Free Sisters of Shiloh by Kathy Hepinstall Page B

woods, catching the fragrance of wintergreen plants and the ammonia scent of urine. The lantern caught the bold design of a spider web, and she walked around it, eyeing the black spider in the center. She stepped on something that could have been an old snakeskin or the dried remains of ironweed, but did not lower her lantern to look.
    She ducked behind an oak tree, hanging the lantern on a low limb so that its light fell from her waist to the ground. She sniffed at the air and realized someone else with an aching bladder had already found this spot. She had no desire, though, to look further. She pulled down her trousers, backed up to the tree, and sank into a crouching position, bracing her back against the trunk and holding her shirttail out of the way. She tried to hurry, but her bladder would not be rushed. She waited, trembling, alert for any sound beyond the splash of urine against the leaves of the forest floor.
    She heard something. A footstep or the fall of an acorn loosened by the wind. Her throat went dry. She stopped the flow and listened. A definite series of footsteps now, creeping up so fast that she did not have time to react, but remained in her position with her sex bared as suddenly she was looking into a man’s face. The lantern light caught his wild eyes as he stared at her.
    She couldn’t help herself. She screamed. He screamed too.
    She fell over as he ran away, still screaming, in the direction of the camp. She managed to pull up her pants. Her fingers shook as she buttoned them. Voices rose in the distance, curses and urgent calls for the guards. She crept out of the woods and back through the field toward a gathering clamor. She hid behind an ambulance wagon and listened.
    “They’re killing me. They’re killing me!”
    She peered out from behind the wagon. Half a dozen soldiers were trying to pin down the crazy man’s arms and legs, but he fought them ferociously. Other soldiers were gathering.
    “We’re going to die! All of us!”
    The lieutenant, a short, chubby man whose uniform fit him tightly, came rushing up to the struggling group. “Private Abraham! You will be quiet now!”
    But the man would not be silenced. “They’re coming! They’re coming! Oh God, they’re here!”
     
    “Private Abraham goes through spells,” Floyd explained the next morning as he rolled up his mackinaw blanket. “The man’s got nostalgia. That’s the medical term. All of a sudden, he’ll start screaming for no reason at all. Claims people are coming to kill him or a pack of wild dogs has broken loose. Once in a while, he’ll think he’s sinking in quicksand. He used to be a regular fellow. Last summer he was trying to reload his musket, when a Yankee shell took the head off the man standing next to him. Half the man’s face ended up sliding down his neck. Private Abraham didn’t speak for three days, and after that . . . well, you see what happens.”
    “Why don’t they send him home?” Josephine asked.
    “He won’t go. He’s still a good soldier, and Old Jack would let a billy goat fight if he could hold a gun.”
    Floyd began to rummage through his haversack and didn’t speak again until he’d found his folding toothbrush and held it to the light.
    “Years ago, there was a man from my town who fought at Churubusco. When he came back home, he didn’t have no foot, and he was crazy as a loon. His family had to put bars over his window and chain him to his bed.”
    “What did they do with Private Abraham last night?” Libby asked.
    “Ah, they threw him in the guardhouse. He’s always fine in the morning, like nothing ever happened.”
    “Really? He doesn’t remember?”
    “Who knows?”
    Libby hadn’t slept, too worried about exposing her gender to an insane man.
    “This war makes everyone crazy,” said Floyd. “Some more than others, of course.”
     
    Just as Floyd had promised, Private Abraham was at morning drill. His expression was calm, but he had the eyes of a man