Scott knew he wouldn't sleep that night. He never did, not on that night, October 31st.
October 31st, 1863
The Confederates were up there. Twice his men had been ambushed; four men killed, five wounded. The rebel soldiers were up there among the rocks and he had to find them so his unit could get safely through that pass. There wasn't time to go around another way - the troops were needed on the field now.
He hand-picked the men who would go with him. Just five – it was skill and stealth that were needed here, not numbers. But these five were the best. He could trust them absolutely. They picked up the trail and worked their way up to a point where they hoped they would be able to spot the enemy.
They saw them – ten Confederate soldiers, rifles at the ready, so intent on the trail below that they neglected to watch above. Scott gave his orders. His men crept down then opened fire. The rebels never had a chance. Two minutes – less – and they lay dead.
Scott looked down at the bodies. There had been ten living men there; now there were just ten corpses, the red of their blood seeping through the gray of their uniforms in a dark stain of hideousness. It was not his first battle, by any means. He had seen action and he had seen death. But this was the first time that he had been the one to give the orders. This time, the deaths were his responsibility. The blood seeping through that gray cloth was on his hands.
They came back to him every year. At midnight on October 31st, the ten Confederate soldiers would be standing in front of him, staring at him. Then he would see that red-gray stain appear on their uniforms. It would spread as they fell to the ground, one by one, and lay there, sightless eyes dead but staring at him still.
On the battlefield, in the prison camp, in his grandfather's elegant Boston mansion they had come. He could never sleep through it. He exhausted himself the day before but still woke at midnight. He drank himself into a stupor, but still was wide awake as the clock struck midnight and the rebel soldiers stood in front of him.
Now he was on Lancer, it was October 31st and he knew that they would follow him. He knew he couldn't escape the past.
Suddenly he was angry. Was this going to go on for ever? Would he be at the mercy of – ghosts? conscience? – for the rest of his life? No! He was going to do something. He couldn't escape the past – very well, he would face it instead and see what would happen.
At a quarter to twelve he slipped out of the house. Whatever might happen, he did not want those ghouls anywhere near his family. They were his demons, and his alone. He went out to the open ground past the guardhouse and waited.
Midnight. They came. They stood in a line in front of him, staring. Other times, Scott had tried to turn away, to avoid that stare of accusation, but this time he stood straight and looked steadily back at them. He drew a deep breath and spoke.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I did my duty. I did what I had to do."
Their leader answered him: "Just as we did ourselves, Captain."
One by one, the soldiers saluted, then they turned and marched away.