July 13, 1863

Adams carefully extracted the sliver of steel from the corporal's eyes, flushing it with watered down saline. Haskett winced.

"I'm sorry, corporal," Adams said, "I know that stings, but if there's any chance to save this eye, we've gotta keep it clean."

"I understand, Doc," Haskett replied through clenched teeth.

Adams covered the wounded eye with gauze and pat the corporal on the arm. "I'll check you in a few hours, see how you're doin'..."

"Thanks...hey, Doc?"

"Yes?"

"Can you tell me how Captain Jenkins is doin'?"

The pale blue eyes remained passive. "He a friend of yours?"

"My C.O...but yeah, he's a friend."

Adams shook his head, sadly. "I'm awful sorry, corporal, but I lost him." The pain in the dark brown eyes stabbed Doc so sharply he had to look away, muttering, "I'm sorry..."

"I'm sure you tried your best, Doc."

"Well yes, yes I did. Doesn't make it hurt less though, knowing that, does it..."

"No. No, it doesn't."

"Get some sleep," Adams ordered, patting the man on the shoulder. "I'll be back later."

But instead of resting, Haskett spent the afternoon observing the young doctor as he moved from bunk to bunk, saving some lives and losing others; Haskett noted how hard Adams fought for every man, and how mournful he looked when he lost. It was of little comfort to Haskett in terms of Jenkins, but he was sure that a man like Adams would have given it his all. He also felt confident that if his eye could be saved, this was the doctor who could do it.

A passing sergeant noticed him looking out over the room and asked, "Everything okay, corporal?"

"Yeah," Haskett answered, "just watching that young doctor over there."

Kramer followed the man's gaze. "You mean Doc Adams?"

"That his name?" Kramer nodded, then Haskett said, "Sure fights hard to save the men."

"Uh-huh. He tends to be a favorite of all the boys in blue."

For an odd moment, Haskett thought he read something other than admiration in the sergeant's eyes and tone, but all he said was, "I can see why."

"He gonna fix that eye fer ya?"

"He's gonna try," Haskett answered.

"Get some rest, corporal."

Haskett watched Kramer head off in another direction, but something about the man didn't sit well with Corporal Tom Haskett at all...

"Dr. Wilkins?"

The captain turned to see the young lieutenant standing in the doorway of the tiny room that passed for the chief surgeon's office. He smiled and motioned for Adams to enter.

"What is it, lieutenant?"

"Do you have a few minutes?"

"Sure, what's on your mind?"

The small doctor sat down in the chair next to Wilkins, and the older man could see that something was behind the pale blue eyes. Yet Adams hesitated to say anything. Wilkins let the silence lie, knowing the young man would say something when he was ready.

"Do you ever get used to it?"

"To what?"

"Losing them."

Wilkins stared into the young surgeon's eyes. "Death is a part of doctorin' son. You're gonna save some, you're gonna lose some - you already know that." He put a soft hand on Adams' shoulder. "And no, I don't think any doctor worth his salt gets used to it. You have to learn to separate yourself from the emotions of it though, or it'll destroy you."

"I don't know if I can do that," Adams admitted quietly.

Wilkins nodded. "It's one of the toughest lessons to learn for a young surgeon; but you have to find some kind of immunity to the pain and suffering or you won't be of much help to anyone."

Adams studied the old man for a few minutes, then finally asked, "Why?"

"Why, what, boy?"

"Why do you stay here? You could choose where you want to serve - why such a god awful place as this?"

Wilkins smiled gently. "Adams, as a doctor you have to go where you're most needed." His eyes held the pale blue ones across from him over the rim of his glasses. "Sometimes it's the same as a man."

Adams frowned, not understanding. "But I don't--"

Wilkins stopped him with a hand on his knee and pulled out his pocket watch. "It's late, boy, and you've had a long day." He stared hard then into the intense sea blue. "You're not always meant to understand everything that happens around you; there are times when the answers you seek will make themselves plain enough when it's your time to know."

An impish grin tugged at the corners of Doc's mouth. "You have a date with her, don't you? With Miss Van Lew?"

Wilkins swatted Adams. "That's none of your business, you young whelp. Now go to bed!"

Chuckling, Adams stood and walked to the door. "I hope someday that I'm half the doctor you are...and that I have the prettiest girl in town chasing after me when I'm old and dodderin'!"

"Out!"

Laughing Adams closed the door as he exited the room.

"Somethin' tells me you'll have several...young whelp..."

Kramer tried not to fidget under the major's scrutiny. "How many months is it going to take to root out how the union is passing information from this prison to behind the lines, Kramer?"

"Well I--"

"--I'm getting a lot of pressure, sergeant, from the top; they don't understand why we can't handle a few thousand union soldiers and plug this leak."

"Major, I assure you this has been my top priority."

"And with no better results..."

"Sir, there has been no contact between any yankees and outsiders, with the exception of Elizabeth Van Lew when she brings food."

"What about Wilkins?"

"Major, Dr. Wilkins has not left this prison nor has he had any visitors since he started his service here."

"What about Adams?"

"For as much as we'd both like to see that yankee shot as a spy, he's been almost a model prisoner since his time in the hole." Kramer looked down then. "He's had a lot of nightmares for the past few months though..."

Voss smiled. "Yes, the ones who survive the hole usually come out with no fight left in them, and riddled with night sweats and vivid dreams. So Adams has been subdued...at least we managed that; the little bastard never did break down enough to confess to killing Jimmy Langdon." He looked hard at Kramer. "But then, we both know who did that."

"The guards went well beyond your instructions regarding Adams when he was in the hole."

"What makes you say that?"

"He relives some of it in his sleep, and what they did to him, no man should have to endure, major, not even a yankee."

"That's where you're wrong, Kramer. Blue-coats aren't human beings, they're animals, and should be treated accordingly."

"Major Voss...the kind of abuse Adams suffered is indecent. I wouldn't treat a slave that way, much less a white man - even a yankee."

Voss laughed. "Coming from you, Roy, that's quite amusing after what you did to the Langdon boy."

"Killing an enemy even viciously is one thing; what your men did to Adams, that's something else."

"No matter. The fact that he's having nightmares about it is a good sign; it's wearing on him."

"I'd rather we just kill him, major."

"A dead yankee doctor is no use to us; alive, with the right type of coercion, we might yet get him to tell us who among them is passing information and how. All the men talk to him; they trust him. He knows who it is, I'm sure of it, and now that we've convinced him that the worst days are behind him, we pull the rug out from under him. He'll break yet."

Kramer had few scruples as a man or as a soldier, but what Voss was planning made him feel the slightest bit sorry for Adams...

Hours later, Kramer was just nodding off to sleep when three guards quietly entered the room where the union medical personnel slept. One of them held a lantern and the other two burly men located Adams, pulled him from the floor and covered his mouth to keep him quiet. Kramer watched as the small doctor, probably recognizing the guards and knowing what they planned to do to him, struggled in vain against men who were twice his size.

Kramer swallowed hard: not even a stinking blue-coat deserved what Voss was doing to Adams. The confederate laid in the dark for the rest of the night, unable to find a corner of his mind that wasn't screaming at him to put a stop to it. But to act against Voss was suicidal. Kramer shrugged; perhaps it was too late in life for him to develop a conscience.

July 20, 1863

The sergeant observed the young doctor during breakfast noting that he had become unusually silent over the past week, and didn't eat a single bite of the gruel in his bowl. Kramer put a soft hand on Adams' shoulder, only to cause the man to recoil.

"Doc...take it easy," Kramer said, "You're awful jumpy this mornin'..."

"Didn't sleep well," Adams replied curtly.

The young surgeon abruptly picked up his untouched food, dumped the dishes with the KP men and headed toward the infirmary.

"What's eatin' the Doc?" O'Sullivan asked, "He's been like this for about a week now..."

"Don't know," Kramer lied, "don't know..."

The sergeant dumped his own dishes and walked toward the infirmary. There were many things Kramer was willing to do in the name of the South, to win the war, he'd killed countless blue-coats and he'd kill thousands more given the chance: but perpetrating unnaturally vile acts on prisoners wasn't acceptable somehow. He shook his head; there was nothing to be done. Yet throughout the day, as he observed how gentle and kind Adams remained with the all the wounded, despite the living hell Kramer knew the man had been subjected to, everything he had been taught to believe about the north and its people was suddenly in question.

"Damn this war anyway..."

"What was that, sergeant?" Wilkins asked.

"Uh, nothing sir, nothing. Sorry..." The man replied as he moved off to roll bandages.

Haskett watched the sergeant grappling with some unseen enemy within from several feet away. Kramer was hiding something for certain; but now he seemed to be at odds with whatever it was that he was up to. The corporal continued to squint with his one good eye, observing the sergeant attending to his duties. It was all very curious...

Adams gently examined Haskett's eye. "Well Tom, it's lookin' mighty good. How does it feel?"

"A lot better, Doc, thanks."

Adams ran a soft thumb over the stitches. "We should be able to take these out in a couple of days."

He stood to go and Haskett said, "Doc, how well do you know Sergeant Kramer?"

Doc shrugged. "'Bout as well as anyone I guess. Why?"

Haskett took a deep breath. "I've noticed he keeps a pretty close eye on you."

Doc chuckled. "Apparently he's not the only one."

"Lyin' here day after day, I ain't got nothin' better to do. It ain't that, Doc."

"Well what is it for heaven's sake?"

"There's somethin' not right about him."

Adams pat the man on the shoulder. "We need to find you somethin' else to do all day, Tom; you're seein' the enemy where he ain't!"

"Just...just keep your eyes open, Doc." Adams' mind darted to his own week of horror, and wondered if Kramer had seen the guards drag him out during their nightly visits. The young surgeon's body was covered with bruises and cuts, the rewards of trying to fight them off. And the thought of any of the men discovering what the gray-coats were doing to him made him sick, and he shivered slightly. "Doc," Haskett said, "you all right?"

"Yeah, fine. I'll check on you later, Tom."

Haskett nodded and watched Adams move to the next patient. The Doc had seemed outwardly fine, but for the past week Haskett had sensed something was troubling him. But then, in a place as tightly wound as Libby, as long as a man was observant, nothing would stay covert for long; not Kramer's ghosts, and not the Doc's.