bequeath Abel the busy heavens and all the planets in them. His mother was not two weeks in her grave, and his father himself but six months from his own.
Abel lay drowsy beside the fire, remembering further ahead—after those six months had fled and his father had gone to wherever it was the dead went. A cold, dark plain, windswept and candlelit. On Abel went, past the years of his adolescence in the dull, weary, cold, silent house of his maternal aunt outside Albany. She’d saved his soul for the Lord, then left him to his own devices. On and on, sleepy by the fire, past his daughter and past his wife, past happiness and hope and the first spring of war upon the land. He remembered Fredericksburg for no other reason than the cold night after the battle the sky was lit by the aurora borealis shining southward, sparkling with every color over all the living and all the dead on those icy, gore-strewn fields below Marye’s Heights.
And now this still night becalmed beside the starlit waters of the cold, gray Pacific, and all the twists of life that led him there. But it was all gone and had been for years, and as he finally slipped to sleep,Abel stretched out his arm to curl his fingers into the soft fur along the dog’s neck.
His sleep that night was absolute and dreamless as only an old man’s sleep can sometimes be. And so quiet and peaceful, so restful, that Abel had no ready explanation for the quick, bright pain he felt from temple to jaw upon waking. It was sharp and ice-cold, followed by a slow warmth that spread along his neck. As his eyes came open, Abel Truman knew he’d been cut.
Willis crouched in the sand beside him. The little man’s tongue slid about the torn, red edges of his cheek, and the knife in his hand was streaked with Abel’s blood.
The old soldier blinked and took a breath. He rolled up onto his knees, but before he could stand, Willis’ boot slammed into the side of his head and Abel went tumbling back into a stand of waxy salal.
As he rolled over onto his hands and knees, Abel spat a single tooth that rolled off into the brush like a tossed pebble. Willis stood watching. Even had he not been mangled, Abel reckoned he’d have the look of being born out of season. When he raised his palms, Willis brought his boot down again. And when Abel fell, the little man began to use his fists.
Abel woke when water touched his face. The sun was gone, the sky dark gray, and the tide was rising around where he lay in the surf. Every so often a wave would splash against his face. The water was very cold, and Abel was thirsty. He thought to call out for the dog but found he did not have the voice for it. He pushed weakly through the wet sand, but such motion brought him spasms of pain, so he quit.
By and by the sound of the tide receded behind the clatter of his heart. Abel’s face was cool. He tasted seawater. From somewhere came the sound of water slapping against wood, of men’s voices calling, but he still had no words with which to answer.
After a while, he slivered open his eyes. There was a dark shape upon the water. Other shapes separated from it to come wading through the surf. Their shadows were long upon the water. A wave broke over Abel’s head, and he sputtered. He heard their voices again, suddenly close. Their long shadows fell over him. Strong hands lifted him. The dark sky opened. Rain began to fall.
Chapter Four
Cyphering
1864
May 4
They struck camp four hours later. Men and boys rolled their meager belongings into blankets and hung the blankets from themselves, shoulder-to-hip. They filled canteens with fresh water and threw their playing cards into the dirt. In the full, bright sun of noontime they swung out onto the road singing “Mister, Where’s Your Mule?” and “I Can Whip the Scoundrel.” They marched with that noon sun winking off their rifle barrels and bayonet points and browning already their winter-pale arms. The Army of Northern Virginia marched that day to
Abel lay drowsy beside the fire, remembering further ahead—after those six months had fled and his father had gone to wherever it was the dead went. A cold, dark plain, windswept and candlelit. On Abel went, past the years of his adolescence in the dull, weary, cold, silent house of his maternal aunt outside Albany. She’d saved his soul for the Lord, then left him to his own devices. On and on, sleepy by the fire, past his daughter and past his wife, past happiness and hope and the first spring of war upon the land. He remembered Fredericksburg for no other reason than the cold night after the battle the sky was lit by the aurora borealis shining southward, sparkling with every color over all the living and all the dead on those icy, gore-strewn fields below Marye’s Heights.
And now this still night becalmed beside the starlit waters of the cold, gray Pacific, and all the twists of life that led him there. But it was all gone and had been for years, and as he finally slipped to sleep,Abel stretched out his arm to curl his fingers into the soft fur along the dog’s neck.
His sleep that night was absolute and dreamless as only an old man’s sleep can sometimes be. And so quiet and peaceful, so restful, that Abel had no ready explanation for the quick, bright pain he felt from temple to jaw upon waking. It was sharp and ice-cold, followed by a slow warmth that spread along his neck. As his eyes came open, Abel Truman knew he’d been cut.
Willis crouched in the sand beside him. The little man’s tongue slid about the torn, red edges of his cheek, and the knife in his hand was streaked with Abel’s blood.
The old soldier blinked and took a breath. He rolled up onto his knees, but before he could stand, Willis’ boot slammed into the side of his head and Abel went tumbling back into a stand of waxy salal.
As he rolled over onto his hands and knees, Abel spat a single tooth that rolled off into the brush like a tossed pebble. Willis stood watching. Even had he not been mangled, Abel reckoned he’d have the look of being born out of season. When he raised his palms, Willis brought his boot down again. And when Abel fell, the little man began to use his fists.
Abel woke when water touched his face. The sun was gone, the sky dark gray, and the tide was rising around where he lay in the surf. Every so often a wave would splash against his face. The water was very cold, and Abel was thirsty. He thought to call out for the dog but found he did not have the voice for it. He pushed weakly through the wet sand, but such motion brought him spasms of pain, so he quit.
By and by the sound of the tide receded behind the clatter of his heart. Abel’s face was cool. He tasted seawater. From somewhere came the sound of water slapping against wood, of men’s voices calling, but he still had no words with which to answer.
After a while, he slivered open his eyes. There was a dark shape upon the water. Other shapes separated from it to come wading through the surf. Their shadows were long upon the water. A wave broke over Abel’s head, and he sputtered. He heard their voices again, suddenly close. Their long shadows fell over him. Strong hands lifted him. The dark sky opened. Rain began to fall.
Chapter Four
Cyphering
1864
May 4
They struck camp four hours later. Men and boys rolled their meager belongings into blankets and hung the blankets from themselves, shoulder-to-hip. They filled canteens with fresh water and threw their playing cards into the dirt. In the full, bright sun of noontime they swung out onto the road singing “Mister, Where’s Your Mule?” and “I Can Whip the Scoundrel.” They marched with that noon sun winking off their rifle barrels and bayonet points and browning already their winter-pale arms. The Army of Northern Virginia marched that day to
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