Carry Me Home
TITLE: Carry Me Home
AUTHOR: nightdog_writes
CHARACTERS: House, Wilson, a few OCs
RATING: PG-13, gen.
WARNINGS: Yes, for subject matter that may upset some readers.
SPOILERS: No.
SUMMARY: In the aftermath of the American Civil War, House embarks on an emotional mission. 2,753 words.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
AUTHOR NOTES: This is an historical AU, sparked by reading Drew Gilpin Faust's This Republic of Suffering: Death and the American Civil War. Some source notes are at the end if anyone's interested in reading more; the LJ-cut text and the epigraph are from Song of Myself, by Walt Whitman.
BETA: My intrepid First Readers, with thanks to all for their suggestions and encouragement.
Carry Me Home
The sun was sinking low in the west by the time House levered himself slowly from the seat of the buckboard. He executed an awkward hop-twist to descend to the ground, and stood for a moment beside the wagon, slapping the dust of the road from his clothes and coughing away the roughness in his throat. The hostler's boy waited patiently until he had finished, then held out a grubby hand. House glared at him, but the boy stared back at him, unperturbed, and after a moment House sighed and dug in his pocket for a coin. All he came up with was a quarter, but he barely gave it a glance as he flipped it to the boy.
"Living high," Wilson murmured beside him. House ignored the comment.
"Hotel in this town?" he asked the boy. "Innkeeper? Boarding house? It's just for one night."
"Not going straight for the saloon?" Wilson mused. "I'm impressed."
"Mrs. Gandy's house," the boy said. "She calls it a hotel, but it's really just three or four spare rooms." He regarded House from beneath a bowl-cut fringe of blond hair. "Dollar a night, room and board."
"Fair enough," House said. "Now where's the saloon?"
The whiskey burned its way down House's throat, and he put down the glass as he caught his breath.
He'd wondered if he'd even be served here, but the bartender hadn't hesitated at his obviously non-local accent. The man had given House a long, hard look, and House had stared defiantly back. After all, he didn't look so different from anyone else here -- the lines of his face accentuated, his clothes hanging from his gaunt frame. He had a cane too, although it was a real one, not like the crude hickory sticks some of these men carried. And unlike some of these men, he had all of his limbs. The bartender had relented at last and poured the shot.
It had been the same story over most of this benighted, beaten country -- he supposed it was some acknowledgment of the code duello lunacy they'd subscribed to so wholeheartedly, and that most of them still clung to: that a wounded soldier, no matter the color of the uniform he'd worn, was due more respect than the hated carpetbaggers.
That, or maybe they just wanted his hard currency instead of worthless scrip.
"I'd say that's much more likely," Wilson muttered. He settled on the bar stool next to House and eyed his half-empty glass. "You know, I'm thirsty, too," he said.
House took a breath, then picked up the glass and drained it in one fiery gulp. "Barkeep," he wheezed. "Another."
Wilson grimaced. "Careful," he said. "Don't want you to end up buck-naked and hornswoggled like that time in -- "
His voice dropped away, and House blinked in the sudden silence. Then, "On your right," Wilson whispered, and House looked around, just in time to see the man who'd been watching him from a nearby table set his own drink down on the bar. The man's vest was unbuttoned, and House caught a glint of silver.
"Evening," the sheriff said politely.
"Evening," House replied. The plunk of a full glass announced the arrival of House's second drink, but he made no move to take it.
The sheriff pretended not to notice. "I understand you're at Mrs. Gandy's for the night," he said. "Anything I might be able to help you with?"
"So that I can move you along as quickly as possible?" House mentally completed. Wilson snorted softly.
"No," House said. He grasped the shot glass and turned it around gently.
The sheriff watched. His own drink sat untouched.
"Mister," he said at last, "this town doesn't need any trouble."
"Not here to cause trouble," House said. He took a quick swallow of his whiskey; on some level he was aware the saloon had gone silent. He sensed Wilson's shrug beside him.
"Tell them," Wilson said quietly. "Otherwise you'll end up out on your -- "
"You want to know why I'm here," House said. "I'll tell you. I'm a transport agent."
The sheriff's eyes widened in recognition, and he nodded. "It's God's work you're on, then. You with the Sanitizers? Or are you an Adams Express man?"
House let out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
"Neither," he said. "I'm on a ... private commission."
The sheriff nodded; at the same moment, the hum of saloon conversation rose again, and House began to relax. The sheriff took a sip of his own drink.
"You know the location?" he asked.
House picked up his glass and swirled the amber liquid inside.
"Close," he said. "I'm getting close."
House lay on his back in the darkened room and stared at the ceiling. Mrs. Gandy had served a fine dinner, stewed chicken and dumplings, but still he felt somewhat dyspeptic.
"No wonder," Wilson remarked dryly. "Next time, visit the saloon after your meal."
House pursed his lips and blew out a soft breath. If he turned his head and squinted, he could just make out Wilson's shadow, sitting in the overstuffed armchair next to the smooth oaken side of the tallboy.
"Spare me your insights," he mumbled. Wilson shook his head slowly.
"Why?" he asked. "You never held back your own." He turned slightly, and House caught the play of moonlight on the planes of Wilson's face. "I remember that time -- " he began, but House wasn't listening, and soon enough his snores filled the silence.
House pushed the gelatinous white mass to one side of the plate with his fork and attacked the fried eggs instead.
"I've never understood the Southern attraction to grits," Wilson muttered. He was standing on the other side of the breakfast table, behind the patent medicine drummer. The traveling salesman, a short, dark-haired specimen who looked as if he hadn't missed many meals, was engaged in stuffing yet more biscuit into his mouth.
"More coffee, Mister House?" It was Mrs. Gandy, hovering near his elbow, a full pot of the atrocious blend ready to pour.
"No," House answered hastily. "No, that's quite enough."
"Chicory," the drummer said.
House looked up.
"In the coffee," the man said. "Chicory."
"It is in the style of New Orleans," Mrs. Gandy said, replacing the pot on the sideboard and wiping her hands with her apron.
The drummer dabbed at his lips with his napkin. "It is in the style of necessity," he said. He leaned across the table as if about to impart a great secret to House. "Real coffee," he stage-whispered. "It will be the last delicacy to return to this scabrous region."
Mrs. Gandy's lips compressed in a thin line, and she retreated to the kitchen. House watched her go before turning his attention back to his eggs. The only other diner at the table was an elderly man with unsteady hands, who had spilled almost as much of his breakfast back on his plate as he'd managed to convey to his mouth. Now he wagged a scolding finger at the porcine salesman.
"Have a caution, young man," he said. "Lest our good housekeeper put something more volatile than chicory in your brew."
The drummer shrugged. "I'm moving on today," he said. He pushed the remainder of his cup away. "Foul concoction."
"It's better than roasted chestnuts," House snapped. "Or cane seeds." He ignored Wilson's wide-eyed look of surprise and took an aggressive gulp of the dark, hot liquid. When he lowered his cup, the old man was looking at him curiously.
"I take it you were a soldier, sir," he said.
House tensed. "I was a surgeon, sir. There is a difference."
The old man held up a wavering hand in a placating gesture.
"I meant no offense," he said. He took another bite of toast and chewed it slowly; the drummer, in the interim, seized the opportunity to push himself away from the table and take his leave.
"So," the old man continued in a meditative tone. "You were a surgeon, and now you are a transport agent."
"My, doesn't word travel fast," Wilson remarked.
"It was a Staunton transport agent brought my son back," the old man said. "Put him in one of their specialty coffins -- all modern, portable refrigerated." The old man stared off into space. "He fell at Vicksburg, my boy."
House sighed and pushed his own plate away; it was obvious he wasn't going to be allowed the peaceful breakfast he'd hoped for.
"You'll forgive me if I don't offer my commiserations," he said. "I was in Richmond at the time -- a guest of the Confederate government."
The old man seemed not to have heard. "From a surgeon," he mused, "to a recovery man." He put down his half-eaten toast. "Why, one might say you've gone from being a grave robber to a robber of the grave!"
Crumbs flew as the geriatric chortled at his own word-play. Wilson rolled his eyes, then winked at House.
"This humor," he said, "will be the death of me."
The further south House went, the fewer people he saw. The horse plodded along with very little urging, the wheels of the wagon creaking as they bounced through and across the ruts.
"I didn't ask you to do this, you know," Wilson said. He swiped at his forehead and inspected the resulting sweat-mark on his sleeve. "Captain Brown wasn't supposed to write that letter." He shook out both his sleeves, then rested his hands on his knees. "It's been two years, House. There won't be much left."
"Should've made camp higher up the knob," House said. The sound of his own voice surprised him, rusty and thick. "The ambulance wagons -- "
"Wasn't me that picked it out," Wilson protested. "That was Sergeant Fletcher."
"He was an idiot, then."
"Well, he's dead," Wilson sighed. "The shell took his head clean off. You happy now?"
"They're all dead," House murmured. "Except Brown."
"Yes, and he had to go and write that damned letter," Wilson said.
A breeze came up, and House looked around. There was no one there, and after a moment he gave the reins a light flick and chirruped softly to the horse.
We found him face down when we went to bury him, and all we could find to dig a grave was an old hoe in a small building. The bottom of the grave was covered with empty knapsacks, then we laid in our beloved brother and covered him with another knapsack, and over all put as much earth as we could find. The grave was dug at the foot of a large oak tree. We then found a piece of a hard wood cracker-box cover and cut Captain Wilson's name on it with a jacknife and nailed it to the tree at the head of his grave. We read a part of the burial service over him, and pledged each to each to mark this spot in our memories. To aid in this remembrance, I sketched a map, which you will find enclosed. There is a church nearby, called Gilgal off the Sandtown Road, and the oak tree is a measured mile to the east ...
This was a country of old men and young women, House reflected. Old men and widows and fatherless children. It was the children who unnerved him the most, scarecrows appearing out of nowhere, sometimes throwing rocks and coming near enough to spit at him and the innocent horse until their mothers called them away. The mothers were the second worst, watching him with dead, dark eyes from the unfenced porches of silent cabins. The earth turned redder and redder, until it was the color of blood, raw human corpuscles spilled open to the sky. House kept away from the cabins, and at night he rolled himself in a blanket and kept his Navy revolver close at hand.
"Do you remember how we met?"
House started at the sound of Wilson's voice, and berated himself for woolgathering on the road.
"It was in New Orleans," Wilson continued. The voice was coming from near House's right ear, but the seat beside him was empty. House gritted his teeth. "I don't think we had any chicory coffee, though."
"That's because you were too busy instigating a drunken brawl," House said.
"I don't remember it that way," Wilson replied.
"Because you were drunk," House grunted.
"No. It was hot that day. Stifling. Just like -- "
The voice was gone, like an actor exiting offstage, and House spent the rest of the day in silence.
The oak tree was there, just as House had known it would be. The sign was there too, a bit faded but still nailed firmly to the tree, and the broad backs of the Negroes digging beneath the tree shone like oiled ebony in the strong sunlight. Their boss, the Southern Express factor from nearby Mars Hill, stood close by, gnawing on a well-worn cigarillo.
House had approached him after making inquiries in town, and the man had nodded immediately.
"We can take care of all your needs, suh," the man had said, and House had noticed his country accent at once, so much stronger than that of the civilized Mrs. Gandy.
"Lots of transport agents come through heah, suh," the man continued. "Lots of Yankee famlies wantin' their honored dead to come home."
House had sensed Wilson stirring restlessly beside him, but Wilson had remained silent. Now, however, it was a different matter.
"I joined up in order to free men like these," Wilson grumbled. The Negroes continued to dig, concentrating on their labor. "And look at them. Still being worked like so much dumb cattle. The President must be turning over in his grave."
"You should have stayed with your wife," House muttered.
"Ah, but my wife didn't want me," Wilson said mildly, and House looked at him in genuine surprise. Wilson's face was pale yet composed, his hair falling in unruly locks over his forehead. "And now she's happy, playing the role of the war widow, stoic wife of the honored dead." His lips quirked up in a half-smile, and House felt his own chest grow tight.
"I wanted an adventure," House said abruptly. And to follow you, he thought but didn't say. And then fate sent us in different directions, and I lost you.
"Well," Wilson said. "We certainly got the adventure, didn't we?"
"Boss," one of the Negroes said, and House scrubbed fiercely at his eyes and turned towards the voice.
"Got sumpin' here, boss," and House heard the clink of the shovel tip on metal.
When he next looked around, Wilson was gone.
The mound of earth showed where the grave had been, and the buckboard sagged a little in new places from the fresh weight in the coffin. Wilson hadn't spoken again, not even when House had pried the cracker box sign from the oak tree and tossed it onto the wagon bed.
He'd waited, alternately sitting and standing by the tree, staying long after the overseer and the two Negroes had departed, sitting down at last to boil a cup of coffee and consume some fried chicken and yeast rolls he'd purchased in town. Through it all Wilson had stayed decisively silent, and he'd finally bundled up in his bedroll and fallen into an uneasy slumber.
The next morning dawned clear and bright; the humidity had dropped, and there was a crispness to the air and the scent of pine needles. House gathered up his few things, and took a long last look around.
Birds were calling, and from somewhere close by there came the harsh squawk of a blue jay, and the mechanical, ratcheting purrrrr! of a woodpecker.
"Wilson," House said. "Wilson."
He shook his head, already feeling the ache that he knew would never really go away.
"I'm not real, you know."
House swallowed, and squeezed his eyes tightly shut.
"I know," he whispered.
There was a short silence, marked only by the wind sloughing through the pine branches, and for a moment House was deeply afraid.
"All right, then."
The hand on House's shoulder was warm, or perhaps it was only the sunlight and the gathered yoke of muslin shirt collar, but House would take it.
He was smiling, just a little, as he climbed into the wagon's seat and collected the reins. He clucked softly to the horse as he guided her head north, on the beginning of his journey to take Wilson home.
~ fin
I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the
beginning and the end,
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.
~ Walt Whitman, Song of Myself
A Few Notes
A fascinating article on Civil War Army Surgeons is here, along with more general information here.
The "Sanitizers" were members of the Sanitary Commission. They, along with private companies like Adams Express, Southern Express, and Staunton Transport, provided (among their other activities) conveyance services to families and soldiers wishing to bring their loved ones home. More information about some of these organizations is here and here.
A "drummer" was a traveling salesman, and differed from other peddlers in that he was usually the employee of a larger company. A fascinating essay on these roving salesmen is here.
An interesting article on coffee and coffee substitutes during the Civil War is here.
House's period in Richmond as a "guest of the Confederate government" was spent at Libby Prison.
The Gilgal Church Battle was real. It was one of the many smaller skirmishes leading up to the fight at Kennesaw Mountain, Georgia, in the attempt to take Atlanta. More information about it may be found here, here, and here.
The letter from Captain Brown is a composite of actual letters and diary entries from Chapter 3, "Burying: New Lessons Caring for the Dead," This Republic of Suffering, Vintage Civil War Library, 2008
AUTHOR: nightdog_writes
CHARACTERS: House, Wilson, a few OCs
RATING: PG-13, gen.
WARNINGS: Yes, for subject matter that may upset some readers.
SPOILERS: No.
SUMMARY: In the aftermath of the American Civil War, House embarks on an emotional mission. 2,753 words.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
AUTHOR NOTES: This is an historical AU, sparked by reading Drew Gilpin Faust's This Republic of Suffering: Death and the American Civil War. Some source notes are at the end if anyone's interested in reading more; the LJ-cut text and the epigraph are from Song of Myself, by Walt Whitman.
BETA: My intrepid First Readers, with thanks to all for their suggestions and encouragement.
Carry Me Home
The sun was sinking low in the west by the time House levered himself slowly from the seat of the buckboard. He executed an awkward hop-twist to descend to the ground, and stood for a moment beside the wagon, slapping the dust of the road from his clothes and coughing away the roughness in his throat. The hostler's boy waited patiently until he had finished, then held out a grubby hand. House glared at him, but the boy stared back at him, unperturbed, and after a moment House sighed and dug in his pocket for a coin. All he came up with was a quarter, but he barely gave it a glance as he flipped it to the boy.
"Living high," Wilson murmured beside him. House ignored the comment.
"Hotel in this town?" he asked the boy. "Innkeeper? Boarding house? It's just for one night."
"Not going straight for the saloon?" Wilson mused. "I'm impressed."
"Mrs. Gandy's house," the boy said. "She calls it a hotel, but it's really just three or four spare rooms." He regarded House from beneath a bowl-cut fringe of blond hair. "Dollar a night, room and board."
"Fair enough," House said. "Now where's the saloon?"
The whiskey burned its way down House's throat, and he put down the glass as he caught his breath.
He'd wondered if he'd even be served here, but the bartender hadn't hesitated at his obviously non-local accent. The man had given House a long, hard look, and House had stared defiantly back. After all, he didn't look so different from anyone else here -- the lines of his face accentuated, his clothes hanging from his gaunt frame. He had a cane too, although it was a real one, not like the crude hickory sticks some of these men carried. And unlike some of these men, he had all of his limbs. The bartender had relented at last and poured the shot.
It had been the same story over most of this benighted, beaten country -- he supposed it was some acknowledgment of the code duello lunacy they'd subscribed to so wholeheartedly, and that most of them still clung to: that a wounded soldier, no matter the color of the uniform he'd worn, was due more respect than the hated carpetbaggers.
That, or maybe they just wanted his hard currency instead of worthless scrip.
"I'd say that's much more likely," Wilson muttered. He settled on the bar stool next to House and eyed his half-empty glass. "You know, I'm thirsty, too," he said.
House took a breath, then picked up the glass and drained it in one fiery gulp. "Barkeep," he wheezed. "Another."
Wilson grimaced. "Careful," he said. "Don't want you to end up buck-naked and hornswoggled like that time in -- "
His voice dropped away, and House blinked in the sudden silence. Then, "On your right," Wilson whispered, and House looked around, just in time to see the man who'd been watching him from a nearby table set his own drink down on the bar. The man's vest was unbuttoned, and House caught a glint of silver.
"Evening," the sheriff said politely.
"Evening," House replied. The plunk of a full glass announced the arrival of House's second drink, but he made no move to take it.
The sheriff pretended not to notice. "I understand you're at Mrs. Gandy's for the night," he said. "Anything I might be able to help you with?"
"So that I can move you along as quickly as possible?" House mentally completed. Wilson snorted softly.
"No," House said. He grasped the shot glass and turned it around gently.
The sheriff watched. His own drink sat untouched.
"Mister," he said at last, "this town doesn't need any trouble."
"Not here to cause trouble," House said. He took a quick swallow of his whiskey; on some level he was aware the saloon had gone silent. He sensed Wilson's shrug beside him.
"Tell them," Wilson said quietly. "Otherwise you'll end up out on your -- "
"You want to know why I'm here," House said. "I'll tell you. I'm a transport agent."
The sheriff's eyes widened in recognition, and he nodded. "It's God's work you're on, then. You with the Sanitizers? Or are you an Adams Express man?"
House let out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
"Neither," he said. "I'm on a ... private commission."
The sheriff nodded; at the same moment, the hum of saloon conversation rose again, and House began to relax. The sheriff took a sip of his own drink.
"You know the location?" he asked.
House picked up his glass and swirled the amber liquid inside.
"Close," he said. "I'm getting close."
House lay on his back in the darkened room and stared at the ceiling. Mrs. Gandy had served a fine dinner, stewed chicken and dumplings, but still he felt somewhat dyspeptic.
"No wonder," Wilson remarked dryly. "Next time, visit the saloon after your meal."
House pursed his lips and blew out a soft breath. If he turned his head and squinted, he could just make out Wilson's shadow, sitting in the overstuffed armchair next to the smooth oaken side of the tallboy.
"Spare me your insights," he mumbled. Wilson shook his head slowly.
"Why?" he asked. "You never held back your own." He turned slightly, and House caught the play of moonlight on the planes of Wilson's face. "I remember that time -- " he began, but House wasn't listening, and soon enough his snores filled the silence.
House pushed the gelatinous white mass to one side of the plate with his fork and attacked the fried eggs instead.
"I've never understood the Southern attraction to grits," Wilson muttered. He was standing on the other side of the breakfast table, behind the patent medicine drummer. The traveling salesman, a short, dark-haired specimen who looked as if he hadn't missed many meals, was engaged in stuffing yet more biscuit into his mouth.
"More coffee, Mister House?" It was Mrs. Gandy, hovering near his elbow, a full pot of the atrocious blend ready to pour.
"No," House answered hastily. "No, that's quite enough."
"Chicory," the drummer said.
House looked up.
"In the coffee," the man said. "Chicory."
"It is in the style of New Orleans," Mrs. Gandy said, replacing the pot on the sideboard and wiping her hands with her apron.
The drummer dabbed at his lips with his napkin. "It is in the style of necessity," he said. He leaned across the table as if about to impart a great secret to House. "Real coffee," he stage-whispered. "It will be the last delicacy to return to this scabrous region."
Mrs. Gandy's lips compressed in a thin line, and she retreated to the kitchen. House watched her go before turning his attention back to his eggs. The only other diner at the table was an elderly man with unsteady hands, who had spilled almost as much of his breakfast back on his plate as he'd managed to convey to his mouth. Now he wagged a scolding finger at the porcine salesman.
"Have a caution, young man," he said. "Lest our good housekeeper put something more volatile than chicory in your brew."
The drummer shrugged. "I'm moving on today," he said. He pushed the remainder of his cup away. "Foul concoction."
"It's better than roasted chestnuts," House snapped. "Or cane seeds." He ignored Wilson's wide-eyed look of surprise and took an aggressive gulp of the dark, hot liquid. When he lowered his cup, the old man was looking at him curiously.
"I take it you were a soldier, sir," he said.
House tensed. "I was a surgeon, sir. There is a difference."
The old man held up a wavering hand in a placating gesture.
"I meant no offense," he said. He took another bite of toast and chewed it slowly; the drummer, in the interim, seized the opportunity to push himself away from the table and take his leave.
"So," the old man continued in a meditative tone. "You were a surgeon, and now you are a transport agent."
"My, doesn't word travel fast," Wilson remarked.
"It was a Staunton transport agent brought my son back," the old man said. "Put him in one of their specialty coffins -- all modern, portable refrigerated." The old man stared off into space. "He fell at Vicksburg, my boy."
House sighed and pushed his own plate away; it was obvious he wasn't going to be allowed the peaceful breakfast he'd hoped for.
"You'll forgive me if I don't offer my commiserations," he said. "I was in Richmond at the time -- a guest of the Confederate government."
The old man seemed not to have heard. "From a surgeon," he mused, "to a recovery man." He put down his half-eaten toast. "Why, one might say you've gone from being a grave robber to a robber of the grave!"
Crumbs flew as the geriatric chortled at his own word-play. Wilson rolled his eyes, then winked at House.
"This humor," he said, "will be the death of me."
The further south House went, the fewer people he saw. The horse plodded along with very little urging, the wheels of the wagon creaking as they bounced through and across the ruts.
"I didn't ask you to do this, you know," Wilson said. He swiped at his forehead and inspected the resulting sweat-mark on his sleeve. "Captain Brown wasn't supposed to write that letter." He shook out both his sleeves, then rested his hands on his knees. "It's been two years, House. There won't be much left."
"Should've made camp higher up the knob," House said. The sound of his own voice surprised him, rusty and thick. "The ambulance wagons -- "
"Wasn't me that picked it out," Wilson protested. "That was Sergeant Fletcher."
"He was an idiot, then."
"Well, he's dead," Wilson sighed. "The shell took his head clean off. You happy now?"
"They're all dead," House murmured. "Except Brown."
"Yes, and he had to go and write that damned letter," Wilson said.
A breeze came up, and House looked around. There was no one there, and after a moment he gave the reins a light flick and chirruped softly to the horse.
We found him face down when we went to bury him, and all we could find to dig a grave was an old hoe in a small building. The bottom of the grave was covered with empty knapsacks, then we laid in our beloved brother and covered him with another knapsack, and over all put as much earth as we could find. The grave was dug at the foot of a large oak tree. We then found a piece of a hard wood cracker-box cover and cut Captain Wilson's name on it with a jacknife and nailed it to the tree at the head of his grave. We read a part of the burial service over him, and pledged each to each to mark this spot in our memories. To aid in this remembrance, I sketched a map, which you will find enclosed. There is a church nearby, called Gilgal off the Sandtown Road, and the oak tree is a measured mile to the east ...
This was a country of old men and young women, House reflected. Old men and widows and fatherless children. It was the children who unnerved him the most, scarecrows appearing out of nowhere, sometimes throwing rocks and coming near enough to spit at him and the innocent horse until their mothers called them away. The mothers were the second worst, watching him with dead, dark eyes from the unfenced porches of silent cabins. The earth turned redder and redder, until it was the color of blood, raw human corpuscles spilled open to the sky. House kept away from the cabins, and at night he rolled himself in a blanket and kept his Navy revolver close at hand.
"Do you remember how we met?"
House started at the sound of Wilson's voice, and berated himself for woolgathering on the road.
"It was in New Orleans," Wilson continued. The voice was coming from near House's right ear, but the seat beside him was empty. House gritted his teeth. "I don't think we had any chicory coffee, though."
"That's because you were too busy instigating a drunken brawl," House said.
"I don't remember it that way," Wilson replied.
"Because you were drunk," House grunted.
"No. It was hot that day. Stifling. Just like -- "
The voice was gone, like an actor exiting offstage, and House spent the rest of the day in silence.
The oak tree was there, just as House had known it would be. The sign was there too, a bit faded but still nailed firmly to the tree, and the broad backs of the Negroes digging beneath the tree shone like oiled ebony in the strong sunlight. Their boss, the Southern Express factor from nearby Mars Hill, stood close by, gnawing on a well-worn cigarillo.
House had approached him after making inquiries in town, and the man had nodded immediately.
"We can take care of all your needs, suh," the man had said, and House had noticed his country accent at once, so much stronger than that of the civilized Mrs. Gandy.
"Lots of transport agents come through heah, suh," the man continued. "Lots of Yankee famlies wantin' their honored dead to come home."
House had sensed Wilson stirring restlessly beside him, but Wilson had remained silent. Now, however, it was a different matter.
"I joined up in order to free men like these," Wilson grumbled. The Negroes continued to dig, concentrating on their labor. "And look at them. Still being worked like so much dumb cattle. The President must be turning over in his grave."
"You should have stayed with your wife," House muttered.
"Ah, but my wife didn't want me," Wilson said mildly, and House looked at him in genuine surprise. Wilson's face was pale yet composed, his hair falling in unruly locks over his forehead. "And now she's happy, playing the role of the war widow, stoic wife of the honored dead." His lips quirked up in a half-smile, and House felt his own chest grow tight.
"I wanted an adventure," House said abruptly. And to follow you, he thought but didn't say. And then fate sent us in different directions, and I lost you.
"Well," Wilson said. "We certainly got the adventure, didn't we?"
"Boss," one of the Negroes said, and House scrubbed fiercely at his eyes and turned towards the voice.
"Got sumpin' here, boss," and House heard the clink of the shovel tip on metal.
When he next looked around, Wilson was gone.
The mound of earth showed where the grave had been, and the buckboard sagged a little in new places from the fresh weight in the coffin. Wilson hadn't spoken again, not even when House had pried the cracker box sign from the oak tree and tossed it onto the wagon bed.
He'd waited, alternately sitting and standing by the tree, staying long after the overseer and the two Negroes had departed, sitting down at last to boil a cup of coffee and consume some fried chicken and yeast rolls he'd purchased in town. Through it all Wilson had stayed decisively silent, and he'd finally bundled up in his bedroll and fallen into an uneasy slumber.
The next morning dawned clear and bright; the humidity had dropped, and there was a crispness to the air and the scent of pine needles. House gathered up his few things, and took a long last look around.
Birds were calling, and from somewhere close by there came the harsh squawk of a blue jay, and the mechanical, ratcheting purrrrr! of a woodpecker.
"Wilson," House said. "Wilson."
He shook his head, already feeling the ache that he knew would never really go away.
"I'm not real, you know."
House swallowed, and squeezed his eyes tightly shut.
"I know," he whispered.
There was a short silence, marked only by the wind sloughing through the pine branches, and for a moment House was deeply afraid.
"All right, then."
The hand on House's shoulder was warm, or perhaps it was only the sunlight and the gathered yoke of muslin shirt collar, but House would take it.
He was smiling, just a little, as he climbed into the wagon's seat and collected the reins. He clucked softly to the horse as he guided her head north, on the beginning of his journey to take Wilson home.
~ fin
I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the
beginning and the end,
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.
~ Walt Whitman, Song of Myself
A Few Notes
A fascinating article on Civil War Army Surgeons is here, along with more general information here.
The "Sanitizers" were members of the Sanitary Commission. They, along with private companies like Adams Express, Southern Express, and Staunton Transport, provided (among their other activities) conveyance services to families and soldiers wishing to bring their loved ones home. More information about some of these organizations is here and here.
A "drummer" was a traveling salesman, and differed from other peddlers in that he was usually the employee of a larger company. A fascinating essay on these roving salesmen is here.
An interesting article on coffee and coffee substitutes during the Civil War is here.
House's period in Richmond as a "guest of the Confederate government" was spent at Libby Prison.
The Gilgal Church Battle was real. It was one of the many smaller skirmishes leading up to the fight at Kennesaw Mountain, Georgia, in the attempt to take Atlanta. More information about it may be found here, here, and here.
The letter from Captain Brown is a composite of actual letters and diary entries from Chapter 3, "Burying: New Lessons Caring for the Dead," This Republic of Suffering, Vintage Civil War Library, 2008