Free Unholy Fire by Robert J. Mrazek Page B

general, had called an emergency meeting to address the rash of desertions that had recently beset the army. The desertion rate usually increased fivefold or more just before a major battle, particularly in the units that had a high percentage of bounty men. All of us were ordered to attend the meeting.
    Ordinarily, I would already have consumed at least two cups of laudanum by then and been ready to go for several hours without replenishment. However, while shaving that morning, I had discovered to my chagrin that the new bottle I had brought from the livery stable was mislabeled and contained only castor oil. By then it was too late to replace it with one of the others.
    Upon arriving at work, I went directly to the washroom down the hall from my office. Unfortunately, an officer was washing at the sink, and I left without gaining access to the bottle hidden there.
    General Patrick’s staff meeting dragged on all morning. At around eleven I excused myself and made another foray to the washroom. This time a cleaning attendant was mopping the floor, and I was forced to abandon that attempt as well. When the meeting finally adjourned for lunch, I rushed back to the washroom only to find a group of men attending to their ablutions. In my increasingly demented state, I was almost convinced that some maniacal force was at work.
    It was two o’clock when the staff meeting finally ended, and I had another chance to try for the laudanum. By then my uniform was soaked with sweat, and I could feel the onset of another bout of the tremors coming on. I hastened down the dark corridor to the washroom. There was no noise behind the door, and I silently prayed that the room would be empty.
    I swung open the heavy door. There was no one at the dripping sinks, and I went straight to my hiding place. Without pause, I removed the bottle from its crevice. Normally, I would have transferred it to a cup and then headed for one of the thunderboxes. In my haste I just removed the cork, tilted it to my mouth, and swallowed. When the grain alcohol began to sear my throat, I paused for a few seconds, and then tipped the bottle again.
    â€œIs there enough for everyone?” came a loud voice behind me. It so startled me that I almost dropped the bottle as I turned around. A tall man was standing in front of the door to one of the thunderboxes.
    He was wearing a purple silk bathrobe that had gilt dragons sewn all over it. Beneath the robe he wore white silk pajamas. His shoulders were resting on a pair of padded wooden crutches, and I could see that his right leg was wrapped in linen bandages. I immediately knew that he must have come from one of the convalescent suites farther down the hall and was therefore a senior officer.
    â€œWhat is your pleasure?” he asked pleasantly.
    Handling the crutches as if they were new to him, he came slowly forward until we were four feet apart. The man was as tall as I, but with a more strapping build. Clean shaven, he appeared to be about forty, and had thick, flaxen hair, a sharp pointed nose, and a dimpled chin.
    â€œI’m sorry?” I responded.
    He must have read the guilty look on my flushed and sweaty face.
    â€œWhat are you drinking, Lieutenant?” he asked, his voice taking on a harder edge.
    â€œMedicine,” I said.
    â€œMedicine,” he repeated, with a lazy-eyed grin, “from a bottle that says disinfectant?”
    â€œMay I ask whom I am addressing?” I responded with spirit, having learned during my last months in the hospital how to avoid direct questions about my drug use.
    â€œYou’re addressing someone who outranks you,” he said, with a sudden haughtiness. His eyes were a remarkable purplish blue, but they were anything but soft.
    â€œYou are out of uniform, sir,” I said next.
    â€œI am out of uniform after sustaining an honorable wound, Lieutenant. But, of course, you have probably never gotten close enough to a battlefield to see