Colonel Tavington shivered. The wind cut through his thin nightshirt, chilling him to the bone, and the steel gray sky seemed to weigh heavily upon him. However, even in such an oppressive atmosphere, he held his head high as he searched for some familiar landmark that might guide him home.
Before he could even take a step, he saw that a dark figure stood before him. The man was clothed all in black. His coat was of a severe and conservative cut, and his black tri-cornered hat was pulled down low over his face.
"Are you the third spirit whose coming was foretold to me?" William asked. "Are you the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?"
The third Spirit inclined his head in acknowledgment and moved toward the Colonel. The snow made no sound under the Spirit's feet. When he was still a few paces off from William, he raised his arm and pointed a black-gloved hand to the west.
"This way?" Tavington asked.
Again, the Spirit pointed to the west.
"Oh, very well," William muttered, and he started making his way through the snow. "Can you not speak, Spirit? The last of your kind who I met was never at a loss for words."
The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come did not even turn to look at him, and William fell silent.
When they had walked for perhaps a quarter of a mile, William saw a large military encampment spread out before them. It was dusk, and men sat around cook fires, warming themselves and preparing their evening meals.
No one noticed their passing as they made their way through the camp. All seemed to be in order, and William nodded approvingly as they walked past the precisely situated rows of tents. At last, the Ghost stopped in front of a large tent with a lamp burning inside. He beckoned William over and pointed at the entrance.
William ducked inside the small shelter and looked uneasily at the two men sitting there. Each of them had a camp desk in front of him and a pile of small packages at his side. Tavington had seen neither of them before, and he could not imagine what they had to do with him.
"A fine job to be stuck with on Christmas Eve, eh Bill?" one of the men asked.
The other gave a long suffering sigh. "Had to be done, I suppose. Men die, leave behind personal effects, and have no family or friends for the army to send their things to... something has to be done with all of it. Not exactly the cheeriest job, though." He uncorked a flask of liquor that was sitting on his desk and took a long drink. "This'd raise your spirits a bit, if you'd like," Bill said, and tossed the flask to his partner.
"Many thanks," he said, and took a long swallow.
"Not so much, Timothy!" Bill said, and reached across the small space between them to snatch his drink back.
Timothy read the name written on a tag attached to the package on the top of his pile and laughed.
"Now there's a name I'm not surprised to see," he said, and held it up so that Bill could read it as well.
"Never did think that one had a family waiting back at home for him," Bill said.
"And if he did, they'd not have wanted him back!" Timothy grinned at his own cleverness.
Colonel Tavington tried to move closer so that he too could read the name of the man in question, but Timothy had already cut the string wrapped around the package and removed the paper covering.
"What's he got?" Bill asked. He got up from his chair and came to peer over Timothy's shoulder.
"Some old letters, to start with..." Timothy tossed a packet of paper tied with a faded ribbon onto the desk.
William leaned in close and studied the writing on the topmost paper.
"I know that hand!" he said. He looked up at the Ghost, who still stood at the threshold. "Though, of course, I may be mistaken. One man's hand may appear very like another's..."
"Can't imagine who he'd have to write to," Bill said. "What else is there?"
"Looks like an old commission, a miniature of a lady..."
Bill snorted.
"And we've got something wrapped in this little bit of cloth..." Timothy shook the tattered piece of linen and two objects fell out and clattered on the hard wood of the camp desk—a silver ring with a blue stone and a small carving of a man on horseback.
"This isn't worth much," Bill said, and brushed the carving off onto the ground. "But this on the other hand..." he picked up the ring and held it up to the light. "This might bring in some coin."
"Pity we have to report it," Timothy said. He sighed and made a note in the ledger that was open in front of him.
"Those... those are my things! Mother's ring, her portrait, my letters..." William said. He hurried over to the Ghost. "I demand to know why these odious men are going through my things!"
The Ghost said nothing. He lifted his arm again and pointed out into the night.
"No! I will not leave this place until I have some answers!" the Colonel said, his voice getting louder with every word.
The Ghost loomed before him, filling William's vision with darkness and his mind with the chaotic uncertainty that came with being so near a creature bound to the future. The Ghost flung his arm toward the outside, and at last, William went where he was bidden to go.
William did not find himself out in the cold. Instead, he stood in an officer's tent. General O'Hara sat at his desk, looking rather harried. Two more officers stood nearby, and all of them were shaking their heads.
"I was surprised he held on so long," one of them was saying, "considering the nature of his injuries."
"It was a hard death, there at the end," another man, a lieutenant by his uniform, said, removing his hat.
O'Hara rubbed the bridge of his nose. "It has been my experience that bad people usually end badly."
"He ended very badly, even for him," the lieutenant said, a small measure of pity in his voice.
The tent flaps parted, and Timothy, the same man who William had seen sorting through his belongings, came inside.
"I went through his effects as you requested, Sir," Timothy said. "There was nothing of value, save this." He reached into his pocket and produced the sapphire ring.
"Perhaps it could be sold and the money used to put up a small stone with his name on it, though I don't know why anyone would care to know where such a man was buried," General O'Hara murmured.
"This is unconscionable!" William said, rounding on the Ghost. "Though I do not know who it is they speak of... he could be any man, a man whose things were like mine... it does not matter! How dare they speak with such little respect of a man who died in the service of his King?" He knew by now not to look to the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come for comfort, but he turned to the dark spirit anyway, for no other would even acknowledge his presence.
"I'll see to it after Christmas," O'Hara said. "He's in the cold ground already, and it's not as if he won't keep." The other officers laughed, and William winced at the callous tone of their merriment.
The dark and angry expression on William's face deepened. "Spirit," he said, "somewhere, there must be one person who felt something because of this man's death. I demand that you show me that person! Let me see some tenderness, some depth of feeling!"
The Spirit nodded, and William thought that he saw two points of light glinting beneath the brim of the Spirit's hat. He looked away. He did not wish to see the Spirit's eyes.
Gray, roiling mist surrounded him, and when they cleared, he found himself once again in the presence of Robert Eastfield's wife, Martha. She was stirring a thin porridge that was cooking on the fire. Her face was drawn and tired, and her eyes were no longer cheerful. William looked for Sarah, but he did not see her.
Robert came walking slowly up the path to the tent. His face, which William had so often seen smiling, was pale and sunken. He knelt and warmed his hands by the fire, and he took the bowl of porridge that his wife offered him.
"Any luck?" she asked.
"Not yet. But don't worry, I'm sure I'll find a new place soon," he said, but he did not sound as if he believed it.
"You were gone a long while," Martha said. "What kept you?"
Robert set his dish on the ground and rested his forehead on his hands. "I walked by there today. There are a great many crosses... it was... difficult to find. But I took special care to remember where she was. There is... a large, spreading tree nearby. I'm sure that when summer comes and the grass grows in it will be lovely."
Martha sat beside him and took his hand in hers. His shoulders began to shake, and he wept.
"Sarah..." Robert whispered.
Martha wrapped her arms around her husband. He rested his head against her stomach, and she ran her fingers through his hair. Her middle, William suddenly realized, was swollen with the weight of another child.
"There was nothing more you could have done," Martha said soothingly. "And she will never truly be gone, as long as we remember her."
"She was such a sweet child... kind, gentle, no trouble at all..." Robert drew in a ragged breath.
"That's true," William murmured, and wondered at the sound of his own voice. He had not meant to speak.
"And the child you carry," Robert said, "is there nothing better in store for that one?"
Tears were rolling down Martha's cheeks. "We must hope that there is, my dear," she said.
William looked to the Spirit.
"I asked you to show me tenderness," he said, "and you have done so." The words seemed to crowd in his chest, and he spoke with difficulty. "Please. I beg you. Take me home."
The Spirit raised his hand, and the mists engulfed them for the last time.
They stood in the middle of a field of fresh graves. It was night, and the moon was high in the heavens. It had snowed recently, and the crosses were dusted with white powder.
"Spirit, this is not..." William started to say.
The Ghost silenced him with a wave of his arm. He pointed at a single cross, set off a little distance from the others. The Colonel took a hesitant step forward.
"This is the grave of the man we spoke of earlier, is it not?"
The Spirit inclined his head.
"Then I fear to see the name that is written there," William said. "Please, tell me, are these things that you have shown me etched in stone? Or can they yet be changed?"
Again, the Spirit pointed, and William took a few more faltering steps.
"I have been shown many things by you and your brethren, I am changed..." he insisted.
The Spirit pointed to the lone cross, illuminated by a pale beam of moonlight.
"I cannot," William said. "This I cannot do!"
A strong wind roared through the trees and across the field. The Colonel staggered at its force, and the black hat that had shadowed the face of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come blew away. William found himself looking at a man who was the very image of Benjamin Martin.
The Ghost advanced toward him, and William shuddered to see his face, implacable and terrible. He felt as if a hand of ice had closed around his heart. At last, he stood beside the humble cross and the recently dug grave.
"Must I do this?" William asked.
The Ghost pointed at the crossbeam of the little memorial. A name was written there, obscured by snow. William nearly fell at the force of the Ghost's silent command. Gingerly, he knelt by the grave and brushed the snow away with the palm of his hand.
"No," he whispered. It was his own name that had been hastily scratched into the wood, 'Colonel William Tavington.' He shook his head, unwilling to believe it.
"Death in battle I can understand, it is a soldier's lot," he reasoned, "but to die like this? With such a lack of feeling, alone and unremembered... What man could want this?" The wetness that had gathered in the corners of his eyes made the cold wind sting even more.
"I see that I have been wrong about a great many things. But, a man can change, can he not? It is only fair that you let me have that chance! Let me walk out among my fellow men, show that I have learned the lessons that the Spirits have taught me well. I can change, Spirit! I can change!"
The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come stood silently over him as he pled. And William Tavington, his spirit nearly broken, felt tears falling from his face before the icy ground reached out to claim him.