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Post by GingerMetuchenPI on Jan 8, 2013 18:52:55 GMT -5
Somewhere in a field in the wild part of Arkansas trudged a small group of union blues. The group was many ten in total. But I shall focus one in the one currently tending to the pack brach. The beast was young, but was large enough to hold all their supplies. The young man that sat at its large foot pushed his hair back out of his eyes. The day was hot and sticky and the brach just had to step in a hole.
The rest of the men stood about, keeping watch for any greys out in the hills. Hindrick grumbled, cursing the fact he was the only one that wanted to deal with the big beast. Bessy, as she was named by the commander groaned as Hindrick tested her leg. It looked like she might have sprained it when she stumbled onto the Cynodont hole. Hindrick rose to call his commander, requesting they took a break for the brach to adjust while he gave it a brace. But he only got two words into it before he heard a loud bang. The second thing that happened was a feeling similar to having a chair rammed into your back at great speeds.
Hindrick took a step forward and leaned on Bessy. "Wha?" he looked down to see a dark stain forming on his green uniform. The tattered clothe of the exit wound suddenly terrified him. Before anyone had time to react Bessy gave a bellow. Hindrick blinked and looked down to see blood welling up form a nice sized hole in Bessy's hide. He blinked and reached out to touch the great beast. But she suddenly fell to the side, a groan following her down. The cries of men on the other side were snuffed out under the bulk. All in five seconds five men had gone down. Four suffocating under the bulk of the beast and one bleeding and in shock.
The young man with hazelnut coloured hair and grey-blue eyes fell to his knees. The jolt sent pain running through his shoulder, effectively dragging him out of shock. Holy shit, he had just been shot. From where the clothe tore outwards and the fact he wasn't vomiting blood, he could easily say his lungs were spared. But the blood, there was lots of blood. It soaked his uniform and the boy griped his shoulder, ignoring the pain and using his brain. He had to stop the bleeding.
The soldiers all scrambled. They had not just lost four men, but a commander as well. Down to five healthy men the group went for their guns. Hindrick sat on the dirt, blindly looking for something to wrap around his arm. Why wouldn't it stop bleeding?
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Post by vladimir on Jan 8, 2013 19:49:06 GMT -5
The young man was older than him, he thought. Just by a little... a half a year, maybe a whole one at most. It was difficult to tell through the trees. If Reinhardt had met him earlier in life, some other place... maybe on the road as travelers, he would have called him sir. They could have been friends too, he thought. Could have spoken over drinks, maybe. Maybe...not, probably not. Never. Nobody was a friend. 'Ah can't pull the trigger,' he thought to himself as he shouldered the Whitworth, squinting down the muzzle and taking careful aim. He could sense his brother in the periphery of his vision, a brindled feather fluttering slightly in the low noontime breeze. On his mark, he'd pull that trigger. He knew. 'But ah can't,' he thought again. He'd been able to pull the trigger every time until now and he'd been able to kill without anything stirring within him. To tell the truth, this stirred nothing in him either, but for some reason the gravity of shooting another man finally occurred to him. He'd always told himself they were just defending themselves, that this was all for his family and his home, that the North would destroy their livelihoods if that guaranteed success. The young man was not, however, a manifestation of the whole north. He was just a kid, same as himself. 'Ah can't pull.' From the edge of his vision the mottled shape of an arm swung outward. What sounded to be a hundred clicks echoed in time.
He pulled.
He didn't look to see if the bullet hit its mark, falling into the rythm of firing. Reload, ramrod, match, give fire. Reload, ramrod, match, give fire. The man next to him gave a hitch and fell to the ground as his head blew apart a moment later. The initial volley of fire had been devastating, he could tell that much, but the benefit of surprise was surely lost by now and the enemy was firing back. That was fine. That was expected. Reinhardt lowered himself further into the brush, tipping his hat down to better obscure his hair. He knew the fiery tones would bring every gunman among there to him if it weren't for the article of clothing. Still, even with the dull stone gray of his coat bleeding into the dim of the forest and rendering him camouflaged, bullets whizzed past and the occasional 'boom' of artillery heralded a shot close enough for the ground to shake beneath him. A sudden keening groan behind him explained the reason that so much fire was drawn his way; the world around him trembled under the shock sent up as one of the company's three pack stegosauruses went down hard.
For every bullet he fired another man went down, a sort of cold, distancing entity taking hold of his faculties. Until the last shots rang out, Reinhardt was little more than a powerless spectator in his own autonomously operating body. 'They would shoot you if they knew where you were,' he told himself. 'They would shoot your family too.' A bullet whizzed past one shoulder and cut a clean hole through his coat collar, leaving him pressing down against the ground to keep low and out of sight. With the leaf litter pressing painfully into his stomach and chest, he wondered if his reassurances were to soothe his guilty conscience or because he somehow knew that he felt no real guilt at all.
'This is what you have to do,'
'You're picking the lesser evil, Reinhardt.'
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Post by alexharvey on Jan 8, 2013 20:46:41 GMT -5
Pru flinched when the first row of shots fell, clutching her Henry Rifle to her chest and dropping to the ground, ducking into the ground as far as possible. Loading as fast as possible she aimed at the suggested direction her comrades were aiming, firing two shots at whatever she saw moving she suddenly noticed in the corner of her eye Hindrick gaping at his bleeding shoulder in shock, then falling. She rid herself of the heavy supply-bag crawling over to the older man while bullets blasted holes into the earth around here, the rifle pressed closed to her at al times. By the time she reached the bleeding man her blue uniform was mostly covered in earth, her face dirty with brown smears.
She noticed that if he ducked more he and she could hide behind Bessys massive front legs.
"Duck!" she shouted at him, hardly even bothering to low pitch her voice anymore, grabbing his collar and trying to pull the larger man down, simultaneously rolling her jackets sleeve up and starting to tear at her white shirts sleeve with her teeth. It was dungaree and already full of holes so she'd easily be able to rip a large piece of cloth off to press it on the bleeding wound.
She flinched again when another shot hit close, throwing more dirt into her direction.
The ginger was beginning to think leaving Boston was a bad idea. The first time had been when she got assigned a different company than her cousins, getting them separated for good. She had always been with her cousins all her life, on the streets of Boston when they were kids, it had only made sense to follow them to the Army as they grew older. Now, she was separated from them, alone and living in fear of being discovered every single day, hardly being able to sleep properly.
She attempted to press down on Hindricks' wound, hoping he knew what to do because frankly she had no idea what she was doing.
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Post by GingerMetuchenPI on Jan 9, 2013 0:08:59 GMT -5
The deafening sounds of gun fire seemed to be the only thing Hindrick could hear as the battle continued. But even that was muffled. Since there was very little cover, the troops around them started dropping and dropping fast. A voice called to him in the haze, but he couldn't hear the words. Who said that? What was it? Suddenly his world shifted as the littlest member of their squad pulled him down.
Hindrick hit the ground hard, which sent a jotting pain through his arm, making him cry out. Biting his lips he kicked at the dirt, trying to get over the fiery throb wrecking his body. For a split second he thought he was going to die. Maybe from the wound, maybe form a bullet. Hell, maybe from gangrene. He had to push that thought down. he couldn't do that, no. He had reasons to survive. The only reason he was stuck in this damned was was because he used his money on something precious. He wasn't going to die and leave her all by her lonesome.
Hindrick gasped as Tommy pressed a large piece of clothe against his wound. That hurt. THAT HURT. Hindrick scrapped his feet against the dirt and gripped Tommy's arm. "T-tommy, give me ah belt," Hindrick managed to choke out, "I need ta tie it aff." He himself pressed the cloth to keep the pressure while Tommy searched for a belt. When it was handed to him, he used it to tighten the compress, but gave a yell as the jolt of pain. At least the wound would bleed less now.
At this point the shooting had stopped and the last living member of the squad crashed next to the two. "Feckin' 'ell!" The kid shouting and leaned against Bessy. "They even kilt Bessy!" The kid was named Dalton, and probably was the youngest one in the group. He was an English born immigrant and quite possibly the loudest one in the group. The kid seemed completely unscratched except for a small cut across his temple that was covering the right side of his face in blood. "We're fucked lads!"
Hindrick snorted into the dirt and with some effort pulled a picture form his inner pocket on his right side. Thankfully there was no blood on it. Though he did leave a few bloody fingerprints on the back. The picture was recent and showed a two year old girl, pale freckled face framed by a small mop of tawny ringlets. "A mhuirnín," Hindrick mumbled out while looking at the picture with shaky hands. "Tommy," Hindrick suddenly looked to the redhead, realizing something that the two other might not know, "Stand down when they come. Stand. Down." He gripped Tommy's uniform with his uninjured arm. "Please."
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Post by vladimir on Jan 9, 2013 10:16:55 GMT -5
The gunshots began to fade away, at first detectable only as a wavering in the sound where certain groups stopped firing. One man's gun stopped, two guns, ten, twenty. The rattling began to vanish entirely like a receding storm, leaving bodies and blown kegs of gunpowder in its wake. The cold of battle went with it, the world returning slowly to Reinhardt at first in glimpses, the sound of leaves in the wind and the groans of the dying, then in a sudden shock of color and the smell of blood and human filth.
When he brought himself from his knees, he wobbled at first, looking over his shoulder at the remnants of his company. A sharp, icy force began crushing his lungs and heart as he looked desperately for his brothers, finding that he couldn't spot them at first glance and fearing the worst. Then he managed to spot the fine nose and sallow complexion of Ambrose through a glaze of muck on a man passing by, gone off to treat the fallen before Rey could manage more than a sound of recognition. Did he look like that too? Next came a taller, sharp-shouldered figure from a billowing cloud of dust and floating gunpowder, the feathered cap identifying the man as their commander and his eldest sibling. Entact. Alive. Good. He saluted rather than greeted his brother, eyes dead ahead and face devoid of recognition. Here they were soldiers, not family, and he knew better than to approach Walther as if he really was the boy he'd grown up with. “Kaufmann,” he bowed his head and tipped his hat at the acknowledgment. “Collect the dead.”
Walking out into the field, he could barely recognize it. Before they'd opened fire it'd been a field, thigh-high grass and flowing cat-tails that rolled like some living thing that'd suffer no stillness. Now his foot sank in mud, the earth torn up and raw from artillery and the shock of falling bodies. Where grass still remained, it was cropped short and stained red or black or shades of brown and liver he'd no desire to identify. With a standard issue shovel dragging behind him and his Whitworth shouldered, he stopped in front of the boy he'd shot, his boots sinking slightly in the mud. He was handling some picture, some something; he drew his gun smoothly, breathing hard through his nose. “Gather yerselves, n' stand down. Ye'll suffer no injustice from me.” as he spoke, he saw a man in stained blues try to scrabble over the raw and bleeding flank of the fallen brach. As he did, a soldier behind him yelled for him to stand down. When he didn't, the man managed to make it over just long enough to look hopeful before his head blew apart.
Unshouldering his rifle, he held it at ease and eyed the two soldiers in front of him, the young man and his shattered military-issue glasses along with an even younger individual with the soft face and large eyes of a youth regretting enlisting, a decision made out of bravado they now lacked. He was supposed to hate them, these Northerners; they were animals, barbarians without the refined aristocracy of the south whose only desire was to take away the freedom of the confederacy. He didn't hate them more than he hated the Southron army at his back, though, especially not these two. Like as not they'd been conscripted or drafted, same as him and Ambrose. Besides, they probably hated him enough for both of them.“Up now. Ah won't shoot if 'ya don't give me reason, ah 'kin promise that.”
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Post by alexharvey on Jan 9, 2013 12:35:54 GMT -5
Pru fidgeted for the belt from her coat, luckily unlike many others she had this second belt, because she couldn't have afforded the one around her waist. The uniforms pants were way to big for her and would drop to her ankles in an instant. She helped Hindrick pull the belt tight closed around the wound, glancing worryingly as he screamed in agony. Almost the instant after, the shooting faded. Leaving the three of them gasping for air, pressed against the massive corpse of the brach.
She watched as her comrade picked the photo from his pockets, she didn't need to see it to know it was his daughters picture, so she simply kept quiet. It was probably the only thing keeping him going, so she'd let him cling to that, meanwhile she tried to scan her surroundings.
Flinching when the injured man gripped her arm tightly again, she turned to see him staring at her with a serious look in his eyes and a trace of desperation in his voice. At first she was paralyzed, realizing she was still clutching to her Henry rifle like a maniac, her knuckles going white already. She nodded lightly, this time minding her voices pitch, "'Kay, mate."
The pitch change always made her sound a little hoarse, which was only to her advance though, most of the comrades thought she was simply younger than she had indicated and a boy in vocal change.
She swallowed when the grey appeared before them, another shooting Penhall made her flinch, but she didn't dare to take her eyes from the enemy. He was way taller and bulkier than them, ginger hair sticking out from under his hat. She chuckled internally. Another Ginger. The longer she stayed in the Army the more she noted that the Souths weren't quite as different and terrible as the leaders would like them to believe. Outwardly she only bit her lower lip, showing off the little gap between her teeth and carefully setting her rifle on the ground.
The grey held his rifle at ease but she could tell he was following her every movement. She glanced over to Hindrick, doubting he would be able to get up alone, regarding the state he was in. Her hands were raised over her head by now, she turned slowly towards the grey again, looking up from under her cap.
"I have to help him, he can't get up on his own like that", after a second she quickly added , "Please."
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Post by GingerMetuchenPI on Jan 9, 2013 20:55:56 GMT -5
By the time the greys had walked over to the three, Hindrick had stuffed his photo away. He wasn't going to lose it. Thankfully his pain had become more of a fiery throb than an agonizing jolting. but what was more worrying was the blood loss. From what he could see, the left side of his uniform was no longer dark green, but almost black and covered in dirt.
Dalton yelped as the other man was shot while trying to escape. He's brown eyes welled with tears and he stood, shouldering his rifle. "YOU GREYBACK SCUM, YOU KILT BESSY!" The boy wailed as Reinhardt pointed his rifle at Hindrick and Tommy. Hindrick looked at the boy and used his good arm to push himself up. Being the older and highest ranking out of this green company, he had to take charge.
"Dalton!" He roared, flinching from the effort he was using to stand, "DALTON DISARM!" Bloody spittle flew from his mouth from the intensity of the shout. With the help of Tommy, the youth managed to stand. His face was pale, blood splattered and covered in dirt. But the anger was still showing through. Dalton flinched and dropped his rifle a little, watching as one of the quietest members of the squad screamed at him. "I'M NOT LETTING YOU KILL US OVER YOUR GODDAMNED PRIDE NOW DROP THE RIFLE!"
Hindrick shook, maybe from anger, but maybe for the shock of his injury, who knew. Dalton, blinked and let the gun clatter to the ground. He held his hands up as if to say he hadn't done anything wrong. Shaking, Hindrick looked to the greybacks that had approached them. With some effort he managed to speak again. "W-we surrender," He tossed his gun to the gun and motioned for Tommy to do the same,"I only a-ask, we bury the d-dead."
The three stood there, awaiting their fate. Dalton sobbing and wiping his eyes with his dirtied sleeves. Hindrick shaking and bleeding while using Tommy as support.
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Post by vladimir on Jan 9, 2013 22:01:51 GMT -5
Considering Tommy's request, Reinhardt nodded a single time. He wouldn't begrudge the boy the ability to help his comrade. Doomed though they were, they may as well be allowed to be doomed as a company. He'd have liked that right had this day gone differently. Of course, the civility didn't last very long. Dalton's shriek ripped through the battlefield, the loudest thing now that the groans of the dying had begun to quiet and the guns had been shouldered. He looked up to consider the soldier, his fingers tightening slightly against the trigger of his Whitworth. To his surprise, no discipline was required on his part; the boy's fellow soldier provided it for him. It was fascinating to see the chain of emotional events unfolding before him, the sudden quietness and sobriety that came over the enemy soldiers.
They were not unlike their southron counterparts.
Looking to where the guns had landed, far enough away for him to doubt that any of the bluecoats could successfully reach one before he fired, he nodded his second approval. In one smooth gesture he drew the shovel forwards as if it were a blade and resented it to Dalton. "Honor yer brothers with a proper burial. We all deserve that much." with that, he turned to step forwards, collect the guns and cast a searching glance over the battlefield. To his good fortune, he recognized Ambrose trekking through the mud towards him, up to his arms in blood and looking ready for desertion as he did every day since deployment. Rey reached out to grab him by the shoulder before he could trudge past, the blond looking momentarily surprise and staring at his brother as if he were a stranger for a few seconds before the face and the identity it belonged to clicked and he relaxed. "Ah need you to take care of one of the Northmen." he didn't need to say which one; he could see the look on Ambrose's face when he spotted Hindrick. "Ah'll not be wastin' resources on a man already dead." the blond said simply, fingering the cinch on the supply bag at his hip as if he was considering opening it. "Ah shot 'im, n' ah'd fix 'im if ah could. Three apathetic prisoners's better'n two hateful ones." "They'll hate n'yways, s'all Northmen do." Ambrose drawled, sneering slightly and dragging himself past Reinhardt with all the eagerness of a slug being dropped into a vat of salt.
Ambrose brought with him not just medical help for Hindrick, but an extra shovel which was offered to Tommy (well, shoved at, really) before the field medic finally got to Hindrick. "Siddown," he demanded, pointing at the swampy ground around them. Rey, catching this interaction, felt bad for a moment. The wounded soldier'd put forth so much effort into standing up and now he was being made to undo all that work. Still, the doctor knew best.
To call Ambrose's treatment of Hindrick 'shotgun medicine' would be gracious. He was methodical in his work, like as not treating the prisoner whether or not he wanted it. To a degree he knew his brother was right, though he was loathe to waste what he considered precious supplies on this savage. The blond had become very familiar with the damage minnie balls did, but he cringed once he managed to clear the area around the wound enough to get a good look; the exit wound was a horror beyond horrors even by their standards. Even from feet away he recognized the debris stuck in the wound and its proximity to the man's lungs, the danger infection posed in particular. Reaching down into the bag, Ambrose pulled out a long wooden block, grooved and dented where many teeth had pressed, and offered it to Hindrick. "Ah'm gonna take a knife to this." he removed the blade even as he spoke and a tinder box along with it, taking a moment to light a small flame before bathing the knife in the tiny fire. He'd have spared some laudanum, codeine, morphine even if he weren't so short on stock and if he wasn't reserving it for an amputation situation.
Not that jamming burning steel in there was going to feel very good either.
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Post by alexharvey on Jan 10, 2013 7:45:20 GMT -5
Pru huffed shortly in surprise when Hindrick leaned on her entirely after the rant. He was even heavier than he looked and she had to shuffle her feet to a stable position in order not to give in like a twig. Staring wide-eyed between Hindrick and the Grey she breathed a small sigh of Relief when she noticed the enemy wasn't deadset on killing them, just as startled as Dalton from their comrades' outburst she carefully pulled her gun from her waist belt and threw it towards the enemy's feet. Soon she could tell the older soldier was in no condition to shout and give orders, he could barely stand and needed treatment.
Hence she was more or less relieved that the enemies' doctor person was inclined to take care of him and helped him slide back to the ground before taking the shovel and following the grey towards the place they had decided for the graves. The ginger threw a quick glance around, their whole squad except them was dead, that meant at least seven graves, given that they didn't make them bury the greys too. Now how high was that chance. For once she honestly wished they hadn't killed to many of the enemy's men.
She and Dalton got rid of their blue Jacket after the third grave, it was stiff and hindering their movements. She knew she wouldn't be found out only wearing the thick white shirt, she was skinny enough to hardly show any chest and her thin arms and neck only gave more inclination towards a simply malnourished boy. She knew her cheeks had fallen in slightly too, her cheekbones showing sharply, it made her face less soft, so she was hardly worried of being found out.
However she found herself trying to roll up her left sleeve several times, which was fairly impossible since she had left half of it with Hindrick.
Almost all the time of digging the first grave they could hear their elder's muffled screams of agony and pain. Pru shook them off as good as she possibly could, telling herself that as long as he was screaming, he was alive. Pain was life. That was good.
She could soon apply the same on herself, her hands palms were soon ripped open, raw skin scraping over the rough wooden structure. Additionally the mud was wet and heavy and she soon found her body shaking with every shovel full of mud she lifted.
Also she figured she'd be having a nice sunburn on her neck, arms hands and from the way it felt her lower face too, it wasn't a particularly hot day, but the sun had decided to play nice weather, blazing down on her pale skin and no clouds were in sight.
Her only perk so far was that this was the third grave of a comrade, Dalton being at his third too made six. So they only had to bury one of their own after that. She had decided not to dig up grave after grave together with Dalton but rather each worked separately, or else she couldn't have guaranteed for her shovel accidentally hitting his dumb head. However, last was their leader, and if they made them continue after that, it would only be greys. Men she didn't know. From experience she could tell burying strangers was a load easier than friends. Maybe it would quiet Dalton too, she had no idea how he could dig and sob at the same time. She could hardly speak anymore. Scratch that, she couldn't utter a single sense making word anymore, all that came out anymore were exhausted moans for a yessir.
For a moment there she was jealous of the Dead. At least they could be lying around forever now. She sniffled, shaking her head to get rid of the thought and the sweat dripping from her nose and continued digging.
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Post by GingerMetuchenPI on Jan 10, 2013 15:18:36 GMT -5
Hindrick would have apologized for his inability to stand up, but he barely had the energy to focus. So Tommy would have to deal with the elder's weight until he was placed on the ground again. With the shovels handed out and the doctor tending to the injured solider, the group was separated. Hindrick lay against Bessy's hide, too exhausted and in too much pain to do much of anything.
The green coated boy stared at Ambrose for a few seconds before he even realized that someone new had some by. This someone came with medical help. He'd laugh if he had the energy to, but he didn't. Instead he weakly accepted the block of wood that was placed in his mouth and stared up at the sky. It was such a lovely colour today, not that many clouds either. Ambrose gave no communication so when he fest the hot blade touch his skin he was torn from his daze. The youth kicked at the ground and bit hard on the block. White dots danced in sight and he felt the whole world spinning. It wasn't until later that he realized he had been screaming.
As the pain increased Hindrick gripped at the dirt and tore up the remaining grass at his sides. His body was shaking with such effort and he was breathing so hard. The boy managed to look at Ambrose all of two times during the procedure, and when he got a look at the blonde medic, he couldn't even make out features. At some point he realized he was crying. That was around the point that he started laughing. Not during the pain, but after. Around that point he started naming all the dinosaurs he could think of in their in his mind. Their Latin names, something the first two years of college had taught him. He wasn't sure when it happened, but he eventually passed out. his vision grew grey and then black followed.
By the time he came to, the doctor was no where to be seen. He stared blankly around, not exactly sure what was going on. His shoulder gave a hearty throb, causing him to give a tiny whimper. But he could see that it was bandaged and he assumed stitched. The boy used his good arm to try and lift him from the ground, but all attempts failed. but that's when his fingers touched something cool and smooth. Cautiously he dug the object out form under Bessy's bulk. It was revealed to be Wilson's flask. Any normal person would assume it held whiskey, but the company knew it held laudanum. The man suffered from knee pains and used it to soothe his body after long treks. Hindrick gave a small grin and opened the flask.
Dalton on the other hand was digging graves. At first the boy was quiet, but the deeper he dug the more the tears flowed But the time he placed the first body in the grave he was sobbing. The boy couldn't even fathom these people being dead. They were just alive ten minutes ago. How could they be dead. But the gaping wounds and bloodstained coats said differently. Dalton rifled through the jackets of his fallen comrades, looking for something to give their families. He remember Reilly had a pocket-watch that was his father's.
The English man even walked over to Tommy at some point and went through the corpses coats before they were covered with dirt and laid to rest. by the end of the ordeal he had recovered seven trinkets that he intended to present to their families... Well if they survived. The black haired boy wiped his eyes as he dug; he was unable to stop the tears but he could at least get them out of the way. His own palms where raw and ached from the strain of moving wet earth. He flexed them ever so often, but it did no good.
By the time the two soldiers had gotten to seventh grave, their commander's grave, another had joined the party. Soft struggling steps interrupted the methodically moving of dirt as Hindrick wobbled from where Bessy lay. He looked pale and his eyes were red-rimmed, from pain and from tears. Only a few feet from the last grave he plopped down on the ground. A grimace crossed his features, but not more than that. He let out a little giggle and held up a flask he had found when Ambrose wasn't looking. "Ah found Wilson's laudanum," he did a slight motion as if he was clanking another cup. "Hmm, cheers." He mumbled and downed another gulp.
He returned to his quiet self within seconds, and a natural frown replaced his dumb smile as he surveyed the graves. Dalton ignored the elder man and continued digging. he just wanted this to be over with.
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Post by vladimir on Jan 10, 2013 18:00:06 GMT -5
The damage these standard issue bullets did was atrocious. Careful to keep his fingers out of Hindrick's wounds, having observed the trend between sepsis and physical contact, he operated only with the burnt steel and made sure nothing from his filthy hands made it near the wound site. Ignoring the muffled screams of his patient, Ambrose went into a sort of zone as he operated, sawing violently at the pulped flesh of the exit wound. He worked partially by instinct and partially by sight, shearing away the first layer of damaged tissue. With it came the debris, the intense heat of the metal stemming the blood flow as much as he could hope. When he finished he was up to the elbow in warm, sticky red. But the wound looked acceptable, the stitching tight and sturdy, the bandages in his hands the same quality as he'd have used were Hindrick a brother in arms.
Binding the wound up was not nearly as labor intensive as fixing it, the situation had drastically improved along with the completion of his treatment: Hindrick had passed out. That meant plenty of good things, one of those was that if he went ahead and sneaked off... which he did almost immediately. There were other men to treat, kinsmen, anyone but a northerner.
It didn't get any easier, though, and his relief was unfounded. Upon scrambling over the nearby ridge and back into the cover of the forest Ambrose found a wealth of the agonized dying. Their skirmish had not come without its costs. Dropping to his knees beside one man, half covered by a bluecoat who'd somehow made it up onto the ridge and near enough to draw steel the soldier, he found that he could not recognize his own companion's face. A bayonet had been used to mutilate it with no particular finesse or intent, but it wasn't the mutilation that chilled Ambrose's blood. It was the fact that the man was still alive. "Don't worry..." he paused to look for some manner of identification so that he might refer to the man as a friend, reaching into one of his pockets and pulling out a letter soaked with blood. Flipping it open, he scanned it for anything that might clue him in on who the fading fellow was. "...don't worry, Colton."he muttered quietly, folding the paper back and placing it to one side. He reached into his supply bag with his other hand as he did, drawing out a small bottle of codeine and bringing it to the young man's torn lips. Tipping it, he allowed the boy the mercy of half the bottle.
Reinhardt was too used to the dead and to mourning to feel much more than a soft twang of sympathy for the two gravediggers. War was like this, the novelty of empathy wore off long ago for him. Besides, from the spray of dirt coming over the wooded ridge from which his own company had been firing, there were comrades of his own being buried. That was the way of war; there was no gain without loss. These Northmen were a softer sort on the inside, it seemed, something not in-keeping with their reputation. Turning away, he informed a few of his kinsmen to keep an eye on the bluecoats before making his way back up the ridge in search of their commander.
The colonel found Reinhardt first, though, a relief in some ways. "Private," Reinhardt did not wait to be told to stand to attention before he did so, gaining a strange look from his brother as he did. "At ease," Walther gestured to him with one mud-stained glove. "How many survivors?" "Three blues," this seemed to trouble Walther to some degree. "Ernest took a minie to the neck." for the first time today, Reinhardt felt physical pain. For a moment he tried to conceptualize what that statement meant, felt the traumatic pressure on the throat and the bubbling outwards ripple of torn flesh. The exit wound... "He ain't dead yet," his brother assured him, clearly seeing his expression. "...But he will be. Ah need a new gaoler. D'ya have any suggestions?" for a moment, Reinhardt did not know what to do. He was infantry, canonfodder and nothing more. His skill with a gun only meant that he was put in the army's vanguard more often than not, placed so as to get as many shots in as possible before he was inevitably brought down. The boy's council had never been wanted here and he had never been called upon to give voice to his opinions, or even to have them in the first place. The silence between the two of them lasted long before it was finally broken by his answer.
"Colton Royce." he didn't know why his first thought was of the quiet farm boy, but it was. One of his brother's thin eyebrows went up at that answer, a physical echo of his next question. "Why Colton?" "Because..." yes, why Colton? "Private Royce is a gentle soul, 'ya won't find them dead by beating. But he's a loyal soul, you won't find them gone and run off. N' 'e knows th' farm life, he 'kin put them to use if they's fit for it." his brother considered this a moment and nodded his head slowly. "Colton Royce won't beat them to death, won't let 'em unattended and will know to put them to work. Yes, those are good qualities for a goaler." the agreement put Reinhardt's buzzing nerves to rest a moment.
"Except that dead men make horrid guards, ah've found." oh. Oh, no. He'd quite liked Private Royce. He might have felt sad if his brother had given him more than a second to get over the shock of the implication. "But it seems to me you'd make the next best thing. Attend to them, Private Kaufmann. You are dismissed," with that, he turned away from his brother and called to a passing Sargent Major, leaving Reinhardt standing there in stunned silence.
'Ah can't do this,' he thought desperately. 'Ah'm no jailer.' he was still thinking this as he returned to the Union survivors that evening, a thick coil of rope in hand. The new graves took on a somber appearance in the waning light, painted red on one side and blue on the other. 'This means something,' he thought vaguely. It was something patriotic, something free. Snapping the rope taught, he cut it into six lengths of considerable size. "Hands out." he ordered and, with the world around him painted the shared hues of the union and confederate flags, bound the three as captives.
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Post by alexharvey on Jan 10, 2013 19:41:46 GMT -5
When the evening came, and the sun sunk between the trees of the forest, the wind seemed to pick up and Pru began to shiver beneath her coat of sweat. As soon as they had buried the commander she slipped into the thick jacket, using a sleeve to wipe at least her face somewhat clean from the sticky cold. She would have loved to simply slump to the ground but she knew she probably would not be able to get up again.
She was dead tired and exhausted by now, her palms were raw and bleeding at some spots, her wrists hurt from the weight of the shovel, so did her entire upper body , especially the neck.
She would have liked to rest her head on something to ease the strain on her shoulders muscles, suddenly it felt much heavier than it usually did. Her skin was burning where it had been exposed to the sun and she did not dare to flex her hands for how much it probably hurt due to the burnt skin.
Frowning she observed Dalton going through all of his little collected trinkets. He still seemed devastated about the dead. Shaking her head lightly she walked over to the apathetic Hindrick.
Daltons behavior she could only explain by him never seeing comrades die before. The Ginger had always considered it part of life. People died daily in the streets of Boston, men, women and children alike, and of various reasons. And the sense of war was killing the other party off after all, so death was inclined to happen. She wondered, why she had gone with the army then. Not being able to recall she figured she must've ignored that fact and thought everything was good as long as her cousins were around. Now they weren't anymore, and the sense of being a soldier slipped further from her understanding.
She wiped the thought from her brain as soon as she reached Hindrick, leaning on her shovel while nudging the man's knee carefully with her boot.
"Are you alright, matey?", she asked in her hoarse tone.
It was a stupid question really, he looked terrible. His eyes all reddened, his stiff movements, occasional twitching due to pain inflicted through movement of any sort and a devastated look on his face, behind that drowsy half drunk face of his. She reckoned he had probably drunk all of Wilson's laudanum, but somewhere in her brain she had been convinced the stocky irish man was immune to getting drunk.
She could hardly tell if he was or not. Maybe he was only pissed.
She turned stiffly when one of the grey approached them, it was the Ginger from before. He ordered them to hold their hands out, tying Daltons first as Pru was busy heaving Hindrick upwards.
She left the elder standing swaying holding her hands out to be tied, wincing when the rough rope was pulled around her sore wrists, but she bit her lip to keep from making any noises.
Then she noted something on the massive hands tying her, white spots on the otherwise freckled or slightly tanned skin.
She carefully looked up at the Ginger goaler only now noticing the white spots were also taking up rather big parts of his face. She squinted slightly. At first she had thought he had just been dirty like them, now she noticed it seemed to be the actual skin that was discolored. She would have liked to rub his skin in order to see if the white would go away, instead she flinched when the rope was pulled tight, hissing through her teeth. She definitely had a sunburn.
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Post by GingerMetuchenPI on Jan 11, 2013 2:00:38 GMT -5
Hindrick snorted as Tommy asked him about his condition. "Ah'm prudy sure tha Ah'll be ded within a week. Noh. Noh, less. Ah'm gonna- oh, Ah think Ah'm out," Hindrick eyed the flask and then shook it to see of any liquids still remained. He heard no sloshing and let the flask fall to the dirt. Dalton snorted and mumbled something under his breath as he wiped his eyes. Hindrick ignored the action in whole and looked to Tommy. "Ah know we've not known eachothar long. But ye was a good solider."
Dalton scoffed and finished putting the rest of the dirt on the commander's grave. The boy stretched his fingers and rubbed his wrists. "Feckin' Irish. Always drunk and lazy," he mumbled under his breath and shoved the shovel in the dirt. He had to stop to wipe his eyes yet again, but it seemed at this point he had exhausted his tear ducts. Hindrick raised an eyebrow and snorted. He tried to keep his balance but swayed. He was too stoned to even care about the slander being tossed his way.
It was probably a good thing that the ginger haired grey showed up around that time. Hindrick was helped yet again by Tommy up into a standing position. Though he didn't loo like he'd be in that long. He looked utterly miserable, but the half drugged grin on his face showed he was at least in some state of bliss. When it was his turn to be tied up he stared at Reinhardt's hands and then his face, as if gauging something. His drugged brain took a few moments to drudge something up and he squinted at the taller youth. "Yer a piebald. Mah proffesah' would love ye'," He gave a drugged half smile and looked down at the rope on his hands. His brain couldn't remember why they were there, so he simply stared.
(( sorry for the terrible post, I was having a fit over the round and it ended up short and derpy.))
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Post by vladimir on Jan 11, 2013 10:07:53 GMT -5
Why, of all things, did he have to be the one to put other men into captivity? Killing them was easy enough, at least you could go down with a little pride-- but there was no real pride in this. As he bound the wrists of each enemy soldier in turn, he could see looks of nearly morbid curiosity on their faces. He nearly expected the black haired youth to spit in his face from the sheer contempt hidden in the details of his face, the curl of his nostril, the furrow of his brow. Reinhardt gave pause and stared back down at the boy, considering him visibly before he turned away to the smaller one, the one with the gentle features and the big eyes, deciding privately that he'd do well to shackle the black haired one's ankles together.
The middle one, the ginger with the elegant shoulders and the fair, freckled skin, gave him a less hateful look but one of equal sick interest. 'He sees something unnatural in me,' Reinhardt thought for a moment, staring back evenly as he tied the ropes blindly- though still effectively. He could not tell if it was his skin that alienated the soldier, or his identity.
Last was the man he'd shot. He was the only one whose face was devoid of negative emotion, though Rey suspected that was a result of pain meds. He wasn't surprised when the first thing the soldier said as he bound the fellow's hands together was a remark on his skin. Glancing down, he met those blue eyes with his own mismatched ones in a serious, drawn out look. Then he blinked one time, yanking the knot on the rope to make sure it was secured, tied the remaining length of the rope to his forearm to make sure that if any of the three tried to run he'd be able to simply yank back and watch them all trip over one another. "Come 'long, fellas. We march by night."
He wasn't lying about that. Marching behind the three, the bayonet on the end of his rifle used as incentive to keep them going when necessary, they walked with the rest of the company for the better part of six hours. Night had fallen long ago and it was high moon, crickets and the occasional distant roar of some feral dinosaur forming the backbeat to the constant 'thunksch, thunksch' of the men's boots. They traveled in the center of the convoy, in the midst of the infantry, with both of the remaining pack steg's lumbering along at their flanks. The new prisoners had but one fellow with whom they marched along, a tall, cadaverous man to whom Dalton's ankle had been tethered. He limped along with the gait of a man whose ankle had been broken and set wrong once upon a time, jaw set and long, greasy hair pasted to his forehead and jawline with sweat and grime. He was a poor conversationalist, responding to sights and sounds with nothing but a withering, icy-blue glare. All in all, the prisoners were in nothing less than the most welcoming, kindest community on earth.
Night time brought rest, fire, food. The confederates ate not only what they were rationed, but what they caught. Naturally, the prisoners were deprived this right. Left tied together by the ankles and, on one end, the harness of a nearby steg, they were left unattended by their gaoler among the patchy tents of the confederates. For each there was a small tea-cup sized bowl of some brown stew, unpleasant to look upon and smell, gritty, but not so bad to a man who'd hungered for some time.
When Reinhardt returned to them it was with a dead hipsilophodon swinging from his belt and a knife in hand. Untying them from the steg, he sat down across the fire from them with the tail end of the rope under the heel of his boot. Drawing his standard issue knife, he began to skin the dinosaur as casual as anything, glancing up only to look between the prisoners and let out a long sigh through his nose. "Ah'll be needin' yer names. Surname then first name if ye'd be so kind." he maintained his pokerface as he voiced this demand, sloughing away scales and feathers and casting them to one side.
By the time they got to the oldest prisoner, Reinhardt had managed to spit the dinosaur and was tending to it as it roasted, leaning patiently over the flame as he did. "You know me," the burned man snarled, curling his features into a cruel sneer. "But the others don't." the gaoler said with a shrug and a small flick of his hand as some crackling fat dripped onto it. "...Baily, Lucas. Illinois sixteenth." that marked the final prisoner introduction. It was his turn. Some time had passed and the dinosaur had reached a decent level of edibility, crusted over with a thin layer of crackling and far from raw. Pulling it off the fire, he began to quarter the beast and cut away long strips, stabbing one chunk with his blade and biting it off. Chewing peaceably, he took his time with the rest. The meat of one arm went to Lucas, the meat of the other to the freckle-faced youth. Dalton received the meat from one leg, Hindrick the other and a cutting of abdominal muscle. "To keep you on your feet tomorrow," was all the explanation he gave, quartering his own sparse portion and forking it up with his knife. "Ah am private Kaufmann, you will refer to me as such. If y'all give me no trouble..." he looked about the circle and called upon them each by the names they'd given. "...Ah'll give you none either so long 's yer under my jurisdiction."
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Post by alexharvey on Jan 11, 2013 14:30:59 GMT -5
Pru shrunk in front of the grey's when he stared back at her. She would have to be careful, she tended to forget whom she was facing. But he was the enemy and she couldn't suddenly go blabbering, unless she wanted to accompany her comrades under the earth. She wondered if Dalton would search her for a trinket too. She didn't carry anything so she doubted it. Maybe he'd find out then...well she wouldn't care anymore, she'd be dead and probably laughing from a cloud at their faces.
The walk drained her even more than the digging and she felt like she would fall asleep whilst walking. She almost ran into their goaler's guns' sharp end a few times simply because her eyelids dropped and she stumbled over her own feet. Then she fell into a rhythm and simply kept walking not stopping until they reached the campsite, where she simply dropped to her knees and fell to her side next to the Stegosaurus. Her mouth and lips were dry by then, her throat raspy but she didn't take any note of the brew before her until their goaler returned and Hindrick kicked her boot to wake her.
After a short struggle she managed to sit straight, actually realizing their surroundings for the first time. All around them were the tents of the confederate soldiers, behind her the sleeping steg they had been tied to, a small fire some feet away from them. She glanced at the others, only now seeing the cold brew before her and carefully wrapping her hands around the small mug, downing it without a word. She had learned not to complain when given food of any kind.
Her hands being tied together was still something to get used to, she inspected her wrists with a frown. They were sore and raw and whatever she did hurt. Actually everything hurt.
She looked up when the Ginger goaler asked for their names looking directly at her when it was her turn.
"Roberts, Tommy" she said shifting awkwardly. Realization hit her the moment she said it. Thomas. THOMAS godernit. She was to used to Tommy already, she hoped the others wouldn't take too much note on it, because she didn't dare to correct herself.
Tommy was natural, everyone called her that anyways, so she could just go with that.
Gratefully accepting the meat she tried to listen to what the goaler said, she didn't remember much in the end. Mostly his name, Private Kaufmann. Or however that was spelled.
As she started to chew on the small meal she noticed she was even too tired for that, so instead she trapped the meat between her front teeth and tore the parts off, shoving them around in her mouth before simply swallowing them whole.
Her head flicked up when she heard her name, something about not making trouble was said. She could do that. She was good at that.
Then suddenly something came to her mind as she stared down on her piece of meat. That was strange. She was certain that a Union goaler wouldn't have shared his hunted meat with confederate prisoners.
She doubted anyone would share with the other party if they could avoid it. She looked up to where the Ginger was still looking at the others, glowering at Dalton especially.
She figured that it wasn't a usual thing amongst prisoner and goaler but she could at least try to get on his good side, so she muttered a quiet "Thanks", accompanied by a small smile, before resuming her meal. There, she did it. Nothing bad about it, was there?
After all, he like them was only another guy in the wrong clothing, on the wrong side of the country. Maybe.
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