by N. C. Reed
“Bryon, you're no less of a man for being scared,” Beverly pointed out. “I promise you every soldier on this farm was scared yesterday. And so was everyone else, too.”
“Mister Mark wasn't,” Bryon shook his head. “He was fighting even while I was so scared I couldn't do nothing.”
“If he were here, he would tell you he was afraid too,” Beverly insisted. “His being older helped him manage it better maybe, but he was still afraid. You weren't alone in that.”
“But ever‘body else fought though, didn't they,” Bryon would not be consoled. “Ever’body else, they did what they was supposed to do. But not me. I didn't. And because I didn't, Mister Mark is dead. He's dead and his family is leaving, and it's my fault.”
“No, it's not,” Beverly shook her head. “First of all, even had you done everything right, Mark could still have died. War is a strange business, Bryon, and strange things happen. People that you might think would never die are the first to go. People you are sure won't make it survive to the end and go home. The only certainty in war is uncertainty.”
“It was my fault,” Bryon said again, as if she hadn't spoken. “I can tell. Everyone looks at me and I know they're thinking it; it was my fault. It was all my fault.”
“Bryon, not to try and make you feel like less than you are but you are only sixteen,” Beverly said gently. “Do you really think you should be taking all that on yourself? Doesn't some of the blame fall on those who attacked us? On the people who put you where you were knowing you weren't ready for it? That you needed more training and experience before you were ready to face something like that? Don't take all that blame on yourself Bryon. Because it isn't yours. Blame for that rests with the men who decided where you would be, and with your father who insisted you be put in a place you weren't ready to be.”
“He won't even look at me,” Bryon snorted. “I promise you he thinks I'm to blame. I disappointed him. Maybe even embarrassed him. Something like that.”
“Has he said that?” Beverly asked.
“He doesn't have to, does he?” Bryon replied. “I can see it when he does look at me, which isn't often since yesterday. He ain't spoke ten words to me since then, either.”
“In his defense things have been rather hectic,” Beverly tried to find a reason for the boy to hope. “And your father may not know how to talk to you about what happened. May not even know how to approach you. It may take time for him to collect himself enough to bring it up. He may even be feeling guilty over it.”
“He sure don't act guilty,” Bryon shook his head. “It don't matter no ways,” he added softly, and Beverly almost missed it.
“Why doesn't it matter?” she asked, leaning forward in her chair. These words were usually a warning.
“Cause, it won't change nothing,” Bryon told her, and she felt a bit of relief at those words. Not much, but a small bit. “End of the day, all is said and done, Mister Mark is still dead and I was still in there with him and I still didn't do nothing.”
“And you're still just sixteen,” Beverly countered. “There's a reason why we expect young men to be eighteen when they enlist. Even then it takes at least a year for that young man to train up enough to go into a line unit. Did you know that?”
“No,” the boy admitted. “I didn't.”
“Well it's true,” Beverly told him emphatically. “You hadn't had a year of training, now had you?”
“No.”
“Well, all right then,” Beverly tried to end their session on a positive note. “How about you stop comparing yourself to men who have more experience, more training, and are a little older than you. All of them have several advantages over you, Bryon, every one of which would have been important to you yesterday. Now with that in mind can you still say it was all your fault?” she asked him.
“Doesn't matter what I say,” the boy shrugged. “It's what ever’ body else says. That's all that counts.”
–
“He is blaming himself,” Beverly reported an hour later to Clay and to Jose Juarez. The Webb family had just departed, and the mood around the farm was grim to say the least.
“He thinks it's all his fault that Mark Webb is dead, that the Webbs have left, and that his father is somehow embarrassed by his 'failure'.”
“He's just a kid,” Jose was shaking his head. “A long way from where he would need to be to have been put in the position he was in.”
“I tried to make that point, and think I did,” Beverly nodded. “But he's determined that everyone blames him. Including, or maybe especially his father. And it was his father who insisted he be placed where he was. Insisted that he could handle it. Bryon said his father told him it would make a man out of him, or words to that effect.”
“For fu-, Pete's sake,” Clay caught himself just in time. “Make a man out of him? Who the hell even says that anymore?”
“I told him that his fear was understandable and that every soldier out here felt that same fear yesterday. He accepted that might be true, but then pointed out that all of you did your jobs yesterday, and he didn't.”
“We got a lot more experience than him, too,” Jose said. “Even Gordy and the others had the benefit of a lot more training and conditioning, plus this wasn't their first fight.”
“I think it might be a good idea if some of you tried to talk to him,” Beverly said. “Don't reveal that I said anything because all of this is supposed to be confidential. But some of you might casually mention how scared you were, especially the first time you were under fire. Right now, he needs to be built up and I don't think his father is the one to do-”
She was interrupted by a single gunshot. A gun shot from the direction of the cabins. Clay and Jose immediately took off in that direction on an ATV, leaving Beverly behind them.
“No,” she whispered to herself. “Please, no.”
–
Clay felt his heart form in his throat as he ran to where several people were standing out behind the cabins. He hoped that someone had shot a deer but knew in his heart that it was unlikely.
He was right.
The two of them pushed their way through the small crowd and looked down at the ground to find Bryon Jessup laying there, blood soaking into the ground, an ugly, gaping wound where the back of his head had been.
He wanted to yell and scream at the top of his lungs, but where would he start? A sixteen-year-old kid, allowed to bear such a burden all alone, allowed to believe he was responsible for another man's death. Nothing was further from the truth but just the idea had obviously been more than he could stand.
“Call Greg,” he told Jose. “Let him handle this. He's the lawman. He’ll know what needs to be done.”
“Got it.”
Clay knew he should stay, but when he heard Bryon's mother start to scream after someone told her, he couldn't do it. He started down the hill on foot, stunned at what had happened. Yesterday's attack had claimed another casualty.
–
“Greg will do an investigation I guess, just like he normally would, but. . .his rifle was laying there, his hands still on it,” Clay felt sick as he reported to Leon and Gordon what had happened.
“Why would he do such a thing?” Gordon asked no one in particular.
“Guilt,” Leon told him. “Guilt makes you do odd things. Things that don't make sense to anyone else.”
“He believed that his father blamed him for Mark's death and the Webb's leaving,” Clay told them. “He blamed himself, but I think he did so because he thought everyone else did, too.”
“Do they?” Gordon asked.
“I have no idea,” Clay admitted. “I don't think Joshua Webb did, since he was too busy blaming me. And they have no one to blame but themselves for throwing that kid to the wolves that way. Apparently, his father insisted he be put where he was and told the boy it would make a man out of him.”
“What a load of horse shit,” Leon growled, anger showing on his face. “I've known Harley Jessup a long t
ime and he can be a jackass, but surely even he would draw the line at something like that.”
“No idea,” Clay repeated. “I haven't talked to any of them. I-”
“Maybe had you talked to young Jessup-” Gordon began only to have Leon cut him off.
“Don't start that shit,” he warned his son. “That's going to sound like you're blaming Clayton and I've had about all of that shit I want to hear this week. He can't be babysitting the whole damn farm!”
“That wasn't what I meant,” Gordon raised a hand in supplication. “I just meant maybe it would have helped had Clay or one of the other soldiers had spoken to him. I'm not blaming anyone other than the men who attacked this farm. I'm just trying to think of a way to stop this from happening again.”
“Beverly Jackson had just got done talking to him maybe two hours ago now,” Clay shook his head. “She thought she had convinced him that taking the blame on himself was really a bit much at his age. But he was convinced that everyone up there did blame him, and I think, deep down, he blamed himself. She tried to reason with him about it and thought she had made some inroads with him. Either, he hid it really well, or else someone said something to him after she did.”
“I'm sure if someone pushed him to it then Gregory will figure it out,” Leon said firmly.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
-
Bryon Jessup's suicide shot through the shrinking community like a cannon ball. Clay was careful not to reveal anything the boy had said to Beverly Jackson, instead allowing Greg Holloway to conduct his interviews and investigation without any sort of prejudice.
Beverly Jackson had known instinctively as soon as she had heard that single gunshot what had happened. She had spent that night in the bedroom she shared with Mitchell Nolan, desiring to be alone. No one was comfortable with that, least of all Mitchell, but he contented himself to taking care of JJ and making sure she knew he was there if she needed him.
It seemed the sense of gloom hanging over the farm wouldn't lift. A funeral was held for Bryon the following day, a grave having been dug in a small circle of trees not far from the cabin area. Everyone not on watch or needed for the care of small children attended, expressing condolences to the boy's parents, particularly his distraught mother.
Clay watched Harley Jessup as the casket was lowered into the ground, but the man's face revealed nothing.
Let Greg handle it, he told himself. It's his job, and he's good at it.
–
“Had Bryon said anything to you that seemed suspect?” Greg asked Marcy George. “I know you and he spent a lot of time together working. Maybe he said something that could give me a hint why he would do this?”
“Nothing I remember,” she looked helpless. “You know that he blamed himself for Mark Webb's death, right?”
“I had heard that,” he nodded.
“That. . .I told him it was stupid,” she blurted. “I told him there was no way to know what would happen. But he was scared and didn't do anything. That's all he could say. He was too scared to help and Mister Webb died because of it. He shouldn't even have been there!”
“I know,” Greg's voice was gentle. “He was a good friend to you, wasn't he?”
“Yeah,” she nodded. “He would always come help me when he got done with his chores. He didn't have to, and I would never have asked him because it was my job and I should do it, but. . .he would always come help me finish. He was a really good guy,” she almost whispered.
“Marcy, this is between you and me, okay?” Greg changed the subject. “But I need to know. . .did any of the others blame Bryon for what happened?”
“I don't know,” she replied. “I mean, I didn't hear anyone say anything, but there was a big commotion right after with the Webbs leaving and what not. Bryon did say he was sure everyone blamed him, but he didn't call any names. I do know that he was scared of what his father was thinking.”
“Scared how?” Greg asked.
“Not physically,” she clarified. “More like. . .afraid he had disappointed or shamed his father. Or at least, that he was afraid that's what his father was thinking. Yeah,” she nodded suddenly. “That's more like it. He was afraid of what his father was thinking.”
“Did you hear his father say anything?” Greg wanted to know. “Positive or negative either one?”
“No, but he was kind of. . .I don't know. . .sullen, maybe? Pouty, my mom would call it. But maybe that was just me.”
“Thanks Marcy,” Greg patted her hand. “If it helps, I do know that Bryon considered you his friend. And that he always helped you because you were kind to him and he appreciated it. You were a bright spot in his life. Remember that.” Tears appeared in the teen girl's eyes at that and she wiped them away and tried to smile.
“Thanks.”
–
“No one I've spoken to actually heard Jessup say anything to his son about being embarrassed or him being at fault for Mark's death, or for the Webb family leaving,” Greg reported. He was seated in Leon's living room with Clay, Gordon and Franklin George.
“Everyone does say that Harley Jessup's attitude changed a great deal after the battle, but that isn't proof of anything. I'd say a lot of attitudes changed after that battle.”
“He was a good boy,” Franklin George said quietly. “Worked hard, helped others whenever he could. Polite, kind. A good heart. It's a shame on us all that we didn't see this.”
“In normal times I might agree, sir,” Greg nodded. “But everyone was torn to pieces over the battle. Occupied with their own problems or their own mortality. Battle is a scary thing and not everyone can just put it away afterward.”
“Some of us should have noticed,” the older man shook his head, adamant. “I remember Harley throwing a fit for his 'boy' to be in the fight,” he continued. “Bryon was stammering and stuttering, trying to tell us that he wasn't able, wasn't ready, but Harley would have none of it, and God forgive us, the rest of us caved in and put him in that hole with Mark Webb.” There was a genuine sadness to his tone as he grieved the loss of a teenager that he truly believed had a good heart. He had liked the young man.
“Has Harley been trying to fix blame for what happened on anyone else?” Greg asked.
“Not that I've heard,” George shook his head again. “He's not said much to me, but I wouldn't be talkative in his shoes. I've heard no one speak of his saying anything of the sort, either.”
“Well, there's no question that Bryon took his own life,” Greg gave a great sigh of sadness. “And no question that it was a tragedy that could have been avoided. Should have been avoided.” He closed his small notebook and stood.
“Goes without saying I suppose that we all need to keep an eye on the Jessup family for the next few days,” Greg noted. “Not just for signs of blame but for other signs as well. Acts like this sometimes lead to others.”
“There's no reason that I can find to continue investigating,” he told Leon formally. “While something someone said may have influenced him, Bryon pulled the trigger himself. There's nothing to be done.”
Leon nodded in silence and Greg departed, followed by everyone other than Franklin George.
“This has turned into a fine mess hasn't it, Franklin?” Leon said after a minute of silence.
“I suppose it has,” came the reply.
“You all leaving too?” Leon asked.
“No sir,” George's reply as immediate. “No, we're not leaving and Joshua was a fool to leave, too. You were right all along, Leon. You've called every move that's been made so far and if we don't stick together then we're done for. And you had the best place for all of us to hunker down. What happened the other day wasn't your fault, nor anyone else save that rat bastard Hyatt Holman and the thugs working for him. It's not a Christian thing to say, but. . .I'm glad they're all dead.”
“Me too,” Leon nodded emphatically. “What do we do now?” Leon asked. “I don't think we want Harley helping make decisions for the present anyway, and Da
rrell hasn't shown a great deal of interest in participating unless he just had to. Gary Meecham doesn't mind doing it, but you can tell he'd rather be elsewhere. And Dixie. . .” Leon just left that hanging there.
“Yeah, better not to go there,” George chuckled. Everyone in the cabin area, everyone on the farm in fact liked the flighty school teacher. She had a great ability to interest the children in learning activities and a unique way of presenting material that kept it fresh and interesting, even when it was neither. She was friendly to everyone and treated all the children very well.
She was also erratically hyper and could not seem to concentrate on anything when she wasn't teaching. Asking her to sit in on a meeting was asking for it to go on, and on, and on, and on…
“That just leaves you, me, and Gordon,” Leon sighed. “Maybe someone from the Troy farm group I guess. What do you think we should do at this point?”
“Leon, I don't know,” George admitted. “I'd love to be able to just shut ourselves away on this farm and stay to ourselves, but it's obvious that's not going to be allowed. People like Holman know where we are and want what's here. Or rather what they think is here. And they're willing to kill to get it.”
“True,” Leon nodded. “Well, we can try and recruit some others I guess. I knew a few others I wouldn't have minded being here but couldn't run them down. What about you? Anyone come to mind that might still be alive and kicking and want to join us?”
“I'd have to think that one over a bit,” George replied, his face showing concentration. “Do we really need anyone else?” he asked.
“Need 'em? No, I doubt we actually need anyone,” Leon gave the question serious thought. “It's true though that there's safety in numbers, and with Josh's bunch gone we're short on numbers. There are also skills we're missing that might come in handy later on.”
“I grant you that,” George agreed. “But Leon. . .anyone who has survived so far will either have a good program working, or else be living near the edge and be resentful or angry at someone who had it so much better through the winter.”