Tear In Time

by Petersen, Christopher David

  “Escaped? Who escaped? Is Pvt. Starnes one of the men you're looking for?” David asked.

  “Yes sir. Have you seen him?” Lt. Decker inquired, in respectful tone.

  David nodded, “Before the fire. I changed his bandage.” He thought for a moment about what needed to be done then continued, “Ok, here's the deal. You can search the stalls quietly. The men who are on their stomachs are there for a reason, so don't even think about disturbing them. Most of these men are in grave condition. Their lives hang by a thread. If you even think that you might cause them discomfort, I want you to stop and remember my words.” David paused for effect then continued, “It doesn't take a genius to spot a gray coat. Look in the stall. If you don't see gray, turn away. It's that simple. If I hear one peep from the wounded, I'll personally come and chain your sorry asses to a wagon wheel and roll you over to Johnny Reb, all the while singing the Battle hymn of the Republic. Is any of this unclear to you two idiots?”

  “No, sir,” both men replied together in perfect timing.

  “Now I'm going back to sleep, and I better not be disturbed. Is this unclear?” David snapped again.

  “No, sir,” both men replied together, once again in perfect timing.

  “Go,” David said bluntly.

  The two saluted and hurried away.

  David stared at them for a moment, then walked back to his stall. As he laid down, he thought about Pvt. Starnes. Shaking his head, he said to himself, “What a waste of time. Like a man with a gaping hole in his stomach has much chance of throwing a rock, let alone fighting again in this war. It will be a long time before he even thinks about picking up another weapon.”

  Moments later, exhaustion hit David hard. He closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep.

  Less than an hour later, Dr. Morgan burst into David's stall, his voice quivering with anticipation.

  “David, David, wake up. Wake up, lad. You were right,” Dr. Morgan shouted as he shook David from his sound sleep. “Come on, lad, wake up. You have to hear the news.”

  David rolled over slowly and tried to focus on his old friend.

  “David, do you remember the march where you told me about future events?” Dr. Morgan said excitedly.

  “Doc, I'm so tired. Can't this wait until I've had a few hours of sleep?” David said in a groggy tone.

  “Well, I suppose it could,” Dr. Morgan replied, answering with sincere logic. He thought about his answer, then continued, “Yes, yes, I suppose it could wait, but I do believe you want to hear this,” he finished, his anticipation getting the better of him.

  David sat up, yawned, then replied, “Ok, doc, let me have it.”

  Dr. Morgan paused a moment for effect. Grinning ear to ear, the answer burst from his lips, “Emancipation Proclamation.”

  David looked stoically at his old friend and replied, “Yeah, what about it?”

  “It's been ordered. Just like you said would happen. David, this is truly amazing. There's no way you could have predicted that. Do you know what this means?” the old doctor said, beaming with excitement.

  “No,” David said flatly.

  “It means, lad, that the things you said about the future will happen and that things will indeed turn out ok,” Dr. Morgan stated in relieved tone, his hand now gently shaking David's shoulder.

  “Duh,” David replied simply.

  With that, he rolled back over and fell asleep. The sight of David's response caught the old doctor by surprise. He threw his head back and roared with laughter as he stumbled back out of the barn, his hope for a positive future now confirmed.

  TT: Chapter 8

  Rhodes Island: Winter, 1863

  The warm summer months passed all too quickly, and the trials of a long, bitterly cold winter set in. The days became a routine of desperation: desperation to stay warm, desperation to find food, desperation to stay healthy. Survival was on the lips of all as they pushed their bodies and minds to the limits of endurance.

  David sat by the campfire and shivered as he sipped his coffee. Even with his newly requisitioned woolen coat, socks, scarf and gloves, he suffered with a continual chill that at times seemed to last for days without relief. Exposed to the elements, David's only relief was the occasional visit to military hospitals for supplies. There, he was able to stay indoors long enough to feel rested and warm, but the visits were infrequent and usually short in duration as the winter months rarely saw much military action.

  A strong gust of wind blew from the north and stabbed at David's exposed skin. Shivering in the cold, he tugged at his collar and buried his face further into his coat.

  “Damn this wind,” David yelled into his coat, the muffled sound barely audible.

  “What was that, lad?” Dr. Morgan asked as he sipped his coffee, seemingly unaffected by the cold.

  David brought his face up long enough to reply, “It's friggin' cold. How can you sit there like it's a day at the beach? Aren't you freezing?”

  “Yes, I suppose I am a bit chilled. Nothing that coffee and a warm fire won't remedy, though,” Dr. Morgan replied nonchalantly.

  “My coffee's cold and the fire isn't doing it for me. What I wouldn't give for a down parka right now,” David said, his face still buried in his coat.

  “What's a down parka? Is it an overcoat?” the old doctor asked.

  “Yeah, basically. It's filled with goose down. Probably the warmest thing a man can wear,” David replied quickly, then covered up again.

  “Warmer than the woolen coat you have on now?” Dr. Morgan asked incredulously.

  “Oh yeah; way warmer,” David answered.

  “Huh, I'm amazed. That overcoat you have on is probably the warmest thing you can get. Hard to believe there is anything warmer, ’cept maybe two overcoats stacked on top of each other, that is,” Dr. Morgan said.

  “I wouldn't mind having two right now,” David shot back quickly.

  “It's a privilege to receive just one. I had to beg the favor from Jim to get you that one. They are typically reserved for the upper echelon in command,” Dr. Morgan replied, then added, “Colonels and higher. In essence, you're out of uniform – a punishable offense.”

  “But you’re wearing one too, aren’t you?” David asked, then answered his own question, “I guess it pays to be friends with the boss.”

  “Yes, lad. Jim and I go way back. I was a captain long before he made his way up to general. He's a good man and a logical tactician. I'm fortunate to call him friend,” Dr. Morgan replied respectfully.

  “I have to say, I do like him. He's tough, but thoughtful. You always know where you stand when talking to him. You can tell most of the men respect him too,” David added.

  “More thoughtful than you know, lad. Take that overcoat for an example. He couldn't have possibly granted you that garment as a first lieutenant. It would have been too scandalous. But as a captain, you are now close enough to colonel to allow a slight bend in protocol,” Dr. Morgan said.

  “So he promoted me to captain just so I could stay warm?” David asked, with a slight bit of sarcasm in his voice.

  “Fortunately for you, coincidence and circumstance shared perfect timing. The truth is, Jim and I both discussed your remarkable skill as a surgeon and a marksman, as well as a leader. By far, you have demonstrated the qualities for promotion faster than anyone we've ever seen. You've earned those captain's bars, lad,” Dr. Morgan answered, then added, “And being a captain, Jim granted you that coat as a favor to me.”

  "Now I'm feeling a little embarrassed about that ‘promotion for coat’ crack," David replied, his face reddening with humiliation. "I genuinely appreciate the favor, doc. I can't imagine the condition I'd be in without this coat. Thank you."

  "Quite alright, lad. As I said, you've earned it," Dr. Morgan replied.

  The two held eye contact over the fire for a moment, then nodded to each other. As David reached into the fire, he rolled a stick that skewered a slightly charred carcass that was once a possum.
r />   “Looks like breakfast is about ready,” David announced apprehensively.

  “That was some pretty amazing shooting there, David. I've seen some pretty fine shooting in my days, but nailing that possum from horseback was quite a display of marksmanship,” Dr. Morgan responded. “And with a sidearm, no less.”

  “Well, I learned from the master,” David replied modestly, as he broke off a leg quarter and handed it to the old doctor.

  Dr. Morgan nodded in thanks and replied, “If I practiced my whole life, I could never shoot that well.” He took a bite and continued, “You have a talent, David.”

  “Funny; I had to travel back in time to find that out. Not much use for that kind of skill in my time,” David remarked. “By the way, what do you think of the flavor?”

  “Exquisite,” Dr. Morgan complimented. “What did you put on this to make it taste this good?”

  “Believe it or not, I found an old lemon a few weeks back on one of our marches, and saved it. I rubbed its juice all over the meat, then I added pepper and salt. It's actually a common way to prepare meat in the future,” David said as he took a bite. “Hmm, not bad,” he commented.

  “You know, I've never known Jim to show up late for a meal. I wonder where he is?” Dr. Morgan speculated.

  “Probably got tied up with paperwork,” David added as he concentrated on his breakfast.

  “Maybe,” Dr. Morgan said.

  Moments later, the distinctive sound of Gen. Negley's horse could be heard in the distance, galloping at a terrific pace. Dr. Morgan stood and squinted in the direction of his old friend. Slowly, a smile spread across the old doctor’s face, as his friend trotted to a stop in front of the campfire.

  “Well, good afternoon. Hope the smell of this delicious possum didn't wake you,” Dr. Morgan snapped in jest.

  “You old coot! You going to let me get down off this horse before we duel?” Gen. Negley shot back. “Besides, it's too damn cold for jokes.”

  Gen. Negley stepped down off his horse and turned to David, “Morning, son. Pretty fine shooting, I heard.”

  “Thank you, sir,” David replied. “Help yourself to the possum. I hear the tail is wonderful.”

  Gen. Negley stopped in his tracks. David had never joked with him before and the general wasn't quite sure if David was kidding. David held a straight face while the general searched David's eyes for clues.

  “I do believe the young lad was speaking in jest,” Dr. Morgan announced.

  David smiled and handed the spit to the general and said, “I suppose you could eat the tail, but I suggest you try one of these legs first.”

  “Quite right, lad, quite right,” Gen. Negley said with a smirk, enjoying the bit of humor.

  Gen. Negley took a bite of the possum and stopped chewing for a moment. His eyes lit up and a small smile spread across his face, an obvious sign he was enjoying the newfound flavors.

  “How's your possum, Jim?” Dr. Morgan asked, seeing Gen. Negley's expression.

  “Exquisite,” Gen. Negley replied.

  David and Dr. Morgan laughed out loud at the general’s exact response as the old doctor’s.

  “Another joke at my expense?” Gen. Negley said, “You do realize that insubordination is a hanging offense?”

  “The lad and I found it humorous that your reply was the same as mine. Anyhow, why don't we sit by the fire and eat?” Dr. Morgan said.

  As the three men dined, they discussed the matter of illness within the camp. The winter months were bitterly cold, and illnesses such as dysentery, pneumonia, tuberculosis and other ailments were causing an excessively high death rate. David listened to the impassioned pleas of the general to save his men, and felt shame and helplessness knowing the cure but not being able to create it. David had tried for months to create his own medicines, but without the time or the facilities to do so, the results were limited.

  Gen. Negley began, “Captains, I must discuss a matter with you of the gravest importance. My men are dying at an alarming rate due to illness. Is there nothing we can do about this?” He asked in grave tone, “I just came from the infirmary by way of the soldiers’ camp. I counted three dead and one hundred men with some form of life-threatening illness.”

  Gen. Negley paused a moment, took a large sip of coffee, then continued, “These poor lads have survived the harshest battles of this century and are now dying from simple illness. This is just unfair. We must resolve this dilemma somehow. We owe them that much,” he finished in an impassioned tone.

  “Gen. Negley, I am equally disturbed by the images you are seeing. I have extensive knowledge in disease control, but what you have here is unsolvable without the correct drugs to combat the specific disease. The drugs I refer to are extraordinarily difficult to produce in the laboratory and are impossible to produce here on the battlefield,” David volunteered.

  “But, Dr. Warner, I was under the impression you were administering special medications to heal these boys after their surgeries. Couldn't you just whip up some more of those elixirs to help cure them of these terrible illnesses?” Gen. Negley implored.

  “The medicines I'm giving now – herbs and extracts from various plants – are beneficial, but do not by themselves provide a cure. They only enhance the body’s own natural defenses to help overcome the lesser conditions, like infection. In essence, the body cures itself. Diseases like pneumonia and typhoid need a drug called penicillin. I'm sorry to say this, but even if I had a special laboratory at my disposal, trying to produce penicillin myself would be nearly impossible. The process is just too complex,” David replied.

  “There is nothing we can do?” Gen. Negley said, now becoming visibly angry.

  “General, we are camped here in Rhodes Island. It's bitterly cold, the men are underfed, malnourished, and woefully under-protected from the elements. Their bodies right now are using every bit of available strength and energy to survive. The result is a body that is in a weakened state and vulnerable to attack from disease. If you want to give these men a better chance of survival, move them to a warmer climate – a much warmer climate, one where the men can warm up, one where they can hunt for decent food instead of living off meager government rations because they are too cold and too weak to hunt for anything else,” David responded, his tone hard and serious.

  Gen. Negley leaned into the fire and warmed his hands. He thought carefully about the logic of David's argument, then responded, “Dr. Warner, your debate is strong in logic and I have nothing to refute it, therefore I am compelled to follow it. I will consult with command and move the troops as soon as practicable.” With a sincere smile, he added, “And thank you.”

  “Thank you? For what?” David asked, a bit confused.

  “Frequently, subordinate offices are boot lickers – very difficult to get an unbiased answer from them I'm afraid. They usually tell me what I want to hear, which at times may not be what I need to do. Your answers explained to me in detail what I need to do and why I need to do this. Your advice is sound and I thank you for it,” Gen. Negley replied.

  “Well, thanks for listening,” David replied, not really knowing anything else to respond with.

  For a few moments, the three sat around the warm fire and thought about the previous exchange. The blazing embers held their attention until a strong gust of wind cut through them, sending a chill deep inside them.

  Gen. Negley stood and checked the buttons on his coat. “Well, I have a dispatch to send. No need to get up,” he announced with little fanfare.

  “By the way, Jim: I believe a have a new bottle of medicinal whiskey in the supply wagon. It might do you some good to come by later on this evening for a small dose, say 6pm?” Dr. Morgan said.

  “I'll pour,” the general joked.

  He mounted his horse, tipped his hat to both men, and trotted away. David and Dr. Morgan returned to their stare into the fire, all the while listening to the horse’s distinctive gallop fade off in the distance.

  The good general, tr
ue to his word, received approval several days later of their move south to warmer climates. Those in the gravest condition would remain behind and suffer the fate of the military hospital. All others were required to march. As the troops were assembled, the columns of men stretched out for miles.

  Through heavy snow and days of bitter cold, the columns of soldiers marched steadily southward, each day gaining ten miles toward their destination. Within weeks, the effects of southern climates could start to be felt, as they passed through New York and then Pennsylvania. The temperatures were milder, the snows were non-existent, and the days held fewer clouds. As the climate improved, so too did the health and morale of the men.