Just Shaw in this one. Warnings for some more graphic descriptions, but that's about it.
The tent was bathed in shadow, obscuring much from view. A single, solemn lantern remained lit, the thin stream of an orange flame flickered and danced. It wavered for a moment, but continued to burn. A writing desk was tinged a deep orange by the flame's light. Darkness clung to the edges of every surface, steadfast. The air around the lantern wavered. Even without the aggressive rays of the sun, the summer heat was still present - almost as if it were alive. The landscape itself hum with the sound of crickets and the scurrying paws of small animals. The night was a pleasant chaos, one that was subdued and sprawling. It was a night to savor.
Soldiers lay swaddled in their nest of blankets, clinging to their fitful dreams as the brutal light of the sun drew near. Even in their dreams, they could never escape the monotony of camp life. In the deep hues of the darkness, they became shapeless lumps - swathed in the navy blue night. Everything was quiet, the dull clatter and shouts of make voices that were tamed by sleep's firm grasp. Those who were out on guard duty chewed on dirty fingernails and fought back exhaustion. The more anxious of the men lay listless, eyes staring into the inky black and fiddling with a piece of stray fabric. Others paced about gingerly, not daring to make a sound.
Not a soul dared to interrupt this sacred time, a time where soldiers could rest their weary limbs and aching joints. With night came an unknown presence, a strange feeling that plagued those who were still awake. It was a nameless feeling, a feeling one could never quite place. It was an odd, empty feeling. A feeling of something missing - but not being sure of what was gone. It was a sombre feeling.
A lone soldier sat hunched, resting lightly on a rickety crate. He jostled his knee and held a cigar tightly between his teeth. His kepi rested beside him, silver bugle adorning the front. A sheen of sweat on his brow, a look of fear in his bright blue eyes. Those were the eyes of a young man trapped in war. In a brutality that he will never escape.
In under 24 hours the man will be dead.
By the man end of the week his corpse will lay limply in a trench, ripe with maggots and newly-born larvae. His flesh will be yellowing and bloated with gas, on the verge of splitting open - only to release a torrent of writhing insects - insects who once sought refuge within his organs. His bright blue eyes will have sunken deep in his empty skull, withering away. A brain filled with the thoughts, dreams, and fears of youth will amount to nothing but an overripe, pulpy mess. There will be nothing left but dried, leathery skin clinging to sun-bleached bones. There's an agonizing finality in death. Pink gums turning black, a fleshy mold eating away at chapped lips. He is just one of many who will die this way.
Between his shaking hands is a letter, written in a script of curling letters and loving words. Tears seep sluggishly form his tired eyes as he tries not to alert anyone nearby.
The fear he feels is cold and sharp.
He knows he is going to die.
The fear a man feels when he is about to die is an unusual one. It's a poignant type of fear that rests lowly in a churning gut, a type of fear that consumes any who buckle under its weight. Yes, death itself is a particularly peculiar occurrence, and deserves its own special kind of phobia.
The young colonel of the 54th Massachusetts was drowning in this fear. It filled his aching lungs and churning stomach. His mouth was too dry, his eyes too wet. He fiddled with the wrinkled letter and chewed on his lip. The man's entire body was quaking, everything was just too much-
He took a deep breath. Then another one. He couldn't feel his toes.
His thoughts were murky and his head felt weightless. God, he wished that the war was over. That he'd receive a telegram in the early hours of the morning, telling him that his soldiers were to march right into Charleston, victorious. There would always be a bitterness in victory. But anything would be better than a crippling failure.
He wondered what his family was doing. The small colonel sighed. His uniform felt too stiff.
Robert Gould Shaw grimaced and ran his hands over the thick blue fabric, the texture rubbing against his calloused hands. The optimism that he had once clung to when he enlisted had drained away, leaving him jaded and empty. Chewing on his thumb, he wondered his many good men needed to die before Washington came to its senses. He didn't want the Union to lose. But he didn't want to watch good men get slashed to bits again and again. He wondered how many more.
Shaw doubted he would see an end to the war, let alone the end to tomorrow.
He wondered what death felt like.
Perhaps death death was like the smooth current of a brook, a cool feeling that washed gently over your limp frame. Perhaps it was an abrupt and crippling feeling, dark and sudden. Maybe it was as warm as the rich dark soil in March, or perhaps it was as unrelenting as a blizzard - harsh and full of anguish.
There was a pain in not knowing.
God, Shaw wished that he could sleep, if only to make the morrow less daunting. He longed for the desolation that a dreamless sleep could bring. He longed for home. He longed for an end to this foolish war.
And yet he remained painfully awake, eyes stinging with tears. Robert twitched and rubbed his eyes, pressing his hot palms into the sockets. And yet.
The man put out his cigar and grabbed his kepi. And yet.
He made his way to the tent, dragging his feet and kicking up a cloud of dust. Robert cracked his knuckles and ducked inside of the guard tent. He placed the letter gently on the writing set and rifled through his knapsack. His movements were empty and robotic. He hummed softly and rubbed the wetness from his eyes.
Shaw put out the lantern and settled into his bedding, staring blankly at the tent's rough canvas. One of his men murmured about about coffee and rolled over in his sleep.
He waited for morning to come.
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