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Captain and the Drummer Boy - Chapter 2
As was his way, Heath Thomson, an early riser, watched the ebony drapery of the night lighten first turning grey like the uniform he was wearing. He continued to watch, the spectrum changing reflecting the colors of conflict as night and day battled for dominance in men’s life, purplish pain and scarlet suffering, streaking to hues of hope in laminating light as orange, yellow and finally white light proved victorious.
Hearing the snapping of small twigs from underbrush not disturbed, Heath turned. Grinning, his inquisitive tilt of his head mirrored in the Captain’s own.
“Heath, my lad, I thought you and I could collect Corporal Reynolds and have a private surrey.”
“I cannot leave the other men, sir. I have scout duty. And then I promised to help with rationing.”
“Don’t worry son. No scouting today. Today we fall back and hold camp. Lieutenant Masters will make sure the men are well fed,” Captain Darby’s voice casual and calm.
Yes, Masters was a good man, Darby thought, promising the Captain to see his men to safety, knowing of the mission. A mission wrought with danger for those who journey on and those left behind. The decision to leave still weighed heavy on Jack’s soul, but Captain Darby was assured that the men would be alright. Masters proved he was the right man for the task at hand if Darby failed to return.
Time was still important even on the most holy of days. One could never be certain if peaceful prayer and the solitude significance of the day would halt the canons’ roar. Captain needed to speed the boy into action, “Son, we need to make haste, before too much light.“
“Why, sir?” If the boy expected more, he did not say and Darby would not venture to add details. Jack let the question ride and turned in search of young Texas.
Good-natured and accommodating, Texas was already found afoot. Lieutenant Masters spied Darby. Walking over with Texas in tow, Masters greeted Jack. The two spoke, their voices low and warm.
Grabbing the slender shoulder of the wiry young man who had not himself reached his twentieth birthday, Darby’s voice cracked with affection, “Take care of yourself, Ben. I’m relying on you to get my men out of here, in one piece. That means you too, boy. Don’t be a hero, ya hear?”
“Aye, sir and good luck.” Then, away from formality and away from tradition, these men off the battlefield, stood as brothers. Shaking Jack’s hand firmly, his own sentiments rebounded “Take care of yourself, Jack.”
“I always do.” With a glint in his eye of the devil that he was, Captain Jack Darby grinned, an open and contagious smile, “By this time next year, my pockets will be full and there’ll be a girl, maybe two in my arms. “ When there was nothing else to say, Jack just squeezed his second’s shoulder one more time, “Bye Ben.”
The trek was arduous and mundane, lulling the Captain into a false sense that everything would be alright.
The south and the north had begun the practice of mining the pathways. Archaic and inhuman traps made from sharpened sticks. Pass through an area, lay the trap and never pass that way again, as your enemy trailed, becoming ensnarled.
As the Captain and the youth kept an ear for what was ahead, too late to know what lie under their feet. The piercing slab of wood sent pain through the lower leg; sending Darby crashing to the ground, ground that had been stained and soaked with blood for two years, what was one more joining.
From the corner of his eye, a lone figure, union blue rushed forward. In another time or place, he would have been nothing but a child in Darby’s eyes. Trapped, Jack watched the flash of cloth, felt the motion of movement, knowing the projectile’s aim was true, imagined he felt it as it entered his tender flesh.
But the bullet never came. Texas had rushed forward, the bullet went high entering Texas back. Texas’ own rifle clambered to the ground, the fire and spark still hung. Both lads laid dead.
Squeezing his eyes closed, tears begin to well. Jack's mind screamed for the loss, one too young, one too brave. Promises made to a mother he never met, Darby would never keep. Regrets for a younger brother he would never forget.
It was the sun-blond hair youth that broke his affecting reflection. The sinewy fingers had already tore cloth from his own shirt and was packing Darby’s leg.
Jack’s heart ached, filled with remorse and with anger for the senselessness of it all. There was no need, the young Yankee was alone, he had no chance of taking down three men, and there was nothing to gain by foolish actions. Texas had so much reason to live, and yet had given it all for his Jack’s own worthless existence. Now young Heath, it was proving too much for Darby who hissed in frustration, “Let me rest, son. Leave me, here and now.”
“Sir, I will not leave you.” Heath continued the laborious effort of wrapping binding around the protruding wood stake. “You have to lay still, sir. I need to get you back to camp; we need to get that out of your leg.”
Ignoring the young man's logic, Darby repeat fervantly, “Yes, you will. That’s an order, boy.”
A stubbornness Darby had seen before broke the boy’s handsome face. “No.”
The boy had spit to disobey a command, a sign of a true leader and trait that would serve the lad well. But admiration had no place in Jack's determination to save the youth’s life, “No, you owe me boy, owe me to get out of here.”
Heath worked, ignoring the pleas. Darby hated the thought of what he needed to do, but better the boy hate him and live then die as a nameless number. “Thomson, you stinking Yank, keep your filthy hands off of me." For emphasis Jack pushed the boy away hard enough for Heath to tumble a few feet away.”
Heath crawled over to his wounded commander, “Sir, that ain't going to work. I know ya.” Reaching for Darby’s arm and placing it over his shoulder, he leaned in to pick up the older heavier man. With a lurch he pulled Darby up, but the weight difference of a half-starved boy to a work-hardened man proved too much. Both soldiers came crashing to the ground jarring the stake in Jack’s leg and sending him into excruciating agony.
Heath struggled to get both men to their feet, his hands becoming slick with blood as Jack’s leg begin to bleed wth renewed vigor. Jack’s pain-wrecked voice cracked through begging “Please stop, son. Please.”
Heath knew Jack was right, he could not get Jack back to camp. But perhaps he could get some men, ”Sir, camp is no more than a couple hours away, if I run less. I can bring help back.”
“Son, it will be too late. Please Heath, don’t let Texas die for nothing. Don’t let my death be in vain. Please leave, get as far away from here as you can and never look back.”
Heath was motionless. Except his mother, no one had loved him enough to care about his life, that it mattered if he lived or died. How could he leave, what man would desert a friend, a brother, a father? Darby saw the conflict in the battle of hopelessness against loyalty. No it was more. He was asking a boy who was of part him to turn away; he knew Heath felt the same way. Would he leave, could he leave his brother?
Darby feared Heath again would refuse, but he pushed onward to say what to be said while there was time to still say it. Pulling the youth down, he unfastened the medallion from his neck where he had rest since his brother had gave it to him in a time of need. Holding it out to Heath, “I want you to have this. Something to remember be me by if you so choose.” Darby could not blame the lad if he wanted to forget it all, the damn hell they had been living. Heath let the medallion fall into his hand, weighing it is his palm before fastening it around his neck.
Talking hold of Jack’s hand, he squeezed. It was a simple gesture though it spoke more than a thousand words for what he felt. “Sir, I wish I could do more.”
“One thing more, can you play your drum for me son. Just one last time before you go.”
“It would be my honor, sir.” The drum discarded at the first sign of fire shot, forgotten, its sticks a few inches further away. Heath played, played for the loss of all the ghosts left behind and others who would soon follow. When Jack’s were closed, asleep, Heath stopped. He placed the drum beside his commanding officer, turned and walked away.
Heath had clutched the clipping tightly, not able to hid the escaping tears of the news. Without turning, he knew the hand on his shoulder was Jarrod. Holding out the crushed paper, Heath handed it to his older brother, his back still turned. Jarrod read the headline, Attempts to Rob the Santa Fe Bank Foiled, interested, Jarrod read on, the life of one John Darby, the father of two, businessman and hero, black and white, simple statements.
But it was Heath’s slumping shoulders, tense to avoid the wracking heave that told Jarrod all he needed to know. John Darby was not just a man, a passing name in his brother’s young life. Whoever he was, whatever he meant to Heath, Jack Darby's death was significant and crushing.
With his hand on his brother’s shoulder, Jarrod pulled Heath gently around. Jarrod’s eyes quickly caught the glint of the gold chain and medallion that fell from Heath’s palm. Heath was pulled into Jarrod’s embrace and tears fell unabated for the loss of a friend and a brother.
Later in the evening, drained, Heath laid in his bed. As he slowly started to slip into sleep, he heard a fife, soft and sweet pure like a child. Texas. Heath strained to listen closely, eavesdropping on another world, in another time. He heard it, a rich baritone laugh break through; joyous and alive. Gone were the days of desolation and death. At that moment, Heath knew that Jack was at peace and so was he.
<END OF STORT >
Notes:
- Second part of the series continues with Heath-Jarrod in Crossing the Bonds of Brotherhood
- Standalone more traditional Maverick story fills in how Jack manages to escape the battlefield
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| valleyloverjar | Cool | 0 | Nov 21 2009, 12:28 PM EST by valleyloverjar | ||
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NIce to see you writing again. Hope the technical problems are behind you now. I like the way this story is continuing thru the generations. God bless, Marilyn
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