M'Benga and Chapel were met by a medical team in the hangar; they rushed McCoy to Sickbay for emergency surgery. Scott paused on his way to engineering, "Captain, you will call down and let us know?"

"You know I will, Scotty."

"Aye, thank you sir."

Spock stood by, expectantly silent, as Kirk checked in with the bridge, "We'll be in Sickbay Lieutenant. Kirk out." He glanced over at Spock, "Let's talk in Bones' office."

Of course, he expected no expression on Spock's face as he related all that had transpired downplanet before he left the bar, and as he conjectured what may have happened afterwards. What he hadn't expected was the depth of shocked concern in the dark eyes.

"When Bones recovers, he may or may not let us help him through this. I've got a feeling he's going to be very embarrassed and therefore, grumpy as hell. He's going to need more than the usual amount of understanding, and may I say, finesse."

Spock nodded solemnly. "I suggest we do what humans call 'playing it by ear' Captain."

"I don't think Bones could have put it any better himself, Mr. Spock." He got the expected raised eyebrow in reply.

"I'm going to check in with the bridge while he's in surgery. Care to join me?"

"No, Jim. I will remain here."

Kirk nodded slightly and left.

Spock sat silently contemplating the bewildering array of emotions engendered by the Captain's explanation of the events of the previous evening. He did not wish to empathize completely, for the thought of losing his own father would only bring more unwanted emotion. However, neither did he wish to be callous. For the doctor to have done what Jim thinks he did proved he was in extreme emotional distress. Spock counted McCoy as one of the only two genuinely close friends he had, and he wished to help in some way. A mind meld in McCoy's current condition was out of the question, from both an ethical and medical standpoint. He decided that he would simply present himself by McCoy's side for a set time period each day, offering his support.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He didn't know how long he slept this time. He awoke just before dawn, feeling closer to normal than he had in a long time. Definitely alone this time, he found the gentle quiet comforting. Those two need their rest. He stretched gingerly, protective of his unlucky right arm, and lay immersed in the peacefulness of the cool early morning. He drowsed in and out of a light sleep, awaking with a start as a hand lightly touched his forehead. "Huh - what…?"

"It's all right boy. Just checkin'."

He looked up with a small smile.

"Good mornin' sleepyhead. You hungry?"

"Yessir! That I am."

"Well, let's see what we can rustle up here…somethin' not too hard on your stomach. Be back directly."

After a few minutes Horatio returned with a bowl of honest-to-God stone-ground grits, topped by a huge dollop of genuine butter to boot! Have I died and gone to heaven?

"Do you need help boy?"

"No sir, I believe I can manage."

Horatio turned at the door, "Nothin' personal son, but you'all need a bath."

He nodded, mouth full.

"I'll see to it then."

He finished the rest of his breakfast, sighing deeply. He still didn't have a clue as to how or why he had ended up 400 years in the past, somewhere in Georgia during the War Between the States, ostensibly in the household of his great-great-great-ad infinitum grandfather. Do I try to figure it out? Or do I just go with the flow? Did I die? Is this someone's idea of an afterlife? What the hell is going on?

"Hey boy. Don't you go back to sleep now! Let's get you up."

Are you sure about this? His legs felt about as steady as two twigs, but with Horatio's help he slowly made it. He suddenly realized with some embarrassment that he didn't have a stitch of clothing on. He grabbed the sheet on his way up.

"Uh…what…uh…happened to my uniform?"

Horatio snorted, "Son, don' you remember? You were covered with blood, vomit and horse shit when Gabe brung you in. You were quite the sight, not to mention smell."

Oh Lord!

He exulted in the hot bath, lye soap and all, an oilcloth tied around his splinted arm to keep it dry. Oh, but this is long overdue!

"Holler when you're finished son."

He did when he was. Cozily dressed in homespun and dungarees, he relaxed in a large overstuffed armchair in the parlor, legs up on the footstool, ceramic mug of strong, steaming hot coffee near at hand.

Horatio approached, a nondescript metal box under his arm. "Thought since you're feelin' better I'd show you some keepsakes of your ma."

He sat forward, curious.

"Your ma was a beautiful woman."

"What was her name?"

"Joanna Casey."

He blinked in shocked surprise. Had he known that subconsciously? He stared down at the image of a young woman, who looked not unlike his own daughter. Even for the period there was a timelessness about the beauty staring out at him. "You've been alone for many years. Why haven't you remarried?"

Horatio looked up, eyes misty. "Son, I loved your ma dearly. Would feel like I was betrayin' her if I did that. Anyhow, just didn't have the desire after I lost her. Now don't go lookin' like that, son. It wasn't nary your fault at all."

He didn't know why, but he somehow felt responsible.

"No, don't ever blame yourself. To tell the truth, I didn't want any 'steps'. No sir! You're the fine legacy that she left behind." Horatio glanced down at his left hand and smiled, "I see you've managed to hang onto her ring despite all your tribulations."

He met Horatio's eyes in genuine amazement. His mother passed away when he was 15, and his father had entrusted him with one of her most prized possessions, a simple gold ring with a semi-precious stone which had been given to her by her baby brother, who also died young. He, in his turn, treasured it and wore it always. He felt close to his mother when wearing it and kept her memory alive by doing so. Horatio's next words dragged him out of his reverie.

"Remember boy? I gave it to you when you was of an age to understand its' meanin'. I reckon you were, oh, 'bout 15 years old at the time."

I can't believe this!

"A piece of her lives on in you, boy. Don't you ever forget that."

"No sir", he whispered, eyes fixed on the eager young face from so many years ago. Thinking about his own dearly loved mother. Time to change to a less maudlin subject. "Uh, sir?"

"Son whyn't you call me Pa like you used to? Or even, what did you call me earlier? Dad?"

Because it hurts too much. He plowed on, "Who is this Moss Johnson you and Gabe were talking about earlier?"

"You don't remember anythin' do you boy? Well, that may be a good thing when it comes to Moss Johnson. I don't know how to tell you this son." He sat looking down for a long moment, and then got up. He returned with a letter in hand, "I'll let your own words speak. Might bring back your memory. You wrote this from just outside of Gettysburg." He began reading.

Dear Pa - I must be brief, we are ordered to withdraw across the Potomac as soon as all can be brought to order. I wish I were a doctor like you, Pa. Then I'd be healing folks instead of killing them. Is our cause worth this ritualized butchery? I cannot tell you the indescribable sights I have seen. I would wish to spare your sensibilities. I no longer feel like a man. I feel like a common animal, scrabbling daily for survival. Pa, I killed a man today. Not in the heat of battle, not in the passion of the charge. Pa, Jeff Johnson died by my hand. Oh Pa you never saw such a sight! We were on the retreat and took cover behind some large rocks. Lord, he lay there nearly torn in half by cannon. His legs were blown clean off, and he was bleeding something terrible. He was alive Pa! He was begging me to help him. Help him! What was I going to do? What was I going to do? I tried to give him a drink of water. It was then he asked me the unthinkable. God help me, Pa, I did it. I pulled my revolver and put an end to that poor soul's sufferings. At the time, I thought I did right. Now I don't know. I just don't know. Pa please forgive me. God please forgive me. Please. I pray Moss will forgive me for killing his little brother.

"Moss hasn't forgiven, has he?" he asked quietly.

"No, son. He's mad-dog mad. He's sworn to kill you." Horatio paused, and then quietly said, "I reckon that all this is why you've been on one continuous drunk since you been back."

Images of a pathetically dying young man coalesced with those of his dying father. He shuddered involuntarily, tears welling up in his eyes. "He was dying. I only wanted to let him die with some dignity. I only wanted his sufferings to end. I didn't want to see him lying there in such horrible pain. Oh Dad please forgive me." He bowed his head, quietly weeping.

"Son, it's not up to me to forgive." Horatio stood over him, taking him by the shoulders. "God only knows what you endured. God only knows what was in your heart. God is the only one to judge this here situation. Don't torture yourself. DON'T DESTROY YOURSELF, DO YOU HEAR ME?" He shook him firmly yet gently by the shoulders, forcing him to look up.

Ice blue eyes bored into his, pleading, "Son, I may be just an old country doctor" (oh how his heart leapt at those words!), "but I know real hurt when I see it. And you're hurtin' bad. Me'n Gabe are here to help you in any way we can. Please son…don't destroy yourself over this!"

He saw his father at that moment, speaking those soothing words to him, seeking to heal his broken heart. He looked down, trying to regain his composure.

"Son, one thing us McCoys are good at is hurtin'. And you've had more'n your fair share." Damn straight I have! "I can't tell you how it hurts me to see you sufferin' this pain. But you know what? It's because we care. And I'd a damn sight rather care and hurt, than be some cold hearted bastard who doesn't care and hurts others."

He looked at Horatio as if truly seeing him for the first time, staring at him in love and wonder. This man is my father! He felt that he had been given the great gift of insight and a merciful second chance. This honorable man had bequeathed something precious down through the generations to his father, and to himself: the very essence of the men they were. He was proud to bear his name.

"Don't destroy yourself, son. Please. For my sake?" His voice quavered with emotion.

"I won't, dad. I swear to you, I won't."

With an affectionate pat on the shoulder, Horatio left him to collect his thoughts. He leaned back into the comfortable chair and must've drowsed off again, for he sat up suddenly, confusion clouding his thoughts. Haunting strains from a guitar flowed from the other room. He listened intently, and then called out, "What's that called?"

The music halted, and Gabe shuffled into the room a bit shamefacedly. "Didn't mean to wake you Cap'n!"

"That's all right. I think I've slept enough for two lifetimes. That's a beautiful tune. What is it called?"

"Well, Cap'n, many's the night you asked me to play it for you and the boys 'round the campfire." Gabe paused, but no recognition came. He sighed, "It's your favorite, called "Weepin' Sad and Lonely."

That would be my favorite! he thought sardonically. "You play very well Gabe."

The big man's face lit up at the familiar use of his name. "Thanks Cap'n! Kin I play you somethin' else?"

"You know my favorites, Gabe. You choose."

Aaaaahhh - even he knew this one. The soldier's universal favorite, "Home Sweet Home." He leaned back with a deep sigh. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind, squelching another surge of deep, unchecked emotion. What's to become of me?

Gabe had a seemingly unlimited repertoire. "What's that one?" he asked, eyes still closed.

"Last Light at Manassas."

"Were we there?"

"Yessir we was", Gabe answered sadly. The next piece was heartachingly poignant.

"Gabe…?"

"This one's 'The Battle of Shiloh Hill'." Gabe anticipated his next question, "We warn't there."

"Oh." A sudden curiosity arose. "Gabe, what kind of a soldier was, uh, am I?"

Gabe began playing "The Wearing of the Grey". "Well Cap'n, the onliest thing I know to tell you is that the men would charge the very jaws of Hell if'n you ordered it."

A strange, fierce pride welled up inside him. Now he knew why his father always told him to 'never forget who you are and where you come from'. How could he let these men down? These men who had fought and suffered so much more than he ever had, or probably ever would? How could he let his father down like this? He took in a deep, shuddering breath. No, I won't give up. I won't give up!

"Cap'n?" Gabe's worried voice was close by.

He opened one eye briefly, "Please play some more, Gabe. Soothes my heart."

"Yessir!" Gabe looked over his shoulder and nodded at Horatio, who stood in the doorway, eyes damp with emotion. "All Quiet Along the Potomac" gently floated from his practiced hands. When he finished, soft snores sounded from the armchair.

Horatio smiled, "Gabe, think you can get my boy back to bed without disturbin' his sleep?"

"Yeah Doc. Done it before."

"Well, mind his hurt arm."

Gabe gently gathered the sleeping form in his arms, nodded and headed for the bedroom.