Shattered Lives (Flynn Family Saga Book 1) (7 page)

And the prisoners kept coming.

Two weeks later, Major Hoffman cut the rations by
half.

Flynn watched in horror as the chaos of Camp Sumter
repeated itself in this northern version of hell.  He began to organize the
men.  He created an island of order in a sea of cruelty.

By the end of September, nearly ten thousand men
filled the camp.  Flynn found it harder and harder to keep order.  One morning,
he woke to find four men beating a fifth.  He barked orders, and his squad
moved in to break up the fight.

And stood toe to toe with Nick Vaughn.

Vaughn shook his head.  “You just won’t die, will
you?”

Flynn shook his head.  “But you will, if you don’t
stop stealing food.”

Vaughn’s face contorted with hatred.  He raised his
fists.

Addison and a dozen other men closed in around them.

Vaughn spat on the ground.  “This ain’t over,
half-breed, not by a long shot.”  He turned and walked away.

Flynn let out a breath.

Addison shook his head.  “You’re going to have to
sleep with one eye open, Lieutenant.”

Flynn nodded.  Then, he heard the sound of another
train pulling into the station.  He sighed, and strode toward the gate.  His
squad of men followed him.  They met the newcomers and protected them from
Vaughn and his raiders.

*  *  *

Winter came early that year.  Flynn was always
cold.  There were no blankets, no winter clothing for the prisoners. 
Pneumonia, cholera and typhus spread through the camp, trailing death in their
wake.  The hospital was full, and the medical care was inadequate at best. 
Flynn nursed the men the best he could, bringing the sick men into the wooden
barracks.  He scrounged blankets, but there were no trees inside the compound,
and he could not brew any willow bark tea.

Flynn organized the burial details, and Addison
wrote their names in the small notebook.  On New Year’s Eve, he wrote another
name in his book.  “Over two thousand dead, Lieutenant.”

Flynn shut his eyes.  Tears burned his eyes, but he
could not afford to show weakness in front of his men.  He drew a deep breath
and opened his eyes.  He smiled a smile as false as any whore’s.  “The war
can’t go on forever, Corporal.  We’ll be out of here by summer at the latest.”

Corporal Addison nodded, but he didn’t look
convinced.

Flynn didn’t blame him.  He didn’t believe it
himself.

In the morning, Addison began to cough.

Flynn nursed him for ten days, but Addison grew
weaker and weaker.

On the fifteenth of January, 1864, Addison’s hand
clenched on Flynn’s with startling strength.  When he stopped coughing, he drew
a ragged breath.  “Lieutenant?”

“I’m right here, Corporal.”

Addison laughed weakly.  “I know.  I almost broke
your hand.”  He sobered.  “Lieutenant, let me go.”

Flynn pretended to misunderstand.  “You’re the one
who almost broke
my
hand.”

Addison shook his head.  “You know what I mean.”

Flynn looked away and nodded.  “Yes, I do.”  He
looked back.  “I just—I just don’t want to lose another friend.”

Addison tried to grin and started to cough.  When he
could breathe again, he said, “You’re not losing a friend.  You’re gaining an
extra ration.”

Flynn laughed in spite of the ache in his throat. 
He squeezed Addison’s hand.  “All right, Corporal.  Consider yourself
dismissed.”

Addison smiled at him.  He closed his eyes.  His
breathing was labored, and his chest gurgled with every breath.

Flynn sat very still, holding Addison’s hand.

Night fell, and still Addison continued to breathe.

Flynn shut his eyes and began the Lakota chant for
the dead.  Slowly, Addison began to relax.  When Flynn fell silent, Addison
opened his eyes and smiled.  “Thank you.”  He drew one, deep breath.

It was his last.

Flynn sat a long time holding his friend’s hand. 
His throat felt as if he had swallowed broken glass.  He closed his friend’s
eyes.  Then, he took the little notebook from the man’s pocket.  Slowly,
carefully, in his own elegant handwriting, he wrote, “Died on the morning of January 16, 1864: Corporal Louis Addison.”

He closed the book and stuck it in his own pocket. 
He sat still for a while, and then he stood and organized a burial detail.

CHAPTER
SEVEN

Spring came.  No new prisoners entered the camp, and
Major Hoffman began to release some of those already there.  By the end of May,
less than a thousand prisoners remained.

Summer came.  Another three hundred prisoners
contracted cholera.  Flynn tried to take care of them, but there was no
laudanum, and most of them died.

Then, the leaves began to turn.  The hills to the
east blazed with color.  Flynn stood and stared at them numbly.  He could
hardly believe there was a world outside the camp anymore.

One of the guards came up to him.  “Today’s the last
day, Lieutenant.”  He hesitated.  “It has been an honor to know you, sir.”  He
came to attention and saluted.

Flynn hesitated.  Then, he returned the salute.  “Thank
you, Sergeant Layton.”

Layton hesitated.  “Do you have anyone coming for
you, sir?  Any family?”

For a moment, desolation threatened to bring tears
to his eyes.  Flynn fought them back.  He shook his head.

Layton nodded slowly.  “Well, my wife moved to Elmira
while I was posted here.  We like the town.  So if you need a place to stay,
you come to 153 Water Street.  We’ll find a bunk for you, sir.”

Flynn swallowed hard.  “Thank you, Sergeant.”

Layton nodded.  He turned and walked away.

Flynn turned back to his men.  He helped them pack
their few belongings and escorted them to the gate.  He stood staring at the
road that led away from the camp for a long time, afraid to leave the shelter
of the walls.  With an effort, he straightened his shoulders and walked through
the gate.

“Flynn!”

Flynn blinked.

Sam waved to him, flanked by Ben Brewster and Frank
Lennox.  Sam had put on weight.  He stepped forward and held out his hand. 
Flynn took it.  Sam pulled him into a brief bear hug.  Then, he stepped back.  “You
look like a ghost.  Are you hungry?”

Flynn nodded.

“Come on, then.  I know this place...”

Ben groaned.  “Here we go again.  Every time Sam
says he knows a place, we end up in a fight or jail or worse.”

Slowly, Flynn smiled.  “What’s worse than jail?”

“Well,” Ben rubbed his chin, “one morning, I woke up
married.”  He grinned and took the daguerreotype out of his pocket.

Flynn smiled.  His stomach growled, and he swayed on
his feet.

Gently, Sam put his arm around Flynn’s shoulders.  “On
second thought, maybe we ought to eat someplace quiet.”

Sam led him to a small café.  A woman came over to
them.  She smiled at Flynn.  “Who’s your friend, Sam?”

Flynn took off his hat.  “Robert Sean Flynn, ma’am. 
Pleased to meet you.”

“Thank you.  Are you hungry, Mr. Flynn?”

“Yes ma’am.”

Sam touched her arm.  “Nan, can you find us a quiet
table in the back?”

Nan nodded and led the way to the back of the
restaurant, near the door to the kitchen.  The smell of roasting chicken wafted
out every time the door swung open.

Flynn’s mouth started to water.  He turned to the
Major.  “I don’t have any money, sir.”

Sam shrugged.  “Consider it an advance.  You
are
going to scout for me in the spring, aren’t you?”

Flynn looked away.  “I don’t know.  I haven’t looked
that far ahead.”

Sam laid a huge hand on Flynn’s shoulder.  “Take
your time, son.  It took me months to get used to the real world again.”

Flynn shook his head.  “I don’t know.  It seemed
pretty real when I was burying the dead.”

Sam nodded sympathetically.  “I owe you my life. 
Ben and I both do.”

Flynn looked away.  “You would have done the same
for me.”

The three men sat in silence until Nan came back to
the table carrying a tray loaded with roast chicken and mashed potatoes and
gravy.

Flynn stared at the food for a moment.  Then, he cut
into it.  It was savory with herbs, and he chewed slowly before he swallowed.

And then his stomach rebelled.

Flynn stood up and ran from the restaurant, through
the kitchen to the alley in the back where he not only lost the mouthful of
chicken but his meager breakfast as well.

Sam came out and handed Flynn his handkerchief.

Flynn wiped his mouth.  His hand shook.

Sam touched his shoulder gently.  “Too much?”

Flynn nodded.

“Just eat the biscuits.  They’ll stay down.”

Flynn looked at him and raised one eyebrow.  “You
sound as if you speak from experience.”

Sam chuckled.  “I do.”

Flynn accompanied him back into the café.  He ate
slowly, and this time, it stayed down.  He pushed away from the table.

Sam studied him.  “Do you have any family, son?”

Flynn shook his head.  “My folks died when I was a
kid.  Alexander Ridgeton took me in.”

Sam grinned.  “Ridgeton, huh?  I may have to double
your salary if you’re half as good a scout as Ridgeton.”  He rubbed his chin.  “You’ll
need a horse.  And provisions if you’re going to ride all the way to St. Jo.” 
He grinned.  “I have a spare horse I brought, just in case you wanted to come
to Manhattan with us.”

Flynn shook his head.  “Major, I can’t—“

“Take charity?”  Sam shook his head.  “Call it a
loan.  I expect you to show up in St. Jo by March 15th at the latest.  We’ll be
staying in a nice, clean boarding house run by a woman called Kate Hamilton. 
You can find me there.”

“Thank you, Sam.”

Together, they walked to the livery stable.  The Sam
brought out a large, chestnut stallion.  Flynn’s breath caught when he saw the
horse.  “I can’t accept a horse like this!”

“Son, I’d be dead and buried in the ground if you
hadn’t gotten me out of Camp Sumter.  Just bring him back to me in St. Jo in
the spring.  All right?”  He held out his hand.

Flynn nodded.  “Yes sir.”  He took the Major’s hand
and shook it.  “I’ll see you in the spring.”  He saddled the horse and climbed
into the saddle.  The horse pranced a little.  Flynn patted his neck, and the
stallion settled down.  He turned and rode out of Elmira without looking back.

*  *  *

Flynn reached the prairie on a cold November night. 
He lay on his blanket and listened to the wind in the grass.  The knot in his
belly eased a little at the soft hiss of the wind.  It was cold, but he had
chopped firewood for a widow in exchange for her husband’s warm jacket and
mucked out stables for a pocketful of coins.  He caught a rabbit in a snare and
made biscuits in an iron frying pan he had found beside the trail.  He set it
over the fire.  When the biscuits were done, he ate slowly, savoring the food
and the freedom to eat it without fear.

When he had eaten, he curried Scout.  The horse
nuzzled his chest, and Flynn smiled.  The rhythmic motion of the brush relaxed
both him and his horse.  When he was finished, he unrolled his blanket and
stared into the fire.  As the fire died down, it was easier to see the stars. 
The Milky Way spread across the heaves like a bridal veil.  Later, the moon
rose, half light, half darkness.

Flynn rolled over and shut his eyes.

He dreamed of the war.  He woke with a cry from a
dream of gunfire and blood.  He lay awake, staring up at the stars without
seeing them.  Instead, he saw the battlefield at Manassas, littered with the
dead and dying.

He did not sleep again that night.

*  *  *

It was snowing by the time he reached the hidden valley. 
He sat on Scout’s back for a long time.  The cabin looked smaller than he
remembered, but the lean-to was still there, with enough hay for two horses. 
There was a neat stack of wood, but Flynn knew from experience that it wasn’t
enough.  That was all right with him.  He needed something to keep his hands
busy during the day, and chopping wood might just tire him enough to sleep at
night.

He dismounted and unsaddled Scout.  He rubbed the
horse down and tethered him under the lean-to.  He stood in front of the door
for a moment.  The knot in his belly tightened.  He drew a deep breath and
opened the door.

The cabin was empty.  He wasn’t surprised at that. 
There had been no smoke coming from the chimney.  He stepped inside.

Nothing had changed.  The tin dishes were stacked
neatly next to the dry sink.  His books filled the shelves he had built.  He
took down the copy of
Henry VI
and blew the dust of it.  Dust coated
everything.  Flynn began to clean the cabin.  The linen was clean, but the
sheets smelled a little musty as he made up his bed.

He lay down on the clean sheets, but his feet hung
over the edge.

“You’ve grown, boy.”

Flynn got up and drew his pistol in one smooth
motion.

Ridgeton raised his hands slowly.  A string of pelts
dangled from his right wrist.

Horror filled Flynn.  He stared at the pistol in his
hand.  Then, he looked at the man who had taken him in when he had lost
everything.  Bile rose in his throat.  He dropped the pistol and ran out of the
cabin, pushing Ridgeton aside.  He bent over and vomited.

Strong hands held him.

Flynn started to shake.

Carefully, Ridgeton turned him and held him.

Flynn wanted to cry.  He
needed
to cry.

But the tears wouldn’t come.

“Come inside, Eagle Heart.”  Shadow spoke the words
in Lakota.

Flynn shook his head.  “That’s not my name.  Eagle
Heart died the day the soldiers massacred his village.”

“Come inside then, Robert Sean Flynn.”

Flynn shook his head again.  He looked into Ridgeton’s
green eyes.  “I’m not that man, either.  I fought for the South, but it was the
wrong side!”  He started to shiver.

Ridgeton sighed.  “Come inside.  We can figure out
who you are after you’ve warmed up and had some supper.”

A smile tugged at Flynn’s lips.  He nodded and
followed Ridgeton inside.

Ridgeton made stew and dumplings.  Flynn made the
coffee.  The simple tasks seemed so alien.  Flynn looked down at his hands and
was surprised that they weren’t stained with blood.

“After the war, I stayed in the mountains alone for
two years.  Then, another trapper fell and broke his leg.  I hauled him into
town.  When I heard people talking, I almost couldn’t understand the language
anymore.  It scared me.  So I forced myself to go into town once a week.  Then,
once a day.  Finally, I took a party back to Lancaster.  They’d had enough of
the pioneering life and wanted to go home.  On the way, I met Pathfinder’s
people.”

“And Light On The Water.”

Smiling, Ridgeton nodded.  “She was the most
beautiful woman I ever saw.  Her hair was as black as a raven’s wing.  Her
voice was as sweet as a meadowlark’s song.  I don’t think we exchanged one
harsh word the whole time we were married.”  He dished up the stew and handed
Flynn a bowl.

Flynn poured the coffee into a mug and handed it to
Ridgeton.  “Did you have any children?”

Ridgeton shook his head sadly.  “That was the only
sorrow between us.”

Flynn nodded.  He took spoonful of the stew and shut
his eyes.  “I forgot what an awful cook you are.”

Ridgeton laughed.  “All right.  Tomorrow, you can
make supper.”

Flynn smiled faintly.

Ridgeton sighed.  “What I’m trying to say is that
Light On The Water and me, we never quite fit in anywhere, either.  The Lakota
had a problem with us because I was white.  The whites—well, I don’t have to
tell you.”

Flynn shook his head.

“But there were folk who accepted us.  Keeper, for
one.”  Ridgeton smiled again.  He looked at Flynn.  “The Lakota have the right
of it, I think.  Home isn’t a place.  It’s
tiyospaye
, the people who
love you.  The people who forgive you when you make a mistake and take you in
when you are lost.”

Flynn looked away.  His hands began to tremble, and
he set down his bowl.  “I almost killed you.”

“No, Flynn.  I’ve seen you shoot.  If you’d meant to
kill me, I’d be dead.”  Ridgeton laid his hand on Flynn’s shoulder until the
shaking stopped.  “Eat your stew before it gets cold.”

Flynn nodded.  He picked up the bowl and began to
eat.

He felt a little better with a full stomach.  He
helped Ridgeton stretch the pelts and then he took down a book he hadn’t seen
before.  “Swinburne?”

Ridgeton nodded.  “I got a new book for you every
year you were away.  Just in case.”

Flynn’s eyes burned with the tears he could not
shed.  “I missed you, Shadow Beneath The Trees,” he said in Lakota.

“And I missed you, Eagle Heart.”

*  *  *

Flynn stayed with Ridgeton through the winter.  When
the snow began to melt, he saddled Scout and slung his saddlebags over the
stallion’s broad back.

“Where are you going?”  Ridgeton’s voice startled
him.

Flynn turned to him.  “St. Jo.  I have a job
scouting for a wagon train.”

“Oh?  Who’s the wagon master?”

“A man named Anders.”

Ridgeton raised an eyebrow.  “Sam Anders?”

Flynn nodded.

Ridgeton smiled.  “He’s a good man.”

Flynn nodded again.  He cleared his throat.  “Thank
you, Shadow Beneath The Trees.”

“You’re welcome, Eagle Heart.  Remember that you are
always welcome here.”

Flynn nodded.  The two men embraced, briefly.  Then,
Flynn swung up onto Scout’s back and rode away.

First, he rode to the scaffold that held Timmy’s
body.  He sat on his horse with his head bowed for a long time.  Then, he rode
to the scaffolds that held the bodies of the people who had died in the
massacre.  There was a new one, and he recognized Pathfinder’s ceremonial
robe.  Grief and surprise shook him.  He took off his hat and stood beneath the
scaffold.  He tried to chant, but his voice broke.

Behind him, another voice took up the chant.

Flynn turned with his pistol drawn.

Sees Far stood behind him.  “What took you so long,
Eagle Heart?”