Jim gave to his visitor, sitting himself on the edge of the desk. “Can I get you anything? I don’t have any refreshments out here, but I can send Abby to the house.”

Clay waved a hand. “No, it’s all right.” He hesitated, unsure how to broach the subject, puzzled by his warm reception. “Have you heard I’m getting married?”

“Yes, I have, to Miss Holt. She seems like a fine woman – I’ve heard a lot of good things about her.”

He seemed so at ease, Clay thought. Curious, polite, not at all uncomfortable or conscience-stricken. Clay wrinkled his brow. “Well, in light of that, I thought we ought to have a talk about Lucy.”

“I wondered,” Jim said. “I know how her death devastated you – but usually people get closer when they share a tragedy, not cut each other off. Or was there more to it than that?”

Clay felt himself getting angry at the man’s perversity. He clenched his fists, but schooled himself to speak calmly. “You know there was.”

Jim shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You knew she was with child,” Clay said, barely contained. “Why would she tell you and not me?”

“She didn’t tell me,” Jim said, startled. “She told Sarah. You know how women are. Sarah about sobbed herself to death over it – that’s how I knew.” He frowned at Clay. “That’s what this was all about?”

Clay could not breathe. I was wrong, I was wrong. Such a simple explanation, and it never occurred to me.

Jim’s eyes narrowed. “And so you thought what?”

“That you. . .that she. . .” Clay was nearly choking.

“That we?” Jim’s voice was stone cold.

“I’m sorry,” Clay said. “I was wrong, I see that now.”

“I think you’d better leave,” Jim said.

Clay stood. This is all wrong. “If you wish, Jim. But. . .I was hoping our friendship might still matter for something.”

“Our friendship?” Jim nearly exploded. He glanced toward the door, apparently reminding himself of his daughter’s proximity, and likelihood of overhearing. “You’ve got your nerve!” he whispered. “You’re the one who threw our friendship into the gutter.” He stood up. He was shorter than Clay, yet somehow he still managed to loom over him. “Ten years I’ve been wondering what happened, why you’d rather cross the street than speak to me. You’ve known me all my life – how could you think such a thing of me?”

How could I, indeed? “I was wrong,” Clay repeated, knowing how weak it sounded. He reached for the door. “I hope, one day, you can forgive me.”

“In ten years,” Jim said tersely. “At least you’ll know why I cross the street when I see you coming.”

“Fair enough,” Clay said. He opened the door and walked around the house to his horse.

Sarah came out on the porch when she heard his step. “Will you stay for dinner, Clay?” she asked hopefully.

Clay might have laughed if he had not been so close to tears. “I can’t, Sarah, but thank you for asking.”

Sarah pressed her lips together. “It went wrong, didn’t it?”

Clay nodded. “All my fault, Sarah. All of it, from the beginning.”

“Then fix it,” Sarah demanded. “This ain’t how it ought to be. Jim’s mourned you for ten years – I thought you’d come to set it right.”

“It’s what I should have come for,” Clay said, “but I find I am a faithless dog, Sarah. I doubt he’ll ever forgive me now. And I don’t deserve for him to.”

“Forgiving ain’t something anyone deserves,” Sarah said. “If it were, we’d all be going to Hell for sure.” She flicked her hands at him. “Well, you go on home, but don’t you give up, Clay Palmer. Or you’ll have me to deal with.”

Clay kissed her cheek impulsively. “Open-hearted Sarah – a man always knows where he stands with you.” He mounted his horse. “But I’m afraid you won’t think so kindly of me when Jim tells you everything.”

She held his stirrup. “I know you did us wrong, Clay, whatever that wrong may be. But ‘forgive us our trespasses’ - if we can’t find it in our hearts to forgive you, with you here willing to make amends, then we got no right to call ourselves Christians. So I say again, don’t give up.”

He smiled wanly and rode away. Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. He had spent ten years holding a grudge against a man who had never harmed him. How could he expect to be forgiven himself?

He almost turned in at Jacob’s gate, in need of confession, but there were others who should hear it first. He kicked his horse into a gallop, riding for home. After giving his horse to one of the ranch hands, he walked to the house, feeling as though he were trudging through molasses.

Molly was there, in the parlor with his mother and sister. She looked up when he came in, stood and put her arms around him wordlessly. “Something wrong, Clay?” Beatrice asked. “You look white as a sheet.”

“Is Alex here? I need to tell all of you something, but I only want to tell it once.”

“He’s upstairs freshening up,” Aurora said. “Shall I go hurry him up a bit?”

“If you would, Rory,” Clay said. He buried his face in Molly’s hair as his sister left. Beatrice respected his silence until his sister and brother returned.

Clay led Molly to the sofa and sat down, clenching her hand. “I’ve been to see Jim Gardner,” he began.

“Ah,” Alex sighed. “It’s about time.”

Beatrice pressed her lips together, but did not speak. “I never did understand why you cut him off, Clay,” Rory said. “You two used to be such friends.”

“That’s what I have to tell you,” Clay said, “but it’s hard. I thought he had wronged me, but I find it’s the other way around. I’ve wronged him terribly, and I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me.”

“Wronged how?” Rory asked.

Clay looked at his younger sister – it was still so easy to consider her a child, and she still held onto a childlike innocence, but she was a full-grown woman, and not at all naïve, much as he would like to think her so. “I thought, no, I believed, and believed with all my heart, that he and Lucy – that Lucy had been unfaithful to me. With him.”

“And now you know it’s not true,” Beatrice observed.

Rory gasped in horror. “Clay! How could you have thought such a thing in the first place. Lucy? And Jim? I can’t imagine such a thing of either of them, much less both together.”

Clay noticed that Molly’s hand was turning white, and he loosened his grip. “It’s my shame, but I think you should know.” He related the same tale he had earlier told Molly, and why he had felt driven to finally confront Jim Gardner. “I have to bear the disgrace of it, now,” he finished.

“Why is this the first I’m hearing of this?” Beatrice asked. “You evidently told Alex, and Molly.”

“Molly’s about to become my wife,” Clay said. “I couldn’t honorably keep it from her. And Alex – well, I had to confide in someone. He tried to set me straight, but to no avail.”

“So what do we do now?” Rory asked. “I can’t bear to see you like this.”

“Thank you, Sis,” Clay said, “but this is my doing, and it’s up to me to try to set it right. I don’t know how, but I have to try.”

Beatrice stood, then leaned down and kissed his cheek. “You’ve quite a row to hoe, my son. I don’t envy you, but if I can help you in any way, please ask.” She looked over at Rory. “We’d better go start supper, it’s late as it is. Will someone go fetch Marguerite? That girl is wasting away to nothing, and I can’t have that in my house.”

“I’ll go,” Clay said. “I need to speak with her, anyway. Alex, will you entertain Molly for a moment?”

“Gladly,” Alex smiled. “And Clay? I’m proud of you.”

“Nothing to be proud of, Alex,” Clay said as Beatrice and Rory left. “I’m a wretch, but at least now I know it.”

“Not a wretch, only mistaken,” Alex said.

Clay smiled wanly and went upstairs. Marguerite was before the easel, contemplating it. She had finished Jacob’s face, but his body was still only roughly sketched in. “Oh, Clay,” she said, “I’m having difficulties. I want to paint Jacob in uniform, but I was in France during the war, and I only have a vague idea what it should look like.”

“I still have my old uniform,” Clay said. “I’ll dig it out for you. Marguerite, could you sit down a moment? I have something to tell you.”

“Something else?” she asked. “I’m not sure I’m ready for more at the moment.”

“Not about you, or Lucian.” Clay sat down in one of the chairs. “About me. That story I told you about Lucy and Jim?”

Marguerite frowned and sat across from him. “Yes?”

“None of it is true,” Clay said, turning red. “Well, the story was true, but the conclusions I drew from it, all wrong.”

“I see.” She considered him carefully. It was not only his face that was red – the man had shame and remorse practically shooting out from him in sparks. “If it’s any comfort to you, I drew the same conclusions. How do you know differently?”

He told the tale over again. “So you see, I’m a wretch. I have much to atone for, and no idea how.”

“As do I,” she said. She looked over at the painting. “I keep working at this, but I don’t see what good it will be once it’s finished.”

“An act of faith,” Clay said.

“More an act of compulsion.” She looked at him. “If you want me to advise you, you’ve come to the wrong person.”

“No,” he shook his head, “but I didn’t want you to believe the lies I’d told you.”

“You thought they were true.”

“Still lies,” he said. “Maybe even worse because I believed them.” He stood. “I’ll find you that uniform after supper, which my mother requires you to attend. She says she won’t have you wasting away.” He offered her his hand to pull herself up.

“All right,” she said, taking it. “I don’t know how I could help you, Clay, but if I can, I hope you’ll ask me.”

Clay smiled at her. “I appreciate that, Marguerite, but in this case, the only one who can help me is myself.”

He walked out and she turned to contemplate the painting again. The only one who could help her was herself, and she was nobody. A phantom, a fiction. Even her name was not her own, but was stolen from her betters. She shuddered. She would finish Jacob soon, and then she would have to face what she most dreaded, for she could not paint Benjamin without reliving how he died, and her responsibility for it. She cleaned her brushes and put away her paints, in fear and trembling.

Chapter Fourteen


Their only hope lay in stealth. The sun was sinking behind the woods as Lucian and Clay drew near Richmond. The rebels would have to stop for the night, and the moon would not rise until midnight. Darkness was their only ally.

Clay prevailed on Lucian to stop until full dark – his friend was too pale and nearly stumbling on the road. They drew back a little way into the woods and sat on a log while Clay pressed food and whiskey, mixed with water from the nearby bayou, on his captain.

They were surprised by a young rebel fleeing through the woods who nearly stumbled on them in the gloom. The soldier, hardly more than a boy, flung himself down at their feet. “I surrender!”

Lucian would have laughed if he had not been so weary. “The battle’s over, soldier. Go home – we’re taking no prisoners tonight.”

“I can’t,” the boy said, trembling. “I’ve deserted.” He shuddered. “I never seen anything like that before.”

“Your first battle?” Clay said, offering the boy his flask.

The soldier sat on the log next to Clay and drank thirstily. He wiped his lips on his sleeve. “Yeah, but it ain’t that. A man’s killed in battle, it’s kinda honorable, right? But stringing up prisoners ain’t no kinda honorable. It ain’t what I signed up for.”

Lucian and Clay both froze. “The rebs strung up the prisoners?” Lucian asked icily.

The boy nodded. “Coupla white officers, some of the niggers. It ain’t right. Even if they was niggers, they fought like men. It don’t do for them to die like dogs.”

“Where? When?” Lucian demanded.

The boy pointed over his shoulder. “There, about a mile back – not more’n twenty minutes ago. There was a powerful long argument about it. I didn’t think they’d do it, but they did.”

Lucian leapt to his feet. He took the boy’s shoulders. Shook him. “Where exactly? Take us there!”

The boy yanked himself away and shook his head. “Why? It’s done too late, don’t you see?”

“One of them is his brother,” Clay explained. “It’s why we’re out here. Won’t you help us?”

The boy’s eyes grew grave. “I’m sorry about that – it shouldn’t ought’ve been done. All right, I’ll take you close, but if we see any Confederates, I can’t go no further.”

“We understand,” Clay said. “Thank you.”

The young soldier led them through the woods, skirting the bayou until they came to the spot. There were, fortunately, no rebels in sight, the brigade having withdrawn to Richmond for the night. Six or seven bodies hung only inches off the ground, the executions done in haste. Clay and Lucian began the grim task of cutting the bodies down, only two good arms between them. The young rebel held back at first, but then grimaced and pitched in.

“It’s Captain Heath, all right,” Clay said sadly, lowering the carcase of the brave and gallant captain to the ground.

“This one’s Lieutenant Conn, of the Eleventh,” Lucian said, gently laying down his burden. “I didn’t think he was in camp.”

“He wasn’t,” Clay said. “He was out recruiting. He must have gotten swept up on the way.”

“This one’s still breathing!” the young rebel exclaimed.

Clay and Lucian both gasped and ran over to the tree where the soldier had cut down one of the colored soldiers. “Saints preserve us!” Lucian cried. “It’s Jacob!” He knelt down by his brother’s side, loosened the crudely tied rope, and poured whiskey from his flask into the unconscious man’s mouth.

The liquid spilled from Jacob’s mouth. Lucian raised his head and tried again. This time Jacob sputtered, coughing up the dark liquid. He opened his eyes. “Lucian?” he said hoarsely, squinting into the darkness.

“Don’t talk, Jacob,” Lucian cautioned. “Everything’s all right now.” He looked up at Clay. “Hurry, there might be more still alive.”

Clay nodded and went back to cutting down the soldiers. The young rebel assisted him, but all were dead. “That’s his brother?” the rebel nodded over his shoulder.

Clay nodded.

“Who’d’ve thought?” the soldier said, disgusted. “I thought you were out here after the white men.”

“Does it matter?” Clay asked. “We all fought together. Many of us died together.”

“No offense meant,” the soldier said. “We thought you all were gonna be easy pickings, and we got our hats handed to us. But you both are taking a mighty big risk.”

“It’s worth it,” Clay said. He walked back to where Lucian attended to his brother. “Can he walk? We need to get out of here, Lucian.”

Lucian nodded and helped Jacob to his feet. Jacob swayed. Clay swung Jacob’s arm around his shoulder, steadying him.

Lucian turned to the young rebel. “What’s your name, soldier?”

“Bickers, sir. Lemuel Bickers. My friends call me Lem.”

“I owe you many thanks, Lem,” Lucian said. “I’d like you to go ahead of us to Milliken's Bend. Be careful, and if you run into any of our pickets, tell them that Captain Carr sends you to speak to Colonel Lieb. He’s a good man, you can trust him.”

“All right, sir.” Lem hesitated. “Will the Yankees retaliate?”

“Hang prisoners?” Lucian asked. “No fear of that, Lem. But I doubt we’ll be exchanging any if this goes unanswered.”

“Don’t want to be exchanged,” Lem said. “They’d shoot me for a deserter, and a traitor, too, I guess.” He saluted. “You be careful, too, sir.”

“We will,” Lucian said. “Now go.”

Clay nearly carried Jacob through the woods, not daring to risk the much easier road back to the Bend. Lucian followed, but lagged behind as the night wore on, causing Clay to pause frequently in order for him to catch up. Finally, he set Jacob down on a log and turned to his captain. “Are you all right, Lucian?” he asked worriedly.

“I feel rather light-headed,” Lucian admitted. He sat down on the log beside his brother. “Give me some of that whiskey – I’ll be all right in a minute.”

But he had no more swallowed than he turned his head and vomited. “Lucian?” Jacob croaked. “What’s wrong?”

“My head,” Lucian said, clasping it with both hands. “It hurts.” He slumped to the ground, unconscious.

“Lucian!” Clay and Jacob cried together. They gathered around him, Jacob chafing his hands. Clay was afraid to give him more whiskey, so he merely slapped his cheeks until he regained consciousness.

“Jacob?” Lucian said groggily. “I think I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying,” Jacob said, struggling with tears, with the pain in his throat. “You’ve worn yourself out is all. You’ll be fine with a good rest.”

Lucian shook his head, wincing. “I want you to do something for me, brother.”

“Anything,” Jacob said, “only don’t worry.”

“Two things,” Lucian said. “Take care of my daughter, and take the name, Jacob. Take the name of Carr.”

“I will, Lucian. Rest. Don’t worry, you’ll be all right.”

“Thank you, brother,” Lucian said. He closed his eyes and died.

“Lucian?” Jacob whispered. He shook his brother. “Lucian?”

“Stop, Jacob,” Clay said gently. “He’s gone.”

“He can’t be,” Jacob said. “He was all right a few minutes ago. How can he be dead?”

“He is,” Clay said. “If it matters why, we’ll ask a doctor when we get back.”

“He shouldn’t have come,” Jacob said.

“Don’t say that!” Clay said harshly. “Don’t make his death worthless.” He sighed. “Rest a moment, then we’d better make tracks.”

The gibbous moon was rising as they made their way into camp – they gave the countersign to the pickets, who were expecting them, and carried Lucian’s body into his tent, laying it out upon the cot. Jacob knelt down beside it as Clay went to find Colonel Lieb.

He returned with the colonel after giving his report, Lieb limping on a cane. “I’m sorry, Sergeant,” Lieb told Jacob. “He was a good man.”

“He was more than that,” Jacob said.

“I know,” Lieb said. “He told me.”

“Then you’ll understand why I wish to change my name on the army rolls, if it’s possible, sir.”

“I’ll see to it,” Lieb said. “Can I do anything for you?”

“Send word to his daughter,” Jacob said. “She’s at the hospital in Memphis.”

“I’ll go,” Clay volunteered. “She shouldn’t hear of this from a stranger.”

“Thank you,” Jacob said. “Now, if I could be alone with him for awhile?”

“Of course,” Lieb said. He withdrew and Clay went to his tent to prepare for his journey. He tossed his belongings into his pack, but before he could leave, found himself overwhelmed. He sat down on his cot, burying his face in his hands. Tears leaked out between his fingers, but in a few minutes he stood, dried his eyes, and walked down to the dock to catch a riverboat for Memphis.



The hospital was in a large house in the middle of the town. Clay announced himself to the hospital steward, who sent for Pamela. She came rushing down the stairs, smiling. “Clay!” She pulled up when she saw his face, blanching. “Oh, no. It’s Daddy, isn’t it?”

Clay nodded. “I’m sorry, Pamela.”

“What happened? We’ve been receiving soldiers from the Bend all day – they all said he’d been wounded, but not seriously.”

“Is there somewhere we can go to talk?” Clay asked. “Privately?”

“I’ll get my shawl,” she said. “There’s a pavilion in the park – we can walk there.”

Clay was surprised that she seemed to be taking it so calmly, but he escorted her to the park and they sat in the shady pavilion while he told her his tale. Pamela frowned. “Was he hit on the head?” she asked.

“I don’t believe. . .” He paused. “Why, yes, now that I think of it, he was. He was only unconscious a few seconds. I thought his bullet wound far more serious.”

“We had a boy here last week die that way. He seemed all right right up until a few minutes before he died. Bleeding into the brain, the doctors said.”

“Why so calm and dispassionate, Pamela?” Clay asked. “It doesn’t seem like you.”

She leaned forward, resting her chin in her hands. “I’m all wept out, Clay. I’ve seen so much death – blood and disease and some unexplained. I cried over the first dozen or so. I have nothing left for myself.”

He took her hand. “I’m sorry – you should have stayed home.”

“No.” She took her hand back. “I wanted to be here. I had no home to stay at, anyway.”

“What will you do?” Clay asked. “Where will you go when this is all over?”

“Does it matter?” she asked wearily.

“It matters to me,” he said.

She smiled up at him. “You’re a good friend, Clay. I’m glad we met you, glad you could be with Daddy when he died.” She stood then. “I’ll go get my things – we should be able to catch a boat to the Bend and be there by morning.”

Clay escorted her to her lodgings, waited for her to pack, then walked her down to the dock. They caught a boat going south, and as they leaned against the rail, the dark water scent of the Mississippi wafted up to them. “Come home with me,” Clay said. “After the war, come to California.”

“Why, Clay,” she said, “I had no idea you felt that way.”

Clay blushed. “I’m sorry, I said that wrong. I’m engaged, Pamela, but I hate to think of you and Jacob with nowhere to go. My family will welcome you, I promise.”

Pamela blushed, too. “No, I’m sorry for misunderstanding.” She wrapped her shawl around her. “I never intend to marry, anyway.” She was silent a long moment. “What’s your family like?”

Clay was glad to tell her. “My mother’s one of those strong pioneer women you read about, very stoic, yet very caring at the same time. My father’s a big man with a big laugh and a hearty appetite for living. I have a brother a couple of years younger than me, and I hope to God this war is over before he’s old enough to fight. And a little sister five, no, six years old. She looks like you, all blonde curls and big eyes.”

“They sound lovely,” Pamela said, her eyes darkening. “I had a sister – I lost her, too, a few years ago.”

Maybe she could not cry, Clay thought, but her grief was an arrow that pierced his heart.



They spent the night on the deck of the riverboat, neither sleeping, speaking little. The boat glided into the dock at Milliken's Bend, and Clay carried Pamela’s bag as he escorted her to her father’s tent. Jacob was there, sitting, watching. Pamela went to him and put her arms around him, and Clay saw that she could cry, after all.

He went to report to Colonel Lieb. Lieb looked at him, frowning. “Have you seen a doctor, Lieutenant?”

“No, why?” Clay asked, dumbfounded.

Lieb pointed. “Your eye. You’ve bled through the bandage. Report to the regimental surgeon at once. That’s an order.”

Clay made his way to the surgeon’s tent, alarmed. He had not even noticed his eye before, but now it began to pain him. The surgeon removed the bandage and examined him.

“Hm,” the surgeon said. “This happen during the battle?”

“Yes,” Clay said. “A rifle went off too close to my face. It’s only a powder burn.”

“Your eye is suppurating, Lieutenant.” He began to rebandage it. “I’m sending you to the hospital in Memphis on the next boat.”

“We’re burying Captain Carr and Captain Heath today,” Clay protested. “Can’t it wait?”

The surgeon frowned. “I suppose, but only until after the funeral. And not Captain Heath – the detail sent to recover the bodies found nothing. If not for the damage to Sergeant Butler’s throat, I’d have thought you made it all up.”

“Nothing?” Clay said. “How can that be?”

“I don’t know,” the surgeon said. “Maybe the rebs decided not to leave any evidence behind. Any road, I’m sending both you and Sergeant Butler to Memphis. Complications from strangulation can be deadly.”

“Sergeant Carr,” Clay corrected him.

“Ah, yes, I forgot,” the surgeon said. “Odd, that.”

“No, it’s not,” Clay said. “Not odd at all.”



Captain Lucian Carr was laid to rest with full military honors, or as full as his devastated regiment could supply. There was no bugler to play, but the men managed a seven gun salute, and Lucian Carr was lowered into the grave and covered over, far from his Kentucky home.

Clay offered to take Pamela to find lodgings in the town, but she refused. “I need to get back to Memphis.”

“You should take a few days off,” Clay protested.

She shook her head. “I’d rather work. Besides, Jacob’s being sent to the hospital there.”

“So am I,” Clay admitted. “For my eye.”

“Well, then,” Pamela said, “we’ll all go together.”

And so they did. Pamela developed a cough on the boat – too much fresh air, she explained, but Clay thought she looked feverish as well. He determined to see to it that she saw a doctor in Memphis along with the rest of them. The three of them were hustled off the moment they arrived, and Clay found himself in a ward with Lieutenant Cornwell while he awaited the doctor’s examination.

“That’s too bad,” Cornwell said when Clay apprised him of his activities since the battle. “We knew what the Johnnies had promised to do to white officers – too bad Heath bore the brunt of it. We’ll miss him and Captain Carr, both.”

Clay looked him up and down. “You’re still in one piece, I see.” He observed Cornwell’s limp right arm.

“They wanted to cut it off, but I wouldn’t let them,” Cornwell said proudly. “The ball’s still in there, too.”

“Maybe you should. . .” Clay began.

“No,” Cornwell said firmly. “I’m not going home a cripple.”

“If you say so,” Clay said. Just then the doctor sent for him, and he went to the examination with some trepidation.

The doctor looked grave as he examined Clay’s infected eye. “You have two choices, Lieutenant,” he said. “Either I cut it out, under anesthesia, or it rots out, taking you with it. I might have saved it if you’d come in when it happened.”

“I had more important things to do,” Clay said.

“More important than your eye?” the doctor asked sternly.

“Yes, sir,” Clay said. “Infinitely more important.”

“Well, whatever you were up to, it’s cost you an eye. I hope it was worth the sacrifice.”

“It was,” Clay asserted. “You’re sure there’s no other way?”

“I’m sure,” the doctor said. “I’ve seen men die from better cases than yours.”

Clay considered a moment. A one-eyed lawyer was still a lawyer, and he was sure his family would rather have him come home than not, no matter how many pieces he might be in. Cornwell might be ready to risk death over dismemberment, but Clay found he was not. “If your eye offends thee, pluck it out,” he murmured. “All right, doctor. When?”

“Now,” the doctor said, reaching for a bottle of chloroform. He looked up as Clay started in surprise. “There’s no time to waste, soldier.”

“All right,” Clay said, quavering. The doctor pushed him back on the table, placed an odd-looking contraption over his nose and mouth and began dripping chloroform into it. In a few moments, Clay knew nothing more.

He awakened in the ward, with Pamela and Jacob looking down on him. He touched his eye, but all he could feel was bandage. “If you have pain, we have laudanum,” Pamela said.

She still looked feverish. “I’m all right,” Clay said. “It’s no more than I can stand. You should be in bed.”

“It’s a cold,” Pamela said. “I’ll be fine.”

“A cold in June?” Clay asked.

“I’m fine,” Pamela said testily. “You’re the one who’s lost an eye.”

Clay gave up for the time being and turned to Jacob. “And you?”

“He wants to keep me for observation, but he found nothing significantly wrong,” Jacob said huskily. “He thinks I’ll recover, in time.”

“We all will,” Pamela said, her voice almost as husky as Jacob’s.

Clay sat up, too suddenly, for he felt suddenly light-headed. “Jacob, make her see a doctor,” he said. “Don’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

“You don’t get to order me around,” Pamela said.

“Please, Pamela,” Clay pleaded, taking another tack, “for my peace of mind. If there’s nothing wrong, you’ll be back at work in a trice.”

Pamela pressed her lips together stubbornly. “All right,” she said at last. “But only because you’re injured. Don’t think you get to do this all the time.”

“I won’t,” Clay said, lying back down. “Thank you.”

Jacob and Pamela were gone for some time – it was more than an hour before Jacob returned, and Clay feared his worst premonitions were coming true. Even so, he was alarmed when Jacob returned alone. “It’s as bad as you feared, Clay,” Jacob said. “It’s scarlet fever.”

Clay turned his face to the wall, and in his exhausted state, found he could not stop crying.