Title: I Promise
Author: sqira a. (sqira@notme.com)
Classification: S
Content Warning: PG
Summary: Next time--I promise.
Spoiler Warning: The Field Where I Died
Distribution Statement: Sure. Cooler still if I know where.
Feedback: I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.
Disclaimer: Not mine, except the story.
Author's Note: Any errors of fact contained herein are strictly my own.
Dedicated to Abigail who answered my call for help. Thank you for the lovely
beta. And happy birthday, Yevlin :o) It's been cool knowing you.
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It was beautiful in its own way, not as beautiful as 'The Battle above the
Clouds' as it was later romanticized, but it was a beauty itself; a glorious
victory for the Union, a brave loss for the outnumbered Confederates.
The dust had long settled, but the smoke never cleared. It hung heavily,
like a stage curtain at the end of a play, jarring the view, masking the
wonderful scenery played valiantly many hours before. Hovering over the
field, it blanketed the massacre beneath, hiding. Hidden.
It was dawn; the smoke mingling with the descending fog from Lookout
Mountain, mixing to form the liverish-hued sky that had grown even darker.
Eerie silence claimed the field, muffling the solemn cries and desperate
shouts for help that had earlier rung through the air. He had heard them,
had sorted through them to find the ones... and if he had listened, had
tuned harder, he would have found them earlier, perhaps even saved them.
Perhaps--in this life.
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"Sergeant! We are ordered to leave, Sir. Now." He felt a tug by his elbow.
The voice was close to a plea, as its owner, a young private cowered next to
him, ducking his head nervously.
"No!" he shrugged his arm away, "I will not. Tell General Cleburne that I'm
staying. I'm staying!" His eyes searched wildly once more. He forgot the
private next to him as he pushed his way through the men.
He picked up his pace, running among the men, and peering into their faces.
He wiped the blood off some of them, and knocked some hats off others. It
wasn't *him*; it wasn't him all the time.
*Oh Sullie, where are you?*
"Sir! Sir!" The same small hand clawed at him, pulling his battered shirt.
The private had caught up with him, stopping him in his tracks. "*Sir*"
"Did I not give you an order, Private? Did I not?!"
"But Sir, I was personally told to bring you back. General Bragg demands
your presence, Sir. As we speak," the private stammered, from exhaustion,
from just trying to get to him.
"Tell him I won't. We lost, Private, can't you see? Look around you; what
else is there? Freedom? Hah!" His laugh, detached and cold, frightened the
private. He wondered about his luck in securing this detail; he should have
stayed at his tent with Michael and waited for orders. No one in their right
mind *looked* for orders, no one but him.
"And besides," the sergeant continued softly, almost reminding himself,
"*he* wouldn't leave this place. He's still here."
"Sir?" The private coughed, clearing his throat. He smelled the
unmistakable burning stench of dead flesh. He felt nauseous, dizzy from the
sudden change in wind. The sergeant before him was even further away. He had
a faraway look in his eyes that should only be reserved for--was it
possible? Was it possible that he too, had a Mary somewhere, just like him?
But a *he*?
"Sir?" he tried again. "We should go back--"
"No! *You* go back!" He reeled back, sidestepping the private. He stormed
into the field, a thundercloud cried its warning nearby. "Go!"
"Sir!"
"Leave me! Tell them, you can't find me. Tell them, tell them..." he
stopped, turning back to the private. His eyes downcast, already grieving
with a loss. "Tell them I'm already dead."
His body flinched with an overwhelming need that compelled him to defy,
deceive, and disappear into the killing field. A ghost among the living,
that was how he looked. It was the last time the private ever saw him alive.
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*Sullie, Sullie, Sullie...*
His name flowed easily from my mouth, like a gentle raindrop unto the
ground beneath. A name that I've just known for the last few months but has
branded me so deeply that I would be naked, useless--lost without it.
He was young, tough, eager, and so much in love. I would hear for hours on
end, how much he missed home, how he missed his brothers' fervent bickering
every morning. But most of all, he would talk of Sarah, of how Sarah would
wait for him by the hidden curve of the creek, armed with her picnic of
homemade bread and smoked bacon. They would sit for hours, just talking,
knowing, and missing one another till the Thursday next. He loved her, and
each day he was away from her, I could see another crack in his heart.
It was in these hours and minutes that I began to love him. Yes, *love*.
How could one word, *love*, explain the different shades and hues of such
feelings? How could the word even begin to describe what I felt for him?
That I looked forward to every meeting, every opportunity to be with him?
That I craved his voice, his deepened longings, even though I know they
weren't for me? That with him, nothing else mattered; not the war, not the
cold, lonely nights, not even Sarah?
Oh Sullie, if you only knew...
Some mornings, I would wake up just for him; to see him, to hear him. If I
find him lost or missing with that morning smile etched just for me, I would
look for him, and when I did find him, only then would I breathe. It felt
strange; this *affection* towards him. So strange that I followed him
everywhere; Mississippi, Virginia, here, to the ends of the world.
It was unthinkable, unbelievable, impossible. Why do I harbor such
feelings, and play with them, feeding them? Why me? It was so wrong, much
too wrong. Where did I stand in this? An innocent onlooker? An unrequited
lover? A third wheel?
*God Sullie, I miss you already.*
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I should have known better. I should have never let him go. Sullie was
supposed to be by my side, defending the destroyed bridge over Chickamauga
Creek. We had seen the blues over the other side, taunting us for our
cowardice. But they couldn't get over, not without the bridge.
"There's nothing here, Sarge. We missed the fun days ago," Sullie had
complained, tired of the eye games. He sighed, giving me an all too-familiar
protest.
"*This* is not fun and games, Sullie," I retorted--the blues were getting
antsy.
Sullie opened his mouth to reply, but thought better of it. He shook his
head, looking my way. I heard the fervid rustles behind me, and forced
myself to turn away from him. I saw two men running up to me, gasping as
they tried to find the words.
"The General requests more," one stopped, "He needs more men, Sir." I
blinked. It couldn't be. I retrieved the paper held out by the other man,
reading the General's scrawly handwriting.
Damn.
"No, I need my men here. No!" I pushed the paper back.
"Sir, it is an *order*," they stressed. I instantly had a foreboding. It
was like a shadow had loomed behind me and refused to let me turn around and
see it. I sensed the men looking at me, reading my thoughts. A long silence
passed before I spoke.
"Fine! Here," I signaled to a few men, shouting my commands when they got
nearer. When they started to leave to follow the two men, I caught Sullie
creeping back too. I stared at him, aghast. How could he even--
"Sullie--*No!*"
He stopped in his tracks, his eyes fastened on mine. Then he grinned that
crooked smile at me, like I *knew*.
"Sarge, for Duty remember? The reason we're here?"
"Yes," I said curtly, "but I need you more here, by the bridge."
Which was a lie, of course. Sullie didn't seem to believe it for an
instant.
"I'll come back for you. We always do."
But *that* was the lie--he didn't.
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*Sullie, Sullie, Sullie...*
The air pierced through every pore of my body. It brought with it the
sickly stench that I knew too well. I had never gotten used to it; I merely
knew it, kept it and threw its key away. But in times like this, it returned
like a ghost, haunting the living.
I could not find him. The field was filled with everyone but him. Bodies
lay on top of another; each contorted into some episode of a bloody dance.
Bodies that were malleable, pliant, before becoming hardened and blacked
with blood. Their faces were cast in a combination of pain, fear and shock
and their eyes were dark, no longer bright but shrouded with blood and grit.
They didn't know what hit them. Heroes, losers, it didn't matter now. They
were the fallen ones; the ones who had suffered all, sacrificed all and
dared all--and died.
"Sullie!" I cried suddenly when the unknown became too unbearable. I saw
more greys than blues, and to my utter confusion everything started to blend
horribly. Every face was of Sullie's; his blond hair, his sad blue eyes, the
shadow beginnings of his smile.
I was horrified. His image merged with the rest that graced the ground. It
was a scene beyond my wildest dreams; one that would stay with me for the
rest of my life. No, it was not that there had not been other fights, other
battles, but I had never lose sight of Sullie before. This was the first and
the only time.
His images blurred, dissolving into someone else's, as I got closer to
them. It wasn't him, it wasn't him too, I thought when I looked upon the
faces at my feet. Perhaps, he was not here at all. Why didn't I think of
that?
Someone whimpered, and I bent down closer. He mumbled my name, and I
remembered him.
"Henry? Hold on Sergeant. Have you seen, have you--Sullie?" I tried to keep
my voice from sounding desperate. He shook his head painfully.
"Henry? Henry?!" He gurgled, and slipped before my very eyes. I closed his
eyes, and said a prayer for him. On end, I felt heavier, almost exhausted. I
lay Henry on the ground, and trudged on.
All around me the field looked the same--the broken bodies, the leaden air,
the cannon fire that still went on in a distance. But when I stepped to my
right, time stood still. A head shifted in the grass, and Sullie's image
moved with it.
I ran. The wind nipped at my heels as I edged closer, closer to him. I
slowed, giving the sweat a chance to pool. It was him. I found him.
I knelt next to him, not knowing exactly where to start. I couldn't see
anything wrong with him, his uniform unmarred; no blood, no grit, nothing.
Yet, he lay motionless; his breathing (he breathes!) so slowed and measured
that I thought he was just sleeping.
"Sullie? Sullie, it's me--"
He moaned. I cradled his head gently, sweeping his hair back into a fine
mess. His eyes refused to open, even though I tried coaxing them back to
life. Something had hurt him, and I grew weaker just knowing that.
"Sarge?" He grabbed me and began to sob. "Sarge--"
"It's okay, Scullie," I murmured. "It's okay, it's okay..."
"Is it--what happened?"
"Hush. Not now, Sullie," I pulled him tighter, seeing his eyes opened
finally. He gasped in my hold and coughed painfully for relief. His mouth
widened for air, and I received an eyeful of the bloody linings inside. I
looked away, tearing unexpectantly.
"Sarge? I'm glad you're here."
I said nothing and just held him. After a moment, I raised my head to look
at him: the dark stubble that covered his cheeks and chin, the weary eyes
that settled and were somehow at peace.
It was like gazing at someone who had been robbed of his love, and yet
contented with the loss. His eyes were sharp and guileless as he gazed at
me.
He covered my hand with his--so cold, surely he shouldn't be this cold?
"I'm really glad you're here. You *came* for me--I know you would," he
gasped, his back bending over. He shook in my arms, the pain violently
wracking him apart. It was then that I felt it; the warm fluid that pressed
against his back, a steady flow between my fingers.
"*No!--*"
I bowed my head, mumbling something about *No, don't do this to me,
wait...*
"I miss Sarah, Sarge. You think she knows? That I love her?" I nodded, not
caring where my tears would land.
"Don't leave me, Sullie! Don't," I realized and fumbled for my pouch,
finding the powdered morphine. "No, hold on! You can't leave me damnit!"
The powder itched on my fingers, slipping through them like sand. Not
enough, not enough--
"You won't, damnit! Here, look at me. Look at me," I pleaded when his eyes
lost me and looked away.
He reached for my face, trying to stop me. It must have hurt, because he
grimaced as he cupped my cheek. He held me tenderly, his fingertips grazing
me ever so softly.
"William." His blue eyes were clear as water. "I'll love you next time.
"I promise."
I bit my lip. New tears stung my eyes, and I shook my head defiantly. "Why
not *this* time? Why her and not me? I *know* you better, Sullie, I *know*
you--"
He smiled and raised his palm to my forehead.
"---and I *love* you. I love--"
And silently I wept. Because of course there would never be a next time.
There had never even been a first time, and I hugged him closer so that he
wouldn't see me crying.
"I know, I know--*ah!*" Sullie fell before me, bringing me along. He gasped
his final breath, and died, leaving me alone.
"No Sullie no! No!"
I brought him up to me, pressing him, forcing him to my chest. No damnit,
no. Wake up, I said, *Wake up!*. He remained silent, his body so still.
I leaned into my heels, howling at my loss. I felt dead, hollowed and
empty. My life ended with his--
--and I didn't want to live anymore.
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The chants grew fainter as the men surged forward. I remained at the back,
securing the trampled ground. General Thomas was right; this was where we
would win. This was where they had fallen, and glory had found us once
again.
We knew the sides had been watching, even though they had fared no better.
Instead of weakening under their taunts, we fought harder and stronger,
spurred on by this close scrutiny. We had something to prove, and this
field, this field bore our name. That we won, that we had won this for them.
The frontlines did a fine job. The grays had fought valiantly, and I was
almost sorry for them. They were outnumbered, at the front and at the
flanks, but still they hung on. We could use their spirit in some of my men.
God knew, did they needed some.
I thought the field would be silent, that the cries would have long gone,
the bodies long lain. But something moved, a drift among the fallen.
"Halt goes there!" someone barked behind. "Sir, there's one more of them."
I held up my hand, confirming the sight. I noticed a figure on his knees,
as if in repentance. He was hunched over, over a body perhaps, and his face
was hidden in his bow.
Nothing seemed to touch him. He was oblivious to the call, and the many
others that followed. He held his position, his palms out in front of him.
I walked faster, stepping towards him. Slowly, he stood, bringing his hands
up above his head. He gazed to the sky and cried out a yearning, a loss. He
palmed his hands out, showing them covered with blood, but the blood was
cracked and drying, darkened like the others.
He dropped his eyes to mine. I stared back. It was bizarre--he seemed to
recognize me, and I, him; as if he had been waiting. Waiting for me all
along. He smiled knowingly, relieved at my coming.
*Take me*, he mouthed, loud enough for me to hear. I lowered my rifle,
confused.
*Take me*.
He urged me again, egging me when he motioned his slung rifle. I did
nothing, frozen by his eyes. His fingers had not even brushed the rifle when
I heard a shot rang out from behind.
"*No!--*"
Every sense was driven from me. From very far away, I heard a rifle cocked
back, the sound echoing throughout. One moment I was numb; the next I was
blinking as I looked around.
I covered the distance to him quickly. Seeing the strips on him as I
kneeled down, I reckoned that he was a Sergeant; one of the Rebels'
officers. His body had fallen rightly to his side, turning towards another
soldier. He had stopped breathing when I reached him, and I saw his hand had
grasped his fellow man in earnest.
I wouldn't pry them, as if I had known this. That I had known them to be
so; entwined, inseparable.
Somebody grabbed my shoulder and I turned.
"Sir?"
"Leave them be. I'll see to their burial." I stood up and threaded heavily
through the field. Taking off my hat and sliding the misty glasses off my
nose, I stopped, clutching my hands to my chest.
I had failed. I had failed to save them.
*Again*.
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