Read Online B000XUBEHA EBOK by Maggie Osborne - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Maggie Osborne
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slumped in fatigue, eyes reddened and sore from the smoke and exploding earth. The man’s uniform was soiled and patched, as shabby and threadbare as Cameron’s own. He was of medium height, sandy haired, his eyes were blue gray. For an instant, he had reminded Cameron of Howard Ellison, a childhood friend. That’s what his mind recoiled from, the recognition that the Reb could be an ordinary man like Howard Ellison, like himself.
He relit the cigar stub, smoked, and felt the ground shake when the artillery fell nearby. How the hell long was he going to be trapped here?
After a time, he couldn’t restrain his curiosity. He looked down at the dead Reb. He’d seen countless dead men. Had seen men torn by canon and ball, had stood outside the operating tents and stared at hills of amputated limbs. Likely, the man at his feet had seen the same horrors.
How different were they? Aside from philosophical differences, were they more alike than not? The question disturbed him.
Acting on impulse, he slid down next to the man, hesitated, then went through his pockets, driven to know who he was. Something inside warned that he’d never be the same if he put a name to the Reb or learned anything about him, but he searched anyway.
He found a pipe and a nearly empty pouch of first-rate tobacco. Matches in a tin box. A pocket knife with an ivory handle, and a gold watch on a heavy chain. And then a packet tucked in the Reb’s inside jacket pocket, protected by an oilcloth wrapping.
Aware that he was about to invade the man’s privacy, but driven to know who he had killed, he looked down at the Reb, then moved away from him.
His hands shook slightly as he opened the packet and a photograph fluttered to his lap. For a long time he studied the young woman and man in what was obviously a wedding picture. Damn it. Then he read the wife’s letter and a half-written response.
He read the letters again, dropped his head, and covered his eyes. The man’s name was Clarence Ward. He had a pregnant wife, an ill father, and a distraught mother. His home was in shambles, in the path of the Union army, and his young wife was terrified and nearing the end of her rope.
James Cameron had killed a decent man with family who loved him and wanted him home. He had killed a good man because the color of their uniforms was different. That’s what soldiers did.
He turned his head to look at Clarence Ward. In different circumstances, they might have enjoyed each other’s company. Maybe they could have been friends.
The full wrongness and horror of war seeped into him like poison. How many good men had he killed? Ordinary men like himself who were just doing their duty and hoping to stay alive until the madness ended and they could go home to their families.
He’d been able to perform his duty because the enemy didn’t have the reality of faces or names. Until now it had been simple. The gray uniforms were the enemy, and his duty was to kill the enemy. The enemy didn’t have a young, pregnant wife or parents who needed him. He was just the faceless, nameless foe.
Christ. He’d put a face and a name to the soldier at his feet. He knew something about Clarence Ward and his family. Nothing could be the same.
He’d killed too many ordinary men in different colored uniforms. He had widowed too many young wives. He had killed men who had not wronged him or anyone else. How did a man live with this knowledge?
Standing, he studied Clarence Ward’s face. It wasn’t fair that Ward, who had a family, was dead. But Cameron, who had no family, would survive. Bending, he laid his rifle beside Mr. Ward’s body, then climbed up the embankment.
He started walking north. The war had ended for James Cameron.
He spent the morning checking Della’s animals. The old sow was healthy. Any chicken that looked poorly would show up in the Sunday stew, so he didn’t concern himself there. He trimmed the manes, tails, and hooves of her horses. Doctored a cut
He relit the cigar stub, smoked, and felt the ground shake when the artillery fell nearby. How the hell long was he going to be trapped here?
After a time, he couldn’t restrain his curiosity. He looked down at the dead Reb. He’d seen countless dead men. Had seen men torn by canon and ball, had stood outside the operating tents and stared at hills of amputated limbs. Likely, the man at his feet had seen the same horrors.
How different were they? Aside from philosophical differences, were they more alike than not? The question disturbed him.
Acting on impulse, he slid down next to the man, hesitated, then went through his pockets, driven to know who he was. Something inside warned that he’d never be the same if he put a name to the Reb or learned anything about him, but he searched anyway.
He found a pipe and a nearly empty pouch of first-rate tobacco. Matches in a tin box. A pocket knife with an ivory handle, and a gold watch on a heavy chain. And then a packet tucked in the Reb’s inside jacket pocket, protected by an oilcloth wrapping.
Aware that he was about to invade the man’s privacy, but driven to know who he had killed, he looked down at the Reb, then moved away from him.
His hands shook slightly as he opened the packet and a photograph fluttered to his lap. For a long time he studied the young woman and man in what was obviously a wedding picture. Damn it. Then he read the wife’s letter and a half-written response.
He read the letters again, dropped his head, and covered his eyes. The man’s name was Clarence Ward. He had a pregnant wife, an ill father, and a distraught mother. His home was in shambles, in the path of the Union army, and his young wife was terrified and nearing the end of her rope.
James Cameron had killed a decent man with family who loved him and wanted him home. He had killed a good man because the color of their uniforms was different. That’s what soldiers did.
He turned his head to look at Clarence Ward. In different circumstances, they might have enjoyed each other’s company. Maybe they could have been friends.
The full wrongness and horror of war seeped into him like poison. How many good men had he killed? Ordinary men like himself who were just doing their duty and hoping to stay alive until the madness ended and they could go home to their families.
He’d been able to perform his duty because the enemy didn’t have the reality of faces or names. Until now it had been simple. The gray uniforms were the enemy, and his duty was to kill the enemy. The enemy didn’t have a young, pregnant wife or parents who needed him. He was just the faceless, nameless foe.
Christ. He’d put a face and a name to the soldier at his feet. He knew something about Clarence Ward and his family. Nothing could be the same.
He’d killed too many ordinary men in different colored uniforms. He had widowed too many young wives. He had killed men who had not wronged him or anyone else. How did a man live with this knowledge?
Standing, he studied Clarence Ward’s face. It wasn’t fair that Ward, who had a family, was dead. But Cameron, who had no family, would survive. Bending, he laid his rifle beside Mr. Ward’s body, then climbed up the embankment.
He started walking north. The war had ended for James Cameron.
He spent the morning checking Della’s animals. The old sow was healthy. Any chicken that looked poorly would show up in the Sunday stew, so he didn’t concern himself there. He trimmed the manes, tails, and hooves of her horses. Doctored a cut
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