Stave Two

Murdoch whipped his head around in alarm. His son had muttered only one word since he had arrived home and it wasn't hello. Seeing nothing, he was confident the old man was still back east holed up in that overstuffed house. Probably attending a soiree, or would he still be at the office forcing his minions to grind out numbers and receipts on Christmas Eve, plotting his newest conquest? For the barest moment he thought he smelled the orangey cologne Harlan always bathed in, but it must have been the gingerbread in the oven. No matter, Scott was here now. Home. Albeit at this very moment, he was quite ill. Not Sam-level ill, but if Scott's fever didn't break soon, someone was looking at a ride into town. One he would gladly take himself.

They had made it to the bedroom looking like some mutated, comical parade, complete with Christmas bows. Or at least one anyway, that he had plucked off Scott's sleeve. He patted his left breast pocket, where he had put it when taking off Scott's coat, but it was nowhere to be found. It must have fallen out during the tussle to get his son into bed.

A place for everything and everything in its place was a phrase drilled into him by his own Da. Regardless of the missing ribbon, he felt ridiculously smug for knowing which table the book should attend—because it did make a difference—and idly wondered if that sort of thing ran through families.

He picked up the cloth and dipped it into the bowl of cool water. Wondering, not for the first time, why Scott just didn't stay at home when he felt so ill. He twisted the cloth until most of the water had been rung out then he paused. What was said earlier came back with a vengeance: It's not his way. Of course, his son would do what was necessary.

Hesitant footsteps coming down the hallway broke his train of thought.

"How is he?" Johnny asked.

"About the same, I believe."

"Do we need to send for Sam? Because I'll go."

Murdoch looked down into the wan, angular face. Fever had made Scott milk-white, eyelashes stark black against cheekbones.

"No. Not yet. Hopefully, this will all be over by morning."

Johnny took a deep breath and shook his head.

"What's the matter?"

Johnny sat carefully on the end of Scott's bed so he wouldn't jiggle the mattress. He swiped a black slick of hair away from his eyes and leaned forward, elbows on knees.

"He shouldn't have been the one out there, Murdoch."

Before he could answer to Johnny's surprise statement, they heard a deep groan from the bed. The springs creaked as Scott shifted, shivering.

~o~O~o~

Scott was so shocked he pulled up sharply at the lines of tents and small slipshod cabins of the encampment, and almost lost his footing on the crackly snow. They had passed through from one season to the other in the space of ten feet of bedroom floor. It was suddenly winter. All around was white and moving. He forced himself to look at Harlan.

Graciously, under the circumstances, his grandfather said, "At least you have on a good winter coat."

By way of reply, Scott yanked the collar of his greatcoat together and buttoned it tight. It was biblically cold, the sort of freeze that old people talked about. The sort of weather that a Bostonian would laugh off but would make a Californian—completely miserable—run for home, hearth and a roaring fire. Scott was caught between both worlds. Perhaps he'd spent too much time in the good California sun because he was shivering in his issued boots.

"Do you know of this place, Scotty?"

He nodded. "Yes. It was our regiment's winter encampment in Virginia. Why did you bring here, Grandfather?"

"Why indeed, my boy." Harlan turned to stare at him. "You kept me out of your life after your commission in the Army. Deliberately so, I must add." His eyes softened. "I only wanted to understand where my grandson had gone, what he was doing."

"Oh, that," he murmured. Dear god. Yes. He was going to tell Grandfather about THAT. Scott shrugged like he didn't remember, but Harlan's eyes narrowed, and he was only saved from an inquisition by the plop of a wet snowball at his feet.

He put his hand to his chin and couldn't stop the smile. "No, it can't be! The Great Snowball Battle!"

Much like all wars, it started over the simplest thing. But from small acorns mighty oaks grow and, so too, the seed of discontent was sown in camp.

If he had to blame anyone (and he did—mightily), he'd place it firmly at the feet of A Company and Mr. Charles Dickens. Not that the two were remotely connected in the usual sense but in his mind, they would be forever entwined. He looked down in utter fascination at the growing turmoil and found a younger version of himself.

"Willoughby, you're an ass."

Carter Willoughby, commissioned as a lieutenant and promptly assigned to Company A as some sort of celestial joke, wore the look of a cat who had sauntered up to a bowl full of cream.

"I'm sure I don't know of what you're talking about. And mind your manners to your elders." Carter buttoned his collar and smiled a beatific smile that usually worked on first grade teachers and brunette heiresses but had no affect at all on Scott. "My men and their, ah, proclivity for nocturnal activities, are all accounted for."

"My men have something different to say on the matter."

"Of course, and that's their prerogative." His smile faded; shoulders slumped. "I have no idea where the bloody periodicals are, Scott, and that's the truth. I've cajoled, threatened, and lectured. Captain Frederickson pulled two suspects into his tent yesterday. It's unfortunate that today of all days—Christmas Eve—we won't have a reading."

Scott nodded. "Yesterday, Major Wilkinson went on a harangue in formation, no less. Left Company B shaking in our boots, but not one man stepped forward." Which only lent credence to the fact that if you wanted something done, engage an enlisted man. He'd sought out First Sergeant Bauer, and together they went through the company with a fine tooth comb. Nothing. The thief had to be in Carter's company.

He blew out a breath weighted with cold mist. The regiment was finally in some semblance of peace which led to the more difficult problem of utter boredom. "Great Expectations" had made its way into the camp and hundreds of hearts via serial pamphlets. Accusations flew over hardtack and coffee, dried apples and confiscated ham. Previous friends became enemies as finger-pointing across tables and campfires became bolder. Officers and enlisted alike. As Company B's lieutenant, he'd already broken up two fistfights over whether it was a good idea for Pip to travel to London in order to become a gentleman. Tension over who was—or wasn't—his mysterious benefactor drove tempers even higher.

But now with the periodicals missing, a certain clannish warrior spirit had crept into the men's demeanor. And his own if he was being honest because he was just as caught up with Pip's adventure.

Two angry voices caught their attention.

"Eli, I'm telling you that nothing good will come out Pip's pining for that hoity-toity Estella."

"Bullshit. She's the one for him and vice versa. And we'd have known if your company hadn't stolen the damn paper."

A white ball of snow arced above the tents. Scott heard it thwack against the hapless soldier.

He winked at Carter. "To arms!" he shouted.

Carter blinked. He looked like a deer caught in the lantern light. "You wouldn't dare, Scott."

"Wouldn't I?"

Willoughby shook his head and trotted off to assemble his men.

Scott spied his drummer boy not only by the shock of white-yellow hair peeking out from under his cap but by the length of blue ribbon around his arm. A Christmas fancy from his mother at home. He called out. "Jacob!"

"Sir?"

"Find your drum and give us a marching cadence. We're about to go to war."

Corporal Atherton bounded up, snow freckling his dark blue coat and cap. He rubbed his neck where the snowball had evidently hit him. "Lieutenant, you got a plan? Because I am getting sick and tired of being accused of something I didn't do."

Still somewhat newly minted as a Union soldier, Scott mentally threw off his officer shoulder boards for a bit of company skullduggery. He grinned widely.

"You always were a cheeky lad, Scotty."

He dipped his head to smother a laugh. Grandfather had no idea.

"But they're all so loud, running about yelling. I have a bandage around my ears, but it doesn't help much."

Scott looked up to find Harlan with his great white bow now tied horizontally about his head. Thriftiness, thy name was Harlan Robert Garrett.

"Guard the flank, Harrison. Hold your fire until they come closer," he ordered, watching Company A stealthily advance.

They had quickly built up an amazing bulwark of snow in the short time Scott had called them together. And an impressive cache of ammunition.

Willoughby's drummer boy tapped out a tune as their line advanced. Not to be outdone, Jacob pounded furiously on his own drum, blue ribbon waving gayly, rallying the troops. He played so loud the snow tipped and slid off a nearby cabin roof.

"Company A is full of thieving bastards!"

In answer to the salutation thrown out on the air by Corporal Atherton, a lone snowball came his way. It hit Atherton full in the face, leaving his nose a cherry red. As a good Maine boy, he shook it off, packed one of his own and threw with precision. It was a direct hit to the enemy, and the soldier went down like a load of bricks.

The men looked to him; arms already cocked high.

He raised his hand and let it drop. "Ready, aim, fire!"

Snowballs filled the air at his command. Throughout the next few minutes, they punched and prodded the nervous line of A Company driving them back behind a line of tents.

Scott scored hit after hit; prowess well-honed from his youth. He laughed with each throw. This wasn't ugly, brutal work. It was a schoolyard skirmish, complete with scuffling children, half out of their wits with glee. The cold wetness down his collar when he was struck hard on the shoulder was worth it for the wide smiles and unfettered delight. He and Carter had done this many times during epic snows back in Boston. Only they conducted their business behind orchard trees and wrought iron fences, supplemented on each side by all three of Carter's siblings. The youngest, Suzanna, barely out of diapers.

Whoops and shouts signaled a change. Company A's line broke and they retreated, almost to the hospital tent. A few men started fighting guerrilla-style, from cabin to cabin.

Grandfather sniffed. "It bears thinking about."

"What does?"

"Carter was in some form a brother to you."

"Not some form. He was. He is."

Scott pushed his cold hands into his pockets, feeling the natty fabric of his woolen greatcoat. "Did you know about him, Grandfather?"

The old man let out a sigh. "You're real brother?"

"Yes. Did you know about Johnny when I was growing up?"

"No. After your father came to Boston to put his ill-advised claim upon you, I was done with Murdoch Lancer. I had no need for him anymore. I only knew when you wrote to me after you arrived." Harlan pulled one of the books up to his lap and patted the title like a talisman, but he was lost in thought.

"I'm grateful to have him as a brother."

"I know, Scotty. I know."

During a lull, the most recent installment of "Great Expectations" appeared in Carter's hands.

Hat askew and snowball residue sliding down his face, Carter waved something in the air. "Hold your fire! Hold your fire! Look what I have here." He glared down at a young soldier from his company. "Private Willis forgot he borrowed this."

Atherton coughed up some phlegm and spat it out. "Bastard."

The battle was over. Friends once more became friends and brothers became brothers. Tins of cookies were shared, and flasks passed around.

"You remember this."

It wasn't a question. "Remember? Yes. I remember it all, Grandfather." The whole lot of it. Sharing a bit of good brandy sent from Boston, and a few sugary crumbles with a chagrined Carter before the reading of how young Master Pip became a gentleman. But especially the sheer fun.

Scott shrugged. "We were family." The snowball fight had mattered, for far, far longer than it lasted.

"You gave them a present that Christmas day."

He brought his head up, eyes narrowed. His grandfather was wrong about that, no presents were exchanged.

"It was joy." Harlan offered him his sleeve. "Come along, my boy, we have places to go."

tbc