Kill Them Wherever You Find Them (9 page)

After taking a moment to gain his bearings as
well as to relish this incredible moment of the first human
traveling back in time, Jeff looked around to confirm he was alone.
Thankfully,
The Project
placed him in an area situated well
away from known habitations or battles conducted on this specific
day of the Civil War or, as some Southerners prefer, the
War
Between the States
.

Retrieving a plastic bag from his pants
pocket, he placed the space-time device in it, sealing the bag
tightly before burying it near the base of a large tree that he
could easily recognize from any angle upon his return. Carefully
brushing the soil to remove obvious evidence of recent disturbance,
Jeff set out toward his destination: a small town approximately two
hours by horse to the farm owned by Martin McLaughlin.

The long walk was made difficult by the
sweltering summer heat coupled with the uncomfortable boots worn by
Confederate soldiers that completed his uniform, allowing a
complete stranger to better blend in with contemporary society.

At length Stauffenberg reached the town; in
short order locating a quaint, Southern hotel. The proprietor
welcomed him as he climbed the steps of the front porch, rising
from an ornately carved rocking chair, laying a fat cigar on the
edge of the table next to him.

"Welcome soldier, How can I help ya'll?"

"I'm looking for lodgings for one night,
Don't suppose ya'll have a room available at this late hour."
Jeff's Southern accent, perfected over the last few months, to his
relief raised no eyebrows thus far.

"Well young man yur in a heap 'o luck! As it
happens we have one room left. Get 'cherself right in, we'll get
'cha fixed up. Ya'll hungry?"

"Yes'ir, as a matter fact I am."

"Molly, why don't you rustle up some food
while I get him checked in?" The old man's voice had a slight
crackling quality when he spoke, yet an astonishingly clear and
strong quality as he yelled toward the open front door.

Molly, most likely the wife of the
proprietor, showed Jeff to the small dining room where he sat at a
table that, with the chairs, took much of the space with little to
spare. Jeff heard her in the kitchen humming a perky little tune
that he didn't recognize as she bustled about, preparing a heaping
plate of delicious, southern home-style cooking. "Much obliged
ma'am." Jeff thanked her then dug in to the food, famished, as he
hadn't had a bite to eat that morning, excitement and anticipation
precluding any desire for nourishment.

"Well my, my, my, but ain't ya'll a hungry
one?" The proprietor's wife beamed with pride as their newest
boarder nearly breathed in her cooking.

"Yes ma'am, I surely am. This here's been a
mighty long journey without my horse. 'Fraid I had to put her down
'n have been on foot ever since."

"Sorry to hear that son, where are ya'll
headed to?"

"Richmond, ma'am."

"Well that's one long trip ahead. There's a
stable down the road where ya'll can rent yurself a fine horse,
reasonable rates."

After finishing his food, having accepted a
second helping, she showed him to his room. Two flights up
well-worn stairs that creaked with each step, Jeff was eager to get
some rest. "Much obliged ma'am."

"Breakfast is served at seven sharp. We have
a full house, so ya'll had best be getting down on time!"

As Jeff closed his eyes he mentally reviewed
the layout of the hotel and the street leading to it. He could hear
muted conversation coming from the room across the hall mixed with
muted snoring from the room opposite the wall where his bed was
located.

Sleep descended with ease despite the
astonishing fact that history wasn't only being made, but remade as
well. He could scarce believe his role.

Shouting, screaming, gruff voices of men
yelling harsh commands in the hallway awoke Jeff with a start.
Pulling on his pants and shirt he opened the door cautiously. He
partially opened the door to survey the hallway, chaotic with
people moving in every direction. Somebody kicked his door open -
knocking him to the ground.

Two large men also dressed in Confederate
uniforms grabbed Jeff by both arms, lifting him to his feet.
Roughly pushing him out to the hallway, he just barely maintained
his footing.

This seemed to be some kind of a raid, which
didn't make sense. As he stumbled into the hallway, still trying to
gain solid footing, he saw another soldier push a woman face-first
into a wall. Breaking free from the two men securing him Jeff made
a move to protect this woman - placing himself between her and the
soldier strong-arming her.

An excellent fighter, Jeff could easily have
taken this animal. Seconds into the fight though, the other two
soldiers came to the aid of their comrade significantly tipping the
balance of power. Delivering and receiving several well-landed
blows Jeff heard an explosion a millisecond before he experienced a
searing pain tear through one of his legs, followed by the
sensation of warmth running down the inner thigh.

Lightheaded, he realized that he was rapidly
losing consciousness as he slumped to the floor, completely unable
to help the woman who was hauled away in what appeared to be thick
iron shackles. No longer able to help her he found that he was
equally incapable of helping himself as he lost mastery over his
own thoughts. Before completely passing out he felt hands slip in
under his armpits, raising him slightly to be dragged down the
stairs, heels of his feet bumping with each stair descended,
matching the descent of awareness into a blissful void.

~ ~ ~

The warm noonday sun and cool breeze play on
my face and exposed arms. The Spring air nearly vibrates with
honeybees and the flitting wings of shimmering white cabbage
butterflies in this glorious and expansive lawn filled with
flowering clover and radiant dandelions. It could be more
accurately defined as an expansive field of clover and dandelions,
interspersed with blades of grass.

Nearby is the considerably smaller blacktop
for hop-scotch and a single basketball hoop, enjoyed daily by the
girls and boys in higher grades than mine – absolutely forbidden to
we who dwell in the lower realm of kindergarten.

I'm lazily content watching the bees,
children playing, and billowing structures of cotton candy filling
the sky. Hearing the occasional sound of cars on the bordering
street I'm reminded that this piece of heaven, wondrous and magical
as it may be, is of this world.

A sister who is one year older than I is
somewhere in the building, the eldest in a far away school which
I'll one day know as my own. Whatever schools my future holds, none
will ever be as dear to my heart as this.

My younger brother and sister are at home
with mom. We are given to understand that soon another sibling will
be joining us. My brother and I hope it's a boy, my three sisters,
quite naturally, want a girl.

I see my teacher who we all love and who
loves all of us, leaning against a brick wall of the
horseshoe-shaped building, watching us as we play. She seems to
revel as much as we in the warmth of the sun accompanied by a
steady, cool breeze.

The snows of winter receded, finally, into a
beautiful Spring. The Rocky Mountains can be seen at a distance,
gradually shrinking - then disappearing from view into the northern
and southern extremities of my vision. The foothills expose verdant
green under the soft glow of yet snow-capped peaks that alternately
glisten, then nearly disappear, as threatening clouds enshroud
them.

The richly unique smell that portends a
coming rainstorm carries with it the promise of plenty of puddles
of water to be alternately avoided, then jumped directly into, as
my sister and I splash one another on our way home.

Today our teacher gathered us around her on
the floor for what was an exciting step in this first week of our
kindergarten adventure. She taught us our first school song on an
upright piano, situated against the play kitchen in a corner of the
classroom:

Abraham Lincoln is kind and good,

His honor and love for many.

To help us remember this president,

We put his face on our penny!

It's a melodic, wondrous song. I'm sure that
I'll remember and treasure this song - my first song of school -
all the days of my life. How thrilling it is to sing without care,
such youthful joy!

Inlaid in the middle of the floor are large
tiles in a circle with the letters of the alphabet. Daily we walk
around that circle to play various games. The idea, no doubt, is
for us to actually learn the alphabet. I'm pretty sure none of us
do, at least not the first time we walked the circle, singing as we
moved from letter to letter.

Snack time is a favorite part of the morning
for all of us. We always drink milk with crackers. Then we retrieve
small rugs from our assigned cubby holes to lay on the floor for a
nap.

Nobody wants to take a nap. Playing and
singing our new song is much more to our liking. But once laying
down and at rest it isn't long before the stealth arrival of sleep
steals playtime from us without conscious consent, graciously
compensating with the dreams of children that are instantly
forgotten upon awakening.

~ ~ ~

Male Voices:

"He might come to shortly."

"He had bettah. I have some questions for him
b’foh we hang the slave-lovin’ bastard either as a spy, or for
treason."

"We should know within the hour if he will
recover or not. I'll give you regular reports. Right now my focus
is on our own boys."

"Doctah, do yah best. We need to lahn who is
wahkin’ with him. Those damn Quakahs and ho-a Jews and
freedom-for-slaves Yanks will yet be the death of me 'lessin I can
be the death of them fust. I want our own boys to be a priority
too, but without neglectin' this man. We need to know who he is,
and what the hell he's doing heya."

"I’ll keep you informed of any important
changes Major."

"Do that doctah. I’ll be in the officah’s
tent fuh the next while."

~ ~ ~

My leg is on fire. There are dozens of mounds
of fire ant colonies in a field on the other side of the school
area where bicycle racks hold the transport of those lucky students
to whom we all look up. Had I been bitten by ants today? I must
have been, nothing else could account for this burning pain.

We are not supposed to go into that large
field, but I have to cross it to get to the opening in the corner
of the chain-linked fence of the school to walk to and from our
home.

Daily I find myself inexorably drawn to the
ants, not unlike a moth irresistibly to the life-consuming flame. I
know I ought not to get near them, having oft paid the wages of
disobedience. Yet their ceaseless march, menu of what must surely
be haut cuisine insects, plus the occasional warfare with other
colonies combine against my otherwise strong-as-nails willpower.
These ants provide me with countless hours of entertainment.

More than once I'm bit as I squat low,
watching this theater of streaming characters move on and off
stage. I am unaware of the ants climbing up my legs and biting me,
numbed from the amount of time spent in this squatting position.
That's okay, I account these bites of red-hot flames an equitable
entry fee into this world of these single-minded colonists.

On the school grounds are to be found a
handful of large cement drainage pipes inside which we frequently
play. The pipes are so large that most of us can stand straight up
in them. They serve as castles, shelter in battlefields, obstacle
courses, and so much more; daily transforming into something new to
accommodate the game at-hand. Mysterious words are spray-painted in
these pipes. My playground companions and I are eager to decipher
their hidden yet bold messages. Speculation runs rampant in this
small circle of friends. We are told by the older children that
they are
four letter words
- as if that has any special
significance. We congregate inside the pipes to solve not only the
mystery of the four letter words, but also to fashion new mysteries
of our own which tend to spark the imagination, endless resources
of energy, and youthful disposition of our group.

I'm so thirsty.
Parched
, I seem to
recall, is the fancy word I heard somebody use once. I like that
word. I wish we had a water fountain out here; I would drain it
dry! Playing, noonday sun, energetic speculation, being parched,
and fire ants combine to make me feel miserable.

My leg is burning. I am exhausted beyond the
limits of a little boy to withstand. I really need to sleep. Sleep
would be so welcome. Just a little rest, then maybe I can play with
my friends in the classroom's game area some before we go home.

~ ~ ~

Male Voices:

"Nothing was found on his pahson to identify
him?"

"No Major, nothing."

"He was caught in the bahding house with
known collabahratahs of Yankee spies and damned emancipators.
Pahaps we may find somethin' in his belongins' there."

"Sir, there are a few things that I can't
explain but should to point out to you, if you have a moment."

"So yah say? Such as?"

"Look at this scar. No surrounding evidence
of a musket injury, or of any other type of wound. Yet this scar is
unlike any that I’ve ever seen. Based on the fade of the scar, I’d
say the surgery was executed at least twenty years ago. Before the
war I perfected my surgical skills at Boston Hospital with some of
the most eminent surgeons in the country. As you are no doubt aware
I’ve patched up countless of our boys in these fields of war. I’ve
never seen this kind of scar, or the work of such tight stitching
in my life. So I'm left to believe that your prisoner must be from
some place in Europe where they conduct medical surgery
differently."