Tear In Time (12 page)

 
Finally, he spoke. “There is nothing else I can do for them. Send instructions
to the hospital to change the bandages every day and wash the infected areas
with a fifty-fifty alcohol and water solution.”

  “I
will draft the order myself. I only hope they will follow it.” Dr. Morgan
replied.

  “Me
too...  me too,” David answered in kind.

---- ----
---- ---- ----

  David
stood at the back of the operating wagon and examined the surgical tools he
would now have to adapt to. Limited and crude, he realized they were woefully
inadequate, and if he was going to be of any real value, he would need to have
certain instruments made specially for him. He took inventory of the tools and
made a mental list of the ones he would consult with Dr. Morgan about later.
Engrossed in his work, he hadn't noticed the old doctor approaching.

 
"Everything in order?" Dr. Morgan asked, startling David for a split
second.

 
"Actually, I was taking another inventory of your tools. I believe I could
greatly enhance the quality and outcome of our surgeries if I can have a few
instruments made," David replied.

 
"Really? New instruments? Huh, I'd be very interested to hear about
those," Dr. Morgan replied.

  He
then handed David a tin cup of black coffee, some hardtack crackers, and a
small ration of cold beef as well as other items.

  “I
took the liberty of finding you a few things; some food, a uniform and such.
Until we get to the regimental commissary, I’m afraid I can’t offer you that
much in the way of accommodations,” the old doctor said apologetically.

  David
thanked him for the cup of coffee and took a sip. He swirled the black liquid
around in his mouth as he contemplated the flavor.

  “Huh,
tastes the same. This is very good,” David complimented.

  He
then tried to bite into the hardtack, nearly breaking a tooth in the process.
Dr. Morgan watched David in curiosity as he finally broke the hard cracker into
bits with the end of a surgical saw and tasted a bland crumb. His face lost
expression from disappointment. Trying not to insult the old doctor, he forced
a pleasant smile on his face.

 
“You’re not really enjoying that pile of sawdust, are you?” Dr. Morgan asked.

 
Realizing the old doctor was seeing through his rouse, he came clean, giving
the old doctor his honest opinion.

  “Doc,
I won’t lie to you. I’d shoot the cook if I had a rifle.” David joked, hoping
the old doctor enjoyed his sense of humor.

  “Hmm.
Maybe I shouldn’t be giving you this rifle,” Dr. Morgan replied back dryly, as
he pulled a Springfield sharpshooter’s rifle from behind the surgical wagon’s
buckboard.

  David
swallowed hard. He had never shot a gun in his life, and the thought of firing
on someone with the intent to kill seemed unfathomable. He spent a good portion
of his life saving men. This went against everything he stood for.

 
“David, you look like you’ve seen a spirit. You have shot a rifle before,
haven’t you?” Dr. Morgan asked, now taken aback.

 
“Truthfully, no, sir,” David replied, unable to take his eyes off the bayonet
fixed to the end of the barrel.

  “Hmm,
this could be a dilemma. I'm going to have to teach you to shoot. That is, if
you want to stay alive in this war,” Dr. Morgan said in a serious tone.

  “Are
doctors required to fight too?” David asked sincerely.

  “Not
generally, but there are times when we have no other option. How are you with
knives?” Dr. Morgan inquired.

  “If
you mean how am I in a knife fight, I’d say terrible. I’ve never been in one,
although I have studied fencing while in college,” David said, now becoming a
bit nervous with the thought that he might have to defend himself.

  “Well,
no matter. I’ll give instruction in both,” the old doctor replied,
matter-of-factly.

  David
nibbled on the sour tasting cold beef and sucked on the cracker a bit to soften
it before trying to chew. Dr. Morgan handed him the rifle, then reached to the
buckboard to retrieve a dirty blue uniform.

  “I
believe this will fit you fine. I’m a pretty good judge after working on the
human body all these years. Here, try it on,” Dr. Morgan said, handing David
the uniform.

  “Right
here? You want me to undress right here?” David asked, a little embarrassed.

  “Are
you shy about something, lad?” the old doctor asked, mildly amused.

  “Well,
no. It’s just that…”

  With a
knowing smirk toward the old doctor, David looked around once more, then began
to undress. Moments later he was buttoning up the front of his uniform.

  “Very
good fit,” Dr. Morgan said, proud of his judgment.

  “Sir,
it’s not that I’m ungrateful, but this uniform has a hole in it. A really large
hole in it. In fact, if I had to guess, I’d say it was a bullet hole,” David
speculated, as he stuck his finger inside the uniform and out the hole in the
bellybutton region.

  “It’s
all I could find for you,” Dr. Morgan replied, a little saddened by David’s complaint.
He then added, “It is a lieutenant’s uniform. I even got the general’s approval
for you to wear it,” He said, hoping the added incentive would help David to
overlook the morbidity of the situation.

  “I’m
sorry, doc. This is a wonderful uniform. I really appreciate your effort. Thank
you,” David said, smiling.

  He
knew the old doctor did his best, and the least he could do was to show
appreciation. Besides, he also knew he’d be changing into a new uniform when
they reached the commissary. It was a small inconvenience in the grand scheme
of things.

  “I’d
say the only thing missing is some facial hair. A well grown beard and you’d
look like a gentleman.” Dr. Morgan replied proudly, receiving a slight grin
from David.

  As
David ate his breakfast, the two discussed the march toward Virginia. They then
made their way over to David’s tent to pack what little belongings he had. Dr.
Morgan had found a haversack while in his search for suitable clothes for
David. Inside, it was half filled with some coffee, sugar, hardtack, salt pork,
some tobacco and a pencil. David looked inside and his heart sank. He couldn’t
believe the meager rations he would have to survive on. He rolled up his scrubs
and stuffed them into the bag, then tied his sneakers to the outside, as Dr.
Morgan had furnished him with a pair of standard issue black leather shoes,
again requisitioned from one ’no longer’ in need of them.

  Dr.
Morgan bent down and picked up the picture David had brought from the future.
Handing it to David, he glanced at it momentarily, then placed it in David’s
hands. Suddenly, the image registered in his mind.

  “Hold
up a moment, David,” Dr. Morgan said. “Could I view that photograph one more
time?”

  “You
haven’t seen this picture, doctor?” David asked, surprised.

  He
handed the picture back to Dr Morgan and added, “See anyone in the picture that
looks familiar?”

  Dr.
Morgan looked at the picture. With his eyes widening, he glanced back up at David,
then back down at the picture. David could see a slight tremor in the old
doctor’s hands. With the tent rolled and packed, the cot sat exposed. Dr.
Morgan slowly sat down on the open cot and stared at the picture.

  “Son,
where did you get this?” Dr. Morgan asked slowly, mesmerized by the photo.

  “Do
you want to hear the truth, or do you want me to lie?” David replied, trying to
make light of Dr. Morgan’s discovery.

  “I’m
not sure,” Dr. Morgan replied nervously. “The truth,” he added.

  “That
photo was hanging in the elevator of the hospital. I was holding it when I
stepped from my time period into your time period,” David answered.

  He
could see the old doctor struggling with what he was hearing.

  David
added, “Doc, it's no parlor trick. That photo's real.”

  David
was about to add to his explanation when Dr. Morgan cut him off.

 
“David, I know it's real,” Dr. Morgan stated softly, almost embarrassed by the
words.

  “Huh?
What do you mean 'you know it's real'?” David asked, anticipation building
inside.

  “I
have never sat for a photograph – ever.” Dr Morgan emphasized. He showed the
picture to David and continued, “This photograph is taken during this war. Look
at the uniforms. Look especially at the surrounding birch trees. Any of this
look familiar to you?” the old doctor asked, as if he had to convince David of
the authenticity.

  David
looked at the photo, then all around him. The birch trees, the grassy clearing,
the medical wagon: all were very similar to the photo. Looking back at the
photo, he knew it would be taken fairly close by.

 
Looking directly at Dr. Morgan, David said, “It kind of looks like we'll be
back here sometime in the future to take that photo, doesn't it?

  A wave
of relief overcame David as he realized there would be no doubt of their
return.

  A
bewildered expression crossed Dr. Morgan’s face. Shaking his head, he said, “I
can't believe this. This just isn't possible. Am I dreaming? How can this be
real?” he asked rhetorically.

  “If I had
that answer, I'd be home already,” David replied.

  Dr.
Morgan stood up in front of David. He studied his face a moment, then said, “I
apologize for doubting you. You in fact must be from the future as you claimed.
There can be no other explanation for this, for all of this: the photograph,
the surgeries, everything you've told me. Collectively, the evidence cannot be
refuted.”

 
"Wow. Thank you, doctor. It's a terrible thing to have your life torn from
you in such a way. It's even worse when nobody believes you. I’m relieved,”
David replied emphatically, shocked at the old doctor’s conclusion. “Where do
we go from here?”

  “We
have to get you home. To be torn from your life, your home, must be an awful
tragedy for you. You have my word; I'll do my best to help you return,"
Dr. Morgan said, placing his hand on David's shoulder in assurance. "This
clearing is somehow connected to your time. It is unfortunate that we must
leave here now, on the brink of this discovery. Hopefully, when we return – and
we know we will return...," he said, holding up the picture for effect,
"we'll have the answers.” Dr. Morgan said with conviction.

 
"And if we don't?" David asked.

 
"One tragedy at a time, David. One tragedy at a time," Dr. Morgan
said, shaking his head, deep in thought.

TT:
Chapter 5

June 10,
1862

 
Excited and nervous, David watched as the old doctor saddled up a US
government-issued Canadian stallion. Young and powerful, the steed was as impressive
as it was beautiful. With a soft tan coat and dark markings around the face and
ears, he was the envy of every officer. David stood back and listened closely
to Dr. Morgan's instructions in saddling a horse. Trying to concentrate on the
old doctor's words, his mind reflected back to the future and how, just the day
before, he had driven to work in a newer model BMW. Technologically advanced
and superbly comfortable, it was a long way off from this primitive mode of
transportation he would now struggle to ride.

 
"I can't believe you've never ridden a horse before," Dr. Morgan
remarked. "I've been riding for over half a century, so it may seem easy,
but trust in my words, lad: there are many officers who still fall off their
horse. Lucky for you, this steed has straps that secure you in the
saddle."

 
"Really? There are?" David asked with relief and sincerity.

  Dr.
Morgan stopped what he was doing and stared at David for a moment. A smile
slowly grazed his face.

  "Son,
I was speaking in jest; although, come to think of it, straps would eliminate
those difficult episodes when a man is too drunk for the saddle," the old
doctor replied, pensively staring off into space for a moment as he considered
his statement. He then added, "Not that an officer would ever dishonor his
reputation with such a poor display of self-restraint."

  David
raised his finger into the air and said, "Then I shall pledge to carry out
all my drunken falls before getting in the saddle," carrying the humorous
sarcasm further.

 
"A sound plan, lad; sound plan," Dr. Morgan returned with a smile.

 
Finished saddling, he instructed David on the finer points of mounting and
riding. Pretty soon, David had gotten the hang of it and was riding without
fear. Using a series of trees and small hills, David sharpened his skills as
the old doctor fine-tuned his technique.

 
Shortly before noon, the two heard a gallop off in the distance. Dr. Morgan
craned his head in the direction of the sound and listened intently. Drawing
his pocket watch, he popped open the intricately embossed cover and peered at
the time. A smile spread across his face as he buried the golden timepiece back
deep in his pocket.

 
Turning to David he said, “You could set your clock to his schedules.”

  “Who
are you referring to?” David asked.

 
“General Negley, of course,” Dr. Morgan replied.

  David
listened to the sound of the gallop, but could not distinguish it from any
other horse he’d ever heard.

  “I’m
amazed at how you can determine a man’s horse by the gallop. They all sound the
same to me,” David replied in turn.

  “Not
every horse is distinctive. Jim’s horse has an off step in its stride that
makes it easy to discern from others. Have a listen,” the old man instructed.
“Do you hear that? Every third step is different.”

  As the
horse drew near, Dr. Morgan sounded off as the horse’s hooves contacted the
ground: “Click, click, click, clop. Click, click, click, clop. Do you hear it?
Right after the third step, you hear that distinctive fourth step – a clop.”

  David
listened again. In his mind he repeated the doctor’s description of the sound
over and over, matching the horse’s rhythm to the words. “Click, click, click,
clop,” he said, out loud this time. Suddenly he could hear it. His words did
indeed match the horse’s stride.

  “Oh
yeah. Hey, doc, I hear it” David said, still listening to the sound. “That’s
amazing. I never would have picked up on that. How did you learn that trick?”

  “No trick
to it. I just spent quite a bit of time with an old Indian tracker a while
back. He taught me to listen, just as I’m teaching you,” Dr. Morgan replied.

  Out
beyond a small bluff, the two watched as a cloud of dust grew larger with the
volume of the gallop. Pretty soon, Gen. Negley appeared, riding over a small
hill. Moments later, he pulled on the reins of his horse, coming to a stop in
front of Dr. Morgan.

  “Doc,”
Gen. Negley said aloud in greeting.

  “Jim,”
Dr. Morgan responded back in turn. “I calculate this is not a social affair?”
he added, getting straight to the point.

  “Your
arithmetic is impeccable, Jeb. Are you joining us, or were you planning on
lollygagging the afternoon away?” Gen. Negley chided.

  “And
miss the intensely grueling marches under the blazing sun, subsisting on meager
rations, repelling ambushes, not to mention working on the wounded into the wee
hours when we advance into the heart of the enemy? Sir, I am feeling a bit
misrepresented. Is this not every man’s aspiration? Is this not befitting of
the generous wage of $115 a month?” Dr. Morgan said, returning the sarcasm.

  Gen.
Negley turned to David and replied, “Now how am I to wage a debate against that
kind of logic?”

  David
shrugged his shoulders and smiled, staying neutral, as Gen. Negley continued to
inform the pair of the orders.

  “Well,
enough of the jabbering. We’re on the move. How are our supplies?” Gen. Negley
asked of the surgical supply wagon.

  “We’re
a bit low on bandages and distilled alcohol,” Dr. Morgan replied, his tone
turning serious.

 
“Alcohol? Jeb, it’s not for drinking, ’cept in cases of extreme mental duress,”
Gen. Negley stated, trying to be diplomatic with his reprimand.

  “We
haven’t been indulging, Jim. We use it for cleaning wounds and surgical
instruments and such. It is essential in our endeavors. I fear if we engage in
another conflict before we are resupplied, the wounded will fare much worse in
their recovery. The successful numbers we have just observed from this previous
exchange were due in part to the effective application of distilled alcohol,”
Dr. Morgan replied, pleading his case effectively.

  “What
is the other part?” asked Gen. Negley.

  “The
other component of success is my young friend here; Dr. Warner,” Dr. Morgan
replied proudly, nodding at David.

  “Yes,
I see. You have educated me previously on his impressive surgical skills. I’ve
never heard of such a thing, but if you two are demonstrating impressive
success, who am I to say nay,” Gen. Negley acquiesced. He placed his hand to
his chin a moment in thought, then continued, “Yes, I shall send along a
courier in advance of our column in acquisition of further supplies, straight
away. Have a requisition ready for me as soon as is practicable.”

  “Yes
sir,” Dr. Morgan replied with respect. He then added, “Maybe you could order a
few extra jugs for those moments when you and I are also suffering from mental
duress?”

  “Quite
right, quite right,” Gen. Negley said, holding back a smile through his
professional posture.

---- ----
---- ---- ----

  Under
the blazing sun, the heat penetrated through their uncomfortable blue woolen
uniforms. As far as the eyes could see, the brigade’s column of men, consisting
of five thousand soldiers, wagons, equipment and supplies, marched in the heat
of the day by the beat of a drummer whose repetitive score sounded the steady
and consistent pattern of alternating footsteps.

  With a
bandana, borrowed from Dr. Morgan and tied around his nose and mouth, David
coughed as the dust particles from the column of men filtered through the
cotton fibers and continuously irritated his eyes and lungs.

  “Boy,
this dust is unbelievable. It’s like a giant blanket of dirt suspended over our
heads. Maybe we should ride to the front of the column,” David suggested to Dr.
Morgan.

  “And
where do you think the first casualties will occur during an ambush?” Dr.
Morgan replied with a slight smile.

  “Ah, I
see,” David replied with a cough. “I guess it pays to have rank, although it
seems so callous, wouldn’t you say? The poor guys’ lives in front have been
determined to be less important than ours.”

  “It’s
all about the numbers, lad. We – you and I – are limited in number. They
aren’t. If they die, others are there to take their place. If you die, who will
replace you?” Dr. Morgan theorized.

  “Yeah,
I guess it makes sense,” David replied.

 
"It's not all relegated to rank though, son. Where do you think Gen.
Negley is right now?" Dr. Morgan asked rhetorically, then answered his own
question. "He's at the head of the spear. He's leading our troops at the
front of the column."

  David
looked around the wagon in front of him, squinting through the dust, trying to
see the front of the column. It was to be in vain, as he realized the column of
soldiers marched miles ahead of them, the start of the procession impossible to
see. With a nod of understanding, he acknowledged Dr. Morgan’s message.

  They rode
in silence for a few minutes, keeping an eye on the wagon in front of them to
keep pace. David looked around him and observed the countryside. In its natural
state it was exceedingly beautiful, with its green rolling hills, long, uncut
grasses, furrowed farmlands, and wildflowers that lined the edges of fields and
forests. It was interesting to see the unfettered and pristine land before
future industrialization would completely overtake the state like a weed.

  A
short time later, Dr. Morgan asked a question that had been nagging him since
he learned of David’s true existence.

 
“David, there’s something that’s been gnawing at me for some time now. Would it
be presumptuous of me to ask who is going to win this war?” Dr. Morgan said, feeling
the pains of impropriety tugging at his conscience.

  David
looked over at the old doctor, who waited anxiously for an answer. He smiled
slightly and replied, “We do.”

  Dr.
Morgan sloughed back in his saddle, relieved that the effort he could see
before him was not all in vain. A moment later, he needed more answers. He
inquired further.

  “How
much longer will this last?” Dr. Morgan asked. “Not long I hope,” he added.

  “I’m
afraid this next answer is not what you expect. This is not a short war. It
will end around the beginning of 1868 – six years from now,” David answered
sadly.