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The bodies flew past his head. Parts of organs lay strewn at his feet. The moans of the dying filled the air. An odd foot got up and walked past him, seeking its owner.
*****
Colonel Nathaniel Walker awoke shaking, bathed in a fine, cold sweat.
If anyone had asked him, he would not have said he was an evil man, a bad man, or even an uncaring man. Yet he’d sent countless men, some so young they were nearly boys, to their deaths. Been responsible for even more.
It was what war did to you. It changed your very being.
Your soul.
Nathaniel wasn’t sure he had a soul anymore. What Antietam hadn’t taken of it, Gettysburg had. What he wanted to know was why God, in His perversity, had insisted on keeping him alive. He should have sent him to hell.
Maybe he already was there. Maybe this was a special kind of hell. One designed to torment him and only him.
He got up from his bed, shuffled to the window, looked out at the field behind the roadhouse. Twenty-eight years sat upon his shoulders with the weight of eighty-eight. Tomorrow, he would complete his journey and he would be home.
Home.
Why? He was useless now. Unable to think clearly. Unable to work. Unable to feel. Unable to do anything but see those whom he’d killed in one way or another. By bullet, bayonet, or order.
He splashed water long gone cold on his face, washing away the sweat and tears. The sun would come up soon. He could see the pink tinge on the edge of the sky.
Red sky at morning, sailor take warning. He wondered what kind of storm the day would bring, but decided it didn’t matter. It couldn’t possibly match the storm in his head.
He wouldn’t go back to bed. He would not sleep, wished he didn’t ever have to sleep again. If he didn’t sleep, he couldn’t dream. He put on his socks, ignoring the holes in them, and his boots, ignoring the holes in those, too, and, wrapping the thin blanket around his cold shoulders, sat in the chair and stared at the coming dawn.
And just sat.
*****
Melanie Treymont rolled over, pulling the blanket up higher. It didn’t help. She was still freezing. Grumbling, she rubbed her feet together in a vain attempt to warm them. You’d think the landlord could have given her enough coal to last the night. It was the end of November, for God’s sake. Didn’t the man know it was cold outside? And inside.
Dawn was fighting its way past the horizon when she finally gave up the battle and rose to dress. At least her gown and boots would warm her a bit.
Downstairs, the roadhouse slowly came to life, the sounds of wood being brought in, the smell of cooking fires being lit drifting up to her room. Clanging pots told her cooks were beginning to make food, and...coffee? Oh God, was that coffee? Closing her eyes, she sighed and smiled in anticipation of a cup of blessedly hot coffee.
She stuffed her nightgown into her satchel and waited for what she hoped was a decent interval, then carried her bag down to the roadhouse’s main room. With any luck, she would have enough time to eat a breakfast and buy a cold lunch packet to eat on the road before having to board the coach. And drink a cup of coffee.
It would seem the other travelers spending the night at the roadhouse had the same idea she did. There was only one seat left in the main room. A lone man sat at a small table, the chair opposite him empty. Tall and taciturn, with dark hair curling over his collar, she assumed the Union soldier was returning home. He had shared the coach with her yesterday, spending the whole of the trip silently looking out the window with eyes, she’d wager, not registering anything he saw. She knew he wasn’t blind because he’d saluted her as though she were a general when he held the door for her. But he never uttered a word the entire day. His uniform’s worn green jacket seemed to provide scant protection from the weather and aside from his rifle, he carried only a small knapsack.
She caught his eye and smiled a greeting. He looked at her blankly before staring down into his cup of coffee. A bowl of porridge sat before him, seemingly untouched.
Undaunted, Melanie approached the table.
“May I join you?” she asked, smiling.
He looked up at her with a blank expression, as though she were speaking a foreign language he didn’t understand. She wondered for a moment if he was deaf, perhaps from standing too near cannon.
Finally, he shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, and cast his storm-cloud grey eyes down again at his untouched porridge.
Not the reception she’d hoped for, but then again, she was the intruder here. She murmured a thank you. “Where are you going to?” she asked, hoping to break the awkward silence.
He gave a huge sigh, looked up at her with something akin to scorn. “Pittsburgh.”
“So am I. We shall be traveling companions again, it seems.”
His level gaze bored into her.
“How is the porridge?”
He stared in silence again, then shoved the bowl to her. “Here. Have it.”
“Oh, but I couldn’t take your breakfast,” Melanie protested. “I was just wondering if I should order it.”
“Nothing else to order,” came the terse reply. “Eat it or go hungry.”
“You needn’t be rude about it,” she bristled.
He shrugged again, pulled the bowl back in front of him, picked up the spoon, then set it down again.
The owner’s wife came up to her and Melanie ordered her own porridge and coffee, then sat back and looked around the filled main room. “It seems the landlord does a brisk business, does it not?”
He raised his gaze to her. “Look, if you don’t mind, I’d just as soon eat in quiet.”
Well. That put it bluntly. Her brows raised. “Then why don’t you?” she asked.
His own brow furrowed in question.
“Eat,” she said. “You say you want to eat in quiet, but you’ve yet to touch your food.”
“Are you my mother?”
“Do you need one?” she shot back.
The faintest ghost of a smile flitted across his face, before he turned dour again. “If I eat, will you be quiet?”
“Eat, and we’ll see,” she answered in her best schoolmistress voice.
He picked up the spoon and took a mouthful, pulled a face that made her burst out laughing. “It’s not funny,” he snarled.
“Oh, but it is. You look just like one of the babies the first time they try porridge,” she said, trying in vain to curb her laughter.
“I’ll wager theirs isn’t cold.”
“Sometimes,” she admitted.
“You’re not being quiet.”
“You’re not eating.”
He made a rude noise, drank some coffee, and stood. “Enjoy your breakfast, madam.” He dropped a coin on the table, grabbed his knapsack and rifle from under his chair, spun about, and practically stomped out of the room.
“Well,” Melanie said to herself. “That set me in my place.” She dug into her own porridge and made a face she imagined was quite similar to his. It ought to be. Her food was cold as well.
*****
They had started out with a full coach. After the third stop, Melanie rode alone with the soldier. He had been staring out the window again as he’d done yesterday, ignoring everything, including her attempts at conversation. After a while, it appeared he’d fallen asleep.
Melanie looked out the window. Brown grasses poked through the thin layer of snow. Grey skies outlining the dark skeletons of bare trees were punctuated every so often by evergreens weighted by the snow. Dull and drab and lifeless, although she knew life dwelled just under the surface.
She pulled out the packet of food she’d had the landlord make up for her. Cold sandwiches, fruit that had seen better days and some cheese. A royal repast. All right maybe not, but since there were no more scheduled stops until late afternoon when they would arrive at her destination, she would be grateful for what she had.
She munched a sandwich while thinking what she was going to tell the children. They’d all hung their hopes on the banker in Philadelphia, convincing themselves he could never say no to a loan for an orphanage.
It would seem the winter weather froze more than the crops. The man had exhibited no compunctions at all about refusing Melanie’s request. Perhaps she should have given in to little Jeb’s begging to accompany her. Maybe putting a face to her plea would have helped. Or maybe she should have taken Lorna’s suggestion and cried at his desk.
Her spine stiffened of its own accord at the thought. She had her pride. She just hoped the children wouldn’t be the ones to pay for her folly. And her pride.
The soldier began to stir on the seat across from her. His head lolled against the window frame and a faint moan escaped his lips. She didn’t blame him. The rutted road made the going tough and she’d long since had her fill of bouncing on the hard seat. With his head knocking against the frame, she had no doubt he would awaken with a devil of a headache. If it wasn’t so cold, she would have rolled up her shawl and made him a pillow.
He shouted out in his sleep. His feet shuffled as though trying to run and his hand reached out, grabbing the air.
Melanie wondered what dream held him in such thrall he didn’t awaken himself. His feet moved again. Running toward or away? And whom did he want to take hold of?
He cried out once more and a tear crawled down his cheek. Then another. And another, until he was nearly sobbing as he slept.
She couldn’t watch it anymore. Setting aside her food, she moved to the other seat and laid her hand on his arm.
“Sir,” she said quietly.
No response.
“Sir,” she repeated a little louder, accompanying the word with a gentle squeeze on his arm.
He moaned again and she squeezed just a little harder.
“Sir! Wake up! You are safe here.”
His eyes flew open and his gaze darted around, like a trapped animal looking for its predator.
She patted his arm. “You’re safe,” she repeated.
He flinched at the touch of her hand and rounded on her. For just a moment, she thought he might lash out at her with that arm and she shrank back, afraid for herself. She clearly felt muscle through the worn thin wool of his green army jacket. He gained control of himself, straightened, and looked at her.
“You were dreaming,” she said softly. “I think it was not a pleasant one.”
He stared, slowly raised his hand and wiped at his cheek, glanced at his wet fingers as though they belonged to another.
“My apologies, ma’am. I do not want to frighten you.”
“I was less frightened than worried. What were you dreaming of?”
His hand fell back to his lap and he turned his head away to look out the window again. “Nothing.”
“That’s what Jeb says when he has a nightmare and doesn’t want me to think he is not brave. There is no shame in a nightmare. It is only a dream.”
“It is not night,” he responded, so quietly she was not sure she heard him.
Melanie studied his lean face, still handsome despite the drying tracks made by his tears, the sunken cheeks and sallow color. It occurred to her she had yet to see him eat. He’d eschewed his porridge this morning—not that she could blame him—and had not purchased a packet of food from the landlord. She held out part of her sandwich. “Would you join me?”
Without taking his eyes from the view outside, he said, “No, thanks.”
“You have not eaten today.”
That ghost of a smile she’d seen earlier reappeared. “Are you trying to be my mother again?”
“It would seem you need one.” She turned over his hand and placed half the sandwich in it. “Eat. Or I shall spend the next hour lecturing you on nutrition.”
*****
The words were stern, but her voice was soft and Nathaniel found himself biting into the sandwich.
It was simple fare and he was surprised how hungry he actually was. He ate the food in two bites, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
She was breaking the cheese into two pieces and before he knew it, had put one of them into his hand as well.
“I’m afraid I have no knife to cut the apple with,” she said, holding up the fruit.
“I’ve eaten half of your sandwich already. I could not take more of your food.”
“Nonsense. There’s more here than I can eat. You will share it or I shall lecture.”
Nathaniel rolled his eyes before he put the cheese back in her lap and fished out his knapsack from under the seat. Rooting around in it, he eventually produced a small knife. “It’s not much,” he said, “but it’s clean.”
The last time he’d used the blade, it was to dig out a ball from the shoulder of his lieutenant. He pushed away the memory, ignoring how the red apple looked so much like the bleeding flesh of his friend.
She handed him the fruit and he sliced it neatly in two, gave her the slightly larger piece. She in turn put the larger piece of the cheese back in his hand.
He resisted the urge to sigh, frustrated though he was. He didn’t think she would allow him to win this battle.
“Where in Pittsburgh are you going to?” she asked before breaking off a bit of the cheese.
This time, he did sigh. It would seem she was determined to converse, no matter how rudely he behaved. What the hell, perhaps it would pass the time and keep him from sleeping. “Not actually into Pittsburgh, just on the outskirts. I’ll be getting off before we hit the city itself.”
“Really? I will as well.”
He ignored the pink tongue that slipped out to catch an errant crumb of cheese before she bit into her apple. She was getting off before Pittsburgh, too? He wondered where she was headed, fought a short-lived battle with himself about asking her and extending the conversation or hopefully, allowing it to lapse into silence. But silence could mean sleep.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
She chewed thoroughly before answering. “Salem Crossroads.”
Good Christ! Did she have to be going to the same place he was?
“What about you?” she asked.
“Salem Crossroads.”
She smiled. “How wonderful! We’ll be traveling the rest of the way together. It’ll be so nice having someone to talk with.”
“Hmpf.” He supposed it was better than sleeping.
“What are you going to Salem Crossroads for?”
He thought about it for a minute. What was he going for? To find his family. His home.
To find redemption, and if possible, forgiveness. None of which she needed to know. “I used to live there.”
“Whereabouts? It’s not that large a town, though busy. But most everyone knows everyone else.”
“My family used to have a farm not far from the town. I doubt my father can work it anymore. He’s getting older now.”
She laughed, a bright sunny sound. “It’s what we all do. Get older, I mean.”
Not all of us, he thought, as images from his dreams fought their way past his defenses. Boys. So many had been mere boys. Would remain so. Forever.
Nathaniel pushed the images away. “And what are you going there for?”
She sighed and looked down at her lap. “To admit failure. To salvage what I can.”
“It cannot be so bad. Somehow, I can’t see you failing at anything,” he said, thinking of her take-charge personality.
“Oh,” she said with a rueful laugh, “you don’t know the half of it. Because I failed, fourteen children will be without a home soon. And how am I going to tell them?”
“Fourteen?” He studied her closely. Green eyes the color of pine trees lit up her porcelain skin and auburn hair. “You can’t be more than twenty. Did you start having children when you were six? Or do you take in strays?”
She sat up straighter. “I’m twenty-four, I’ll have you know. And not strays. Orphans. Fourteen war orphans.”
He couldn’t breathe for a moment, wondering if he was the reason any of them were orphans. Had he been the one to order a father into deadly battle?
Perhaps God had fashioned a special kind of hell for him, after all. A hell where the fruits of his labors were put on display for all to see. A hell where he would have to live with those fruits staring him in the face.
Maybe he wouldn’t stay. He could live somewhere else.
Even as the thought formed itself, he knew he would not do it. He had made a promise to his father when he’d left to fight. A promise that he would come back and take over the farm, care for him as his mother would have done.
Instinctively he knew if he walked out on his father, it would break the tenuous hold he had on reality.
Drift forever, without direction or base?
Or live in Salem Crossroads and every day see those whose lives he’d changed forever?
A special kind of hell, indeed.
“It must keep you very busy,” he said quietly.
“It does. Almost unbearably so. But perhaps not for much longer. The dilapidated building needs repairs before it falls down around our ears. But, we’ve no money. And now, no loan either.”
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, and closing his eyes, laid his head against the seat back. Let her choose what he apologized for. He merely prayed for a merciful God and a swift end to his misery.
*****
Melanie looked at her traveling companion. It would seem the man was going to sleep. If all his sleep was as troubled as this afternoon’s, she’d no doubt he needed every minute he could garner.
She folded up the remnants of their meal and stowed it under the seat, then settled herself into the opposite corner and looked out the window.
Drab, gray countryside rolled past, empty fields marshaling the wind to buffet the coach and steal what little warmth they had. She pulled her shawl tighter and watched the fields go by. And thought of Jeb and Lorna and all the others, and how she was going to provide for them now. Where they would go. And if her heart could let any of them go.
*****
Salem Crossroads bustled with life. Compact and opportunistic, it made the most of its position as a stopping point for the various stagecoach lines crossing Pennsylvania. Located several miles outside Pittsburgh, it was ideally suited to those heading south or west who didn’t want to pass through the frenetic life that was the city. It would grab everything it could now. Rumor had it the trains would bypass the little town in favor of industrial Pittsburgh. It didn’t take a genius to know Salem’s days of glory, however little they were, were numbered.
Melanie sat up straighter, tied her bonnet and put on her gloves. She pulled her shawl up over her thin coat and wound it around her neck and shoulders as they pulled the coach up to the building that served as the station. As the vehicle lurched to a stop, the soldier jolted awake.
“We’re here,” she announced, although one would have to be simple to not know that. And even after their short conversation, she knew he was anything but simple.
He didn’t say anything, but gathered up his knapsack, unlatched the door and hopped down to the ground. He stood there, held out his hand and waited.
Melanie pulled her own bag out from under the seat and moved to the door. She put her hand in his.
Soothing warmth seared through her glove, snaked up her arm, and took hold of her heart. She heard herself gasp and stood in the open doorway, transfixed. He reached up, took her bag from her and set it on the ground. Letting go of her hand, he enclosed her waist in his warm grasp. With no seeming effort at all, he swung her down to the ground.
Melanie had put her hands on his shoulders when he grasped her waist. Broad, solid, obviously strong, she felt every last muscle and sinew.
It couldn’t be, she thought. He wore his wool jacket and shirt, and though thin, they weren’t so thin as to leave his whole physique open to her questing fingers. And yet, she already seemed to know every inch of his arms and shoulders.
Her feet touched the ground and he held her a moment longer than was necessary for her to steady herself. The top of her head barely reached his chin, so that she had to tilt her head back to look at him. “Thank you,” she murmured as her palms slowly slid down the front of his chest.
His grey eyes darkened before his lids shielded them from her view and his breathing quickened for the briefest of moments. “Ma’am,” he nodded in acknowledgment. He slung his knapsack over one shoulder, his rifle over the other and turned away, started walking down the main street.
Melanie suddenly realized she never asked his name.
“Sir!” she called out. “Oh, sir!”
He stopped, looked over his shoulder, took two steps back toward her.
She ran up, breathless though not from the exertion of running. “I...that is, you... We never introduced ourselves.”
He stood, waiting.
She held out her hand. “I’m Melanie Treymont.”
He looked at her outstretched hand, then at her face, his gaze finding its way through her eyes to her heart. Finally, he put down the knapsack and took her hand in his. “Colonel Nathaniel Walker, ma’am.”
“Pleased to meet you,” she replied with a little bob. His hand held hers firmly. It wouldn’t take much for him to pull her to his chest, she thought, and immediately wondered where that came from. She felt the color rise to her cheeks and looked down to hide it. “It was a pleasure to travel with you, Colonel.”
“The pleasure was all mine, ma’am.”
“There she is! Miz Mellie! Miz Mellie!”
The excited voice carried over the bustle of the horses, carriages, wagons, and people that filled Main Street. It was quickly followed by a whirling dervish of a lad.
Melanie braced herself for the onslaught. True to form, little Jeb threw himself at her knees and hugged tightly, causing her hooped skirt to billow out behind her. She disengaged the boy’s arms, stooped down to his eye-level, and hugged him back.
“Hello, Jeb. How nice of you to come and greet me.”
The little boy pulled back and looked at her. “Did you miss me?” he asked, a cheeky grin lighting up his face.
“More than you’ll ever know.” She ruffled his hair, for even in the cold winter air, Jeb refused to wear a hat. She tugged his jacket a bit closer to his thin frame and warmed his hands in her own. “Who came with you?” she asked the five-year-old.
“Lorna. And Mr. Grinkov.”
Melanie stood up again in time to see a gangly young girl walking towards them. Blonde and blue-eyed, the girl held the promise of magnificent beauty in just a couple of years. Melanie often thought that she would have to sit the girl down for a serious talk. Prepare her for the cavalcade of men that she was sure would be vying for Lorna’s attention very soon.
“Welcome back, Miss Melanie,” Lorna said in a voice already carefully modulated for the drawing room.
So young, Melanie thought, and yet, so old. She drew a deep breath and smiled. “It’s good to be back, Lorna. Things are well, I hope?”
The young girl nodded.
Remembering her manners, Melanie turned her head. “Children, may I present Colonel—”
She was speaking to the air. Already Colonel Walker was blending into the throng of people filling Main Street. He hadn’t even said good-bye. She didn’t know why, but she felt disappointed. And deserted.
Well, she couldn’t blame him. He had to be exhausted, and anxious to get home. She certainly was. Turning her attention back to the children, Melanie smiled wryly. “I guess my traveling companion from the coach was in a hurry to get home. Which I think is a very good idea. It’s too cold to stay out here long.” She bent to pick up her bag and took Jeb’s hand. His fingers were icy again. Still. She bit back a sigh of frustration. Someday, she would learn to knit, and make hundreds of mittens and gloves so no child’s hands would be cold ever again.
She let Jeb lead her to where a beat-up old wagon stood, with an equally beat-up old gentleman standing next to it. “Mr. Grinkov, how nice of you to come and get me.”
“Too far to walk,” the old man answered, heaving her bag into the wagon. “Too cold, too.” He stood there a moment, looking at her until Melanie smiled and gave him a brief hug.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
He returned the hug awkwardly, patting her back once before pulling away. “Up,” he ordered gruffly, indicating the seat with one hand while offering the other to assist her.
Melanie situated herself on the hard seat and they waited for Lorna to get Jeb settled before Mr. Grinkov directed the old horse toward home.
*****
Nathaniel switched his knapsack to the other shoulder and kept walking. No one had come to welcome him home. Of course, no one knew he was coming home. He hadn’t even tried to get word to his father. Was his father still alive? They hadn’t corresponded in months. It was impossible to get letters to or from the front. Long weeks went by in silence, and even when he did get a letter, it was painfully brief.
All things still the same. Which Nathaniel knew meant his father still lived alone on a farm he could no longer work. Years spent in the fields had left his father’s joints swollen, misshapen and crippled, making the man an invalid. How he managed to move, much less cook food, was a mystery to Nathaniel. More of a mystery was why his father had practically demanded Nathaniel enlist in the army.
The 2nd United States Sharpshooters unit recruited heavily in the hills of northern Pennsylvania, but was in dire need of cool-headed men to lead the rowdy German lumbermen who made up the bulk of the enlistees. Cool heads like Nathaniel’s soon earned themselves commissions, and without quite understanding how it happened, or even wanting it, Nathaniel found himself a colonel.
He was told a battlefield commission was an honor.
It didn’t feel like an honor. Not when the general had removed the pins from a dead soldier’s collar and put them on him. Not when he saw the first of his men shot from his perch in a tree and fall dead to the ground.
How could there be honor in ordering a man to do something that ultimately led to his death?
Nathaniel knew the war had burned images into his memory. Images he would never escape, but would have to learn to live with. Or go mad. He hoped his father could help.
As he trudged along the frozen road, Nathaniel’s thoughts wandered to Miss Treymont. Lovely as she was, it was obvious she was also strong-willed. With a need to mother everyone she met.
He assumed the children who met her in town were two of the orphans she tended.
Fourteen of them. Good God!
He shook his head in wonder. He couldn’t begin to fathom caring for so many. How did she do it?
Why did she do it?
“Colonel Walker! Yoo-hoo!”
The familiar voice stopped him in his tracks and he turned around in amazement.