Hello! This is my first piece for Laramie. While I'm not new to fanfiction I am new (-ish) to the world of Laramie and wanted to try getting my feet wet. There are so many amazing pieces already posted here and to be honest I'm more than a little nervous joining a new fandom. Thanks! God Bless!
Missouri, June 1865
Gray dawn bloomed over the horizon, feather-light as it slowly stretched its way westward. The morning was cool and damp after the storms of the night before. Mist hung low in the valleys and shrouded the peaks of the surrounding mountains, weaving it's way through the dense White and Black Oak that ranged its way down to the creek, the Red Cedar and River Birch that clung stubbornly to the edges of the wide river. Flowering Dogwood hid itself in the veil and made it hard to distinguish where the branches ended and fog began.
The river was calm despite the risen levels created with the recent rains. A look across to the far side showed that the level was already on its decent. The waterline nearly a foot higher than where it currently passed lazily along the flat rock face of the bank. Boulders began to peak through, dark and cold as they broke the surface of the black water.
Remnants of that rain dripped from the leaves in a whisper quiet symphony, falling through the Honeysuckle, Nannyberry, and Sumac before reaching the deep layers of fallen leaves and needles of the forest floor.
Blue eyes regarded the scene from under a black slouch hat, though it had seen better days. If he had the funds he would have replaced it by now but there were more pressing matters at hand. Like the gum blankets he'd been able to acquire, charming his way into getting two for a little over the price of one, and they had come in handy the night before. Able to set up one as a shelter half and the other for ground cover, protecting him from the sodden earth below and a little warmer during the coldest parts of the night. When he broke camp he would wrap his meager possessions in one while the other would serve as a poncho as the overcast gray skies suggested it would be another wet and chilly day.
He washed in the creek, regarding his reflection briefly in the surface of the water as he shook the droplets from his hands and ran his fingers through his hair, shorter than it had been in years. His silhouette cast upon the surface of the water at his feet was one he didn't recognize, lanky and gaunt, unable to fill out the shirt that hung on his shoulders. Though that didn't say much. Clean shirts, along with other fresh articles of clothing had been handed out by the U.S. Christian Commission as prisoners had been ushered out of their confines and into the open world. At that time sizes hadn't mattered much.
He'd been given a haircut free of charge and use of a bathhouse, the first clean water he'd seen aside from the rain they collected in nearly a year. The rest of his gear had been free too, and while that didn't sit right with him, he hadn't had much room to argue. Confederate currency was no good above the Mason-Dixon line, and even less so now.
It wouldn't have mattered anyway, any possession of value he'd had (including money no blue belly would honor) had disappeared the moment those prison gates had closed behind him in '64.
So everything he carried, aside from the slouch hat, gum blankets, and bit of food for travel weren't really his, at least in his mind.
A hazy reflection in the water caught his gaze, and he looked up quickly to find the source. A hawk wheeled overhead, circling briefly before disappearing over the tree line. He squinted against the brilliance of the gray skies a moment before turning back to his meager camp.
Everything was gray, and he wasn't sure how much more he could stomach it.
Gray skies, gray uniforms, gray mud, gray and sickly faces of fellow prisoners slowly starving to death. Gray water that wasn't safe to drink. It hung heavily over him like a sodden wool blanket, bearing down on thin shoulders and feeling like ash and grit in his mouth.
Like the ash of The Wilderness.
Or Texas.
Dark brows lowered suddenly and he began to break camp. His movements silent and quick, efficiently clearing the space and leaving no trace that he'd spent the last two days holed up against the rain.
Donning his hat and adjusted the black gum blanket correctly about his neck, he grabbed the light haversack and tied the other blanket over his shoulder. He moved with grace and the efficiency the army had taught him in carrying his essentials and with one last look skyward he gauged the placement of the sun behind those gray clouds and decided on which direction he'd take.
If he kept a steady clip he could reach St. Joseph in another two days. He didn't need to look at the crudely drawn map he'd copied hastily on his way out of Illinois. He'd been more interested in getting out of that state as fast as possible. Chicago would have been an easy enough place to get himself a little more money but the looks and constant use of gray back in his direction had been enough to keep him moving. At least he was now in a state that showed a little more sympathy, seeing as they had supplied both armies with a healthy amount of men.
His sole objective at the moment was to get himself a mount and rig. He couldn't do much without, and while finding a small spread that might need a hand would get him a couple square meals and a roof over his head, winning that money would be faster and he could continue on his way. A couple days in a decent sized town, hell even a small-time community with enough men playing a hand or two could get him in on a good start.
He could have been given transport, he could have signed the papers and given his allegiance back to the United States. And it wasn't that he didn't want to. But spending a year in that prison, listening with the other thousands of men week after week as they were told their food was being further rationed, there would be no cook fires permitted after Taps, or that they wouldn't even be granted candles, he wasn't ready to let it go. Not this soon. There were faces within those walls he would never forget and someday they would get what was coming to them.
Until then he needed to at least survive, and if he had to do so on his own then so be it. It wasn't anything he wasn't used to by now.
Shaking his head as if to rid himself of his increasingly dark thoughts, he picked his way through the brush and headed southwest.
St. Joseph would hopefully be a little more friendly to a former Confederate finding his way after the shambles of a devastating war, and Jess Harper was tired of being afoot.