1862 by Robert Conroy

Maybe Nathan was the only one alive, and he wouldn’t last much longer. The pain in his leg surged through his brain and he couldn’t stifle a moan. At least it looked like the Apaches weren’t around to hear it.
    Nathan caught the scent of something burned. He gagged as he realized what it was. A few yards away lay the body of Private Fulk. He was naked and spread-eagled face up on the ground. He had not been killed in the ambush. Fulk had been captured and had taken a long time to die. His eyes had been gouged out, but what had killed him was a campfire that had been lit on his stomach. It had slowly burned through to his spine and still smoldered. His feet and fingers were also charred ruins. The Apaches liked to use fire.
    “I did this,” Nathan groaned. “It’s my fault.”
    He crawled farther. There was a head laying on the ground. How strange. No, it was sticking out of it. It was Downes, the last member of the patrol. The Apaches had buried him up to his neck and facing the dawn. They had cut off his eyelids so the sun had blinded him and reduced his eyes to lumps of charcoal. Nathan couldn’t tell if he was dead; he could only hope so.
    Nathan crawled on. He sensed something behind him and turned. An Apache stood a few feet away. Nathan tried to scream but nothing would come out. Then he tried to move, but his wounded leg wouldn’t let him. The Indian was laughing and he had a large bowie knife in his hand.
    And then Nathan was awake and lying in a pool of his own sweat. Nathan breathed heavily and checked his surroundings. He was in his own room and not under an Apache knife. He swore. The damned dream had returned.
    Of course, the events hadn’t occurred quite like the dream, which was a small source of comfort to him. For one thing, no one with a shattered leg could have crawled around like he did. He hadn’t actually seen the bodies until after a patrol had rescued him from the ravine. But the horrors that the Apaches had inflicted on the soldiers were accurate. Poor, blinded Downes had lived for a couple of hours before finally, mercifully, dying. He sometimes wondered if one of the other soldiers had helped him along. God bless him if he had. Downes had been castrated as well as blinded, and his tongue had been ripped out.
    Nathan had later been exonerated by a board of inquiry. It wasn’t his fault, they said. The Apaches had been stalking the main column for days and his little patrol’s search for a couple of lost horses had simply been a target of opportunity for an enemy that had been patient skilled, and greater in numbers.
    For Nathan, however, it wasn’t quite that simple. He had led four men to horrible deaths, and he himself had been maimed. He could never erase the ghastly sight of their remains and the way that two of them had died. It had led to a crisis of doubt: Could he ever lead men into harm’s way again?
    It had been almost a year before he was able to walk, and only then with the help of a cane. His body was much better now, but he still wondered if there was something— anything—that he could have done to save his men.
    Nathan rose and peeled off his sodden clothing. He sponged his body with cold water left overnight in a pitcher, and then dressed. It was very early, but there would be no more sleep for him this night. It had been awhile since he’d last had the dream, and he’d hoped it had gone forever. It hadn’t and it remained a presence, albeit a receding one, that he’d have to deal with.
    Nathan dressed and walked quietly down the hallway to the kitchen. Perhaps he could manage to make himself some coffee. As he walked, he noticed motion outside, in the wing where the servants lived. A disheveled and partially dressed Attila Flynn clambered out a first-floor window and looked around cautiously. He then reached into the window and pulled a plump and very naked Bridget Conlin halfway out to him. They kissed and embraced tenderly.
    “I think I should fire her,”