Note: Dear readers, if you were following my other story, Secrets of Her Heart...I took it down after feeling that it just wasn't working, and only leading to more angst/frustration on my part. I need to edit and re-format it again, and will re-submit it when I have more time to devote to it. For now, it's on hiatus, and I had planned on taking a break from GWTW for the remainder of the summer...however, I sat down tonight in Starbucks and this just came out. So, without further adieu...
1
Major Ashley Wilkes, C.S.A, walked up the back stairwell of the First Baptist Church of Petersburg and entered the sanctuary. He was tired and restless and completely unable to aide his wretched, barefooted men. Always a conscientious objector to war, he had answered the call to arms in defense of his home state, and proved himself an able leader of men; but despite his commendations, he still loathed it all passionately. The worst part of it was that he could do nothing to speed it along, nothing to ease the suffering of his men in the field or his wife at home. Ah, sweet Melly, so innocent and virtuous…and then there was Scarlett. Guiltily, he imagined the kiss they had shared on his last day of furlough. His hand pressed downward in his pants as he remembered it…
God! He half cursed, half prayed. Even God seemed unreachable these days. And why not, Ashley thought, why would a loving God want to comfort his creatures while they're destroying one another?
He sat down in a pew and took a look around. A faint, ghostly glow from a far-off lantern illuminated the empty sanctuary, yet, the place still promised utter privacy.
God forgive me, Ashley thought. He unbuttoned the fly of his pants and tried to envision the woman who had become in his mind the most beautiful in all creation. After he had finished, he laid down in the pew and wept, recalling the manifestations of concern he had received from early childhood on about the evils of what he had just done…and in a church, no less!
A movement from back of the church caused the sweat upon Ashley's brow to flash suddenly in the dim light. He sat up with a start, calling out: "Hello?"
There was no answer and Ashley withdrew his pistol. He stood up and walked towards the sound of the commotion, his boots creaking upon the wooden floor.
"Stand up," he said softly, allowing the intruder to see that he was armed. The faint light revealed a thin face, with big eyes, black as coal.
"Step over here, into the light," Ashley ordered.
The intruder did so, and they stood staring at one another. He was revealed to be a boy of no more than sixteen years; Ashley suspected even less. He was youthfully gangly, but his wide shoulders foreshadowed a brawny physique as he aged. His face was swarthy, almost like that of an Italian, and Ashley thought to himself that this boy could have been a young Borgia. His features were dark and patrician, with wide dark eyes and a head full of black hair. He reminded Ashley greatly of someone he had met before but could not place.
"What's your name, son?" he said.
"I'm not your son." The boy's tone was defiant but his words were well spoken, albeit inflected with a heavy drawl.
"Well, what are you up to?" Ashley tried again.
The boy shrugged. "Nothing. Just walking."
"Sit down," Ashley said, motioning toward a pew.
The boy obeyed and scrutinized the man before him. A tall, well-made cavalry officer, he wore a new, finely woven tunic coupled with beautiful silken sash tied into a lover's knot. He had the fine face of an aristocrat, and discerning grey eyes, which were uncomfortably focused on him.
"So you're a private? Who is your commanding officer?" Ashley queried.
"Why should I tell you?" the boy shrugged his shoulders. "You'll just turn me in for being out after hours."
"I won't," said Ashley, smiling. "On my honor as a gentleman."
The boy scoffed. "I've never met a gentleman, so I don't know if your honor's worth an Indian head cent."
Ashley rolled his eyes. "I used to think that it was worth something, but you've probably given an accurate measurement of it's value of late."
The boy shrugged his shoulders and made himself comfortable on the pew.
"So," Ashley asked, crossing his legs as he spoke. "Would you at least tell me your name?"
The boy pondered the question before blurting out, "Why don't you tell me yours?"
Ashley tried not to smile at the boy's immense sense of dignity and self-assurance; he was fortunate that he had not attempted such sass on an officer more concerned with proper protocol than Ashley was.
"Major Ashley Wilkes, of Cobb's Legion."
"Oh! I thought you were just an ordinary soldier."
"I am," Ashley said. "We are all of us ordinary men underneath all the trappings. Some of the officers seem to forget that fact."
"You're alright," the boy said approvingly.
"Thank you," Ashley said, attempting a different tactic. "So, your parents allowed you to enlist? You can't possibly be more than say, sixteen?"
"Fifteen," the boy whispered conspiratorially. "And I don't have any parents."
"You shouldn't be fighting. You should be in school."
"Nah," the boy shrugged. "School's not for me. I like to march. I carry a flag now, but I'm going to get a rifle next year."
"We'll all be fortunate to have rifles next year…" Ashley mused aloud. "Don't mind me, son; I'm just thinking aloud. I don't mean anything by it."
"Seems to me like too much thinking does more harm than good, anyway." The boy smiled.
"I do believe you're right. So, my young soldier, you've not any parents…any relatives?"
"Nope."
"You're remarkably well spoken, for one who is not suited for school," Ashley raised an eyebrow and the boy laughed.
"Alright, alright. My Pa put me in school."
"Aha!" Ashley said triumphantly, "and your father, who is he?"
"Just someone," the boy said casually, "he's not much of a father, if you know what I mean."
"Distant, you mean?"
"Nope. More like absent."
"Ah. And your mother?"
"Never seen her. She used to send me little presents and notes, but she doesn't anymore."
"So you're a…"
"Bastard." The boy spoke evenly. "So, why were you here tonight, Major?"
Ashley hoped that the boy didn't notice the grimace he made at the question. "Well, I…I suppose I came here to think about things."
"Like what?"
"Well, my wife, for one."
"Ah," the boy grinned broadly, "I can understand that."
"You're a bit too young for…" Ashley began, but stopped as the boy burst out in fresh laughter.
"I know everything there is to know about women. Grace Anne showed me everything before I ran off and joined up with the army."
Ashley didn't need to inquire as to the nature of the boy's association with Grace Anne and he glossed over the matter with another question. "Surely you can't know everything about women, at your age?"
"What's there to know? 'Sides that they always want what they can't have. I tried to get Grace Anne to notice me for a year and a half, then I tell her I'm running away and enlisting and she's on me like stink on a Junebug! I'm right, aren't I?"
They sat there, staring at one another, and Ashley Wilkes saw a child who was infinitely more mature than himself.
"You know what I mean, though, right?"
"I can understand that, yes," Ashley replied. "So, young master. Since you understand women so well, perhaps you could answer a question for me."
"Shoot," the boy said.
"Suppose that I had a friend, in desperate need of advice. My friend is happily married to the most wonderful woman in the world, but has become the unwilling recipient of the attention of another."
"Does this friend of yours care 'bout this other woman?"
"Very much. She's an old friend."
"That's all? Well, why doesn't he just tell her that he's in love with his wife?"
"Well, that's the trouble," Ashley sighed. "He doesn't know that he's in love…"
The boy nodded his head, indicating that he had heard, but that Ashley had given the wrong answer.
"Is this other woman pretty?"
"Yes."
"Is the wife?"
"Yes, of course."
"I see. No wonder your friend's in a dilemma. So, what's he going to do about it?"
A curious pride settled on the man's face. "He's going to try to lose himself in this war. And he's going to regain his honor and then, if he lives, he's going to return to his wife."
"And what about that other woman?"
Ashley's face twisted. "Sometimes, hard choices must be made. Ties must be severed for the sake of honor. You must defer to me in this, young master, for I've lived longer than you. Trust me when I say that life is not worth living without honor. That's what we are all fighting for…"
The boy leaned back in the pew and sighed loudly. "That may be what you're fighting for. Not me."
"I would bet all of my earthly goods that you have no concept of what you're fighting for. Nothing save the thrill of enlisting underage. You've never seen battle, never seen-"
"I've seen lots!" the boy interrupted. "And besides, I've wanted to run away for a long time, and this seemed as good a place to run as any. Besides, I'll get to kill me some Yankees!"
"You're trying to find yourself," Ashley said softly, "trying to create a place for yourself, and I'm just trying to lose myself. How serendipitous that our paths should cross."
"What's that mean?" the boy queried.
"Never mind, I'm just thinking aloud again. It must be very late, young master. You should probably return to your regiment."
The boy yawned and nodded. "I hope it works out for your friend, Major Wilkes."
"I hope so too," Ashley murmured as the boy stood up to leave. "Boy!" Ashley called out. The boy faced him once more. "Yes?"
"Try not to get yourself killed," Ashley said. "And I hope that you find whatever it is you're looking for."
"Thank you, Major," the boy replied. "Maybe someday we'll run into each other again and I can tell you all about it."
As Ashley watched the boy leave, he was filled with a peculiar sense of relief in having confided with someone, even if that someone was a complete stranger. And although Ashley did not know it, the boy did survive the battle, carrying with him the memory of the splendid looking cavalry officer who had been kind to him, and always wondering which of the two women won him over in the end…
. . Nine Years Later . .
"Pub's filling up, eh? I wasna sae soaked as you, but the rain's bad enough for a' that!" A young man was addressing his companion, a swarthy-faced youth of about the same age as the two of them sat at the bar eating shepherd's pie. The young men had flagged down one of the ambling local goods trains and ridden with an engine driver from Jonesboro to Atlanta, where they had taken up temporary lodging in the saloon, if only to enjoy a hot meal and a break from the rain.
"The rain's been falling for two whole days, son," the bartender refilled their pints at the wordless request of the darker one. "Shouldn't be too much longer, I hope."
"Aye, nae doubt," said the redheaded Scot as he extended a large hand. "Tommy Mackenzie, do I nae you?"
"I think I'd recall the hair," the bartender said good-naturedly, "your friend have a name, or does he let you do all the talking?"
"Well, he doesna make sic a pleasant companion. If I hadna known, I woulda left him back in Petersburg where I found him, drunk on his wee arse!"
"Lucky I'm wiped out," the dark boy spoke, "else I'd pound you for that sass."
"Oh aye!" Tommy rolled his eyes. "This is Luke. Bad enough for a'that."
"Luke," the bartender shook his hand. "You boys planning on stopping here for awhile?"
"Nope," Luke answered quickly. "We're on our way to California. I have a quick personal matter to tend to here, and then we'll be on our way."
"Hope you're not figuring on finding gold, son," the bartender chuckled, "ain't been no gold in California in years. In fact, the lady I let this place from is married to Rhett Butler; supposed to be the biggest speculator in the whole South, is what they say."
"Really?" Luke said nonchalantly, cutting into the flaky crust with evident enjoyment. "So, he still lives here in town?"
"Well, it was a big mess up in the big house…that's where they live, over on Peachtree Street. Apparently, his wife, that's my landlady, mind…well apparently she was two-timing him, and last month their little girl died and now her sister-in-law. Funeral's today, as a matter of fact. So you see, big mess."
"'Tis stories like that that make me glad that I wasna born a rich man," Tommy chimed in.
Luke fell silent and Tommy observed the sudden change in his companion. They had been friends since the war, when they had both been starry-eyed flag bearers with dreams of military glory and adventure. When the war had ended, the boys had become men, and the pair of them had worked odd jobs all over the country. They'd held every conceivable occupation-roustabouts on the Mississippi, cattle drivers in Montana, and one season of cotton planting in Alabama-but never stayed long in a particular city. The sun had weathered both of their complexions, although Tommy was pink cheeked while Luke's skin was a sort of mottled mahogany. They thrived on the nomadic lifestyle, and had little thought of settling down. With the passing of the years, Luke's New Orleans accent had become less drawling and his sentences much shorter. But the women loved him, even if he was a man of few words, and Tommy joked that Luke had a different girl waiting in every town they visited.
Luke muttered something under his breath and stood up, but would not say anything further to the bartender. "I'm going for a walk," he said to Tommy. "Be back after while."
"Fine. But doona expect me to be awaitin on you. That bawdyhouse we passed is looking mighty promising to ma weary body."
"Suit yourself," Luke shrugged as he walked out into the rain.
The cemetery was on his right, and he snapped his hat off of his head with respect as a hearse passed by, followed by at least twenty packed carriages. Morbid curiosity filled him, and he looked up at the sky, as if searching for something. He stepped easily over the wrought iron railing and followed the funeral party. No one else would think of it, he thought wryly, crashing a funeral. Yet something compelled him to continue, something outside his own detached curiosity. Unbeknownst to the young man, another figure was watching him walk across the graves and pause a fair distance from the mourning party.
As the hearse came to a stop at the final resting place of the departed, a hand touched the young man's shoulder, and he whirled around, finding himself standing face to face with none other than his long absent father.