In His Eyes(4)

Forcing himself to focus, Westley attempted to open his eyes, but they remained firmly closed despite his best efforts. He gave a grunt, but somehow could not find the energy to move his limbs. The mere effort seemed to steal something from him, and he began to sink back into a slumber. But not allowing himself to do so, Westley focused on the world outside the inky recesses of his mind. Noises flittered to him, but he could not find their meaning. Content to lie still lest he slumber once more, he listened purposefully.

Light shifted across his eyelids, making them little red veils over his world. He found a measure of comfort in that. It meant he wasn’t blind. Merely…immobile. The second thought undid the peace of the first. What if he were somewhere on the field of battle, his body frozen and unable to shield itself from trampling hooves and the enemy’s sabers?

Fear began to worm into his belly and he stiffened. No. The ground beneath him felt much too soft and the din of voices could not be the fearsome sounds of armies clashing. He listened closer. Unable to stand the unknown, he mustered his strength and pried open his crusted eyes, blinking against the sudden light.

“Oh! Captain!” A female voice pierced through the swarming pain gathering in his head, and Westley turned his face toward it.

“Here, take a drink, sir.” Cool hands slipped under and lifted his head and then metal pressed against his lips. He tried to get them to function, but they felt cracked and stiff. Half of what he attempted to consume dribbled down into his beard. He coughed, and though still thirsty, fell back with exhaustion.

“Well, it seems that he lived after all. Looks like I owe Major Carlson dinner.”

Westley tilted his head and blinked his eyes into focus. Before him stood a squat man in a dark blue uniform who peered down at him with bespectacled eyes. “Where…?” he croaked.

The man rocked back on his heels. “You’re at the Hillsman Farm, fellow. Been here since Sayler’s Creek.”

Westley tried to clear his throat but succeeded in little more than a weak cough. “How…?”

“How did you end up here, or how did the battle go?”

Westley nodded.

“We got them right good. Cavalry set up blockades against Anderson’s advance and cut through Ewell and Anderson’s lines. We hedged those Rebs in with nowhere to go. Got three corps of Lee’s army that day. Yes, sir. And three days later he had no option but to surrender.”

“Lee surrendered?” Westley croaked. Blast his voice. Why couldn’t he speak?

The man scratched his russet beard, and Westley couldn’t be sure if the man had understood him or not. “You’ve been racked with the fever for a long time. At one point one of the orderlies almost sent you out with the dead until one of the nurses realized you were still breathing—nearly too shallow to see, mind you—and she had you brought back in.”

He opened his mouth to inquire how long ago that might have been, but darkness edged in on his vision and his mind began to cloud. The last thing he heard before slipping into the darkness once more was the voice of the man standing over him. “Perhaps I conceded to Major Carlson’s victory a mite too soon….”



The next time Westley awoke, he had a clear head and a gnawing sense of unease. He blinked away the discomfort of bright daylight until his eyes adjusted enough for him to see clearly. Frowning, he managed to get himself up on his elbows.

He glanced down, unnerved to discover he wore nothing but a linen shirt as he sat on a sturdy bed. A patched quilt covered his bare legs and rested against his waist. Westley lifted his eyes to survey the room in which he found himself. Hewn plank walls and a squat structure indicated an old, common home of some kind. A farmhouse, perhaps? But whose?

Thrusting back the cover, Westley struggled to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed. The sudden movement caused a surge of pain, his head to swim, and an unwelcome revolt in his stomach. He had to close his eyes a moment, lest he tumble off the bed, or worse, retch.

“Oh, no, you don’t! You get yourself right back in that bed, young man.”

Westley’s eyes snapped open. A portly woman in a starched white cap stood in the doorway, one hand on her rounded waist and the other holding a bowl. The smell of something hearty drifted to him and his stomach rumbled. They stared at one another for an instant, then, remembering that his legs were exposed, Westley looked down at his feet and tried to shift the quilt to cover his embarrassment.

“You’re right blessed those toes of yours aren’t green.” She huffed. “Or there at all, for that matter.”

Westley looked up at the woman in confusion, and her face softened. She crossed the plank floor in a swish of yellow gingham skirts and placed the steaming bowl on the rustic table beside the bed. Westley’s eyes followed the food before returning to the woman’s ruddy face.

“That doctor wanted to take your leg, you know. He was downright determined that you were getting the gangrene and that amputation was the only way to stop it.”

Fear constricted in Westley’s chest, but he wouldn’t let it show. If he had lost a limb…he didn’t even want to think it. He wiggled his toes just for the comfort of knowing he still had them. He regretted the move as searing pain shot up his left leg. He flinched, instinctively reaching down to massage his thigh.

“You broke that one right good. They set it, and we all thought you’d wake up fine, but then the fever came.”