Big Civil War triggers in here. If you're easily disturbed by discussion of war, politics, war crimes or slavery... Well, you know it's coming. Remember, this is historical FICTION. You don't have to accept anything written here or express your approval or disapproval. The thoughts and opinions of the characters do not necessarily reflect those of the AUTHOR, the READER, or even the HISTORICAL FIGURES upon whom the characters are based. Virtue signaling is stupid. Just read the story. And if you feel like commenting, comment on the story, not hot-button issues. Rabble-rousing comments will not be approved.
Accepting that the topic of Doc's illness was closed, Wyatt went back to the previous one. "You said no one in your immediate family was killed in the war. Did your pa and brothers fight?"
"One brother," Doc answered, staring ahead, reminding Wyatt of his stalwartly ignoring Reverand Wright that morning.
Maybe this was a bad topic too, but Wyatt felt that he needed to know certain things before their friendship went any further. He pressed on. "What's his name?"
"Francisco. Was. He died in 'seventy-three."
Doc had just told him he had been sick for about five years. His illness had apparently come hard on the heels of his brother's death. "I'm sorry to hear that. And your father?"
"He's yet living." If anything, Doc's gaze became steelier, almost as if he were bitter that his father had managed to remain alive.
"Did you... you ever wish you could have enlisted?"
Finally, those light-colored eyes flicked in Wyatt's direction, but only for a moment. "I suppose... most of us boys who were too young wished we could at one time or another. But now I believe I was fortunate to have stayed out of it."
"Yeah, I guess so. But I did try. Ran away from home a couple of times. But my pa found me and dragged me back."
"Hm."
Wyatt waited, but Doc seemed content to let the conversation die. "Now that it's over... you think if you'd been old enough to understand what was really going on, you would have enlisted?"
The horses trotted on, the wagon rattled, the harness creaked.
"I do."
Wyatt's heart sank. We can still be friends... but maybe not like I thought. "For what reason?" he asked half-heartedly.
"I imagine for the same reason Washington fought the British: Freedom from the interference of a governing body too far away and too preoccupied with unrelated matters to understand the people who took exception to the way they were being governed."
It was a more reasonable answer than he had expected. Maybe he shouldn't have jumped to conclusions. "The states would be weaker divided," he pointed out.
"The North wouldda been," Doc acknowledged. "And Britain is weaker without its colonies sending it tax money, but they've gotten along without us a hundred years now. Seems to have worked out all right."
"If the South had won, there would still be thousands of people enslaved there... even little children who never did anything worse than being born to enslaved parents."
Doc scowled. "Hell, Wyatt, you know better than that."
Wyatt's pulse picked up. They might be about to fight after all. But Doc went on.
"No one in the whole damn country knew that the emancipation was coming. Not one confederate soldier was fightin' for slavery. Not one. Don't you ever let me hear you talk like that again. You make me ashamed of you."
Again, Wyatt broke out in a sweat, this time from the heat of embarrassment. His stomach felt heavy. He's right... I do know better. He had met many confederates, both in Wichita and Dodge, and of all the complaints they had ever expressed, losing their slaves wasn't one of them. That didn't mean none of them were bitter over it, but he had made a prejudicial assumption. "You're right," he said meekly. "The question of freeing the slaves didn't come into it for the first couple of years. I apologize."
Doc continued to look straight ahead, the only betrayal of any emotion being the quickened pace of his breathing.
"Don't be sore, Doc. I haven't had much chance to talk so seriously about the war with a southern man before. I let well enough alone because I didn't want to start trouble."
"But you don't mind startin' it with me." Still staring ahead. Still frowning. Sweating too, Wyatt noted.
"I'm talking to you about it because I want to understand... and you're my friend."
"Do you understand?" Doc finally looked at him. "I don't believe you can, Wyatt." He sighed and looked forward again. "I don't believe you can," he repeated.
Wyatt decided to keep his mouth shut. He hoped he hadn't ensured that the whole rest of the way to Lakin would be strained.
"Half the family was uprooted," Doc murmured after a minute, surprising Wyatt. His accent seemed to grow stronger with the intensity of the memories. "My cousin's father and mine had to move us to my uncle's place because our homes weren't safe. Land overrun with Yankees... stealin' from us... rapin' our women... killin' us in ah homes lak we were animals for huntin'."
The heaviness in Wyatt's stomach grew. This was the kind of story most people didn't tell about the war. It was more interesting to hear about maneuvers and strategies - more polite, too. Wyatt wondered if this was the kind of thing James had kept from him and the younger children. Some of the things he had seen that the rest of them couldn't imagine. He felt downright sick. He knew better than to point out that men on the southern side had also committed atrocities. That didn't lessen the pain of what Doc had known as a boy.
"No, I don't believe you can understand," Doc concluded.
When Wyatt dared to steal another look at him, he saw tears standing in Doc's eyes. There was more he wanted to ask - a lot more. But now was clearly not the time. "I'm sorry, John."
If not for the sounds of their traveling, the silence that followed would have been unbearable. They must have proceeded half a mile at least before Doc uttered, "All right."
Hoping that meant he was forgiven, Wyatt began to rack his brain for something - anything - else to talk about.
Doc wished Wyatt would move on to some lighthearted topic. He stared straight ahead, hoping that his obvious lack of engagement would put Wyatt off this line of conversation. "One brother," he said tersely.
"What's his name?"
Shut up, Wyatt. "Francisco. Was. He died in 'seventy-three."
"I'm sorry to hear that. And your father?"
My father. Old bastard. He'll probably live to be a hundred. "He's yet living."
"Did you... you ever wish you could have enlisted?"
Wondering just what Wyatt was getting at, Doc glanced at his friend and found his blue eyes somewhat guarded. He looked forward again. "I suppose... most of us boys who were too young wished we could at one time or another. But now I believe I was fortunate to have stayed out of it." God only knows how that time would have been for my mother if I hadn't been there.
"Yeah, I guess so. But I did try. Ran away from home a couple of times. But my pa found me and dragged me back."
"Hm." That made almost a comical picture, but Doc couldn't quite bring himself to comment on it. The topic was too sour for him.
"Now that it's over... you think if you'd been old enough to understand what was really going on, you would have enlisted?"
This was a dangerous question. Wyatt seemed to be trying to figure out if Doc was an "acceptable" southern friend or not. I won't lie, not even to keep your friendship. A dishonest friendship is no friendship at all. Having made up his mind, Doc said firmly, "I do."
"For what reason?" Wyatt sounded disappointed.
That was irritating. Doc kept his voice aloof. "I imagine for the same reason Washington fought the British: Freedom from the interference of a governing body too far away and too preoccupied with unrelated matters to understand the people who took exception to the way they were being governed."
"The states would be weaker divided," Wyatt pointed out.
That's no argument, boy. Don't try me. "The North wouldda been. And Britain is weaker without its colonies sending it tax money, but they've gotten along without us a hundred years now. Seems to have worked out all right."
"If the South had won, there would still be thousands of people enslaved there... even little children who never did anything worse than being born to enslaved parents."
Doc had managed not to become angry until now. "Hell, Wyatt, you know better than that." Or maybe he didn't. If not, he needed to be set straight right now. "No one in the whole damn country knew that the emancipation was coming. Not one confederate soldier was fightin' for slavery. Not one. Don't you ever let me hear you talk like that again. You make me ashamed of you." Maybe that was too harsh... but no. This was important. He couldn't have his friend thinking he was some negro-hating slavery enthusiast.
When Wyatt answered after a moment, he sounded duly chastised. "You're right... The question of freeing the slaves didn't come into it for the first couple of years. I apologize."
Maybe that should have been enough, but Doc still felt some outrage. He refused to look at Wyatt. He felt close to a coughing fit, and sweat had broken out all over his body.
"Don't be sore, Doc," Wyatt emplored him. "I haven't had much chance to talk so seriously about the war with a southern man before. I let well enough alone because I didn't want to start trouble."
That makes it worse, you ass. "But you don't mind startin' it with me."
"I'm talking to you about it because I want to understand... and you're my friend."
Am I? Would a friend think so badly of me? "Do you understand?" Doc finally looked at him. "I don't believe you can, Wyatt." Childhood fears assaulted his memory - picturing Mattie fleeing a burning house, gathering her skirts to run across the fields, hollering for help from the neighbors, not knowing they were already dead... none of that had happened, except in his nightmares, but the fear was all too real. He sighed and looked forward again. "I don't believe you can," he repeated.
Wyatt had the sense not to say anything.
"Half the family was uprooted," Doc murmured after a minute, surprising himself. He wanted to be done with this topic, and yet the emotion he had held at bay for over a decade seemed to have breeched some sort of fortress and come spilling out. "My cousin's father and mine had to move us to my uncle's place because our homes weren't safe. Land overrun with Yankees... stealin' from us... rapin' our women... killin' us in ah homes lak we were animals for huntin'." He realized his accent was growing stronger as he went, but he couldn't be made to care at this point. He remembered how scared Mattie had been, the sweet letter she had written to him during that time. He knew it almost by heart, he had read it so many times.
Dear John Henry,
You may have heard that papa is sending us to Uncle Henry's in Valdosta. I hope we will arrive soon. The only good thing about this war is that it means I will see you soon. I am so frightened the Yankees will come before we depart. If they steal me away, you must promise to come save me one day. If I'm killed, tell the priest I would like "Abide With Me" and "Amazing Grace" sung at my funeral. I know it may be silly to make such requests at this time, but I'm that afraid, John. We've heard of the Yankees doing terrible things, things mama says oughtn't be spoken of.
I heard that your mother has a bit of a cough. I'm very sorry about that. I will help you look after her in Valdosta. You may depend on that. We are all refugees together and must care for one another. I am already praying for you and your family. Pray for me and mine until I am safely at your side.
Your loving cousin,
Martha Ann
They had not been in love then; just family. Family desperately afraid for the future. Tears stood in Doc's eyes. "No, I don't believe you can understand," he concluded.
After a moment, Wyatt said softly, "I'm sorry, John."
Lord, I hate it when you apologize. But Lord knows you needed to. Doc didn't feel inclined to forgive his friend, but he knew that some of his anger was misplaced. Wyatt hadn't fought in the war. He hadn't seen the fighting himself. Hadn't witnessed the ravaged families and homes. He didn't know. Maybe he really was just trying to learn. "All right."
After a long lapse in conversation, during which Doc fancied he could feel the heat of shame rolling off his friend, he finally took pity and swallowed down his own pride and misgivings. "Tell me about your other brothers."
Well, that was uncomfortable. Everybody breathe. It can be very hard to see the other person's perspective sometimes. Wyatt is making a big effort. It looks like they're past the worst of that. Remember, the comments section isn't a soapbox for your cause. Try to be constructive, supportive, and focus on the story. (If anyone even bothers to comment - grumble, grumble)