FicWad

When Major Fitzmaurice, Lieutenant Hackett, and Sergeant Callahan return to the Thirteenth Bridgeton Light Infantry, they find a disaster of sorts. The list of casualties has grown to be quite immense, and the despair has grown proportionately. The camp is buried in two feet of snow when they arrive, and Doctor Sparrow, who sits in his own tent at his desk, a makeshift study, is rather morose and is shivering with no fire lit. Seven men have consumption, and five have smallpox. They are quarantined from the rest of the unit, but it matters little, as they have plenty of space. Supplies are woefully scarce, and he has had to go searching for any type of medicine for them, which troubles him greatly. His bag, affectionately called his “back of tricks” by the men, is nearly empty most of the time. He is expected to save men’s legs when they have been splintered and twisted beyond recognition and to save the lives of men whose skulls have been split open, but he has precious few bandages with which to do so. It has been over a month since he saw his closest friend and the only man in the Thirteenth Bridgeton who realizes that he is no more infallible than anyone else and that some lives cannot be saved. When he hears hooves and a cart roll slowly into camp late at night, he bolts awake, having fallen asleep with his head on his book on his desk while reading a book on how to make medicines himself, with a guide on wild herbs nearby, in case he must procure any of the other necessary ingredients. He thinks nothing of the sound, despite the late hour, and he stands, stretches, and dons his nightshirt, shivering against the cold and trying to ignore the rumbling of his empty stomach.

Major Fitzmaurice is driving with Sergeant Callahan’s imposing figure curled up and asleep on the seat next to him. In the back, Lieutenant Hackett is wrapped amongst the hay and goods. The men on watch unhitch the cart and race to put the horses to bed. They then return to unload the cart, which contains many surprises. There are fresh kegs of whiskey, rum, and ale, and there are crates of salted fish. There are many barrels of potatoes and onions, and there are boxes of dried herbs and spices. There are crates of salted, preserved meats and of meats and fish packed in ice. There is also a large crate marked “supplies” that Major Fitzmaurice directly orders the men not to touch. He gently wakes Sergeant Callahan and sends him to bed. He then hauls the crate to Doctor Sparrow’s tent and rings the bell above the flap. Doctor Sparrow answers, his mood crestfallen and his spirits low.

“Billy? That yourself?” asks Doctor Sparrow, his voice dismayed.

“Aye. I’m here, Brendan,” replies Major Fitzmaurice, worried about his friend.

“I thought ye were dead.”

“Very funny. I brought ye your supplies. Bandages, opium, cocaine, ether, thread, needles, alcohol, an’ plaster.”

“Good man. ‘Tis a joy to see yourself again.”

“Ye as well. The north is awful lonely an’ miserable without yourself for company.”

“Well, here ain’t no delight neither. We’re starvin’, an’ there’s no supplies. The on’y thing we had in any quantity was water, an’ the river’s frozen o’er now,” complains Doctor Sparrow.

“’Twill thaw soon enough.”

“Soon enough ain’t good enough. Sure, I can’t even have a cup o’ tea.”

“I brought ye dinner.”

“From where?” asks Doctor Sparrow cautiously.

“Stillwater,” replies Major Fitzmaurice. “We stopped there on the way back rather’n Crosspoint. Conan was asleep. Hackett ate his on the way back, an’ I saved mine to share wi’ yourself.”

“Ye’re a Godsend. A saint, Billy. I ain’t eaten nothin’ in three days.”

“Me? A saint? No. I’m jus’ a man who can’t bear to see his oldest, truest friend suffer so.”

“Thankee. What’d ye get anyhow?”

“Turkey legs. ‘Twas all I could carry out in me tin can.”

“An’ to drink?”

“Water for tea from the local well.”

“Finally…”

“Ye think they can make a decent cup o’ tea up north? Not on your life! An’ forget the butchery they do to it in the coffee shops and alehouses of Bridgeton.”

“I try to forget it.”

“See…there’s your old self, makin’ jokes an’ fightin’ back already,” says Major Fitzmaurice, relieved that Doctor Sparrow could be cheered in some way.

“I’m quite glad to have me dinner, me supplies, an’ good company for once. ‘Tis been awful lonely here without ye. Ye’re the on’y one what knows jus’ how to make us all able to bear it. Ye mock the Colonel, the Generals, an’ the enemy all at once. None o’ them is doin’ shite for me, so I’d appreciate a gaffe or two at their expense,” says Doctor Sparrow irritably.

“Dinner an’ tea first, then news, then jokes,” says Major Fitzmaurice.

“I’m jus’ glad ye’re alive. A lot o’ the men were jokin’ ye’d died up in Newport. They made bets as to how long ‘til ye died in a storm or at the hand o’ some crazy northerner.”

“I’m here. I’m alive. I’m fine. An’ there’ll be no more starvin’. ‘Specially for yourself. I’ve a few extra things in me bag for ye. There’s a new suit an’ coat for ye from your wife in Bridgeton, as well as her best cakes, bread, cookies, fudge, treacle, an’ toffee. There’s also some books she said to give ye an’ a small box o’ salted fish from the north an’ meat from Bridgeton…the good stuff, not the cheap shite I got everyone else. I also got some good tobacco for the two o’ us, an’ I got us some good whiskey an’ tea as well.”

“I presume this was all wi’ the Colonel’s money, an’ I’m guessin’ he said to pay market an’ gave ye a bit extra by mistake?”

“O’ ‘course!”

“How much o’ the Colonel’s money did ye save after all that?”

“”Bout half.”

“Will he see it?”

“No. ‘Tis mine. He paid me to get it, trusted me wi’ the money, an’ I’m payin’ meself. A Major’s salary still isn’t enough to deal wi’ the shite that comes wi’ travelin’ for the Colonel.”

“Ye’re a wicked, wicked man,” says Doctor Sparrow, gnawing on a turkey leg.

“An’ ye’re not?” asks Major Fitzmaurice.

Conan Callahan is at his wit’s end trying to convince his oldest brother to have something done about the state of the unit. He believes that Owen is negligent and that the unit would be better in a far better state if any one of the five majors were in command. The Callahan brothers routinely practice combat against each other, but Conan rarely faces Owen. He tends to fight Kian, since they are a better suited match. Conan is far faster than Owen is, but Owen is far more powerful than Conan is. Kian and Conan are of like mind but differing tactics. Kian typically ventures into town and vents his anger by drinking heavily and having sexual relations with prostitutes. Conan, on the other hand, drinks in camp more than in town, being uncomfortable with the local opinion of the military and with the lay of the city, and tends to be more aggressive in battle, preferring to cause as much damage as possible. He has earned himself a reputation for splitting heads and leaving corpses in undignified states, making many think that he is arrogant and disrespectful of his enemy. Kian has told him that split skulls are the job of heavy infantry and that he needs to show a little more respect for the enemy and for his superiors, but Conan frequently disregards his older brother’s advice. One morning in early March, frustrated by Owen’s apparent lack of care for and trust in his men, Conan challenges him to a sword duel. Owen accepts, confident that he can beat his younger brother easily. They are not fighting to kill. The aim of the duel is to draw first blood, though the Callahan boys usually just skirmish without any injuries, stopping shy of actually hitting each other with their swords so that they may learn from each others’ tactics and their own mistakes how to better survive battles against the enemy. This time, Conan wants to see blood.

The four Callahan brothers in the unit trudge through knee-deep snow into a small clearing in the woods. Brendan Callahan leans against a tree and watches with a mild interest. Kian, who wholeheartedly disapproves and thoroughly believes his younger brother to be extremely foolish for challenging their eldest brother in a duel, sits on a nearby rock sharpening his own sword, occasionally glancing up at the battle playing out before him. He warned Conan that bothering Owen was extremely foolish, but Conan did not listen. He knows that in order to show loyalty to Owen, he must leave his younger brother bleeding in the snow, which he is reluctant to do. He cares deeply for Conan, but he worries about his brother’s foolishness. Kian worries that Conan does not have nearly enough respect for his superiors and that he deliberately disrespects his Colonel and believes himself to be safe from retaliation simply because his Colonel is also his brother. Owen would never dare to disrespect their father’s orders, as their father is a General, but Conan, who is a Sergeant, would disrespect Owen’s orders. Kian believes that Conan’s lack of discipline is a result of him spending time with Captain Liam Shepherd, Lieutenant Andrew Hackett, Major William Fitzmaurice, and Doctor Brendan Sparrow, all of whom speak to him as if he were their equal, rather than their subordinate. Kian sees that the unit is about to divide itself between the faithful and the intelligent, and he wonders whether or not his family will split as well.

Conan takes his sword and braces himself. He knows that he is outmatched by his oldest brother in both size and experience, but Owen rarely fights hand to hand. He is accustomed to handing down orders and watching them play out before him. When he does fight, it is usually from a mount so that he can see where his men are. He sees every attack coming long before it arrives, an advantage his men, including his officers, often lack. Conan believes himself to be equal to his brother in skill and intelligence and knows that he is superior to his brother in speed, though he is subordinate in rank. Owen is extremely powerful and could easily break Conan’s arm with his bare hands, which is something that Conan does not want to contemplate. Conan is relying almost entirely on his speed and practice in order to beat his older brother. He knows that Kian dislikes Owen’s choices as much as he does, and he wonders why Kian, who usually agrees with him, advised him against dueling Owen. He knows that Kian has lost scrimmage duels against Owen in the past, but he believes that he has the speed necessary to outpace Owen. Kian has less faith and knows that little good can come of a formal dual between brothers, regardless of noble intentions.

Owen is confident that his foolish younger brother will leave their dual with a new scar and a heightened respect for his Colonel. Owen knows that he is far stronger than Conan is and that the fight is unfair, but he will not fight with less than his complete ability because he does not believe in undue kindness to his brothers. He has to prove his ability as a Colonel and his physical superiority. He knows that there are dissident elements in the unit, but he cannot do without the manpower his unit has remaining. He cannot fight a war with only Brendan, Kian, and a handful of new recruits. He needs captains and majors who respect him and who respect order. He knows that Conan has great tactical promise, but he also knows that the realization of this and the fact that a lieutenant, a captain, a major, and a civilian doctor all treat him as their equal has caused Conan to develop an ego, which is somewhat dangerous, considering his profession and rank. Since Conan has not refused to obey a direct order or caused any form of panic or riot, Colonel Callahan has no cause to flog him or give him extra duties or watches. He cannot rightfully do so without a good reason, but Conan has dangerous ideas and an ego that is far too large for his rank, and he knows that when the inevitable split in the unit does come, Conan will side with Major Fitzmaurice and Liam, whom he sees as dissenters. He does not want to lose his younger brother’s trust and respect, but he must keep order and respect among all of his men. What rings in his ears most prominently when he begins to doubt himself are Major Fitzmaurice’s criticisms that he is a poor excuse for a colonel, that he is too young, that he is not well-educated, and that he sets a horrible example for his men by his own habits. He pushes doubt out of his mind as easily as he does the winter chill and mentally prepares himself to cause an injury to his beloved little brother.

They stand at opposite sides of the clearing, swords in hand. They are using rapiers, rather than the long swords and great swords used by many of the men in battle or the single-edged, curved sabers carried by the officers, since it is a gentlemen’s duel. These weapons are unfamiliar to them and much lighter than those to which they are accustomed. Conan Callahan has a slight fear of his older brother, though he will never show it outwardly. He knows better than to jump into battle and attempt to overpower Owen, since Owen is about as powerfully built as their enemies, who are, on the average, larger, more aggressive, and stronger than they are. Conan knows that Owen is out of practice and is unfit. It is his duty to prove it, since the Colonel does not want to see, and therefore does not see and actually refuses to see, this truth. The brothers salute each other with their rapiers to signify the start of the duel. Conan does not wait for his brother to attack. He wishes to lull his brother into a false sense of security by seeming foolish, and he acts as though he were drunk when he is actually completely sober, in order to trick Owen and play upon Owen’s perceptions of him as an egomaniacal, drunken fool. When Owen goes to push his attack away, he disengages and ducks, rather than letting Owen parry his initial thrust. Owen sends a powerful swipe in his direction, which he slightly sidesteps and easily parries, throwing Owen off of his balance, a dangerous thing for a man Owen’s size. Conan is light on his feet and able to dodge and parry every single blow aimed at him, using exaggerated motions and doing his best to seem inebriated while still causing Owen to overcompensate in order to regain his balance. Though most dueling skirmishes are over shortly after they begin, Conan deliberately makes his duel last as long as possible, hoping that Owen will eventually tire.

Kian tests the blade on his great sword, lays it on the rock next to him, and gingerly lifts his long sword to examine it before lighting another cigarette and beginning to sharpen it. He realizes how much time has passed and glances upward, wondering if either Conan or Owen is anywhere near tiring yet. They are not wearing armor and are, in fact, dressed in civilian clothing, so as not to soil their uniforms. Kian knows that without having to contend with stiff woolen uniforms and heavy armor, it is far easier to maneuver and to strike and that the range of vision without a helmet is far greater than it would be with one, but he also knows that his brothers are risking serious injury by fencing so seriously without any form of protection. Automatically sharpening his sword while he watches, he sees Conan cut Owen’s shirt on the back of his forearm, but he sees that Owen does not bleed. It is then that he realizes that Owen is wearing leather armor and a second shirt. He knows from having seen Conan shirtless shortly before the duel that Conan is not equally dressed and has no armor and only a loose-fitting shirt which might catch a blade to protect him. He also knows that Conan sees only light and dark with one eye and that if Owen can manage to get a well-placed attack on Conan’s blind side, he will almost certainly win and also seriously injure his brother. Despite the disadvantage and his belief that his younger brother is foolish, he still hopes that Conan can manage to win, since he himself has never beaten Owen in a skirmish or scrimmage, let alone a formal duel, something to which he would never dare to challenge him, and he silently shares the viewpoint that Owen could be doing far more to help the unit, rather than sending three men with good ideas as to how to help lobby the generals and fix the problems of supplies and numbers on a five week long trek to the far corners of the nation to fetch supplies that could be bought in any market town, including Crosspoint, and which should be arriving at regular intervals as provided by the Southern Army itself. He also silently resents his older brother for feeling the need to cheat in a duel that was arranged to be without armor against an opponent who is neither as strong nor as experienced as he is. Kian returns his gaze to his sword sharpening, though it is a simple task that he has performed hundreds of times.

Owen does not want to admit that he is exhausted. He is wearing an old cotton shirt that is far too small for him underneath his leather armor, preventing it from rubbing against his skin and a woolen shirt over it that covers both the cotton shirt and the armor easily. He thought that the temperatures, which are well below freezing at this hour of the morning, would make him much too cold to move his joints properly unless he could keep warm somehow, counting on overwhelming his younger brother swiftly. He now realizes that Conan was smart to have worn only a loose, old cotton shirt, as his blows to the arms keep getting trapped in the excess fabric of Conan’s shirtsleeves, and a shirt certainly does not count as armor, no matter how tactically advantageous it might be. Despite the freezing temperatures, Owen is sweating profusely from the physical exertion. His old injuries have long-since healed, but he never fully recovered from the gunshot to his side, and the fact that he ripped his stitches five times before it healed properly has not helped his recovery. It is no longer an open wound, but his endurance and the muscle strength in his side have not completely recovered. His side is sore, and he is overheated and exhausted. He tries not to show any weakness and pushes himself through the pain in order to seem invincible to his opponent, though he is beginning to realize that he is not the fighter he remembers being when he was younger. He cannot keep Conan’s rigorous pace. He is no longer as agile as his brother, nor is he as youthful. He fights valiantly, hoping his less-experienced younger brother will make a mistake and that he will be able to take advantage of and monopolize on it, leading him to victory, but he realizes that Conan has learned more in battle than he previously thought. He knows that he will be forced into humility by his eighteen-year-old brother if he does not soon gain a clear and decisive advantage.

Conan can see weakness in his brother’s eyes. He can see Owen begin to panic. He realizes that Owen is wearing a breastplate and bracers, but he can also see that they are making him overheat, despite the frosty air. He knows that he must only wait for Owen to tire further and make a fatal mistake, leaving him an opening to draw first blood and win the duel. Conan has a definite endurance advantage and is extremely agile by comparison to his older brother. As Owen becomes short of breath, Conan becomes even more focused and speeds his pace slightly from his own comfort zone, realizing that Owen will now tire much faster and that he can keep his faster pace for a considerable length of time, far longer than Owen can attempt to keep it. Owen begins to pant and become clumsy. Conan waits for his opening and, when he sees it, slashes his brother’s thigh, claiming victory. Owen collapses to his knees and then into the snow. As the pristine white snow, now marked with a frantic stumbling of footprints begins to be tainted and stained by the blood, Kian realizes that something is dreadfully awry. He shouts to Brendan to help him flip Owen onto his back and to put pressure on his leg, and he orders Conan to run back to camp and fetch Doctor Sparrow. Owen’s hair is full of snow. Kian brushes it off of his face to see that he is unconscious and pale. He feels for a pulse and is glad to find one, though it is racing. Conan drops his sword and wastes no time in running back to camp through the woods, dodging trees and jumping over rocks and fallen logs. When he reaches camp, the men are just starting to wake. His duel was at dawn, and few men in the Thirteenth Bridgeton Light Infantry wake before they must. Conan runs into Doctor Sparrow’s tent, causing the Doctor to wake with a start, panting for a moment until he realizes that he is no longer in the world of his dream.

“Conan, ye Gods! Ye gave me quite a shock! Jaysus! What’re ye doin’ up an about at this hour? Are ye hurt?” asks Doctor Sparrow.

“No, sor,” replies Conan.

“Ye’re covered in blood. Who’d ye rape, murder, or hit in the head wi’ a whiskey bottle?”

“No one, sor…an’ I’d ne’er dare abuse alcohol like that, sor.”

“What? Sorry, I haven’t had me tea yet.”

“I’d ne’er hit no one in the head wi’ a whiskey bottle, sor. That’d break the bottle an’ spill the whiskey. That there’s alcohol abuse.”

“Your father certainly did raise a charming boy,” says Doctor Sparrow sarcastically. “So, how’d ye get covered in blood on this fine, cold as fuck morning?”

“I’d a duel wi’ Owen out in the woods at dawn.”

“This is after dawn? Looks pretty goddamned dark to me.”

“He’s out in the woods bleedin’. Ye need to come quick. Kian says he don’t got long.”

“Jus’ ‘cos the Major said this unit might be better off wi’ a different colonel, ye cut your own brother?”

“No. I cut him ‘cos I challenged him to a duel to first blood. I’d’ve got him sooner and lighter if he’d not cheated an’ worn armor.”

“Where’d ye cut him then?”

“I got him bad in the thigh. He’s bleedin’ real bad.”

“Can’t ye go one day without causin’ me trouble, boy?” asks Doctor Sparrow exasperatedly.

“Terrible sorry, sor. Didn’t mean to, sor.”

“I’m up. I’m up. I’ll be out in a minute. Jus’ let me get some pants on, for Christsakes!”

“Hurry, please, sor.”

“Did ye not jus’ hear me? I’ll be out in a minute!”

“Aye, sor.”

Conan leads Doctor Sparrow to the clearing in the woods. The cold air is painful to the Doctor, who just woke from his relatively warm bed and isn’t entirely awake. Thankfully, the cold is an anesthetic. The medical supplies are woefully scarce, and he cannot help but decide to perform surgery to save the Colonel with no medicinal anesthetic, claiming that he must save what little he has for those who need it most. Major Callahan looks at him disapprovingly, but since he knows nothing about medicine other than what his mother taught him about common illnesses and his father’s hangover cure, he does not dare to say a word. Kian, silently happy that Conan won the duel, is also quite worried about his older brother and colonel. He may disagree with Owen, but he does not want to see him die. Doctor Sparrow stitches the Colonel quickly, Colonel Callahan laying silent through the entire procedure, even though the doctor revived him with cold snow down his neck before stitching. A Callahan never shows fear or pain. All of the Callahan boys were taught this by their father from the time they were old enough to walk, just as his father taught him and his brothers when they were children. It is a greater sin against the Callahan family name to cry or to accept painkillers for a non-lethal condition than it is to be imprisoned for murder or to be caught committing drunken, lewd acts in uniform.

Major Callahan helps the Colonel back to camp while Kian and Conan stay behind, since Kian wants to congratulate Conan on his victory, as it is something that he, personally, has never done or been able to come close to doing. Kian knows that he must congratulate Conan in private or risk being seen as a dissident himself. Doctor Sparrow warns Conan that because of the Callahan family tradition for fighting to the end of the battle and for stoicism and continuance of the battle, despite personal injury or exhaustion, if the fight had lasted much longer, Owen’s heart would have given out, and, instead of having cut his leg, a wound which can easily be stitched, even if it was somewhat deeper than originally intended, he would have killed his older brother from overexertion in a duel that was intended to end with first blood rather than death. Conan promises never to fight so hard with his brother again, and Doctor Sparrow promises to force Colonel Callahan to acknowledge the fact that he is not anywhere near as physically fit as his men are or as he thinks that he is. Kian, who has a newfound respect for his little brother, both because he was able to defeat a man much heavier and stronger than himself with only one eye to rely upon and because he was swift enough to save that man’s life after causing him a grievous injury, promises to buy Conan a drink in town the next time they get the chance to leave camp.

Word travels quickly in the Thirteenth Bridgeton, and men from neighboring units are next to learn of Colonel Callahan’s failed attempt to overcome his younger brother’s agility. Unsurprisingly, Colonel Donald Hagan of the Fifty-First South-Side Bridgeton Heavy Infantry, is the first to arrive with mockery and contempt for Colonel Callahan. He has a well-known animosity for the General’s son, and he has been secretly mocking him to other colonels for several years. He means no ill by it, but he has a certain disdain for the fact that some men are promoted based on their surname rather than their abilities. He knows that he barely managed to become a colonel himself and that his own grasp on control of his unit is tenuous at best, but he has lost all faith in Colonel Callahan’s leadership abilities in recent months, given that his unit is forced to accept the men left from the Thirteenth Bridgeton Light Infantry into his unit during combat. He thoroughly believes that Colonel Callahan has destroyed the unit and his father’s legacy and that it is time to disband the unit and reassign the men for everyone’s good before a complete self-destruction occurs. The generals refuse to do so, since many of them served in it at some point in time, but with so few men remaining, they are no longer viable as a distinct unit in combat. He does not dare to share his opinions with Colonel Callahan, who is in bed clutching his wounded leg, closing his eyes and grimacing against the pain of his injuries, unbeknownst to the rest of his unit and to his brothers. Even Colonel Hagan extends his condolences after a few well-placed jibes.

Major Fitzmaurice, regarded by many as the natural choice for the unit’s new colonel, is in the spare tent in the woods cavorting with Emily Barrett. He willingly admits that he is not ready to be a colonel himself, preferring the carefree life of a senior officer, with plenty of money and also time to spend with his fiancée. Anyone who might need to reach him has been warned of his intentions, and he is not expecting company. It is early in the morning, and he woke with Emily Barrett on top of him. He has her on her back when the unlucky messenger arrives. A private from the Thirteenth Bridgeton Light Infantry was sent to inform him of the Colonel’s injuries and to tell him that he must return to camp. The message is not received well at all. The Private steps into the tent, salutes, and begins to speak. Major Fitzmaurice reaches under the pillow without dismounting Lieutenant Barrett or finding his glasses and fires two warning shots into the Private’s left kneecap without looking. He then orders him to hop back to camp and inform everyone that he is not to be bothered again for anything that is not life-threatening.

In camp, Doctor Sparrow has returned to the warmth and quiet of his own bed. He really dislikes being woken to deal with easily preventable injuries that occur for reasons that are, in his personal opinion, extremely foolish. As soon as he returns to sleep, believing that, since the Colonel is in bed and in great pain from his stitches, the unit will not be doing battle and therefore will not need his services for the remainder of the day, he wakes to screaming and moaning at the edge of camp. He rolls over and hopes that it is merely a raid and that he will have a few hours before he must repair injuries and tally the dead, but he has no such luck. Shortly, the ill-fated Private who made the grievous error of interrupting Major Fitzmaurice’s private time with Lieutenant Barrett, crawls into Doctor Sparrow’s tent, unable to convince the watch to aid him in walking or to carry him, screaming in pain. Doctor Sparrow, glares in the direction of his tent flap and sees the poor young private bleeding all over the grass outside.

As a Doctor, he cannot refuse to heal the young man’s injuries, but he is curious as to how they occurred. He helps him to the surgical tent and inspects the wound carefully, though with tired eyes. He is somewhat afraid to ask what happened, rightly fearing that it will cause a conflict of interest within him between his friend and his profession. He cannot tell the Colonel what he is told, as a doctor’s confidence is as private as a priest’s, but he knows without asking who shot the Private. He knows from the direction from whence he came, and he is certain that the bullets are handmade, not army issue, and are not enemy bullets either. Major Fitzmaurice strikes his own revolver, pistol, and rifle bullets, and he always stamps a personal insignia into them, a symbol by which he can always recognize his own kills, as can the enemy. Only a small group of the best marksmen have their own symbols stamped into their bullets, with perhaps fifty or a hundred men in the entirety of all five Vampiric armies having a specific symbol registered to their name. With two bullets still lodged in the Private’s kneecap, Doctor Sparrow can clearly see the ends of the them, the insignia included. Doctor Sparrow knows something of Major Fitzmaurice’s accuracy, and he knows that, though this injury was intended merely to cause pain and not to kill, there is no guarantee that he will be able to save the young man’s leg or that the poor private will ever be able to walk again.

“How the fuck d’ye do that?” asks Doctor Sparrow.

“Wasn’t self-inflicted, sor,” replies the Private, grimacing against the pain as Doctor Sparrow pokes and prods the wound and cleanses it with alcohol, trying his best to wipe away the blood and dirt so that he can see what he is doing.

“An’ where’d ye learn words that long, Private?”

“Me father killed hisself, sor.”

“So ye’re the son o’ a coward, are ye?”

“’Fraid so, sor.”

“But ye ne’er told me…how d’ye do it?”

“’Twas Major Fitzmaurice, sor,” replies the Private, completely unaware that Doctor Sparrow is good friends with Major Fitzmaurice.

“I know. Those are his bullets,” says Doctor Sparrow nonchalantly.

“How can ye tell, sor?”

“He makes his own. He’s a friend o’ mine. I’ve seen him do it an hundred times. That’s his symbol on the ends there. See the compass? He puts that on the bottom of every bullet he makes. The two in your knee are no exception. How’d ye get him mad enough to shoot ye in the knee?”

“I…well…I…”

“Spit it out, boy.”

“I interrupted his…well…he was…y’see…he was…”

“I don’t have all day, boy.”

“Perhaps someone should tell him not to shoot the messenger!” exclaims the Private.

“D’ye interrupt him?”

“Aye.”

“Was he in the middle o’ somethin’?”

“Aye.”

“Somethin’ o’ a rather private nature?”

“Aye.”

“Wi’ Lieutenant Barrett?”

“Aye.”

“Then ye deserved it.”

“Sor, will he-” begins the Private.

“Forgive ye?” finishes Doctor Sparrow. “No. Not a chance.”

“Even if I-”

“Apologize? No. He won’t forgive ye.”

“Feck.”

“I wouldn’t neither if I was him. Ye know better’n to go in there when the flap’s shut an’ the lantern’s lit.”

“Aye, sor.”

“Dammit, I’m a doctor, not an officer! D’ye see a uniform?”

“No, sor.”

“I’m a civilian, so stop callin’ me ‘sor’ for feck’s sake!” exclaims Doctor Sparrow.

“Straight away, sor,” replies the Private automatically.

“For feck’s sake!”

“Will ye fix it or not?”

“Aye. Give me half a mo’, boy! ‘Tisn’t the easiest thing to put a knee back together, an’ I still ain’t had my tea.”

“Will I still be able to walk, sor?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can ye make me able to walk or are ye sayin’ ye might not anyhow ‘cos the Major’s a friend o’ yours?” asks the Private, afraid of what the answer might be.

“I’m sayin’ I don’t know if I can or not,” replies Doctor Sparrow, irritated at the suggestion that he might not heal someone because of how the wound was incurred. “I don’t know if ye’ll heal or not. Ye’ve a shattered kneecap what got dragged half a mile through the woods. I can take out the bullets easy, but the infection could kill ye, an’ I don’t know if the bone’ll heal. That’s up to your own body. There’s on’y so much a doctor can do…especially ‘afore he’s had his tea.”

“Are ye alright, sor?”

“I’m still not ‘sor,’ an’ I’m fine…jus’ tired, I swear. Conan woke me up to go fix the Colonel’s leg, an’ ye showed up jus’ after I got back to sleep.”

“I thought we was all supposed to be up at dawn.”

“This ain’t the Fifty-First South-Side Bridgeton Heavy Infantry. An’ our Colonel ain’t Donald Hagan. An’ I’m a civilian anyhow, as I’ve told ye ’afore. I hate to break it to ye, but everythin’ they taught ye in boot camp is fuckin’ wrong. Ye listen to the Major…after he’s done tryin’ to kill ye…an’ ye jus’ might stay alive more’n a week in this unit.”

“The Colonel, sor…is he…?” asks the Private.

“Dead? No. Dyin’? No,” replies Doctor Sparrow. “Conan cut an artery in his leg. The Colonel lost a lot o’ blood. He’s in pain. He’s exhausted. But no, he’s not dyin’. He’ll be jus’ fine after he spends a couple days in bed. Whether he’ll do that or not’s a different matter entirely.”

“Sor?”

“The Colonel is…he’s not stupid, not by a long shot. He’s jus’…impatient…well…I shouldn’t say that. He’s jus’ a Callahan. They’re all a bit like that.”

“Like what, sor?”

“They don’ quite know how to stop, even when ‘tis what’s best for ‘em. They’re…for better or for worse, they’re Callahans. Conan can explain ‘em to ye. He’s one o’ ‘em, but he’s not as bad as his brothers are when it comes to knowin’ the difference ‘twixt courage an’ stupidity.”

“The Sergeant?”

“Aye.”

“Is it true he’s blind in one eye?” asks the Private, curious about rumors that he has heard.

“’Tis, an’ he can still beat the Colonel at a duel to firs’ blood,” replies Doctor Sparrow, somewhat proudly. “Usually, they use skirmish swords, an’ the Colonel sleeps in most days when Kian’ an’ Conan an’ Brendan are out there at dawn. That’s why they’re so good at what they do.”

“Sor?”

“Firs’ names, boy. Kian’s a Lieutenant an’ Brendan’s a Major. They’re the Colonel’s brothers.”

“Oh…an’ we can use firs’ names?” asks the Private, trying to fathom the unit’s practices, as opposed to those he was taught in boot camp.

Doctor Sparrow replies, “Ye can’t. I can. I know ‘em, an’ I’m a civilian, remember. Can ye feel your leg?”

“No, sor. What’d ye give me?”

“Cocaine. Local anesthetic. Jus’ don’t start injectin’ the stuff yourself. ‘Tain’t cheap, but ‘twill put your leg out a while. I’d rather ye be awake rather’n give ye opium an’ put ye to sleep.”

“Why?”

“’Cos I’m nearly out o’ opium, an’ I have to take ‘em out, stitch ye up, an’ put ye in a cast. I’d rather not have to do the last bit wi’ ye unconscious.”

“Why not, sor?”

“’Cos by the time I get to it, ye’ll be able to feel what I’m doin’, aye? I’d rather ye not wake while I’m doin’ it , an’ move, an’ make me fuck it up, an’ have your leg be set wrong, an’ have to use up more plaster, since I’m short on plaster as well.”

“Sor…”

“Don’t move. He got it in there right good,” says Doctor Sparrow, selecting a pair of tweezers to remove the first of the two bullets. “I suggest ye don’t look neither. Ye won’t like what ye see. Jus’ look up at the top o’ the tent there for me.”

“What’s that ye have up there?” asks the Private.

“A nesting doll.”

“What’s that?”

“There’re little ones inside the big ones.”

“Me little girl’d love that.”

“How old’re ye?”

“Sixteen, sor.”

“An’ ye’re a father?”

“O’ sorts,” explains the Private. “She’s me brother’s little girl, but he died an’ so did his wife. I was her godfather. She’s been me little girl since I was fourteen.”

“She wi’ your ma’, then?”

“No. She’s dead. I’m all that little girl’s got left in this cruel world. Me an’ me wife.”

“Ye’re married?”

“Aye. Married wi’ a four year old girl, an’ I’m on’y sixteen meself.”

“Jaysus!” exclaims Doctor Sparrow.

“So, where’d ye get that doll, an’ why’s it there?”

“I got it when I was on me way back here last fall. I thought I’d lost it when we moved the camp, but some o’ the boys saved it for me. Billy…er…the Major, that is, Major Fitzmaurice, he brought it back for me from Stankirk. He was stationed wi’ the Northern Army there for a while. I met him there on our way back an’ he gave it to me. ‘Twas supposed to be a year, but the Captain he traded wi’ died, an’ one o’ the majors left, an’ so he came back an’ got promoted to major. Ye can get ‘em in town here too, but here they’re made by, well, I shouldn’t really tell ye this, but there’s illegal trade o’er the border, see…an’ the enemy makes ‘em. In Stankirk, it’s mostly the Polish and Russian farmers in the winter months. They make ‘em, an’ their wives paint ‘em. ‘Tis sommat to do an’ sommat they can sell. Ye’ll have to go back to Bridgeton to heal, so I’ll find ye one for your girl ‘afore ye go back.”

“So why’s it up there?”

“So I can do surgery on patients while they’re awake. Gives ‘em somethin’ to look at, somethin’ to talk ‘bout. Keeps their mind off o’ things an’ lets me do me job. Simple as that. By the way, I’m almost done. Jus’ got to make the cast.”

“Ye’re right quick, Doctor,” says the Private.

“I’ve taken out lots o’ bullets in me time, an’ yours was right there near the surface,” says Doctor Sparrow, turning to fetch the plaster gauze.

“Can I keep ‘em?”

“What for?”

“A souvenir.”

“I don’t see why not. Jus’ ye mind the Major’s temper next time.”

“Aye, sor.”

“An’ try to remember that I ain’t ‘sor’ to ye. I’ll state the case to the Major for ye. Jus’ don’t be so stupid again.”

“Will do.”

“Good lad. There ye are. Ye jus’ sit there an’ rest a while ‘afore ye try an’ go back to your bunk.”

“That Conan Callahan’s got a pair o’ balls on him, hasn’t he?” asks the Private. “Or is it that the Colonel jus’ lets his brothers do as they please?”

“Conan is…somethin’ else entirely,” replies Doctor Sparrow. “The Colonel’s a gentleman…an’ I use that in the loosest possible sense o’ the term, but he’s more or less required to follow gentlemen’s rules o’ conduct. He’s not the kind o’ man ye’d want to mess wi’, but he’ll take a challenge from anyone o’er his honor, whether ‘tis at cards, or at drinkin’, or at swords. The fact it was Conan an’ not a commissioned officer is unusual, but ye’ve got to remember, even if he weren’t the Colonel’s brother, he’d still be the General’s son. He’s earned the rank he’s got. He traded his eye for it. ‘Twas his plan what liberated Crosspoint. Mark me words, he’s a good one to know. Call for the watch to help ye to your tent when ye’re ready to make your way back to your bunk, Private. I’ll have ‘em on alert. Ye’ve been through enough. I’ll try an’ smooth things o’er wi’ the Major for ye. He’s reasonable enough if ye don’ shock him.”

“Thankee, Doctor.”

“To fix ye up…that’s me duty.”