have to die as payment. A lot of things happened to enemy bodies in those days. We don’t really want or need to know.”
“You were hit before you could see him die. You don’t know that he died.”
“He had a terrible wound, a neck wound—I’ve told you. People who get shot in the neck die. They bleed to death or their neck is broken. They don’t survive and go on to reconstruct a meaningful life. Let’s say he did survive and crawled away into the river. It snowed that day. The temperatures were dropping while we were out fighting for our lives. He would have died from exposure to the elements.”
Somerset shook her head.
“You haven’t examined all the angles, Joseph. You admitted that it seemed a little personal to you. What if whoever shot him wanted Eric alive? He might have been taken in for questioning to learn more about your sniping practices. He might have died in custody or been sent to a prison. It struck me as bizarre when you were the only one out of the group who was captured and sent to prison. What if you were captured based on what Eric said about you to the enemy? Maybe he didn’t have the enemy. Perhaps you did.”
“That is a fanciful but intelligent hypothesis,” agreed Joseph. “I’ll say something to refute it, though. Maybe it was far more personal than I can grasp. Maybe it was me who had the enemy after all. You’re concerned with whether Eric is alive and the answer is no. He would have died in captivity quickly. Even if he was only taken to prison, his odds were slim to none. I don’t talk about prison for a reason. If it can kill a healthy man, it will eat up a wounded man before anyone knows he’s there.”
“But if you all were of interest to the United States government—”
Joseph threw up a hand.
“Somerset, good grief! We weren’t that important. The armies on both sides were full of snipers like us. I know we wrote home and made it sound adventurous and grand like something out of a dime novel. Believe me, sometimes it was, but shooting a gun is shooting a gun and the fate of the Confederacy didn’t rest on our shoulders. I know Theodore polished up the stories so that you girls felt like we were powerful, but he really only said those things to keep you from worrying so hard about us. He thought you’d all have time enough to grieve if something really happened and didn’t want you so distracted you couldn’t function when you had animal husbandry and crop planting to learn.”
“Fine,” she acquiesced, “but what if he is alive in a hospital for veterans or someone’s home? He might be so addled he doesn’t know who he is. He might be in a bed, unable to move and dreaming of home.”
Joseph rubbed his finger along the rim of his glass so that it began to sing. He looked thoughtful, as if he was weighing every word before he placed it in his sentence for effect. It was a long time before he spoke again, and when he did so he spoke to give all of his words due measure.
“I’ll say it again. People don’t usually survive the type of wound Eric received. Let’s say you’re correct, and there was an ulterior motive at play. Let’s assume that he went to prison for questioning by the U.S. government.”
Joseph stood up and turned so that his back was on full display. He held the lamp so that the rosy light reflected on a multitude of scars that Somerset averted her eyes from. She’d always suspected he’d been flogged. The scars on his back attested to the fact. There were indentations and gouges as deep as two of her fingers held together. There was scar tissue woven into scar tissue in a pattern so grotesque that he was covered in a flesh tapestry of his own suffering. She made a noise of revulsion before she thought. Joseph topped her glass off again.
“It was outlawed supposedly, but I’ve been flogged,” said Joseph, replacing the lamp and reclining once more. “I’ve been flogged, bucked and gagged, and before they released me,
“You were hit before you could see him die. You don’t know that he died.”
“He had a terrible wound, a neck wound—I’ve told you. People who get shot in the neck die. They bleed to death or their neck is broken. They don’t survive and go on to reconstruct a meaningful life. Let’s say he did survive and crawled away into the river. It snowed that day. The temperatures were dropping while we were out fighting for our lives. He would have died from exposure to the elements.”
Somerset shook her head.
“You haven’t examined all the angles, Joseph. You admitted that it seemed a little personal to you. What if whoever shot him wanted Eric alive? He might have been taken in for questioning to learn more about your sniping practices. He might have died in custody or been sent to a prison. It struck me as bizarre when you were the only one out of the group who was captured and sent to prison. What if you were captured based on what Eric said about you to the enemy? Maybe he didn’t have the enemy. Perhaps you did.”
“That is a fanciful but intelligent hypothesis,” agreed Joseph. “I’ll say something to refute it, though. Maybe it was far more personal than I can grasp. Maybe it was me who had the enemy after all. You’re concerned with whether Eric is alive and the answer is no. He would have died in captivity quickly. Even if he was only taken to prison, his odds were slim to none. I don’t talk about prison for a reason. If it can kill a healthy man, it will eat up a wounded man before anyone knows he’s there.”
“But if you all were of interest to the United States government—”
Joseph threw up a hand.
“Somerset, good grief! We weren’t that important. The armies on both sides were full of snipers like us. I know we wrote home and made it sound adventurous and grand like something out of a dime novel. Believe me, sometimes it was, but shooting a gun is shooting a gun and the fate of the Confederacy didn’t rest on our shoulders. I know Theodore polished up the stories so that you girls felt like we were powerful, but he really only said those things to keep you from worrying so hard about us. He thought you’d all have time enough to grieve if something really happened and didn’t want you so distracted you couldn’t function when you had animal husbandry and crop planting to learn.”
“Fine,” she acquiesced, “but what if he is alive in a hospital for veterans or someone’s home? He might be so addled he doesn’t know who he is. He might be in a bed, unable to move and dreaming of home.”
Joseph rubbed his finger along the rim of his glass so that it began to sing. He looked thoughtful, as if he was weighing every word before he placed it in his sentence for effect. It was a long time before he spoke again, and when he did so he spoke to give all of his words due measure.
“I’ll say it again. People don’t usually survive the type of wound Eric received. Let’s say you’re correct, and there was an ulterior motive at play. Let’s assume that he went to prison for questioning by the U.S. government.”
Joseph stood up and turned so that his back was on full display. He held the lamp so that the rosy light reflected on a multitude of scars that Somerset averted her eyes from. She’d always suspected he’d been flogged. The scars on his back attested to the fact. There were indentations and gouges as deep as two of her fingers held together. There was scar tissue woven into scar tissue in a pattern so grotesque that he was covered in a flesh tapestry of his own suffering. She made a noise of revulsion before she thought. Joseph topped her glass off again.
“It was outlawed supposedly, but I’ve been flogged,” said Joseph, replacing the lamp and reclining once more. “I’ve been flogged, bucked and gagged, and before they released me,
Similar Books
