Def.: Contritus: Ground or crushed to pieces, bruised, worn down
Contritus
Chapter One ~ Homecoming
It was a sound Scott would forever associate with Rebel canister whining its way through the air. The buzzing had woken him from a hard dreamless sleep as surely as if someone had shaken him roughly or yelled in his ear. A blessing really, for his neck immediately started to complain about the bitter angle his head had dropped to against the damp, steamed window. His train car gave a little lurch, not quite as big as the one in his chest when the noise had occurred. He blinked and looked for the source of his alarm.
A child's spinning toy—a whirligig—was all it was, held in the small hands of grinning young boy who pulled on the separate twine ends sending the scalloped edges twirling again. He barely contained the flinch when the whizzing noise ratcheted upwards as it reached full speed. The mother and father, he assumed, stood behind their son looking chagrined.
The father clearly wished two things: that he hadn't pushed his little family to this part of the train and that he hadn't found someone sitting there. Scott also wished two things: that the man would move to another seating area and take his young son and the toy with him. It seemed best all around. The man glanced up and down the aisle. Left. Right. Left.
Help didn't arrive from either direction.
And so a small decision was made. Scott could read it in the man's face as he carefully planted his feet apart and shifted side to side, brow crumpled with concentration. It was like watching a tree take root as he claimed the other half of Scott's bench seat, and prodded his wife and son to the empty seat facing them.
Mindful of what his patched uniform looked like, Scott telescoped his legs back under his seat from their forward sprawl and half stood—hospital cane forgotten at his side—when the lady sat down across from him. She glanced at him and fluttered a gloved hand in greeting, a wan smile upon her face.
When her eyes crinkled at the corners in pity, he straightened his jacket and flicked away a minuscule piece of dust, not that it truly mattered, and looked out the window. His face was reflected there, a ghostly image magnified by steam and the light of the summer day. He hoped at some point the vision in his head of how he looked would again match the one in the mirror. But today wasn't the day.
He wondered if his grandfather had changed, as he had changed. Although it seemed rather impossible to think of it. Where his skin was once smooth, there were now ridges and indentations, a few scars. Where his hair had been thick and touching his ears, it was growing out in spiky tufts from being shaved at the hospital. Once the thrill of having his lice eradicated by an industrious nurse eventually wore off, he allowed himself a few seconds of vanity and mourned the loss of his hair. It had taken something away that shave, and there had been too much taken away already. His jacket draped where there'd been no excess before, pulled tight and newly belted at the hollowed curve of his waist. Perhaps Grandfather didn't wear grey anymore. Maybe he had moved on to brown. He tried to picture the old man in brown tweed. It made him look like tree trunk and he had to dress him quickly in grey again.
He heard a faint rustle and looked down. The boy had put aside his toy and was reaching into a small paper bag offered by his mother. His hand went in and out came a striped stick of candy as big round as Scott's finger and twice as long.
He caught himself teasing his lower lip between his teeth while concentrating on the boy's crunch and sensed the mother and father watching him. He didn't think for a moment they'd understand.
"Please," she said gently and held up the bag. "Take one."
The smell of her tipped him sideways. Soap, milky coffee and lemon-scented perfume. It was within him to refuse, but he had to search for the refusal and surely that wasn't good, was it? In the meantime, his mouth betrayed him by flooding his back molars with saliva in anticipation.
Too quickly, he nodded.
He held the stick of striped candy in his hand delicately, as though it were made of glass. The first lick of peppermint burst onto his tongue, sunshine and summer fairs all bound together. He might have closed his eyes. After a year's worth of deprivation and want, salvation came in the form of a boiled sweet.
"Thank you," he replied, ignoring the urge to lick the sugar off his fingertips. She smiled fully this time showing even white teeth, and he thought of sunshine again.
The boy set his toy down and stuck his forefinger in his mouth, swishing it around and plucking it out with a wet pop. He held it up, grinning at the sound he'd just made and surveyed the train. His eyes followed the carpet runner in the aisle all the way to the ticket taker standing by the door, one foot tracing a lazy looping pattern in the fine dirt on the floor underneath his seat.
"Mama, I want to go home."
"Hush, Benjamin. You'll bother the nice man. We'll be there soon enough."
"But Mama, when? When?"
The father shifted his considerable bulk. "That's enough, young man."
Benjamin blew out a heavy sigh that deflated his small chest and collapsed against his mother's side in a performance worthy of any Shakespearean stage drama.
When, indeed. It was a word so chock full of yearning it made his teeth grate. And one he used often enough the past few months. Like the boy, his desire for home was tangible, a living thing he wanted to squeeze and hold close.
Scott rested his head against the scratchy horsehair of the seat. The train was running late and had one more stop to go before they reached the Haymarket station. How late he couldn't tell because when he felt for his pocket watch—old habits certainly died hard—it wasn't there. God knew where it was exactly, but he had last seen it in the hands of a young Rebel. This tardiness was just one more obstacle to be breached, however. He would do it standing on his head if need be.
With an abrupt jerk, the train slowed itself and gave two short bursts of horn. The father harrumphed and gathered his family together. The mother quickly pressed the bag of sweets into Scott's hand and before he could say anything, he heard the swish of petticoats and the buzz of the whirligig as the family traveled past each seat and out the door.
He sat by the window hoping no one else would invade his bench. He'd chosen it because it was quiet and away from the press of passengers in the main car. A private car was too private. He'd gotten used to rubbing elbows, but would just as soon have some space between him and the next man. As each person passed, he felt palpable relief they didn't swing into his seat. He didn't notice the tall, thin man with black hair walking against the tide of newcomers until he stopped in the aisle.
"Excuse me, sir." The soldier's head swiveled in a nervous gesture to take in the other seats while his fingers made a run through his hair leaving it standing straight up. It was a most familiar gesture.
The man hesitated and cocked his head to the side. His eyes were piercing.
"Lieutenant…Lancer?" The New Englander, who had a patched bullet hole in the left arm of his uniform sleeve, drew himself up with a smile.
Scott grinned back like a pirate. He hadn't seen Sergeant Michael Latto since the regiment's first foray into Virginia. He motioned to the seat across from him.
"The other cars are…."
"Too noisy? Too crowded? Too…everything?" Scott opened the bag of sweets and held them aloft.
"If I had known you had these, Lieutenant, I'd have come back sooner."
"Any later and they'd be gone. Good, huh?"
Latto nodded since he couldn't talk for the candy in his mouth. He didn't bother with niceties and licked each finger.
He squinted at Scott, eyes snagging on the hastily repaired shoulder of his uniform. But it wasn't pity that shone in his eyes. "It's been a long time."
That was the understatement of the year—and it was only late May.
"The doctors finally discharged me from the hospital." Latto wagged his arm like a chicken bone. "I would have been home sooner, but infection set in."
He folded like an oriental fan, suddenly hiding its pattern, guilty and angry. "You'd left your horse. We'd seen you go down, but couldn't get to you."
The change in topics was dizzying.
"That battle turned into a rout. By the time the Colonel got us twisted back around, hell on earth had broken loose," Latto said, and his broad face was stony. Fair enough, after what had happened. Scott had cause to know, it was there he lost Carter. And there, too, began his year of exile in Richmond.
Scott would have happy to forego reminiscing about that battle but he wanted to make sure Sergeant Latto understood. There were no accusations about who didn't save who. He waved the man's concerns away.
"Then we heard you boys were taken to Richmond."
He waved that away, too. He often wondered, sitting on his miniscule piece of buggy prison flooring how he would react if anyone asked him about his time in Confederate hands. Waving seemed appropriate because there were no words in his head to describe it. Although it was bound to get breezy from all the fanning.
Latto's head tipped up. "Did you hear about Colonel Lowell?"
He had. But just recently while in the hospital, the grief was still real.
"Taken in October last, during the Valley Campaigns. Sheridan promoted him to brigadier general on the day he died."
Scott nodded. "He was a fine man. A good leader."
"Remember the look he gave us when Anderson fell off his horse not once, but twice, during drill at Camp Meigs?"
"I don't recall, he had so very many looks when he inspected us, our company especially. I fully remember Anderson's, though. And mine." Scott laughed out loud and it felt fine. "What a time."
As he had discovered a few years ago, wearing the same uniform had a way of freeing a person from the usual strictures of what to say and how. Besides, they had a history together: training, Vicksburg and others. They talked easily, and the more he heard, the more memories—good memories—returned. He found himself voicing opinions in a way he hadn't done in a very long time, laughing and nodding and disagreeing at times with a vehemence that would have horrified his grandfather.
The two of them spoke fiercely about fallen comrades, Lincoln's assassination a mere month ago, family, duty and friendship.
"What will you do now that the war has ended, Sergeant Latto?"
"I think I would like to find my own bed and sleep for a month then get up and do it all over again."
"And after that?"
"I worked in my father's store before I enlisted, and being a simple country clerk sounds good right now. But most of all, I want to get back to Anna and the children."
They sat in silence for a few short moments.
"What about you Lieutenant? Colonel Lowell wasn't the only good commander we had. Has the Army called your name indefinitely?"
Plans had been made, just a few short years ago. But they seemed so far out of reach at the moment. He'd thought hard about a military career, and had expected to enter the regular Army, but when the hometown 2nd Regiment was formed it was too inviting to turn down. And after his first battle, he had managed to find himself, to lead others in the fight for the Union, for the country. He was proud of what he had accomplished.
Then the battle that ended one thing and began another. He didn't quite know what to do now.
"For now, I think your idea about sleeping has some merit." He winked. "Although I may go for three months instead of two."
They heard the train switching gears before seeing the station. A low hum, a rumble underfoot, a deep-throated whistle was all it took for the two of them to exchange knowing smiles stretching so wide their cheeks hurt.
A few moments later on the platform, Sergeant Latto's wife and five daughters mounted an offense and surrounded the poor man with a chorus of joyous noise and clutching hands. Scott couldn't stop a bubble of laughter. For some reason he didn't think Latto minded. At all.
#-#-#-#-#
Why did some memories remain crystal clear while others languished in the murky recesses of his mind, never to return? Harlan recalled one sliver of the time when his assistant delivered the right merger contracts to the wrong person, and the whole ugly episode came rushing back. Other things he would like to remember, were completely invisible to him. If only memory was like his library, everything stored away as it should be, well within reach. The Greek Mythologies? Upper left, far side. Mathematics and accounting, center front. An anthology of Dickens (against his better judgement) lower right in their gold-embossed jackets.
So there Scotty would be. Tall for all his youth and smiling, a fishing pole in one hand, a basket of sandwiches in another. Were they at Elizabeth's country house? Where was he going? The hedgerow boiled with insects while the boy waved and then— What?
He hadn't a clue. He didn't remember the rest.
He'd last seen Scotty when the Army saw fit to afford his grandson a bit of leave, over a year and a half now. That thought sent a prickle down his neck. The few days they'd had together, Scotty had slept, ate and took young Miss Dennison dancing. There'd been so little time to talk. But that was all over, the war was finished and he was due home from the hospital. They would pick up their lives and everything would fall into place just as it should be.
The train, however, was being uncooperative. When it finally arrived, forty-five minutes late and belching black smoke, it coughed out its passengers in a volatile—and somewhat offensive—miasma of odors, voices and color. The station was full of suitcases, bags and rucksacks. One could barely move. All around, he saw joined-together people talking and laughing and looking forward to their futures. So much joviality it had steamed up the windows.
Harlan chose a position by the balustrade, scanning the crowd.
"Excuse me?"
His heart gave a swing. He looked to his side, and of course it was another man. The red-faced drummer offered a lopsided grin by way of apology, then nodded and moved away.
Harlan's eye caught on a scrap of blue down the platform. The soldier leaned on a cane, hat obscuring the head now thrown back as if in laughter at some private joke. The worn uniform had been repaired at the shoulder in a haphazard manner, the cloth marred by a not tight-enough seam. A few other patches appeared at the elbow and hem. The jacket size was too large for the man, who wore it tucked and belted around his thin waist like the tattered clothes of a scarecrow. And like scarecrow clothes, the color had faded from either sunlight or wear. If the soldier was indicative of the type of men the Union attracted, it was a wonder the Confederates weren't in Washington this very hour.
Boisterous screeching assaulted his ears. Bedlam took the form of several young girls running (in public!) towards the two men. He tutted, shaking his head at the circus, and looked down the platform for his grandson.
Where on earth was the boy?
#-#-#-#-#
Scott turned away from the Latto family reunion and his breath caught. When Grandfather swept his eyes over him then looked back to the train in anticipation, he felt a hollowing punch. He'd become unrecognizable, at least to family.
He wasn't sure whether it was a fit of perversity or simply to give himself time to drink in a familiar face, but he watched his grandfather for a few minutes. The four-in-hand tie was properly situated against the starched white shirt. The only bit of whimsy was the silver vest, accentuating his grey trousers and jacket with a bit of color. His hands, smaller than his own large ones, were clenched.
He walked towards him, cane thumping against the platform.
"Grandfather," he said quietly, yet his voice cut through the ruckus of sounds on the platform. The white head turned, lips pulled downward in a frown that suggested he didn't like to be bothered while about his business
Oh, and then Scott saw it all. The look of shock. Horror. Pity, too. A part—a very small part—of him felt guilty that his appearance aroused such feelings. Grandfather had come all the way to the station and believed his grandson would be the very same one who left. He was sorry for the way truth won out.
The old man tugged the hat from his head and held it against his chest as if it might protect him.
"Hello, Scotty."
Hello, he said. Yet no words came.
The last year slipped away. Something brown skittered past the wooden planks of a box left on the platform. Grandfather looked at him again and Scott lifted his face to meet the gaze.
This time there was no desk between them. No books or papers. No office doors. No war or prison. Grandfather looked and looked, searching his face, but he didn't step away. He didn't gasp. Instead, he took a few steps closer and reached out to clasp Scott's hand.
He closed his fingers around the warmth, the very solidness of his grandfather, and held on.
tbc
