Categories > Original > Fantasy > Nevermore: The Heart Rests Inward

A Trophy for Doctor Sparrow (He Could Have Saved Him)

by KerriganSheehan

The Thirteenth Bridgeton is starving, and things go from bad to worse when a seemingly simple assignment turns deadly. Can the unit survive without Colonel Callahan?

Category: Fantasy - Rating: NC-17 - Genres: Fantasy - Warnings: [V] - Published: 2011-10-05 - Updated: 2011-10-05 - 11044 words
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Due to the fact that there is no food remaining in the camp of the Thirteenth Bridgeton Light Infantry, there is no breakfast for the men. There is little food to be had in other units and certainly no surplus that could be lent or donated. The proud men of Bridgeton would rather starve to death than ask for help, so it is unlikely that they would accept help even if it were offered. Their pride is their downfall, yet one man remains humble. Lieutenant O’Dunphy, the clerical collar of the black shirt he wears in place of the white shirts of the rest of the men standing up beneath the green coat of his threadbare uniform, humbly kneels before his small altar, made from empty crates and spare canvas with a cross made from two sticks nailed together. He has neither oil nor candles, and he has nothing to offer as a sacrifice but himself. He will not allow his altar to be burned for fuel, since it is all that he has, save for his Bible, and, though he is not the fiercest soldier, the men would not dare to cross him for fear of God’s wrath. He kneels at his altar outside of his tent, removes his cap, and bows his head. It is here that he says his rosary, his knees aching and swollen from kneeling on frozen ground many long hours of the day and night, praying for manna from Heaven, forgiveness from sin, healing for the ill and the wounded, and deliverance for his flock.

Nearby, Major Fitzmaurice builds a small fire so that he and General Callahan may melt the lead to make their bullets. General Callahan steps away from the warmth of the small fire and kneels next to Lieutenant O’Dunphy, whose small clearing in the snow is only large enough for one man, burying himself chest-deep in snow in order to humble himself. He joins Lieutenant O’Dunphy in prayer, though he does not remember all of the words, despite having been taught them in childhood. His sons follow suit, followed by most of the rest of the unit. Even Jack and Liam, unholy bastard children who were never baptized, condemned for being unfit to serve the Lord because of the sins of their parents, kneel and bow their heads out of respect, though they do not pray. Major Fitzmaurice and Doctor Sparrow respectfully stand and bow their heads. Though they were both baptized, neither of them has been to church since they were both small children, excepting weddings, funerals, and the occasional Christmas service. Every faithful man in the unit prays, though many of them have not been to mass or said the rosary in many years. Major Fitzmaurice turns to tend his fire, which has extinguished itself, despite all of the prayers of his comrades. He gathers more sticks and rebuilds his fire so that he will have enough bullets to last him an entire day in battle. He has always preferred to make his own bullets, rather than to trust bullet factories. The smallest defect in a bullet, whether it is an air pocket left by faulty pouring or an incorrectly measured amount of powder in the packaged charges the soldiers are given, can have catastrophic results. The copper tips are made in a factory, and they are seldom a problem, but lead is the heart of a bullet, and he prefers to put his own heart into making them.

General Callahan sits next to Major Fitzmaurice quietly, trying to warm his hands a little and waiting impatiently for the fire to be hot enough and large enough to melt lead. Most men use bullets made in factories in the cities, but a select few prefer to cast their own. Factory-made bullets are made by the case, and attention is seldom paid to quality. Sometimes they are too large and destroy the guns. Other times, the shape is imperfect, and they do not aim correctly. All of the marksmen with their own personal insignia cast their own bullets. They stamp their insignia to into the sides of the copper casings, and sometimes it survives the impact. It survives often enough to intimidate the enemy, and that is its purpose. The stamps themselves are akin to sacred property to their owners because of the difficulty involved in attaining one. The Marksmen’s Association only commissions a single copy of any given design. Once it is assigned, the design is retired. A Marksman is a Marksman for life, and his insignia follows him to the grave. Most marksmen are buried with their guns. Once a design is registered with the Marksmen’s Association, its registered bearer carries his stamp with him into battle and has the mark engraved into his weaponry. If he is captured or killed and properly searched, it will be found and kept by the enemy as a trophy, just as the insignia of a destroyed unit would be kept as a trophy if that unit were to perish or surrender in battle. Every colonel desperately wants to capture marksmen’s stamps and unit insignia for his personal collection. No enemy colonel has access to the list of registered marksmen, for the Marksmen’s Association is even more secure than the army itself. There are only a small number of men among its ranks, all sworn to secrecy about the identity of their fellow members, though most know the names of only a few others. None of the enemies knows if the man at whom he is firing is a marksman or if he is not. The marksmen, though feared, are few in number, which is what makes their sigil stamps and their stamped guns so coveted by enemy colonels.

Major Fitzmaurice lends General Callahan his spare bullet mold and a small cast iron pot with a groove in the side to make pouring easier, and they set to work melting lead. Most men use bullets made in factories in the cities, but a few prefer to cast their own. The factory-made bullets are often imperfect. They are made by the case, and seldom is attention paid to quality. Sometimes, they are too large, and they destroy the guns. Other times, the shape is imperfect, and they do not aim correctly. All of the marksmen with insignia pour some, if not all, of their own bullets. They stamp their insignia into the jacket, and sometimes it survives intact. It survives often enough to intimidate the enemy, but the stamps are akin to sacred property. The Marksman’s Association only commissions a single copy of any given design, and its registered bearer carries it with him into battle. If he is captured or killed and properly searched, it will be found and kept by the enemy as a trophy, just as the insignia of a destroyed unit would be kept as a trophy if that unit were to perish or surrender in battle. Every colonel desperately wants marksmen’s stamps and insignia for his personal collection, just as he wants unit insignia for his personal collection.

Major Fitzmaurice lends General Callahan his spare bullet mould, and they set to work melting lead and casting bullets in silence. Jack brought neither his pistol nor his rifle to the tavern because he is very trusting of Liam, so he only has a sword with which to fight. It suits him, unlike General Callahan, who, though he is skilled with most of the weapons the army uses, is determined to show Major Fitzmaurice that he is also a skilled and respectable marksman. He does not know why he seeks the approval of someone so far below him in rank, but something about Major Fitzmaurice concerns General Callahan, though he is not entirely sure what it is. He knows that he would much rather have Major Fitzmaurice as an ally in the future than ever have to fight against him. Doctor Sparrow borrows one of Major Fitzmaurice’s spare uniforms, removes any trace of insignia, and takes Major Fitzmaurice’s spare rifle from its case. He is afraid to make bullets because he is still needed as a surgeon and, thus, cannot afford to burn his hands. The unit would suffer heavy casualties if he were to suffer a severe burn to the hand from the hot lead and have to remain out of commission for any length of time in order to heal because they have no other doctor. When Major Fitzmaurice sees him, he knows that he must make more bullets. Conan, who learned to make bullets by carefully observing Major Fitzmaurice’s habits, soon joins them. He desperately wants to become initiated into the Marksman’s Association, but no enlisted man has ever done son. It is an association of officers, and, unlike Major Fitzmaurice, most of them would not appreciate an enlisted man among their number, regardless of his skill.

The men have a simple, though bloody, assignment for the day. They are to run to an area known as Highland Point, colloquially known simply as The Point, plant the flag upon it, capture the surrounding area, and kill any enemies nearby. The area is heavily forested, with only a footpath scarcely wide enough for a man to pass through it in certain areas and dense evergreen and deciduous trees with many vines hanging from their branches and sharp rocks jutting out of the swamp in which they grow to either side, so they cannot bring horses. It is a true light infantry assignment because larger weapons and more heavily-armed and organized men could not pass along the narrow trail, and the steep and muddy terrain does not allow for any type of artillery, save concealed archers and riflemen, who comprise specialized light artillery units. The same job can be done far more easily by a few light infantry riflemen, who then leave it to be guarded by the artillery units. It is an assignment that the Thirteenth Bridgeton Light Infantry has been eager to attain for several weeks, as they have been wasting away providing bodies to aid other units and waiting in camp for any task to be assigned to them, having none of their usual cohesion and mutual loyalty to depend upon. Highland Point is the single most disputed piece of land because of its high elevation and tactical advantage for getting behind enemy lines, and it has been in enemy territory since long before Crosspoint was taken, having been the first significant piece of land to be captured. The Thirteenth Bridgeton Light Infantry has taken it seven times already, and many other units on both sides have tried and failed to capture and retain it. The Thirteenth Bridgeton can attack it with the few men that are left because it is actually easier to do with fewer men due to the danger of separation on the rough, unforgiving terrain along the narrow footpath.

Colonel Callahan has never ran the point himself. He has always left a major to lead the charge and a lieutenant to carry the flag. Colonel Callahan is ashamed to admit that he does not know how to get there, despite the fact that he knows the coordinates and the number of times his unit has captured it. He tells Major Moynihan to prepare to lead the charge, leaving Major Fitzmaurice free to lead Doctor Sparrow, Conan, and General Callahan ahead of the party to clear the woods as best as possible of enemy bowmen and to find defensive and defensible positions near the Point before returning to camp to guard the men on their journey. When asked by Major Moynihan which lieutenant ought to bear the flag, Colonel Callahan replies that he wishes to do it personally, remembering his father’s advice and forgetting Doctor Sparrow’s warnings.

Kian remembers the previous morning’s catastrophe and insists upon giving his eldest brother a bit of blood to close the wound on his leg before they make the run. Colonel Callahan thanks his younger brother and prepares himself for the task ahead. The flag, which is on a metal pole with a large ball atop it, is not particularly heavy, but it is conspicuous in the forest, as are his medals, name badge, and the insignia marking him as a colonel. The standard-bearer is also reliant upon the others to protect him, as he is unable to bear a weapon with which to defend himself while also bearing the flagpole. The standard-bearer must carry the national flag mounted atop the pole and a small banner with the unit’s heraldry below it. Though the entire army guards the area, the unit’s heraldry is there as a challenge to the enemy. If the enemy can locate and destroy or force a surrender of the unit that planted a flag, they get the territory as well as the prisoners, if any survivors remain, and the unit’s heraldry as a trophy. In the camp of the Thirteenth Bridgeton Light Infantry hang the banners of more than twenty enemy units. There is also a collection of nearly thirty Werewolvish Marksmen’s stamps and fifty Werewolvish Colonels’ hats. A Colonel’s distinctive hat is a trophy for the man that killed him if he can get it for himself or if it is recovered for him. The Werewolvish Marksmen’s Association is entirely separate from its Vampiric equivalent, and one must prove royal lineage or marriage to an immediate family member of the King as well as be a military officer and an impeccable marksman to join.

The stamps and banners belong to the unit, but the hats belong to the men. At the end of the war, many of the hats will return home with the men to be hung on a wall or placed on a shelf as trophies. A few will be left to the unit, either because the man to whom it would rightfully belong is deceased with no family, is deceased and the family bequeaths it to the unit, or the man is alive and wishes for it to hang in the unit’s office in Bridgeton instead of in his home, which is typically an act that signifies a man who does not intend to return to soldiering, was dishonorably discharged, or wishes to forget his past. Some of the hats will inevitably be given to the widows, parents, siblings, or children of men who died in the war after having killed an enemy colonel. Some will also be given to the sweethearts of the men as a courtship gift or to their children as a type of glory to which they ought to aspire. However, until peace is declared, the hats remain with the unit and do not leave if a man leaves the army. These are different from the caps that Colonel Callahan has bartered for and won. Those are dress caps used for all official duties outside of combat. The combat caps are large, conspicuous black bicorns with an eagle pin and red feathers. Major Fitzmaurice is the rightful owner of seventeen of them. Conan has nine, and Liam has five.

When the scouts return, they are given no rest. Immediately, they are joined by the remainder of the unit and led back into the forest by Major Moynihan. Colonel Callahan instructed him to set a fast pace, so they race through the woods with no resistance. Near Highland Point itself, they are met by enemy soldiers. They have the high ground, which is very rocky with some tree trunks and large boulders to use for cover, while the enemy has the low ground, which is swampy and barely frozen and has large, moss-covered rocks and tree roots sticking out of it at peculiar angles. Major Fitzmaurice, Doctor Sparrow, General Callahan, and Conan all fall into defensive positions. Doctor Sparrow’s hands begin to shake. For all his steadiness in even the most strenuous and delicate of surgeries, he has never been in a battle before. His knuckles are white as he holds his borrowed rifle to his body, wishing it would miraculously transform into a surgical kit. He sees a flash of red between the trees and fires at it. It falls heavily. Conan slips silently from tree to tree in order to investigate it and returns with an enemy colonel’s combat hat, a trophy for Doctor Sparrow. The enemy retreat without their colonel, and Owen is free to plant his flag.

While he does so to the raucous cheers of his men, who are desperate for any occasion or achievement to celebrate in their current predicament, he is shot several times by unseen enemy assassins. Doctor Sparrow and General, Lieutenant, and Corporal Callahan instinctively move to help him, but Major Fitzmaurice reminds them that they cannot afford any casualties for heroics performed on the behalf of a dead man, nor can they afford to carry his body back to camp, for it would mean leaving some of the supplies behind, and they have little as it is. They can merely hope that friendly units can reach him before the enemy does so that his body can be recovered to be sent home to Bridgeton for a proper military funeral. The assassins are located and killed, and the Thirteenth Bridgeton retreats back to camp without its colonel. Major Callahan takes his brother’s hat, rank insignia, medals, and name badge so that they cannot be scavenged and kept as a prize but leaves a quickly-scrawled note in his brother’s pocket listing the unit to which he belongs along with a false name and rank, lest it should fall into enemy hands. The body of one John Lyman, corporal, is abandoned in the woods, stripped bare of all identification as that of Colonel Owen Callahan, son of General Keegan Callahan.

Major Callahan, the only Callahan not to attempt to race to Owen's aid, then crosses himself and whispers, “A Thiarna, déan trócaire,” over his brother’s body before he turns to leave.

When the soldiers reach their camp after trudging through the woods, a solemn ritual begins to take place. A few officers take a collection and take a cart to town. They may only legally buy supplies which cannot be requisitioned and enough for a maximum of one feast per month. Nobody wants food on the night of a wake, though, regardless of how hungry they are, lest they accidentally ingest the spirit of their fallen comrade or fail to find themselves extremely intoxicated from the celebration. There is little food to be had in town, either, as the harvest was poor and it is still the dead of winter, with scarcely anything available to scavenge. General Callahan is exhausted and cold, but he cannot rest, even as men who, due to malnutrition, have been unable to muster the energy to chop firewood for weeks somehow do so now in order to build a proper pyre, even with no body to burn, every man giving their last for their beloved colonel. The responsibility of selecting the next colonel for the Thirteenth Bridgeton Light Infantry falls on General Callahan’s shoulders, should the unit stay intact once the funeral is over, but everyone suspects that it will now be dissolved. None of the Callahans shed a tear at the passing of a beloved son and brother. Owen leaves behind a wife and son as well as his parents and brothers. Brendan Callahan, suddenly the General’s eldest son, walks into Owen’s tent and puts a red feather in the band of his dress tricorn indicating his death in battle. He lacks the authority to sign the death papers or award him the posthumous medal for service to his country unto death, but their father will do so in a few days’ time, once he figures out how to tell his wife that their firstborn child predeceased them.

A great bonfire is built, and liquor flows freely. Doctor Sparrow silently hangs his captured hat among the others, though he, as a civilian, has no obligation to do so, sure that it is the last that the unit will ever capture. He knows that if he had his medical bag with him in the forest and had been able to reach Colonel Callahan, he could have saved him. Major Fitzmaurice sits by Doctor Sparrow’s side, guilty that he prevented General Callahan from comforting his son as he lay dying, even though what he did in preventing it was tactically sound and responsible. He was forced to choose between allowing a father to grieve and saving a general's life. He has always had a certain amount of resentment for Colonel Callahan’s easy rise to command and a certain animosity towards him when he was both stubborn and wrong, but Major Fitzmaurice never hated him. The most he could manage was a mild dislike for the amicable colonel, yet he was cold enough to deny him the comfort of having his family by his side in his final terrifying moments. They return to Doctor Sparrow’s tent where Major Fitzmaurice dons one of Doctor Sparrow’s suits, identical to that which the Doctor himself is wearing, making them distinguishable only by their eyes.

General Callahan, in an uncharacteristically somber, yet uniquely stoic mood, odd, though understandable given the circumstances, walks into Doctor Sparrow’s tent, clutches his head thinking that he is seeing double from consuming too much drink and asks, “Doctor Sparrow, where’s Major Fitzmaurice?”

“I am he,” replies Major Fitzmaurice.

“I’ve ne’er seen ye out o’ uniform, Major. I came to offer ye a promotion to Colonel as soon as Owen’s funeral’s o’er. ‘Twas twixt yourself an’ Moynihan, an’, quite frankly, I believe we need more colonels with your logic an’ guts.”

“I’m afraid, sor, that I can’t accept it. I’ve no colonel to bear witness, but I intend to resign my commission as of July tenth. I’ll no longer be Major Fitzmaurice but simply Mister Fitzmaurice. Given the fact that this event is less than a year away, I am ineligible to receive any promotion which would put me in a significant position to command, lest it affect troop morale or operational security.”

“Why?”

“I have me reasons, an’ I’d rather not discuss them.”

“Very well. Then me Owen shall be the last colonel o’ the Thirteenth Street Brigade. I had hoped we could save it, but without yourself, we can’t. There’s not another officer here capable o’ sortin’ this mess back into a unit.”

“I’m sorry, sor. I know how much this unit meant to ye…to everyone’s e’er served in it. Believe me when I say it means as much to me.”

“The only other man who could save it is but a mere sergeant, an’ he’s nowhere near ready for command nor respected enough to take it. Ye are - were - the on’y major what had a chance.”

“I’m sorry, General. I’m a civilian come July. There’s naught I could do.”

“Ye could’ve stayed.” General Callahan steps out, leaving William Fitzmaurice alone with his memories.

Conan approaches his father with his own doubts and says, “’Tis all me fault, da’. If I’d not’ve challenged him, he’d not’ve hurt his pride, an’ he’d ne’er’ve run the Point, an’ he’d be alive an’ laughin’ wi’ us in some tavern tonight.”

“Son, your brother chose to do as he did. If anythin’, I’m to blame for tellin’ him he ought to try it. If I’d kept me mouth shut, he’d’ve heeded the Doctor’s advice to remain abed a few days more. If ye’d not challenged him, ye’d’ve all starved to death within a fortnight. I’m buryin’ one son ‘stead o’ four. He would’ve died either way, but at least he died in glory ‘stead o’ shame. An’ ye’ll be the last son I let join the Army. Devon won’t like it, for all he’s ever wanted was a soldier’s life, but he’ll stay home an’ do as he’s told. Brendan’ll come home wi’ me. I’m to resign in a few days’ time. Kian’s agreed to stay on ‘til ye turn twenty-one an’ your five years is up. I don’t want ye out here alone. Then I want ye both home. Ye’ll be headed to much safer duties ‘til ye can come home. One son’s enough to lose.”

“An’ the Thirteenth?”

“As soon as Father O’Dunphy’s done sayin’ Owen’s last rites in his absence, I’ve ordered Brendan to fetch the banner. Into the fire it goes. This unit can’t be saved.”

“But what about Major Fitzm-”

“He resigned his commission, son. He’ll stay attached to whatever unit we can find for him ‘til Founders’ Day. Then he’s gone.”

“Why?”

“He had his reasons, an’ he didn’t share ‘em wi’ me.”

When Father O’Dunphy finishes Owen’s last rites, the entire camp falls silent. Special logs are placed upon the fire so that it burns red. This is a signal to nearby units. They are given half an hour to send as many men as wish to attend the ceremony and to lower their flags as a gesture of respect. Colonels are woken, and horns are sounded. A few men from some of the other Bridgeton units arrive in their full dress uniforms. Colonel Hagan arrives wearing an auxiliary form of the Southern Army Officer’s Full Dress Uniform with a green tartan rather than green trousers.

“Where’s Owen Callahan? I thought he’d be at his own unit’s funeral.” asks Colonel Hagan, who had no idea that the unit was in distress.

“He’s dead an’ gone, killed in battle this day, an’ more’s the pity,” replies Captain Morrison.

“So who’s in charge? Fitzmaurice?”

“Moynihan, I think. Fitzmaurice resigned his commission, sor. Brendan Callahan an’ the General are goin’ home soon’s this is o’er an’ Fitzmaurice on Founders’ Day. We’re under the General’s orders to burn our banner so’s it can’t be captured. The Thirteenth Street South-Side Bridgeton Light Infantry Brigade is no more come midnight. We’ll be here a few more days ‘til we get our new assignments. Then we go our separate ways, ne’er to meet nor ride to battle together again. I can’t believe it, but even Brendan Callahan’s set to resign. General asked Kian to stay in the same unit as Conan ‘til Conan’s time’s up. After that, no more sons o’ Keegan Callahan’ll serve.”

“Jaysus, Mary, an’ Joseph!” exclaims Colonel Hagan. “I shouldnae hae e’er joked wi’ Callahan. I said his pride would kill him, an’ now he’s dead. I feel so guilty!”

“We all do, sor, but guilt won’t bring him back.”

Jack sits with Liam in the darkened mess tent. In a few minutes, Brendan Callahan will enter to remove the banner from its place of honor, but Jack intends to be gone before then. He could overrule General Callahan’s decision, but he agrees with the General’s assessment. For Liam, the dissolution of his unit is a horrifying prospect. He has no desire to leave it, and he cannot yet retire his commission, for he is not nearly as close to his minimum five-year obligation as Major Fitzmaurice is, having been in the army just over two years. Jack has a specific unit in mind for Liam, though Liam is bound to dislike his new assignment on principle as soon as he hears it. Jack is certain that Liam will learn to like his new assignment once he arrives.

“Ye’re goin’ back to Highton, boy. Ye’ll spend some time wi’ your wife. Shane says your horse is ready to ride. As soon as a place for a captain or major opens, ye’re goin’ to the Forty-Third North Side Bridgeton Light Cavalry out o’ District Twenty.”

“The Cavalry?” asks Liam unimpressed.

“Aye, the Cavalry.”

“I like light infantry.”

“Same weapons but e’en faster an’ wi’ horses.”

“Couldn’t I stay with Kian an’ Conan, or Major Fitzmaurice, or Major Moynihan, or Lieutenant Hackett? Anyone?”

“If someone volunteers to transfer to light cavalry, I’ll send him wi’ yourself.”

“Please, da’, I beg ye, keep me in a light infantry. Most everyone I know’s light infantry.”

“Aye, but not quite everyone. I’m sendin’ ye to be wi’ your brother-in-law Michael Jameson. He’s a light cavalry major, an’ he’ll show ye the ropes. I’d rather ye be wi’ family than not, an’ ye can’t deny that the Forty-Third has a better class o’ men entirely an’ a competent, if somewhat unorthodox, doctor.”

“Aye, sor.”

“Now, your unit’ll on’y have that banner another five minutes or so. Go out an’ respect that. I’ll be along in a minute.”

Jack turns to the familiar banner and reminisces about how Rose-Marie Sheedy sewed it instead of a sampler when she came of age and presented it and a duplicate to Jack, then the commanding officer, and Keegan, then the executive officer, of what was called, at the time, the Thirteenth Street Brigade. The very same banner hangs before him about to be destroyed on its funeral pyre. Jack silently, privately salutes it. He feels that he owes as much service, duty, and respect toward it as do any of the men currently serving under it, as he was among the first to fly it into battle. Jack then sneaks out of the mess tent and through a gathering of men and into Doctor Sparrow’s surgery. Doctor Sparrow is free to leave Crosspoint as soon as the Thirteenth Bridgeton Light Infantry is formally disbanded because his contract is with the unit, not with the army as a whole. He intends to remain in Crosspoint and temporarily serve the wounded soldiers and the local citizens from a hotel room until his best friend is married, at which point Lieutenant Barrett will be automatically discharged, as married women and single mothers are forbidden in the army. He will escort Lieutenant Barrett back to Bridgeton and return to his wife, and the three of them will meet Major Fitzmaurice at the train station in Bridgeton in the evening on the tenth of July, when he will finally be a civilian again. In the surgical tent, there is a chest of medications. They were purchased with the army’s money, so they are not his to keep, but only a physician or pharmacist is licensed to dispense most of them, and only a physician is licensed to distribute some of them. Jack cannot order him to do anything, since Doctor Sparrow is a civilian. Jack is desperate for opium. But he cannot find the key to the medical chest, which often hangs on a hook nearby. He rattles the lock, hoping that it will pop open. This attracts the attention of Doctor Sparrow, who excuses himself from his friends’ company, saying that he needs to use the latrine.

“I need opium. Help me,” pleads Jack. “I’ve been days without. An’ now all this…”

“I curse the day I gave it to ye, though ‘twas merited at the time. Ye’ll get none from me,” says Doctor Sparrow resolutely.

“Ye can’t keep medicine bought wi’ army money for supply.”

“I don’t intend to. That medicine is goin’ to Considine, Hayes, Lawless, an’ Kiersey, to be divided by who needs what most an’ equally for the rest. Their units need it jus’ as this one did. They have boys, mere boys, dyin’ every day. Have ye e’er really seen a sixteen-year-old soldier loose an arm or a leg? He truly needs that opium. Ye’ll not see a drop. Is that clear?”

“Aye, Doctor.”

“Now go drink yourself into a stupor or somethin’. That, at least, ye can handle.”

Doctor Sparrow waits until Jack leaves the tent and returns to his closest friend and a good bottle of whiskey. Even he, who typically uses his friend’s childhood nickname of Billy to refer to him, has a difficult time remembering that he is not speaking to an officer in the Southern Army any longer. Technically, Major Fitzmaurice has to wait until July and must receive his discharge papers and a white feather for his tricorn, indicating that he is discharged honorably, but his word to the General and his adoption of civilian dress are as good as a signature on paper in the minds of the men. He is not, by far, the only man intending to resign his commission as soon as possible rather than be permanently reassigned, though he is the only man to have announced his intentions to do so publicly prior to the burning of the standard.

Brendan Callahan emerges from the mess tent solemnly, the pole bearing the banner balanced across his outstretched arms as if it were his dying child, the flag his mother sewed in her youth gently hitting his legs at the bottom as he walks in even, measured steps toward the inferno that will consume the beloved symbol of his brethren by the sword. Major Moynihan takes one end, and Major Callahan takes the other. They silently place the banner into the flame as the men begin to sing the national anthem, starting concurrently with the church bells in distant Crosspoint chiming midnight. Every man stands with his arms crossed over his chest as would a dead man, right over left, both hands in fists, his head bowed. Only the two majors bearing the burning standard remain alert, for the sake of safety. In the morning, they will dig a pit together and bury the ashes of the bonfire once it has cooled sufficiently, so that the ghosts of he unit’s battle dead, those who died to protect the now-destroyed standard, who have been summoned to their duty one last time by its burning, may finally rest in their graves. Once the standard is burned and the anthem sung, Major Moynihan reads a list bound in a large, leather volume that he retrieved from the Colonel’s desk. It cannot be burned, just as the other standard, which is kept in Bridgeton and is identical to that which has been destroyed, cannot be burned. They belong to history. The list needs no introductions. Though it takes more than an hour to read, each man stands stiffly at attention with his arms by his sides, save the reader, for the duration of the list. It contains the name and final rank of every man who died serving the unit since its official founding as the Thirteenth Street Brigade during the Revolution, from Corporal Francis Crane, who died six weeks after the unit was founded, long before the banner was sewn and before the first officers elected, to Colonel Owen Callahan, whose name is written in wet ink, with whom the unit itself dies.

William Fitzmaurice and Brendan Sparrow cannot help but share a secret smile when the name “Captain William Fitzmaurice” is read from the list. He is the only known living man on the official list of battle dead and was added upon the confirmation of his torture to death in an enemy prison camp shortly after Conan joined the unit. It is a surprise to him that he was never removed from the list after his illegal resurrection. He already feels detached from his former life in the army, though he is still unaccustomed to anyone other than Emily Barrett and the Sparrows using his given name, and he must consciously remember that he is not wearing his service cap or dress tricorn and need not remove the nonexistent hat when he bows his head in respect.

Once the last of the names is read, the men begin to go to bed. They are silent, afraid to disrespect the ghosts of the past. Only Majors Callahan and Moynihan remain awake to guard the fire, which is ritualistically allowed to burn out on its own, rather than being doused. There is no watch because, with the standard scattered among the ashes, there is nothing to protect. There is no prize to capture, so it is not worth the effort of raiding. There is no glory to be had, and there is no information to gather.

In the morning, just before dawn, the two majors bury the ashes of the bonfire and, with them, the ghosts of the past soldiers who served the flag alongside them and their forefathers. Conan and Kian stay fiercely by each others’ sides, the elder brother looking to protect the younger, and the younger brother looking to comfort is elder. There is no remnant of the famous Callahan family ferocity and fervor in their eyes. There is only barely hidden sadness visible just below the surface. For the rest of the unit, the family solidarity is comforting, though for those who dare to get close, the open sadness in their green eyes which becomes more apparent as the distance lessens, is unnerving, even though their brother just died. Somehow, everyone expects the Callahans to be completely stoic, despite the fact that the loudest, most outgoing brother is dead, and they have no body to bury or to properly mourn.

The men begin to pack their things in an eerie silence. A cold rain begins to fall, turning the ground into a muddy, slushy mess and making the men more miserable and desperate than they were before. There is still no food, and many of them are badly hung over from the wake the previous night. The only sounds are of boots squishing in the mud, trunks closing, vomiting in the forest behind the trees, and the occasional curse from someone falling or closing a trunk on his hands. By noon, the men are finished with the packing of their meager possessions and laying around in camp drinking and smoking, for lack of anything else to do. A bit of respite would have been welcomed, but the price paid for it, the life of a dear friend and leader and the pride and camaraderie of their unit, was much too steep a price to pay for a few hours’ rest and a little alcohol.

General Callahan paces in the center of camp. He must write a letter home to his wife explaining what happened to their firstborn child, to the child that symbolized their love and their hard-won freedom, to the son she begged not to follow his father to the army. He does not have very much time to write it. It has already been a day since Owen’s death, and General Callahan is certain that his wife already knows somewhere deep inside of her somehow, just as she knew about Conan’s eye. He knows that she will come to Crosspoint in a few days if his letter is not on the overnight evening post to Bridgeton. He has until six o’clock to write it and put it in the mailbag of a nearby unit. The post leaves for town at six o’clock , is loaded onto the train at eight o’clock, leaves at nine o’clock, and arrives in Bridgeton the next morning. Although a soldier will come to the door to tell Kathleen and Lochlan that Owen will never come home and that they can hope that his body is eventually recovered, Keegan would rather write his wife and have her break the news to them. The letter is a formality, as Rose-Marie has an uncanny ability to know when harm has come to one of her seven sons. Keegan is certain that his wife also knows when harm has come to him and that she knows everything about what he does in his spare time, but she ignores his philandering, and none of his mistresses have come to him with a child asking for help or recognition, though he knows from the Bridgeton and Army gossip that he has gotten several of them pregnant over the years and that only a few ever had abortions or miscarriages. He does not know how many illegitimate children he has, but he is certain that his wife could give him either an exact number or a very close estimate. For once, he is glad that his illegitimate children have not had the upbringing that his legitimate sons have had and that he can be fairly certain that none of them will die for glory on his account.

Besides his parents and brothers, Owen leaves behind a wife and son. It is them for whom General Callahan has the most worry. It will not be easy for Kathleen to remarry. No man will marry a Callahan’s widow or agree to raise her child. The family has a certain reputation, and no other man would want to adopt it. In the military, they have a reputation for bravery and solidarity. To civilians, they are a regimented, indoctrinated, tight-knit clan. No soldier would dare to touch Owen’s widow out of respect, but no civilian would want to touch her because they think her tainted and want nothing to do with her past or her child. Keegan plans to advise his daughter-in-law to leave her son with Rose-Marie or with Brendan’s wife, Deirdre, to raise and to denounce her married name and take her maiden name again once she is finished mourning her late husband so that she might have a chance to remarry and have a normal life, a life apart from his family’s strict honor codes. Keegan will see to it that his grandson is well cared-for so that his mother may have a chance at a normal life again.

Doctor Sparrow fears General Callahan. He feels guilty that he could have saved Owen’s life if Major Fitzmaurice had not held him back. He knew that it was a trap to lure other men to their death, but he gladly would have taken a bullet for the chance to save a life. He knows how guilty Major Fitzmaurice feels for having held them back because Major Fitzmaurice told him his reasons for resigning his commission, though he refuses to discuss it with anyone else and asked the doctor to swear an oath of secrecy. Not even Emily Barrett knows. Doctor Sparrow would not dare to tell anyone, as Billy is his oldest, closest friend, his brother in all but name. He is well aware of what he is not welcomed to share. He wishes General Callahan knew Billy’s guilt and could see that he is not a cold-hearted monster, but it is not his place to say anything about it. If Major Fitzmaurice wanted people to know, he would have told them himself. Doctor Sparrow is free to share his own thoughts, though, and he is accustomed to comforting the families and friends of the sick, the dying, and the dead as well as the sick and the dying themselves.

“General, may I have a word?” asks Doctor Sparrow cautiously.

“Certainly. Is this about the medicine? Your decision was the right one. Them boys need it. Much as I like Jack, an’ while he’s an old friend, I’d’ve wanted it kept away from him. I don’t outrank him, but I can overpower him, even if it risks my career and my friendship.”

“General Callahan, I want to talk ‘bout your son. I have somethin’ I think ye ought to hear. ‘Tisn’t pleasant, but, well, you’re his father, an’ ye ought to hear it.”

“’Afore ye begin, which son are ye talkin’ ‘bout. I’ve seven…six, rather…”

“Owen. As far as I know, the three back home don’t know yet, and the three here are doin’ alright, given the circumstances.”

“They’re stoic. They're strong. ‘Tis how they were raised. Perhaps ‘twasn’t for the best.”

“General, your son was alive when we left him, an’ I’m certain he was in tremendous pain.”

“He was sufferin’ in silence. I wish I’d ne’er’ve taught him or his brothers to do that. Perhaps I can still save Killian. He’s but a boy of five. Perhaps ‘tisn’t too late for him.”

“General,I could’ve saved your son if I’d but had the chance. I’m sure he suffered a slow, agonizing death if he did die. He could be out there still, sufferin’ in silence, abandoned and delirious. I could’ve saved him, or could’ve at least made him comfortable if he’d let me, though I doubt he would’ve.”

“I’m not the man ye think I am. Everythin’ ye know’s a lie or a half-truth. I’m not that brave.”

“I know. Nobody is. I see men wi’ the worst injuries ye could imagine. I see bodies broken, twisted, torn. I see men dyin’ an’ tellin’ their wives to leave the room so they don’t see ‘em get weak jus’ ‘afore they go. I’ve seen it, General, an’ I know…I’d not tell, but I know…no man is or could ever be as brave as ye pretend to be.”

“I tried to hang meself durin’ the Revolution. I was second in command, an’ I lost a few good men ‘cause I contradicted Jack’s order. ‘Twas Jack what found me hangin’ there, an’ Jack what cut me down an’ brought me to see a doctor, for I’d not fallen far enough for me neck to snap. If ye think your kind are scarce now wi’ but one to a unit if the unit’s lucky… Back then, there was on’y three in all o’ Bridgeton we knew we could trust. Jack saved me life, an’ all I did was curse at him afterward. Truth is, I bury everythin’ in cigarettes, whores, an’ whiskey. Perhaps losin’ me son might make me a wee bit more careful wi’ the ones I got left. Maybe ‘twill scare me straight. Maybe ‘twill make me a better General, but I’ll be leavin’ the field a while to be with me wife. After that, I’ll be resigned meself… I dunno. I doubt I’ll e’er seek reinstatement. I’m sorry, Doctor.” Keegan sighs. “D’ye have a match? I seem to have run out.”

“Here,” says Doctor Sparrow, opening his tin matchbox and offering its contents to General Callahan.

“Thankee.”

“Not a problem.”

“What do I tell me wife?”

“The truth. Mostly, anyway. I’d leave out the bit ‘bout him sufferin’. She don’t need to know that wi’ six more to worry ‘bout, but I know ye’d’ve wanted the whole truth for yourself.”

“Thankee, Doctor. If yourself or the Maj- William - e’er need a hand or a good word, I’m more’n happy to a oblige, an’ I’ll bring the whole gang if’n I needs to.”

“Thankee, sor.” Doctor Sparrow pauses before asking, “Sor, why wouldn’t he’ve asked for help? There’s no medical reason he’d’ve been unconscious from his injuries. I didn’t get a close look, but by me own estimation, he’d have hours to a day or more ‘afore he died o’ those wounds, ‘specialy wi’ the cold weather, or longer if the bleedin’ stopped an’ it’d take an infenction to claim him. He didn’t lose that much blood, an’ he didn’t hit his head or get his back shot through.”

“Don’t show weakness. Don’t ask for help.”

“I think it might’ve been his way o askin’. Nobody shoots a man who’s already dead an’ gone. ‘Tis a waste o’ ammunition.”

“When all else fails, play dead.”

“That one o’ your family mottoes?”

“No. ‘Tis an old joke. Back in the Revolution, if they came lookin’ for ye, an’ if ye jus’ couldn’t shake ‘em, the best way to hide from ‘em was in a coffin. If ye heard they was after ye, ye’d hide, an’ ye’d have the family ye was stayin’ wi’ pass ‘round the rumor ye was dead an’ gone. Ye’d get yourself into a coffin, an’ ye’d lie real still, like, an’ your friends’d hold a wake. No one else who was wanted’d come for the ruse o’course, but, sure, they might come after for a good laugh. As soon as the guards came an’ left, ye’d come out an’ have a drink or two an’ ‘twas a right grand party. I’m sure I died in such a manner, oh, at least six…seven times. Jack’s done it sixteen. So, when all else fails, play dead.”

“Indeed.”

“Unfortunately, me boy won’t be back from this one. I’ll ne’er have me Owen again, ne’er hear him laugh again.”

“I’d tell ye to stay strong for the sake o’ your other six sons, but, well…”

“Well what?”

“Ye’re General Callahan. Ye don’t need me to tell ye that. I think ye’ve got a monopoly on it.”

“A what?”

“Monopoly.”

“I may be a general, but I worked hard for that honor. Nobody told me how to do it. I was a farm boy. I didn’t get no education. I left school at ten to work the fields, an’ what I did manage to learn wasn’t much. I can tell ye how to win any battle, how to work any weapon, how to plough a field, how to slaughter an’ butcher a hog, how to thatch a roof, how to win a fight, how to pick up whores, an’ how to cure a hangover the same way me da’, rest his soul, always did, but I can’t use big, fancy words. I respect your education, but please, for the love o’ God, remember I’m a relic form a former war who fought so’s ye could get that education, meanin’ I ain’t got one meself.”

“Sorry, sor, I didn’t mean to seem better’n me lot. Ye’re jus’ so… Well ‘twas always… Billy an’ me were a little ahead o’ Owen in school as kids, an’ ‘twas always odd to hear ‘bout the Revolution ‘cause-”

“I know. I’m a local hero in the slums o’ Bridgeton. Try livin’ it. Sure, I won a few battles, but I still ain’t got enough money to leave the army, really, an’ I doubt ‘twill be easy for me to find work wi’ the reputation I’ve got. If ye’re wonderin’ how a general could be so poor, I raised seven sons, an’ I have awful habits. I’m also not so lucky as yourself an’ the Major. Where could I go if I left? To the factories or back to the farm. At least if I’m in the army, me boys’ll always have dinner, but when I resign, ‘tis a farmer’s life for me.”

“Sorry to upset ye, sor. I’ve got to pack up the surgery yet. A monopoly is when one man controls all o’ somethin’, by the way.”

“A monopoly on stayin’ strong…I like it, doctor.”

Doctor Sparrow turns his back on General Callahan, realizing that, despite his stoic exterior, inwardly, he is inconsolable. The loss of his firstborn son has made him violent and unpredictable. Even his surviving children do not dare to approach him. Brendan is sorting Owen’s things in order to ensure that there are no surprises when they are shipped home to his wife. Kian and Conan have not separated all morning and even shared quarters the previous night, as regulations no longer apply in a unit that has disbanded. Kian has been drinking heavily, as if trying to punish himself for failing to save his brother. Conan is oddly quiet and sober. When Conan tries to walk ahead so that he can speak to Doctor Sparrow, Kian tries to hold his younger brother back to tell him to wait for him, but his vision is doubled, bordering on tripled. He reaches, misses, and falls into the icy mud. He is unable to stand or walk, and William Fitzmaurice, who heard the loud splash from behind a nearby tent where he was smoking, extinguishes his cigarette and walks over cautiously, attempting to avoid being sucked into the mud himself.

“Oh how the mighty have fallen,” says William Fitzmaurice, unable to keep his sarcastic comments to himself, despite the gravity of the situation.

“Help…” gasps Kian, choking on the word as if he has never said it before in his life.

In a rare gesture of camaraderie, William offers Kian his hand and helps him to his feet. He brings him to the stream to wash, and he brings him dry clothing and a blanket. Sobered by the icy water and the abrupt loss of all of the alcohol in his stomach from the shock of the cold, Kian, still wet and shivering, thanks the soon-to-be-former Major. Shortly thereafter, Kian loses consciousness, and William finds that he is unable to lift Kian, who, despite being of lighter build than his older brothers, is still far heaver than Mister Fitzmaurice is. He returns to camp to enlist Lieutenant Hackett’s help. Being a northerner and a recent addition to the Thirteenth Bridgeton Light Infantry, he does not feel that he is welcome at the ceremonies, as he did not grow to manhood expecting to be a member of this unit, did not have a father to follow through it, and did not grow up with the mystique it holds in the minds of the youth from Bridgeton’s slums. Faced with losing the friend and mentor who led him there forever, he wonders if his gamble of transferring to the Southern Army was worthwhile.

In Doctor Sparrow’s surgery, Conan is desperate for answers. He corners the Doctor at knifepoint and says, “I heard ye say Owen’s injuries could take a day or more to kill him.”

“Anywhere from a few hours wi’ the bleed to a day or more if it stops an’ don’t get infected. This weather’d stop the bleedin’, but it could also kill him right quick, but if ‘twere warm or he found some shelter, it could be a week before the infection kills him.”

“What if it didn’t get infected but it stopped bleedin’?”

“He fell in the dirt, Conan. There’s no way it didn’t get infected. I have enough trouble stoppin’ infections in here. Out there, well, that’s a disaster in the makin’. Now please, put the knife down,” pleads Doctor Sparrow.

“But…a day or more…he could still be alive.”

“’Tis possible, but the chance is so small-”

“Then we’ve got to go look for him.”

“If ye want to go to the Point an’ have a look for yourself, be me guest. I’ll not stop ye, but be careful there are-”

“I’ll just get Kian, an’-”

“No ye won’t,” interrupts Major Fitzmaurice.

“What’d ye do to him!?” asks Conan, shocked.

“Nothin’. He did it to hisself. That’s what so much liquor’ll do to ye. All I did was see he got clean an’ dry after he fell in the mud chasin’ after ye.” William turns to his old friend, Doctor Sparrow, and says, “Doctor, if ye please. Ye’ve no obligation now, but I know ye’d ne’er refuse a patient, even one for which ye’ll likely not get paid. Ye can use the army’s drugs, since he’s still in the army…”

“’Course I don’t mind. Put him on the cot there, not the table. He’s too cold, he is. Give him some blankets. Conan, stay wi’ him. I’ll heat up some water, put the coals from the fire in a warmin’ pan, an’ make him some tea. The alcohol did, indeed, make him dangerous cold to be out in this weather, more so that ye had to dip him in the river. If ye don’t believe me that the cold can kill, ask Jack for yourself.”

The soon-to-be-former Major and the northern Lieutenant step outside of the surgery and go to the far edge of camp where they are free to smoke in peace. Lieutenant Hackett turns to his friend, mentor, and superior and asks, “What’ll ye be doin’ when ye goes back to Bridgeton? Your fancy degrees won’t do jack shit for ye in District Thirteen.”

“I’ve got a fair bit saved up, an’ I’m to marry Miss Barrett, who’s got a house an’ money from her da’, plus, I could always stay wi’ the Doctor or his parents in a pinch. They know me well enough to be family. I’ll go back to school for three more long, dreary years an’ suffer through what I couldn’t make meself do after college.”

“What’s that?”

“Originally, I was to study medicine an’ become a doctor along wi’ your man Brendan there, since District Thirteen Bridgeton needs ‘em right bad. But I switched to law wi’ Jack’s blessin’ after we found I couldn’t stand needles less’n one year into college. Me degree’s in pre-law, but I went to military school after ‘stead o’ law school. I’ve me pension for me knighthood to pay for it, an’ I’ll join a practice when I’m out in three years’ time. I’m not lookin’ forward to it, but ‘tis a decent livin’.”

“I’ll be missin’ ye, sor. Ye’re a good oul’ cove, ye are,” says Lieutenant Hackett, his northern dialect somehow comforting to William Fitzmaurice. “I’ve nothin’ left for me up north. I suppose I could return to Newport an’ go back to me room above the fish market. I’d a nice enough landlady, but what’s there for me in Newport but memories o’ a family long dead?”

“I know ye’ll miss me an’ the doctor,” says Mister Fitzmaurice somberly. “If e’er this war ends or ye resign your own commission or take Christmas leave, come find me in Bridgeton. It don’t matter if ye don’t settle there. Even if ye decide to go back to Newport, ye’ve got to come see Bridgeton. After all, your father would’ve wanted it. When ye get there, go to a pub called the Crane an’ Sparrow. Talk to the owner, Mike Crane. He’s married to the Doctor’s sister. Ask him where to find his former partner, Brian Sparrow. That’s the Doctor’s da’. Find him, an’ he’ll tell ye where I’m at. He’ll know.”

“Thankee, sor, for all ye’ve done me.”

“Ye’re a fine lieutenant, Hackett, a damn fine lieutenant. Rumor has it ye’ll be a captain when ye leave here ‘cause ye’re second in line after Coffey.”

“Who told ye?”

“General did. I’ve your new orders in the breast pocket o’ me dress uniform. He’s still got to sign ‘em wi’ no colonel here, but he wants me last act as your superior to be givin’ ye me oul’ captains’ bars an’ your orders.”

“Where am I headed?”

“Ye’re goin’ wi’ Morrison an’ Coffey to Hagan’s heavy infantry. He’s short on officers an’ brains.”

“Sorry to interrupt Major, but what be that?” asks Lieutenant Hackett, seeing movement in the bushes.

“Probably a hare. ‘Tis March, an’ they’re mad as could be.”

“No…can’t be…too big…”

“Harte, perhaps?”

“’Tis…’Tis a man! Green uniform, red hair… ’Tis- ’tis- All hands on deck!” shouts Lieutenant Hackett.

William Fitzmaurice sighs and says, “Ye might want to warn a man this close ‘afore ye go doin’ that.”

“Sorry, sor.”

“An’ next time, try somethin’ like this: Get your lazy arses o’er here, ye bastards! Owen’s back!”

Several men, including Doctor Sparrow, come running over to the edge of camp to help. General Callahan is the first to arrive, though he was far from the closest, because he cared the most. The Colonel is staggering with a blackthorn stick for a crutch. His hair and beard are full of twigs, and his bloody, dirty, wet uniform is in tatters. His right leg is a twisted, mangled mess that drags uselessly behind him. He is shivering with chills, but he knows that his fever will return and with it the paralyzing delirium. He has lost weight from continual vomiting and dry heaving and the titanic effort of dragging his bad leg over five miles through the woods after weeks of very little or no food.

General Callahan scoops his son into his arms, as if he were a child, despite the fact that he is a large, fully grown man. He carries the Colonel directly to the surgery and gently lays him on the table. He carefully removes the tattered remnants of Owen’s uniform and helps him to wash so that Doctor Sparrow can begin to remove the bullets as soon as he has placed Kian’s warming pan. Doctor Sparrow rarely allows anyone to witness his surgery, but he makes an exception for General Callahan and Conan. Brendan Callahan tries to watch. Though battle does not bother him, surgery does, so he elects to wait outside instead. Doctor Sparrow knows that he will need help setting every bone in Owen’s right leg and merely hopes that he will not have to amputate it. He dismisses General Callahan to allow him to smoke part of the way through the lengthy process to remove the bullets, knowing that he may need his help later in the surgery.

General Callahan calls Lieutenant O’Dunphy over and says, “Ye were right. The Good Lord answered me prayers. Owen’s alive. He’s sick, an’ he might lose a leg, but he’ll be well again. Thankee, Father.”

“No guts, no glory. He doesn’t answer if ye don’t ask.”

“While he’s not well, I’ll be stayin’ close by to help out. I’m hopin’ Major Fitzmaurice’ll reconsider stayin’ if there’s no chance o’ him bein’ the colonel who let the unit die. I ought to teach him meself. Sure, he’ll have his own someday. But before Owen’s back without me here to help, I’ll see to it he signs a promotion for ye. I owe it to ye for not makin’ ye a captain meself back in the days when I was colonel.”

“Thankee, General.”

“Jus’ do me one favor.”

“O’ ‘course. Anythin’.”

“Pray for me family. The Lord knows we need it.”

“Sure enough, so.”

Because of the severity of Owen’s wounds, Doctor Sparrow insists upon him taking something for the pain during surgery, but because of the patient’s instability and exposure, he is not comfortable giving him opium or ether until his body temperature stabilizes. Though the procedure takes several hours and must be paused occasionally due to shaking from chills, Doctor Sparrow is able to cool his fever with aspirin and cool water and prevent any violent shaking or paralyzing hallucinations. Doctor Sparrow knows that Owen is in severe pain, and he knows that the aspirin is not strong enough. Even so, Owen remains stalwart and stoic, as always. Once Doctor Sparrow is certain that all the bullets are out of Colonel Callahan’s body and the wounds are sewn shut, he helps Owen sit so that he can see the mangled mess that is his right leg.

“That’s worse than I thought it looked,” says Colonel Callahan prodding his badly mangled leg.

“Ye’ve got a high pain tolerance, Colonel. That, at least, is a blessing. Still, I’m not sure I’ll be able to save it, even with blood. I don’t want to amputate without being able to give you proper anesthesia. ‘Twill hurt something awful in the coming days, but I can’t consider an alternative ‘til I’m sure ye’re well enough to survive it.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it. If we’ve not enough opium, ‘tis me own fault anyhow. Sure, they did poor oul’ Ardal Malone’s without anesthesia or a proper surgeon. No, Doctor, the whiskey’ll do me fine.”

“I’m going to have Major Fitzmaurice an’ your father help me set it roughly. Then I’ll put some gauze to keep it clean. I want to see if your body can fight the infection an’ if the skin’ll heal up ‘afore I cut off a leg that might be able to be saved.”

“’Tis but a flesh wound. If I must lose it, I must, an’ ’tis got to go.”

“Ye’re a very brave patient, Colonel. I’ve done plenty amputations in me own time. I know ye’re scared, there’s not a soul who isn’t after hearing that news, but I’ll do what I can to save it.”

“I appreciate it, Doctor. I’d rather not give up me career jus’ yet.”

“I know. I will warn you, though. Even if I can save it, an’ even wi’ blood, ye’ve messed it up right good. ‘Twill probably pain ye forever.”

“Pain is immaterial. Pain I can live wi’. I could live wi’ one leg as well. I’m jus’ glad for one thing.”

“What?”

“At least your man Fitzmaurice didn’t kneecap me.”
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