Free Crossing the Deadline by Michael Shoulders Page B

over to the men on the bunk. “Where you soldiers from?” I ask.
    One man raises his head to see who’s asking. “Alabama,” he says.
    I kneel down beside his head and see it’s crusted with layers of filth and dirt. “I’m looking for soldiers from Kentucky,’ I say.
    The man lifts one finger and points outside. “Tents,” he says.
    â€œThe tall tents outside?” I ask.
    He nods and lies back down.
    * * *
    Henry and I rush outside and shut the door behind us. It’s a relief to be leaning against the outside wall, and we take deep breaths to clear our lungs of the stench.
    â€œThat was horrific,” Henry says. “My eyes are watering.”
    â€œMy uncle Clem’s livery was cleaner,” I tell him. “Even when it needed to be mucked, it smelled better than that.”
    I pull open the flap to the first tent we come to. Again, beds line both sides of the canvas walls, creating a pathway down the middle. There’s barely enough room for two people to pass. I walk slowly down the aisle, looking from left to right. I pass each bed slowly, gazing at the men.
    Many prisoners shiver beneath blankets, some violently. I lift my nose into the air and flare my nostrils. Henry tilts his head too. “What do you smell?” he asks, almost in a whisper.
    â€œThere’s a sweet smell in the air,” I say, remembering the overpowering smell of gardenias as Dad died.
    â€œI don’t smell anything sweet,” he answers. “It’s foul in here, too.” Henry tilts his head down and pulls his coat over his nose.
    â€œThere’s a sweet smell mingled in,” I insist. “Concentrate. Can you smell it?”
    Henry lifts his head and sniffs several times. “No. The only smells I’m getting make me want to vomit.”
    â€œI can tell by the scent, Henry,” I tell him. “Death is here. Somebody’s dying here, right now.”
    Henry hits me hard on the shoulder. “Stop it right now, Stephen. You’re scaring me.”
    â€œNo, it’s true.” I say.
    â€œYou’re lying again.”
    â€œNo, I’m not lying this time. When my father died of consumption, I smelled this exact smell. Nobody else in the room mentioned it then. But this is the same smell I noticed just as Dad passed.”
    I look at a man lying on a bed to my left, then bend over him, our faces inches apart. “You from Kentucky?” I ask.
    The man doesn’t open his eyes or raise his head. He nods slightly.
    * * *
    I stare at the man, nose to nose, unable to take my eyes off him. I wonder: Was he the one who pulled the trigger? Did he take Robert from us? Is he the one putting Mother through unbearable agony? I wait for hatred to come to the surface, like waiting for water to boil, but it doesn’t. I want every ounce of my pain to turn to joy in seeing him suffer insqualor, thinking of him dying a slow painful death. I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. But neither hatred nor joy appears, so I stand up.
    â€œThis has to be the worst way to die, a slow death like this,” Henry whispers. “Can you imagine the pain? When I go, I want it to be fast.”
    I walk past Henry and lay my arm against a set of empty bunks. I lean my head against my arm and cry.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” Henry asks.
    â€œThese boys killed Robert, and they are going to meet him again real soon. I thought I’d feel better about seeing them suffer. But I don’t.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

    January 21, 1864
    Dearest Mother,
    I’m sorry for leaving a note instead of speaking to you in person when I left, but good-byes are too difficult. With Dad and Robert gone, I feel I should make my way in the world. Uncle Clem took us in, so I don’t worry about you having a place to live. That’s comfort far more than I can express.
    Several months ago I heard a lady say we must all have a reason for