Again, this is more of some historical fiction rather than some Glory fan fiction, so there may be some names you might not recognize.
The summer was as hot as ever, the rays of the sun beating down upon their thick cotton uniforms. The deep navy blue of the cloth didn't provide any favors, absorbing the searing light that left the skin raw and tender. The scent of grimy soldiers and sickness made even the strongest recoil in absolute revulsion at the very thought of stepping foot within the vicinity. Needless to say, dysentery and other illnesses ran amok this time if year for Union and Confederate soldiers alike. Unclean and badly preserved food on top of unwashed hands led many a man bedridden, and an appalling amount dead within the week. Outbreaks of influenza caused a great worry within the 2nd Massachusetts.
Groups of soldiers congregated to recline in patches of shade, too exhausted after that day's drill to move about camp. The fairer of the men's faces had begun to burn and the skin to peel. Others sprawled out across crates of supplies, unconcerned by the splinters that dug beneath their grimy fingernails. Others paced about beneath the canopy of trees, restless now that they had so little to do. Thousands of unwashed bodies producing gallons of sweat may seem disgusting to some, but most had become apathetic to their personal hygiene. Many hadn't bathed themselves in quite some time since they had first enlisted. Some slept the day away, waiting until the tattoo of a snare to drill and be fed.
The regiment's small force of officers stuck closely together, unwilling to mingle with those lower in the army's hierarchy. They hovered over a small mahogany table, the expensive wood sticking out like a snare caught in a hound's pelt. It had been taken from a local secessionist's residence at the last town the regiment had settled near by. The force had pitched their tents near a small inn run by an even smaller woman, who had been nothing but kind and accommodating to the officers. She seemed particularly invested in the dashing Charles Morse, which the rest of the captains found incredibly funny. The woman was easily forty years the man's senior, and the younger of the officers had taken to hobbling behind Charles wherever he went and winking suggestively whenever he spotted them. Not used to being the butt of a joke, Captain Morse was not pleased.
Harry Russell was intent on taking the joke as far as he could, mind set on sending his old college friend over the edge. This got plenty of half-hearted complaints from Robert Shaw, who secretly found the entire situation endlessly funny-mostly just glad that he wasn't the one being picked on this time.
After months of idleness and boredom, the officers had run out of ideas to keep up the regiment's morale. Many had volunteered under the promise of glory and honor on the field of battle, which seemed now like a distant memory. The intense heat and outbreak of disease had left even the calmest soldier on edge. They were miles away from the heat of battle, much to their dismay. News of defeat trickled back from the front lines, a thinly veiled rage permeated the setting.
-
Harry scribbled furiously on a sheet of paper, weathered and torn. He was writing to his father, who had formed the infantry regiment a few months after the war had started. He scratched at his dark moustache, which had grown wildly over the past week. He had only been too lazy to shave, much to Robert's dismay. Harry glanced down at him. His cousin lay sprawled out across his pack, snoring loudly. He raised an eyebrow. Bob never slept past curfew unless he had been stuck with guard duty the night prior, let alone snore loud enough to wake anyone up. Harry shrugged. Probably the heat getting to him, which wasn't surprising considering how fair Robert's complexion was. He did look quite flushed, come to think of it.
Harry shrugged again and returned to his letter, updating his father about how nothing was happening. How fun.
That lasted for only a minute, however, when Charles barreled through the flap of their tent, eyes wild. He was breathing heavily, his tall and lanky frame stooped over. He was covered in a sheen of sweat, almost glowing. Harry raised another dark eyebrow at his friend. The captain waited for his friend to explain himself.
It took only a moment for Charles to catch his breath before he wheeled around. His face was flushed. "That HAG tried to kiss me! Good God, you would have taken me for a fool had you seen my face. I ran all the way here." His hands made several violent gestures in the air. "And you all think this is funny!"
A long pause.
Russell laughed so hard that he gasped for air as he cackled at his friend's expense, doubling over. Charles huffed and turned up his nose. Robert let out a snore and turned over in his sleep.
"I thought that BOB was always the one we make fun of. Not ME," Charles eyed his sleeping friend and jabbed an accusing finger. He plopped down on a crate near Harry, scowling. He gestured at the snoring captain below them. "I mean, just look at him."
Robert sniffled and turned over in his sleep, oblivious. Charles nudged him with his toe. The smaller man groaned, but slept soundly.
They decided to leave him be.
-
It was late at night when he awoke.
His ears were ringing terribly. Robert cracked open his eyes as pain lanced through his skull, his mind in a dull fog. His abdomen was on fire, and it felt as if someone had poured molten hot metal down his throat. His limbs were shaky and weak, all he could possibly do was moan and curl up into a little ball. He laid in a pool of his own sweat, much to his own disgust. He couldn't move without his entire body screaming in protest. He clutched his stomach, which was twisting in knots. Robert groaned meekly as he struggled into a sitting position. Harry laid on his cot nearby, back facing him. Richard and Charles' cots were empty. Neither of them had cared enough to put away their spare undergarments or an entire writing set. The mess would have annoyed him if he wasn't in so much pain.
Robert teetered back and forth on shaking legs, slowly picking his way across the mess that was their tent. He nearly tripped over a lonely shoe, causing his side to slam into a small nightstand. The small captain bit back a curse as the corner dug into his side, stomach seizing. Beads of sweat ran down the side of his neck. He grasped one of Harry's shoulders. Nothing. He shook it. His older cousin mumbled something incoherent before his eyes cracked open.
Harry grumbled and raised an eyebrow at the younger man, who was swaying on his feet. "You look like death."
And he did. His skin was as pale as freshly fallen snow, his eyes sunken and gaunt. The bags under his eyes were deep purple bruises. His lithe frame was stooped and lopsided-his hands were shaking violently. He peeled Robert's sticky hand from his shoulder. "Are you feeling well?"
His cousin paused. Robert bit his lip before shaking his head.
Harry remained silent for a moment, his mind not quite yet processing the situation. It was almost dawn, the morning's roll call was a matter of moments away. Daylight had already begun to seep through the burlap of their tent. Robert wavered as if he were to fall, so Harry crawled from his cot and steadied the smaller man. "Just rest for now. Tattoo will sound soon, we'll see how you feel then."
Robert nodded despondently and returned to his nest of blankets. Harry winced in sympathy. He prayed to God that the young captain wasn't falling ill. Several men-two privates and one second lieutenant-had died due to an assortment of ailments. This was not good.
The murmur of voices outside of the tent caught his attention. Harry cursed lowly. He wouldn't be able to fall asleep again before tattoo if Charlie was up already. Charles never woke up unless it was absolutely necessary. Other than that, his body slept as soundly as John Brown's did. Harry sluggishly pulled himself out of bed and poked at his dark mop of hair. He could just borrow Bob's hairbrush later. He glanced down at the man in question. He had fallen asleep again, and he cringed in sympathy. Definitely sick, no question about it. He slipped into his wrinkled uniform just as the first tattoo of a drum cut through the air, the sound crisp and sharp. Robert winced and cracked open his foggy eyes. Charlie stuck his head through the flap and gestured for the two to join him.
The two stumbled out into the buzzing August morning, making their way into the line for roll call. Their fellow soldiers began to congregate around their superior officers, not wanting to be framed for desertion. It happened quite a bit more than one would think. The hours seemed to tick by, then just like that, the men were carted away for breakfast. The cooks worked furiously at their stations, having been up for several hours to provide the day's rations for over a thousand hungry men. Like everything else in camp, they were covered in a fine layer of dirt and who knows what else.
Shaw had long since fallen silent as Harry tugged him towards their group of officers. Curtis, Cary, and Morse had already settled themselves on a small circle of rocks on the outskirts of camp. Richard Cary chewed on a piece of hardbread and stroked his graying beard. Greeley Curtis and Charles Morse sipped at their coffee and groaned at being awoken at five in the morning-half an hour earlier than usual-to help clean the horse's stalls. Needless to say, nobody was in a bright or cheery mood. Robert stared into his mug of tea and looked as if he was about to throw up.
The rest of breakfast was silent for the most part, as it usually was. Nobody had the energy for anything before the day's drill and parade. Harry seemed to be the only one who noticed Bob struggling to eat the small amount of bread he grabbed before leaving the mess hall. Perhaps he was just being too protective over his younger cousin. He could handle himself, after all. Russell wasn't his mother.
-
And that was it. The men dispersed to the rest of the camp to wait for that morning's drill, which was a matter of hours away. Charlie complained about how they were roused so early for breakfast, for drill only to be conducted at half-past eight every morning. Norwood and Cary grumbled in assent as they trailed off.
Harry shoved Robert into his cot after they returned to their tent. "Rest," he ordered at his cousin. "And no whining. It's too early for that. Sleep until I return-and I am NOT joking."
Shaw nodded slightly as Harry wandered off to find Charlie and the others.
-
Charles Fessenden Morse sat on a worn stool, eyeing two privates playing chess. The pieces had been crudely cut from a freshly fallen oak tree the month prior, the jagged slices of a dull knife turning each of the pawns into nondescript lumps of wood. The board was old and weary, the black paint faded and damaged. The black chess pieces had been smothered in writing ink, which had stained the hands of one of the privates. Charlie jostled his leg, which had begun to fall asleep.
He yawned and wandered off, leaving the other two men to finish their game. He deliberately avoided the path that crossed near the inn, not wanting to be confronted by the old woman again. He made a face, trying to get his mind off of things. The young captain dragged his feet along the trail, kicking up dirt and small pebbles. Charles hummed slightly off key, gazing into the dense foliage. The lush green ferns brushed past his legs as he tugged leaves off a nearby tree. He ripped up the soft green oak leaves, letting the fragments fall from his long and nimble fingers. Charlie rubbed at his bleary eyes and yawned widely, pulling out a small gold pocket watch. He groaned. Almost half-past eight. He sauntered back to camp, mentally preparing himself for drill. It never got less annoying each time he and the others tired themselves out.
-
Robert stumbled out of Harry's cot, limbs protesting every move. His throat tightened and he clenched his jaw shut. The young officer struggled out of the tent and blinked at the bright light of the sun, the ground already warm from the harsh rays of August. He shuffled into the mass of men, who were busy filing into tight rows-someone shouted orders. He spotted Charles nearby, who made a face when they caught eyes.
He prayed Harry wouldn't spot him during drill.
-
Let it be known that Captain Robert Gould Shaw hated running with all of his being. His lungs and throat would burn, his legs would turn to lead and drag him down. He had to run nearly twice the pace of the other men in order to compensate for his small frame- which both he and Harry had complained about to the ever mocking Charles, who was well over six feet tall. But running when you feel as if a horse trampled all over you was another beast entirely. He clutched his abdomen through the cloth of his uniform, breaths rapid and shallow. His jaw was sore from clenching his teeth with an intense fervor-the bile began to rise in his throat. The rest of his body had fallen numb.
It was only a matter of minutes before Shaw came to an abrupt halt, doubling over and clutching his stomach-all before promptly vomiting all over the back of another man's legs.
-
Harry had spotted his cousin a few lines ahead of himself, wincing as he watched Robert struggle to keep up with the unit. He cursed out the younger man in his head for being so stupid. He should have dragged him by the ear straight to the medical tent when he first saw Shaw that morning. As angry as he was at Bob for being a total fool, he couldn't help but feel pity as he watched him falter again and again.
Bob kept up the pace for a moment or two more before stopping abruptly in his tracks, nearly causing a few soldiers to run him down. Their drill sergeant shouted Shaw's name, but the captain didn't seem to notice. His legs buckled underneath himself, landing heavily on one of his knees. And then he saw the dark brown bile spew out of his mouth. Harry simply cursed under his breath harder.
A few voices shouted in disgust or confusion, and Russell stomped over to the smaller man. He grabbed Bob by the collar and virtually hauled him away. The sergeant shouted more orders and another man broke ranks, plucking Shaw from Harry's arms and rushing off to the medical bay. The disgruntled captain was ordered to return to the unit to finish drilling. Harry shouted something at his superior-something entirely incoherent-and sprinted after Robert. Charles buried his face in his hands and joined his friend.
What a wonderful way to start the morning.
-
His entire body was weak, pale hands trembling. The small captain felt weightless-his dirty boots suspended above the path. He had been hefted onto the shoulders of another soldier, and immediately his abdomen screamed out in agony. The world was dull and cloudy as he squeezed his eyes tightly shut, and ground his teeth together. The world was spinning wildly-he swayed back and forth with each step the nameless man took forward. Robert couldn't focus on anything, but he could hear the murmur of voices behind him. Bile began to rise in his throat again and he was too weak to hold it down-
And he promptly spilled his guts all down the back of the other soldier. There was a lot of cursing. If he wasn't so sick, he would have had the strength to be offended. More voices. Hands shifted. Robert's back abruptly plopped into a small cot under the shade of a burlap tent. He must be in the medical bay, then. His eyes cracked open as he spotted a few of his friends being ushered away by a rather frazzled doctor. Harry shot him an ugly look as he was pushed outside. Robert winced, knowing that as soon as he was better he would be getting an...earful to say the very least. He swore that Russell could be as bad as his own mother sometimes.
-
A common game among the 2nd's officers was to compare one another to animals. Cary was a hound, Morse was a moose, etcetera. Harry was often compared to a great brown bear-though he wasn't very tall, he was certainly strong like one. He was stocky and muscular, thick brown hair and large calloused hands. 'Mother bear' Shaw would often dub him-since he had taken to guarding Robert and the others like one. Though he still teased the others at their own expense, he would turn on a dime whenever he believed them to be in trouble.
To say that Harry "Mother Bear" Russell was irritable was an understatement. After being chewed out by their Sargent when returning to drill, Harry couldn't focus. Parade was soon over, as was lunch. Then nothing. He chewed on the inside of his cheek and paced about, brows furrowed. The low mood had begun to affect the others in camp, many slinking back into their tents to sleep or hang around restlessly. Charles jostled his leg about to Harry's right, chewing on his lip. Richard Cary clenched and unclenched his fists.
Cary raised an eyebrow at the younger brunette, biting back his annoyance. It wasn't as if his little cousin was the ONLY person sick or injured-to think that Bob was the only one that mattered was SELFISH, in his personal opinion. If Russell wasn't his superior officer, he would have smacked some sense into the boy forever ago. Robert would be fine. Hopefully.
It wasn't as if he could blame him, though. From what he heard, the two might as well be joined at the hip. Being the around the same age, they played together near constantly as children-especially since Bob was the only boy in his sibling group. He overheard a story about the two of them being called to their grandfather's bedside before his death. Richard scratched his graying beard. The two did much to balance one another out, the more he thought about it. Though Harry was pone to bouts of nihilism on occasion, he was always grounded and laid back-with a hardness to him that Robert seemed to lack. Though as relaxed as he seemed, he was fiercely overprotective. Harry seemed to ground his cousin, whose unending excitement could be grating. Even with a much more gentle sentiment than Harry, Robert could be incredibly high strung. With an obsession with manners and discipline, whenever any private broke rules he was unrelenting. They could be fiercely co-dependent at times. Their time during the war had only deepened the bond between the two, as far as Cary knew.
As frustrating as the two could be, he could understand why. It'd be a shame if one of them were to die before the war's end.
-
Robert Gould Shaw was dying.
Well, it certainly felt that way. It didn't take too long for one of the nurses on staff to diagnose what happened to be ailing him, especially after having an... 'accident'-which occurred just after he was dropped off at the tent. He'd rather not speak of it, thank you very much.
Yes, Shaw had a rather bad case of dysentery. He breathed a sigh of relief when the nurse mentioned that it didn't seem life threatening-for now, at least-but that he should rest as much as possible for the next week and a half. He groaned and clutched at his stomach. This feeble sound was but one of many in the air, many sick and dying lay writhing in torment besides him. He wouldn't be surprised if many didn't live to see the dawn. Robert's face twisted in revulsion as the man beside him belted out several wet, rumbling coughs. He felt the sour bile rise in his throat as his inflamed intestines seized. Desperate for the escape of unconsciousness, the small captain let his mind wander away from him-away from the pain he was experiencing.
Images flitted through his mind.
The care-worn face of his mother as he sat by her side, the hearth cracking and glowing. Charlie's laugh. His childhood pet, Argus, barking and rolling about in a long patch of grass. Effie's subdued smile as she scratched out a letter to a close friend. Robert's little nephew, Frankie, swinging his feet to and fro, his stubby legs not yet reaching the ground. The boy's blue eyes stared up at the clouds in wonder.
The pang of homesickness and guilt crept into his throat. As excited as he once was to fight a matter of months before, it seems that he'd never get the chance. He was sure he wasn't going to die-not yet, anyway, not like this-but he feared the war would be over before he had the chance to fight. News of death reached him regularly, both family members and close friends alike. His gut twisted, not just due to his dysentery. A pain had seared into his gut-a product of the inflammation, a nurse with wiry auburn hair had told him.
He still felt exhausted in the wake of such a terrible day. He grimaced and shifted in his nest of blankets, shivering despite the pulsating heat. Robert heard the mumble of low voices outside of the tent. He strained his ears, unable to discern anything coherent. Two silhouettes were dark stains upon the side of the tent.
His vision was fading. Thoughts disjointed. Hands shaking. Breaths shallow. Abdomen throbbing. Pain.
Shaw just wanted to sleep.
The murmurs lulled him into a stupor, his racing heart slowing to a relaxed pace. Then slumber.
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