face sitting beside him on the cold ground. Colby was lying on a blanket, but Holcomb sat in the grass, flask in hand. From the angle Holcomb held it, Colby figured it was empty.
“My leg.”
“Took it off and buried it,” said Holcomb, voice edged with the drink. “Colonel Wilder said they were riding out, but they left me here to watch you.”
“What?” Colby felt grainy and tense, his head throbbing from the chloroform. It hadn’t worn off enough for him to feel the pain of his missing leg.
“Yep,” said Holcomb. “Said they had to push on toward Nashville. Asked for volunteers to stay with you, because the Doc didn’t know when you’d be ready to go. Wilder said you were a rock chained around the leg of his horse, and decided to leave you.”
Colby groaned and closed his eyes, wishing he could drift away again. His leg kept itching, and he kept trying to touch the space where it used to be. It was a strange feeling, like he was unbalanced.
“They brought us a wagon and left us two horses,” said Holcomb, tipping up the last of the flask to his lips. Colby wondered how long he had been sitting there drinking.
“Where exactly are we?” asked Colby, though his mouth felt stuffed with cotton and tasted of old leather.
“South of Decatursville,” said Holcomb. “Nashville’s to the east, and Savannah’s to the south. God’s in his Heaven, and I am here.”
“I’m thirsty,” said Colby, his eyes drifting toward the flask, but Holcomb offered him a canteen of water, which was warm and stale tasting. He looked at what was left of his leg. They had taken it just above the knee, and his slim thigh ended in a bloody stump capped with what looked like a leather patch. He didn’t feel the pain. Not yet. But he knew it was coming soon. He could already feel it around the edges, a gradual heat growing hotter with each passing minute.
“Thank you, John,” he said. “For staying.”
Holcomb looked at him, his eyes flushed and red and watering. Colby knew Holcomb would probably regret his decision very soon, but for now, as long as the rum had lasted, Holcomb seemed content to stay where he was.
“Do you think they did me a favor?” Colby asked, his voice hazy from the chloroform.
“I think they probably saved your life.”
“I wouldn’t have done it. I’m a farmer, and now what am I going to do?”
“Marry into a rich family.”
Colby cracked a brief smile. “People will stare. They’ll whisper to each other after I’ve passed by and some will ask me how I lost my leg.”
“What will you tell them?”
“I lost it defending the cause. That’s all.”
“I think Colonel Wilder would be proud to hear you say that.”
Colby thought of the poor engineer swinging in the tree. “Colonel Wilder is not about what we are fighting for.”
“What are we fighting for then?”
“Ten dollars a month and a new rifle to take home when it’s all over.”
***
With Colby stretched out in the back of the small wagon, John Holcomb stretched a white canvas over the wagon’s bed to keep the sun off before driving the wagon over the hills. Colonel Wilder’s troop had crashed through the underbrush with no regard to their horses or men, but the wagon was not designed for such speedy travel, and Holcomb found it difficult to navigate through the dips and valleys that made up most of the countryside.
Colby drifted in and out of consciousness while they rode. When he would awaken, he tried hard to swipe away the mosquitoes who constantly tried to land on his bleeding stump of a leg. He wondered if it hadn’t hurt less before they took it off. Now the fire that consumed him was not isolated to his leg, it was an inferno that devoured his entire body. They had no medicine for the pain, no morphine or even whiskey to take the razor sharp edge off. Colby only had himself, squeezing his eyes shut with every hellish bounce the
“My leg.”
“Took it off and buried it,” said Holcomb, voice edged with the drink. “Colonel Wilder said they were riding out, but they left me here to watch you.”
“What?” Colby felt grainy and tense, his head throbbing from the chloroform. It hadn’t worn off enough for him to feel the pain of his missing leg.
“Yep,” said Holcomb. “Said they had to push on toward Nashville. Asked for volunteers to stay with you, because the Doc didn’t know when you’d be ready to go. Wilder said you were a rock chained around the leg of his horse, and decided to leave you.”
Colby groaned and closed his eyes, wishing he could drift away again. His leg kept itching, and he kept trying to touch the space where it used to be. It was a strange feeling, like he was unbalanced.
“They brought us a wagon and left us two horses,” said Holcomb, tipping up the last of the flask to his lips. Colby wondered how long he had been sitting there drinking.
“Where exactly are we?” asked Colby, though his mouth felt stuffed with cotton and tasted of old leather.
“South of Decatursville,” said Holcomb. “Nashville’s to the east, and Savannah’s to the south. God’s in his Heaven, and I am here.”
“I’m thirsty,” said Colby, his eyes drifting toward the flask, but Holcomb offered him a canteen of water, which was warm and stale tasting. He looked at what was left of his leg. They had taken it just above the knee, and his slim thigh ended in a bloody stump capped with what looked like a leather patch. He didn’t feel the pain. Not yet. But he knew it was coming soon. He could already feel it around the edges, a gradual heat growing hotter with each passing minute.
“Thank you, John,” he said. “For staying.”
Holcomb looked at him, his eyes flushed and red and watering. Colby knew Holcomb would probably regret his decision very soon, but for now, as long as the rum had lasted, Holcomb seemed content to stay where he was.
“Do you think they did me a favor?” Colby asked, his voice hazy from the chloroform.
“I think they probably saved your life.”
“I wouldn’t have done it. I’m a farmer, and now what am I going to do?”
“Marry into a rich family.”
Colby cracked a brief smile. “People will stare. They’ll whisper to each other after I’ve passed by and some will ask me how I lost my leg.”
“What will you tell them?”
“I lost it defending the cause. That’s all.”
“I think Colonel Wilder would be proud to hear you say that.”
Colby thought of the poor engineer swinging in the tree. “Colonel Wilder is not about what we are fighting for.”
“What are we fighting for then?”
“Ten dollars a month and a new rifle to take home when it’s all over.”
***
With Colby stretched out in the back of the small wagon, John Holcomb stretched a white canvas over the wagon’s bed to keep the sun off before driving the wagon over the hills. Colonel Wilder’s troop had crashed through the underbrush with no regard to their horses or men, but the wagon was not designed for such speedy travel, and Holcomb found it difficult to navigate through the dips and valleys that made up most of the countryside.
Colby drifted in and out of consciousness while they rode. When he would awaken, he tried hard to swipe away the mosquitoes who constantly tried to land on his bleeding stump of a leg. He wondered if it hadn’t hurt less before they took it off. Now the fire that consumed him was not isolated to his leg, it was an inferno that devoured his entire body. They had no medicine for the pain, no morphine or even whiskey to take the razor sharp edge off. Colby only had himself, squeezing his eyes shut with every hellish bounce the
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