An Eye for an Eye

Georgia. September 1863.

John Sheppard downed the whisky in one harsh swallow. He coughed, biting back the reflex to gag on the bitter alcoholic sting of the drink. He couldn't imagine imbibing this liquid except in extreme moments, like this one. He raised his bleary eyes to view his comrades. All were downtrodden, weary and young, like him. Men in their twenties, just boys really, but instead of plowshares they were carrying firearms and rifles and were at war.

They lurked like ghosts, almost invisible in their blue uniforms amid the gloom of the woodlands that surrounded them. Smoke from burning underbrush caused eyes to water and throats to scratch. A mist was weaving in and out of the trees, dampening all sounds, even the lone cracking of shotguns. The Union army had just suffered a tactical loss and was on the retreat from the advancing Confederates. Both sides had suffered tremendous losses of life.

The casualties had numbered into the thousands.

John had never seen so much carnage. He had been literally wading in blood and broken bodies along the trails, following orders to march a retreat to safer territory. Weariness clung to him like a dead weight on his shoulders. His throat was raw from the shouting. His hands were sore from the constant use of his weapons. His feet were sore from the hours of trekking through unfamiliar and dangerous territory.

A noise made him whirl, rising to his feet, gun at the ready. A large figure resolved itself into a burly man clad in a tattered blue uniform. "River of Death," Ronon Dex coughed as he sat on the fallen tree trunk John had been occupying.

"What?"

"River of Death. That's what Chickamagu means." Ronon took a long drink from the canteen at his side. "Earned that epithet today, didn't it?" He scratched at his shorn head, missing his longer hair. Army regulations dictated everything from appearance to weaponry.

"Yeah." John was about to resume his seat but he saw motion. Men were being marshaled to keep on the move through the twilight of mist and darkness. The flash of bayonets was like silver gleams between the trees, like stars flitting along the blackness. "We gotta go now."

"No."

"No?" John eyed his friend.

Ronon shrugged. "This ain't my fight. It ain't yours either, John. We need to quit this and go."

"Go where?"

"Go West. Away from this madness."

"We can't. Deserters get shot, and I am not a deserter. Let's go, Ronon."

"Fuck this. I've had enough." Ronon's brown eyes filled with tears but he stubbornly blinked them away, and John remembered that although tall and large his friend was five years younger. The war was aging them all, however, and shredding any innocence they had left.

John licked his lips and looked around. "We gotta go," he repeated quietly, but part of him longed to escape this madness and go out West. He longed to be free of his father's domineering vehemence and his older brother's smug contempt.

"What about them?" Ronon gestured behind him, down the ridge. No more words were needed. John knew exactly whom the other man meant.

"We leave them."

"We leave them? We leave them to die out there, like that? Unburied and—"

"Orders. Let's go, Dex!" John snapped, grabbing the other man's arm and hauling him to his feet. He snatched the flask of whiskey and stashed it into the pocket of his blue overcoat. John hated leaving anyone behind, but orders were orders and the survivors were on the retreat. He gestured and the two men trudged through the gloom of the forest night. "When we reach Chattanooga we can rest a spell."

Ronon snorted. He knew his friend had a sweetheart in Chattanooga, some girl he had just met and Ronon found the whole situation ridiculous, considering they were at war, but he humored his friend and encouraged him. It was a bright spot in an otherwise dark vista. "Is that the only reason you wanna go there?"

John felt a blush on his face and was glad the darkness hid it. "Of course. We." A branch snapped and John stopped talking. He shouted just as bullets lit out of the darkness, pinging off trees and into the men. "Ambush!" he needlessly yelled, hunkering down and returning fire towards shapes in the gloom.

Ronon fell beside him, blood racing from his arm. "Git 'em!" he snarled, rolling onto his stomach and firing a pistol.

The cacophony of rifles and the stench of smoke filled the air. Shouts could be heard as well as a chilling noise known as the Rebel Yell. It sounded like some crazed banshee and put many superstitious men to flight. The ululation echoed eerily along the foggy hills.

John was not a superstitious man, although he wore a small cross round his neck. He aimed and fired, fired until the shouts and screams were now resounding from the attackers. He quickly hauled Ronon to his feet. "We gotta move now!"

"You ain't gonna leave me?"

"Fuck no. Now let's go!" The sound of a bugle echoed through the woods.

"You're disobeying orders."

"Don't care."

"Sheppard!" A man emerged from the mist. He was riding a horse and loomed over the younger men. Unlike them his uniform was spotless. Even the gold buttons shone upon it. He wielded a saber and used to it emphasize his words. "We're marching to Chattanooga. Form up on the right flank and cover the retreat. Leave him."

"Sir? He can come with me."

"I said to leave him, soldier. Are you disobeying an order from your superior?" Even the man's impressive mustache quivered with indignation.

"Told ya," Ronon muttered darkly. "Go on. This is your war, not mine."

"No. He's only got a flesh wound and can fight as well as—" A glove across the face cut off John's argument. Anger flared and he raised his gun, but Ronon lowered it for him.

"If the half-breed can keep up, fine. Otherwise leave him. Now get to your position, boy! That's an order. Your daddy may have bought you that captain's star but you are still a junior officer. Do I need to strike you again? And find a horse, for God's sake! You are a disgrace to that uniform you wear!"

John glowered. His green eyes were hard as diamonds. He glanced at Ronon who nodded. John touched the brim of his cap, seemingly cowed. The officer nodded and turned his horse to ride away from the pair, confident he would be obeyed.

"Go on. Find your horse," Ronon stated.

John shrugged. "Sorry. We can meet up in Chatta—"

"No. I'm done here. Give that pretty gal a kiss from me, would ya?"

As John stammered in embarrassment Ronon grinned and headed into the depths of the woods. "Ronon? Dex, wait! Dex!" John called, knowing he should stop his friend before his absence was discovered. John debated. He knew Ronon well enough that once his mind was made up that was that. John could hardly blame his friend as he harbored similar sentiments.

But John couldn't negate his duty. It had less to do with his prominent father and more to do with his own personal sense of pride and honor.

With a sigh he looked round, choosing a direction and sprinted into the woods towards the right flank.