Robert March had been left behind.
He had instructed them to leave him behind, of course. He knew that four nights of unbroken fever was not something anyone was keen on sharing.
“I must stay, and rest, Kittinger. A March I may be, but march I cannot,” he sighed, pleased with his old joke, which he had been using to diminishing returns since he enlisted.
“We’ll roll you, dunce. What are wagons for if not carrying Chaplains?” huffed Kittinger. The surgeon wore a familiar scowl - the expression of someone who always knew exactly what to do but never had the resources to actually do it.
“Better a lighter load for all, Captain. Don’t worry. I will gather my strength and follow in several days.”
Robert had pulled away from the camp, settling under a tree to watch his compatriots pull out. A wave here, a jest here, a blessing for all. He settled back as the final set of boots turned the corner.
“I will briefly shut my eyes, then make my way towards a town,” he mused to himself. He would get up soon.
Three days later, Robert March was still there.
Kittinger had had the presence of mind to leave him a bedroll. Robert couldn’t lift his legs enough to properly situate himself, but the weight alone was comforting. As he coughed - barking, painful- he said a small prayer of thanks for the Captain’s kindness.
“Lord - “
“Yes?”
Robert jumped. Who was that? He whipped his head around, a sudden motion that made him quickly dizzy. As the world spun, he saw no one. He laid his head back on the trunk, attempting to quell the rising bile in his throat.
“Visions. Hearing things. Too hot. Too Too hot.”
“Hot and ugly, to be sure.”
Robert scrambled to his feet. Anyone out this time of night surely had ill intent. Best to play the part of a fellow marauder, a dangerous man, alone.
“Come now! Who’s there?? Show yourself, else I’ll cut-”
Another coughing fit brought Robert back to his knees, hard. One cough in particular slid past his chest, catching instead below and above. The concussive heave that followed made him briefly blind. When his eyes cleared, all he saw was the grass below him, and, in front of him, two small feet in army slippers.
“You’re not well at all, are you, Father?”
Robert drew up his eyes. While the features were in shadow, his eyes reached the top of the figure sooner than expected. A short man? A child? Yes, a child. But it did not have a child’s voice. The voice was too loud, and it felt like it came from everywhere. A face came into focus. A face he knew.
Beth’s face.
Standing in front of him was his daughter. Beth.
“My darling! My sweet Elsbeth! How are you here??”
“Hm.”
“My dear girl, come! Come, embrace your father!”
The Beth in front of him made no motion.
Robert grasped for her, attempting to come up to a knee. Instead, he pitched forward over his own weight. This embarrassed him. Embarrassment? It would normally never occur to him to be embarrassed, particularly not in front of his ever-forgiving Beth. But this Beth…
“I’m sorry you won’t be coming home, Father.”
“What do you mean, my dear? I don’t understand you.”
“Man doesn’t understand a great many things, Father. It is sinful to presume you know anything about anything.”
“What are you saying, dear? You’ll have to forgive me, I’m quite tired -”
The Beth in front of him gestured for him to sit back against the tree. He was too weak to disagree.
“I’ve come because no one ought to do this alone.”
“Do what alone?”
The Beth in front of him rolled her eyes. It was ghoulish, the way she did it. Such an expression was impossible on the face of the Beth he knew. Or was it? He had never spent quite enough time with her. She seemed so content to be near, but not IN. His Beth. His girls.
“You said forgive, yes? I suppose I could. I can forgive as you gave. You gave so much, Father! You even gave what was not yours to give! And now, look at you. About to give the greatest gift to the cause, indeed!”
“I’m not-”
“Part of you wanted this all along, yes? One cannot be canonized while one is alive, after all. Captain March, martyr! Shining, holy! Never punctured, never spoiled!”
Robert began to pant.
“I don’t like the way you’re speaking to me-”
“Father, can you feel your arms anymore?”
He realized he could not. The Beth in front of him idly pulled up some grass blades and began to braid them.
“Overall, I think you did a poor job. But I do respect that you tried. And I think I do love you for that.”
“Beth…Beth what’s happening? I can’t feel…I can’t feel anything.”
“I’m taking you to my surgery, Father. There, with all my other injured dollies. I’ll care for you, feed you, and take you on walks around the garden.”
Roberts' vision had come to a pinpoint. His breathing grew more and more labored, fluid-filled, like he was drowning.
“Beth! My Beth! Help me!”
“Hush, Father.”
Robert March could no longer see.
In the darkness, he thought he could feel the slight figure before him become massive. Big enough that he now leaned against the side of an enormous army slipper. He felt a hand as long as him lift him up into the sky, up, up, up. High up, where it was cold, colder than he had ever been. He shivered, feeling as if he would shake entirely apart. Then…
…warmth.
The feeling of gentle hands laying him down on a goose feather pillow. The weight of a small blanket tucked up to his chin. The sound of a shy, lovely voice humming a lullaby. Just before he drifted off completely, Robert March heard a whisper that once again seemed like it came from everywhere…
“Sleep well, dollies.”
Thank you for joining me on this (long) interlude! I’m still experimenting with what I want these to be, so thank you for your patience as I hammer it out.
I’ll see you Friday, where we’ll do a preview of Chapter 2, “A Merry Christmas.” xoxoxo see you then!