Chapter Four
Short, but bittersweet chapter giving another little glimpse into the life and trials of Goodnight.
In case I forgot to mention it, there will be moments of death, despair, and gratuitous depictions of violence. Goody's life was never really easy.
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Goodnight had hoped to recover his strength, but Lambeaux was determined to get his new troops to the lines as soon as possible. Word reached the haggard commander that they were losing ground. Reinforcements and supplies were needed. Desperately. It was a three day trek to the Georgia state line, a long, arduous journey for those suffering from ailments and injury.
Two days straight they rode, their horses panting and bucking as exhaustion and hunger made them cranky and nonconforming. A six hour rest, and then the band of men were on their way again, heads lulling on shoulders as the horses gently rocked them to sleep. Several men fell off their steeds, landing roughly, one man breaking his arm. His bone was reset with a dire warning.
Find a way to be useful or be shot a deserter.
By nightfall of the third day, the encampment came into view. Passing the sentries, they led their horses into a makeshift paddock. Tired, weary boned and muscles aching, eyes burning with fatigue, bellies growling with hunger, they were a pitiful group of reinforcements.
The dozen or so soldiers still awake greeted their band of brothers with scowls and disapproving eyes. As Goodnight tended his horse, he overheard the clipped conversation between the commander and the bloodied soldier who apparently was the next highest ranking officer.
"Captain Lambeaux!" the man said roughly, saluting with a blood stained hand wrapped in dirty bandages.
"Report!" Lambeaux demanded as he dismounted and handed off the reigns.
"Victory is ours, sir," the man said, offering a grin to show off stained, uneven teeth. "Beat the devils back yesterday afternoon. They retreated, taking heavy losses."
"Excellent!" Lambeaux said, clapping the other man on the shoulder. They were nearly even in height and visage. Battle scars, grimy clothes, rough beards, they appeared every bit the ruffians of old folk tales.
And as Goodnight passed, their smell confirmed the assumption. A mixture of rotten vegetation, coppery blood, and unwashed maleness, rank and soured by days of sweat and filth burned Goodnight's sensitive nose, causing his stomach to turn. He winced, trying to keep his composure.
"Find a tent," Lambeaux ordered his men. "We break camp in the mornin'."
Victory claimed, the battle hardened soldiers used the short respite to gather their strength to launch the new campaign, following Lambeaux without question, without hesitation, without fail. They'd march into hell if he so ordered.
And now Goodnight was one of those loyal and fierce fighters.
He joined his new regimental brothers around a fire. A pot of weak broth was quickly devoured by the new ranks. Goodnight's stomach still growled, but he was thankful for the watery broth and bread. It would take time to regain his full health, especially his lost weight and strength.
Needing rest, he wandered through the sea of tents, searching for a suitable place to lay his bedroll. As most were cramped together, three or four to a single dingy canvas tent, it didn't leave Goodnight with a lot of options.
On the edge of the encampment he found a tent with space. The two soldiers had taken position on either side, leaving the middle free for a third.
They eyed him cautiously as he lay out his bedroll. A sharp tree root made him move around to get comfortable, causing one of the soldiers to growl out a warning.
Suitably chastised, and as comfortable as he could get still recovering from starvation and fever, Goodnight stared at the shadowed underside of the canvas and smiled.
He had made it. He was a member of the best regiment of grey jackets. His bunkmates were battle hardened, gallant men who had survived the most vicious battles and possessed nerves of iron. They took their jobs seriously. Their honor and pride were on the line.
Goodnight considered it a high honor to be picked to join the noble soldiers.
Their names would go down in history. They were heroes. Battles spoken of years after their passing. The tales of legends.
His Annabelle would be so proud. He couldn't wait until the war ended and she was once again in his arms.
He could only imagine her reaction when she saw him bedecked in his uniform, glinting with shiny medals and carrying the prestigious mantle of being a part of the winning side that destroyed the opposition. She would be so impressed. And no doubt become the luckiest woman in Louisiana, marrying such a decorated and honored soldier.
The image of her walking down the aisle in her wedding dress, standing beside him as they faced a preacher and spoke vows of love and faithfulness, made a tear slip down his cheek.
The darkness hid the owl's sadness.
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Next chapter starts the real trigger warnings.
*cracks knuckles* Let the torture begin!
Oh, and on a side note, I have another idea for a collection of one shots. Would anyone be interested in reading random scenes? EVERYONE LIVES! NO ONE DIES! (seriously, that messed me up for WEEKS!)