Then Came the Thunder

by Rachael Huszar

  She was right, of course, and he saw how far from reality his denial had pushed him. All for one simple fact. “I didn’t want it to be you.”

  Jessalyn was shaking her head. “This—this is another one of your twisted jokes. You didn’t desert, you told me you finished your term of service.”

  “That was a lie.”

  “Then why should I believe anything you say!?” she yelled.

  “Because you deserve to know!” Sam unclenched his fists, and took a breath. “You deserve to know what he was like, and why he’s dead. Amos worked in the medical tent, he shouldn’t have been fighting. But he chose to go, Jessalyn. He chose his own death, and it wasn’t out of patriotism or nobility.”

  “What are you saying—”

  “It was because he wanted it.”

  Tears had started trailing down Jessalyn’s face. “Stop it! Stop lying! You didn’t know him like I did! Amos was good—”

  “Yes,” Sam interrupted. “He was. I’m not denying that. I’m not denying that he loved you, or that you still love him, but I can’t abide seeing you destroy yourself over guilt. Thinking that it’s all your fault. Because that isn’t true. It’s not.”

  Jessalyn was quiet. She stared at him, and he couldn’t tell what she wanted.

  “And I know how you feel,” he went on. It was like he couldn’t keep his thoughts in his head anymore, now that he’d started talking. “Because he was my friend. And despite all of that, I can’t bring myself to hate him. And knowing now, that he’s gone . . .” Sam felt his breath starting to hitch.

  Finally, Jessalyn said, “Tell me why you left.”

  Sam was already there, the memories of that night rushing towards him like waves, crashing over his mind, taking him back to that field, that tent, that conversation. The moment it had all changed.

  20

  “And that’s the last of it.” Amos placed the final bottles of iodine in the medical supply chest.

  Sam looked up from the bundles of bandages he had been carefully stacking into a pyramid. “Saint Joy, you didn’t have to help me with this, you know.”

  “Nonsense. I wanted to help.”

  Sam sighed. Of course, he did. “Organizing our medical supplies was supposed to ‘discipline’ me,” he said.

  Amos clapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Joker, I think we all know that the captain is fighting a losing battle against your smartassery. Letting you loose in the medical tent like a bull in a china shop wasn’t going to help anyone.”

  “You act like I’d‘ave smashed the place.”

  “No, but you have no idea where things are kept, so I’d end up having to do it all again anyway. Nothing wrong with me lending a hand.”

  Sam knew he was right. Saint Joy was in here assisting the surgeon almost every day. There hadn’t been too many injuries for their regiment, but when illness went through the ranks, the extra care Amos could provide was counted on. The scuttlebutt around camp was that the senior officers were hoping to assign him as hospital steward once the regiment got their orders.

  Sam bent down and placed the bandages on the shelf under the examination table. “Little strange to see how low on things we are.” Their cleanup work had taken hardly any time at all because of it.

  “No sense in regular restocking when we’re not using it,” said Amos. “But still. There are some things we’re in sore need of. Which is why the doctor’s traveling to the next outpost.”

  “Leaving you in charge.” Sam dipped into a low, mocking bow.

  Amos rolled his eyes. “Ha ha.”

  “Seriously,” said Sam. “Probably the only worthwhile thing I’ve done here is pick up first aid from you.”

  “I like to do my part.”

  That’s what he always said. Sam had never met a more charitable person in his life. There were certainly worse people he could have been made to share a tent with. Saint Joy was clean, and when he wasn’t busy polishing his halo, he could be quite funny.

  “Should we head back to—”

  Sam was interrupted by cries from outside the tent, distant, but getting closer every second. Men’s voices echoed, calling “Clear the way” and “Man down.”

  Sam and Amos looked at each other just as the tent flaps burst open. Captain McKay and another private stumbled in, a wounded soldier’s arms slung over their shoulders. The soldier’s face was twisted in pain. Sam immediately saw the dark stain on his chest.

  “Joy!” shouted the captain. “Where’s the doctor?”

  Amos sprang into action, turning to the medical chest and digging through its contents. “Joker, can you clear the table?” His voice was calm and even.

  “Yeah.”

  “The doctor, Joy! Get the doctor!” Captain McKay barked.

  “The doctor is away from camp right now. I’m all we’ve got. Can you lift him onto the table, please?”

  They didn’t have any other choice. Together, the captain and the second private lifted the wounded man and laid him out on the examination table. He was breathing heavily through his teeth, holding back grating cries each time he was moved. Sam’s skin crawled, buzzing with nervous energy.

  “What’s his name?” Amos said, coming to the table.

  “Harmon. Isaac Harmon,” said the private.

  Amos nodded. “Isaac? I need you to stay with me now.” He looked over his shoulder and pointed. “Joker, the bottle, over there.”

  Sam saw the indicated bottle on the ground and made for it. “Right.” He felt like he was lurching unevenly.

  “Brooks? What are you doing here? Get out,” said Captain McKay, having just realized Sam was there.

  “No. Stay,” Amos said sharply.

  The air was starting to smell of blood, and Sam’s stomach twisted. “Amos, he’s right, I shouldn’t—”

  Amos ignored him. “The bottle. Please.” He took it from Sam’s offered hand, and pulled out the cork. “All right, Isaac,” he said to the soldier, “this is whiskey. Not the greatest painkiller, but it’s the strongest we’ve got. Can you take a drink of this for me?”

  Isaac tried to lift his head, his whole body shaking. Supporting his neck with a hand, Amos held the bottle to his lips. The liquid poured in, but Isaac choked and spluttered, causing him to cough, causing another wrenching groan.

  Amos started unbuttoning Isaac’s coat. “What happened?” he said to the private, who looked as scared as Sam felt.

  “He and I were out scouting, and we came across a troop of Confederates. I was seen, and some of them opened fire on us. Isaac, he . . . he pushed me out of the way, but he was hit. I tried to do what I could, but there’s just so much blood…” His hands shook violently.

  “Shot through the back,” said Amos. “The ribs might be shattered. Maybe . . . Joker, help me turn him on his side.”

  Sam couldn’t move. Blood was leaking out onto the table now, staining the clean bandages Amos was pressing to the wound, a slow, creeping blossom of red. “Amos, I really don’t think I can—”

  Amos nodded towards the private, who stepped up and pulled on Isaac’s hips to turn him. He was now on his side. Facing Sam.

  Captain McKay shot a quick glare at Sam before joining the others at the table. “What can you do, Joy?”

  “Not much,” said Amos, shaking his head. “Clean bandages. Try to stabilize his movement. I’m worried about how much blood he’s lost getting back here.”

  Isaac had stopped crying out, but was still panting hard, each rise of his chest pumping more blood out of his body. His eyes met Sam’s. Sam wished he could show him a calm face like Saint Joy’s, but his eyes felt wide and his knees were trembling and he couldn’t stop staring at the man’s wound.

  Then the panting started to slow. Isaac’s eyes rolled away to stare at some distant point. His jaw slackened.

  “Saint Joy!” Sam yelled.

  Amos saw what Sam saw. His grip on the man tightened.

  “Isaac?�
�� the soldier said, shaking his friend. “C’mon, Isaac. You’ve gotta stay awake. Isaac!”

  Isaac’s chest rose, and then fell, slowly, as his last breath left his lungs.

  “No…” the private whispered.

  Amos stepped back. “May God have mercy on us all.”

  Silence hung in the tent like a heavy cloud. There was nothing to say. There was never anything to say to Death.

  Captain McKay shifted his weight. “It—” he began, shakily, “it wasn’t in vain. Harmon brought us back valuable information.”

  Just like the captain, Sam thought. It was all for the war.

  “We move on the Confederate forces at dawn. Brooks, you’ll take Harmon’s place in the formation and on future scouting missions.”

  Sam whipped around. “I’ll what?” He wanted nothing to do with Harmon’s position. Harmon’s position had gotten him killed.

  “That’s an order, soldier. I’ll go let the general know what’s happened.”

  Sam tried to protest again, but the captain had already turned and left.

  The private rested his hand on Isaac’s chest. “I don’t believe it . . .” he said softly. “I never even thanked him for saving my life . . . oh God . . .”

  “I’m sure he knows,” said Amos.

  “R-right.” Anyone could tell he was holding back tears. “Thank you, Saint Joy. For . . . trying.” The private pulled back the tent flap, and Sam and Amos were alone once again.

  Alone with a dead man.

  Sam couldn’t bring himself to look at Isaac’s body anymore, so he stared at his feet. “I’ve never seen that,” he finally said. “I’ve never had a man die right in front of my eyes before.” He’d seen people injured and sick, but never die. Not even of old age. Sam had counted himself lucky, he’d never even been to a funeral. Seems the war had ruined that part of his life, too.

  “I have.” Amos still sounded perfectly calm.

  “How can someone just become . . . nothing like that? He was a friend, a son, a father maybe, and now he’s just . . . a body. It’s sick.”

  “That’s not how I see it at all,” Amos said. “He’s a hero, Joker. He died a hero.”

  “Died. He’s dead. The dead don’t care about titles like that.”

  “But don’t you see? He isn’t dead. Not in our minds.”

  Sam turned to Amos, but his friend was staring at the former Isaac Harmon with something like reverence on his face. Reverence, and maybe a bit of jealousy.

  “This was a moment and a man that we are now never going to forget. We’re carrying him with us. He’ll always be remembered. It’s beautiful, really. It’s a legacy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  “What you wanted? What the devil are you talking about?” Sam had never heard Amos talk like this.

  “A guarantee,” Amos said, “that we can persist past our death.”

  “I prefer my life, thank you very much.”

  Amos didn’t laugh. He was serious.

  “Saint Joy,” Sam said after a pause, “no one is going to forget you any time soon. You leave a huge impression on everyone you meet. Some of them are still breathing because of you. Isn’t that enough? No one in this army is more respected, more trusted, than you. They’re gonna remember you.”

  “How can they when I’m still alive?” It was barely a question.

  And Sam didn’t have an answer. Amos really wanted it. To die. That’s what this war had done to him, to so many others like him. They were so convinced that this was the right thing to do. That the country mattered more than thousands of men’s lives. A country that had gotten itself in its own damn mess.

  “Let me go.” Amos’s voice broke him out of his thoughts.

  “What?”

  “In your place. In the formation tomorrow. Let me go,” said Amos emphatically.

  “That’s—I—what?”

  “I can see from here, you’re shaking where you stand, thinking about fighting, right? Let me go instead.” He said it like it was the obvious solution.

  “No!” Sam said. “What would I do, then? Hide here in the medical tent? Wait for the doctor to come back and report me? Wait for your body to end up on that table? No! I’m not doing any of it.” It was over. Sam couldn’t do this anymore. He wouldn’t.

  “Joker?”

  “I’m . . . I’m gonna leave. This was a mistake, this whole war was a mistake. I’m done with it.” He’d made up his mind.

  Amos furrowed his brow, concerned. “If you desert, you’ll be a fugitive.”

  “I already was.”

  The two men stood in the tent, feeling further apart than strangers. A voice inside begged Sam to try and convince Amos to come with him, to try and do something other than only save himself, but he knew Amos wouldn’t listen. The man was incapable of being selfish, even if it meant losing his life.

  “I’d ask you to come, but you seem pretty married to the idea of seeing combat. So, I won’t even bother,” Sam said.

  One last chance. One last chance for Amos to prove him wrong.

  “I have to do my part. For the country,” Amos said.

  “But what about for you? For who you might leave behind? You have a wife, don’t you? What about her?”

  “This is more important,” he said it without a hint of hesitation.

  Angry, sad, frustrated, and fearful all at once, Sam gave Amos one last look. “Your saintliness is going to get you killed, you know. But I pray that it doesn’t.”

  “I was able to get Sinbad, sneak out of our camp, and run. And it seems, the day after that, fighting broke out and Amos lost his life.”

  Sam had known that reliving these memories would hurt. He’d been able to ride away that day, confident in his choice. And he didn’t regret it. He could never regret a choice that let him live another day. But it was no longer the story of an argument with a friend. It was the story of his last conversation with Amos.

  Sam forced himself to look at Jessalyn. Her face was wet, her eyes were tired, and she was absently twisting the wedding band on her finger.

  “The way he looked at that dead man, Jessalyn,” Sam said, speaking slowly, “it was disturbing. The army changed something in him. Convinced him that he could be immortalized through death. It took him over. It was what he wanted.” He’d gotten it, in the end. And left behind nothing but pain.

  Jessalyn sniffed, but said nothing.

  “The fact that there isn’t a warrant out for my arrest must mean either Amos covered for me, or nobody noticed. Maybe some men remember him as the hero he so wanted to be. Maybe that’s how you remember him. But to me, he’ll always be a goddamn fool. He left. And you shouldn’t carry guilt for that. That’s . . . that’s all I wanted to say.” He waited for Jessalyn’s reply, but none came.

  “Miss Joy? Sam?” Lilah called out from the other end of the shelter. “The rain’s let up some. Should we keep going?”

  “Do you need some more time?” Sam asked.

  His heart fell as he watched her expression harden. “No,” she said. “More than ever, all I want is the whole truth. And I’m not going to find it here crying under a rock. Let’s go.” She walked back towards Lilah and the horses.

  “Jessalyn—”

  “No, Samuel,” she shot back at him over her shoulder, “I can’t right now. I can’t.”

  Sam wanted to know what she thought of his story, of Amos. Of him. He wondered, and prayed it wasn’t so, if his friendship with Amos wasn’t the only thing he’d lost.

  21

  JESSALYN COULDN’T THINK ABOUT IT.

  Samuel’s story had been like a blow to the head. A bucket of cold water. Falling into a deep hole.

  It would be very easy to simply tell herself he was lying about all of it. He was sly, had lied, joked around with things he shouldn’t.

  But did she really think he was cruel enough to lie about this?

  No. She didn’t.

  Which
meant it had to be true.

  It was what he wanted, Samuel had said. What Amos had wanted more than anything. More than coming home. More than her.

  She couldn’t face that right now. She couldn’t fall to pieces here.

  Jessalyn stared at the space between Samuel’s shoulder blades as they rode higher up the mountain. The rain had stopped, but the sky remained overcast, shrouding everything in a cloak of dark gray. Their brief rest hadn’t been enough to fully dry their clothes from the rainfall, and Jessalyn felt the damp chill of her wet sleeves and skirt seeping through her skin.

  Lilah’s voice came from behind her. “If I remember right, it’s just a bit further, then things flatten out some, and the path sorta ends.”

  Samuel pulled Sinbad to a stop and dismounted. “Let’s leave the horses here, go on foot. Things are too steep and narrow.” He held up his hand to assist Jessalyn, as he had done before.

  She swung her leg to Sinbad’s opposite side and jumped down on her own. “No need,” she muttered.

  Roger brushed off his trousers. “It’s a shame about the rain. There might have been some traces or tracks left behind.”

  “All this while and we haven’t seen hide nor hair of anyone else up here,” said Lilah.

  “Don’t speak too soon,” said Samuel. “Look up there.” He pointed ahead.

  A plume of smoke was curling up into the sky, blending with the gray haze.

  “Oh! Smoke?” asked Lilah, seeing it, too.

  “Mm hm. Let’s go. Quiet now,” Samuel said.

  Carefully, they followed the remainder of the thin mountain path. Just as Lilah had said, the area flattened out into a plateau of sorts beyond a break in the rock wall. New sounds were filling the air; the crackle of a fire, more footsteps, and voices.

  One voice that Jessalyn recognized instantly. “That’s the mayor’s voice,” she whispered, grabbing Samuel’s arm.

  He flattened his back to the natural wall and slowly peered around the gap in the rock. He looked back at the group and nodded. “It’s them.”

  Jessalyn wanted to see for herself. She placed a hand on the rock and leaned around Samuel to peek through the gap. Lilah crouched low to the ground and did the same.