February 14, 1864

The cold seeped in through the walls and the floorboards as if they weren't there. Adams tossed in his sleep, unable to free his mind of the abuses he had suffered for as long as he'd been incarcerated at Libby Prison. That Voss despised him wasn't in question; but the lack of decency regarding the treatment of even an enemy officer was beyond Doc's understanding. Wilkins had managed to put a stop to the most dreadful part of the abuse once he had uncovered it, but the nightmares continued, as did the daily beatings. Voss was convinced that Adams had information about union spies in Libby, no matter how much the young surgeon swore he knew nothing about such goings on. Adams jolted awake then, panting from the vivid memories of the perverted maltreatment he suffered for so long. He sat up, holding a hand to the pain in his side; the guards had broken a rib during their earlier tossle.

Wearily he stood up and quietly walked out the door, unaware that Kramer had been watching him.


After convincing the guard in the hall that he needed to see Wilkins for the pain in his left side, Adams approached the man's quarters. He knocked lightly, but there was no response. After another few knocks, Adams opened the door, peering inside to find the room empty. He headed toward the infirmary, but the doctor wasn't there either, and the assistant on duty hadn't seen him. Oblivious to the fact that Kramer was following him, Adams went to Wilkins' office, and knocked on the door. He thought he heard voices and some kind of shuffling noises, but then it was quiet, and momentarily Wilkins appeared in the doorway.

"Adams? What's the matter?"

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Dr. Wilkins, but I think I've broken a rib. I just couldn't take the pain anymore."

Sighing, Wilkins pulled the young man inside the room, closing the door behind them. Kramer crept up to the door, and pressed his ear against the wood, listening.

"Take that shirt off, boy." Adams did, but couldn't look Wilkins in the eye as the man observed the fresh bruises. "Damnit, son, I thought we agreed that you would tell me if they didn't stop this grievous manhandling."

"It's not as bad as it was before..." His blue eyes darted to his mentor's. "A few punches here and there; I've taken that lots of times."

Wilkins shook his head as he pressed on the young man's left side, causing Adams to grimace in pain. "I'm sorry, son, I know it hurts. It's a broken rib all right, two of 'em. I'll wrap it for ya." Wilkins began wrapping the ribs tightly with a bandage and scolded, "You should have told me."

"Voss thinks I know something about a union spy, so he keeps trying to beat it out of me; honestly Dr. Wilkins, I don't know what that man's talkin' about." Adams saw a flicker of something in Wilkins' eyes then; guilt perhaps, sadness, and the pieces suddenly fell into place. "Oh my God," Adams whispered. The two men stared at each other. "It isn't a union man at all...it's you."

"Now boy--"

"--It all makes sense. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I couldn't tell you anything. It was the only way to keep you, and hundreds of others, alive. As long as you were in the dark, no matter what Voss did, he couldn't make you talk." Anger flashed in the pale blue eyes and Wilkins added, "If there had been any other way..." His voice grew soft, and he pat the young man on the shoulder. "The work here at Libby is too important to risk for the safety of one man; I have to think of all the men, even if the young man in question is like a son to me." The young surgeon's eyes misted with tears, and Wilkins squeezed the shoulder under his hand. "Adams, the union is winning this war in part because of the information that is passed from regiment commanders here at Libby, back through the line; we can't let the process break down."

"But how are you getting the information north?"

"That's not important. What is important is that we continue the effort, do you understand?"

"Yes." He looked around the office. "I thought I heard voices and movement in here before..."

Wilkins looked down, and then into the intense blue eyes staring at him. "I suppose you have a right to know, you've earned it." Wilkins went to the bookcase that held his medical texts, and with some effort, slid it aside. Adams stood, astonished, gazing into a tunnel. "It's all right, men," Wilkins said into the darkness, "Adams is on board."

Several men Adams recognized as union soldiers he'd doctored over the past year and half poured out from the tunnel, and shook hands with him. Adams glanced back at Wilkins.

"The brightest and the best of the captured boys in blue," Adams grinned, "And I assume, headed back to the north soon."

"Two nights from now, doctor, more than a hundred men will escape this hellhole," a major answered.

"We've been working on this since last November," added Wilkins.

"But how will you get them past the Mason-Dixon? Even if you can get them out of Libby, you'll need a man on the outside--" He stopped himself as the obvious truth hit him. "Elizabeth."

"Yes," Wilkins grinned, "She's our 'man' on the outside."

"Ingenious. Absolutely ingenious. No one would suspect either of you."

"No. And I'm sorry that you've taken so much of the heat, son." Wilkins looked at the other men. "We might have to make room for one more now."

"You comin' with us, Dr. Wilkins?" The major asked.

"No, not me. I'm needed here. But, my young assistant might like to go home. I think he's given more than any army should expect from a man."

"Home?" Adams hadn't dared think or say the word in so long, it felt foreign on his tongue. "I could go home?"

Wilkins cuffed the young man behind the neck. "I think we owe it to you for providing the distraction of Voss' attention." Wilkins turned to the men. "Come on boys, you have some work to finish, and I'm going to fill in the boy here on the details...


Kramer quietly crept back into the bunkroom and lie down on the floor, swallowing hard. His duty was clear: tell Voss about the tunnel and the pending escape. But despite the clarity, he floundered. Maybe he'd been undercover for too long, living amongst the union boys. Maybe it had caused him to start thinking like the enemy.

The enemy.

Defining that wasn't so clear. He no longer felt that it was Adams or Wilkins. It felt more like Voss, Carp and the rest of the confederate men having mercilessly beaten and abused a young surgeon who had saved countless lives, union and confederate alike. And just like Wilkins, when it came to the wounded, Adams didn't see the color of uniform, nor the color of a man's skin - he just saw a man in need: were they the ones who were so wrong?

Kramer had been brought up to believe that people of colored skin were different, and possessed less value than whites, and northerners who wanted them freed were just as inferior. But working on his father's plantation as a boy, he hadn't seen evidence of so much difference, but rather, an evidence of similarity. He saw the slaves eat, bleed, or fall ill like any person might; and he saw the men take wives, and have families. He had seen them pray to God. Could their God be so different from his? Their children were taught right from wrong, the same as white children; they read from the same bibles, sang some of the same church songs, and enjoyed a celebration when they were allowed to have one. And it struck him that over the past year his eyes and ears had shown him a truth about the blue-coats other than the one he had been been taught to believe. The unions soldiers were not the cowardly, stupid simpletons of whom he had been told, but men of strong beliefs, courage and honor.

What if it turned out to be the same with slaves? If he lived as one of them, would he find out that they feared God as strongly as white men; held faith as dearly; and loved as deeply? He shuddered to think that it could be true. If so, the damnation of his soul was guaranteed. Hell would be his for an eternity for what he'd done as a confederate soldier; but maybe, if he could offer one small act of redemption, perhaps God would take pity on him. Yet Roy Kramer had no idea how to go about performing such an act.

The hand on his shoulder made him start.

"Kramer?" The pale blue eyes stared at him in the dark. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." He swallowed hard then whispered, "Hey, Adams?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think if a man's condemned to hell that he can turn some of it 'round by tryin' to do right once he realized he was wrong?"

Adams' brow furrowed. "I don't know, Roy. That's a question best left to a preacher." Adams could see the sadness in Kramer's eyes even in the shadows. "Well, maybe. Why?"

"I just haven't always done right."

"Believe me, Roy, doin' time in this place'll make up for a lot..."

But knowing his own duplicity, that truth didn't soothe Roy Kramer at all. "Yeah," was all he said.


Kitty quickly entered the back cell of the jail, with Chester in tow. Her voice indicated her deep concern, "Matt?"

Dillon looked up at her, defeat filling his eyes. "I can't calm him down, I just don't know what to do..."

Kitty turned to Chester. "Go get four glasses, will ya?"

"Yes ma'am."

Kitty knelt next to the big lawman who was cradling the terrified doctor, and she cupped Dillon's cheek with her hand. "Before you can calm Doc down, you've gotta calm yourself down, cowboy."

He nodded, embarrassed. "I know. I'm just so frustrated by this helplessness."

"Let's get Doc on the cot, all right?"

The confidence in her demeanor and the quiet in her voice had a soothing effect on Dillon. He stood, hoisting the doctor up, gently lying him on the bunk. Matt practically fell into the chair next to it, and Kitty stood by him, softly rubbing the back of his neck.

"What happened, Matt?"

"He was in here screaming like someone was killin' him. Scared the hell outta me...and then I couldn't calm him down. He just doesn't know me."

"It's been tough for all of us, Matt, but think of how rough this has been on Doc."

"That's why I feel so damned bad."

Chester appeared with three glasses and a mug. "I couldn't find four glasses, I figured a mug'll do for poor ol' Doc...he looks like he needs a big slug of this whuskey anyway..."

Chester set the glasses and mug down on the little table in the cell, and Kitty poured whiskey in all of them. She picked up the mug and sat on the edge of the cot where Doc laid, conscious but not cognizant. She brushed a soft hand over his brow.

"Just relax, Doc. I'm gonna give you a shot of whiskey and I want you to drink it down." His eyes stared right through her, his muscles trembling in fear. Kitty gently picked up his head and held the mug to his lips. "Come on, Doc, take a sip." She poured a little onto his lips, and then he allowed her to pour more into his mouth. "That's it, Doc, just drink it down."

After he had taken all of it, Kitty set the mug on the table and picked up her glass, downing the shot, noting that Matt and Chester had already drained theirs. Wordlessly the three of them took their glasses, the mug and bottle out of the cell, waiting momentarily for Matt to lock it, and then they stepped into the office, Dillon leaving the connecting door open so that he could hear Doc if he cried out. They sat at the small table and Kitty poured another round.

"Mr. Dillon...do ya think Doc's gonna come outta this here thing?" Goode's long eyelashes batted in apprehension. "I mean, he don't seem to be gettin' any better..."

"I don't know, Chester," Dillon sighed, "I honestly don't know."

Kitty looked back through the door at the man sleeping in the cell. "At least that mug of whiskey seems to have calmed him down some."

"Yeah," Matt agreed, "but we can't keep pouring that down his gullet. We've gotta find a way to reach him."

Kitty shook her head. "We've tried, Matt. He either can't come of out it, or..."

Dillon's brow furrowed. "Or what?"

"Or he doesn't want to."

"Why didn't Doc jes' talk to one of us, Mr. Dillon? Why'd he have to go and bottle it all up inside him until now he's like a keg 'bout ta explode..."

Dillon glanced back through the door at the old doctor. "Doc probably just didn't want to burden us with it, Chester."

"It wouldn'ta been no burden, Mr. Dillon."

"Not to us, no. But to Doc...well, he's just not comfortable puttin' his past or his feelin's out on the table. Whatever hell he lived through, you can bet he's kept it to himself. But now it's caught up with him."

Kitty put a soft hand on Matt's arm. "With us," she corrected.

Dillon's eyes misted slightly over; the pride he felt toward her welling up inside of him. "Yeah," was all he managed to say.