Chapter 12 #2
"His name was Sam Duncan."
The name hung between them.
Mercy didn't speak. She had asked her question, then given him every opportunity to leave it unanswered.
Wilson lowered his gaze to the folded newspaper once more. There was no simple way to answer what she'd asked. Not if he meant to answer it honestly.
For years he'd managed to avoid conversations like this. When someone praised that day's events, he thanked them, changed the subject, or excused himself as quickly as courtesy allowed. If they pressed, he simply refused to discuss it.
No one had ever asked about Sam Duncan. Not until Mercy.
He turned his gaze to her again. She wasn't waiting impatiently or watching him with curiosity. She simply stood quietly beside the table, giving him the freedom to speak—or not.
Something inside him eased. Perhaps she deserved to know.
No. That wasn't it.
She had already shown him she could be trusted with stories others might overlook.
She had spent weeks preserving the lives of men history had nearly forgotten.
And when she'd read an article celebrating impossible courage, somehow, she'd come away asking about the one man who hadn't come home.
If anyone would understand why Sam Duncan mattered...
It was Mercy.
Wilson drew a slow breath. "Sam Duncan wasn't just another cavalryman under my command."
He paused, his gaze drifting past the schoolroom walls for just a moment before returning to her.
"He was one of the finest men I've ever known."
Wilson was quiet for a long moment. Where did you begin telling someone about a man like Sam Duncan?
"Sam wasn't the sort of man folks noticed right away." He smiled. "Sam preferred it that way. Kept mostly to himself unless somebody drew him out. Didn't waste words."
His gaze settled on the folded newspaper.
"But once he decided you were worth knowing...
" He gave the slightest shake of his head.
"He had the driest sense of humor I've ever come across.
Never smiled when he was teasing you, either.
Half the company wouldn't realize he'd made a joke until everyone else was laughing. "
The memories came easier now. "I don't suppose I ever heard him raise his voice in anger. Didn't need to. Men listened when Sam spoke because he only opened his mouth when he had something worth saying."
He paused a moment before continuing. "When I first took command, he was just another man in my company. Older than I was. I'd learned I could trust him, but that was about the extent of it."
Wilson rubbed a thumb along the edge of the newspaper. "That changed a few months later."
He drew a slow breath.
"My horse went down crossing a creek. Rolled before I could get clear and trapped my leg beneath it." He heard a quick intake of breath from Mercy but didn’t look up.
"We'd seen signs of enemy scouts,” he continued. “The company couldn't afford to stop. I didn’t expect them to."
His voice remained even. "But Sam stayed. Even after I ordered him to leave." He shook his head. "We weren't particularly close then. I've thought about that more times than I can count over the years." A slight shake of his head. "I still couldn't tell you why he ignored that order."
He inhaled. "Sam got the horse off me, but caught a rifle ball through his arm doing it. Fortunately, it was a through and through and we were both able to ride his horse out of there.”
He wasn't sure which one of them had done more helping the other onto that horse. It would have been funny if it hadn’t been so serious.
"The army sent Sam home to recover."
Wilson's thoughts drifted back to the journey. "I was ordered to see him safely there. Took us three days to reach his place."
A lifetime seemed to have passed since that trip.
And maybe it had. "We talked more in those three days than we had in all the months we'd served together.
About his wife Sharon. About the farm. About the life he was looking forward to once the war was over.
" He paused. "Somewhere along that road I quit thinking of him as one of my men and more as a friend. "
His thoughts lingered another moment. "When we finally arrived, Sharon wouldn't hear of my leaving right away. Kept me two nights before sending me back to my regiment with enough food to last the better part of the trip."
The memory settled warmly before the ache returned. "A few weeks later, Sam reported back." He looked down at the newspaper between them. "From then on, I never had to wonder where I'd find him. If we were riding, he was usually somewhere nearby."
Wilson looked down at the newspaper again.
"As for the day Jonah was remembering, I remember it a little different."
He waved a hand dismissively. "The particulars of how we found ourselves in that situation aren't important. What matters is that we'd ridden into far more trouble than anyone expected."
He drew a slow breath. "There was a heavy fog that morning. Thick enough a man disappeared after a few horse lengths. It helped us get close without being seen. It did the same for them."
The memories came with painful clarity now. "The captain was killed almost as soon as the shooting started." One moment he'd been waiting for orders. The next, men were looking to him.
"I didn't have time to think about what had happened. There were wounded to get moving. Horses running loose. Men who'd never been under fire before looking half ready to panic."
He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the worktable. "The fog finally gave us one chance to break away. Not a good chance. Just the only one we were likely to get."
He could still remember shouting orders, trying to keep the company together as they pushed through the fog.
"Sam had taken a ball before we broke away. I started to pull him out of the line, but he waved me off."
Wilson could still hear the certainty in his friend's voice.
"'Just a scratch, Lieutenant. I've had worse.'
"I believed him."
The words lingered.
"There were men hurt far worse than he was. Men who couldn't stay in the saddle without someone holding them there. I turned my attention to getting them out."
He tightened his jaw. "The last time I remember seeing Sam, he was still riding with us."
The memory blurred after that.
"The fog kept swallowing men and giving them back again. Every time we'd stop long enough to gather ourselves, I'd count heads. The first two times, everyone was accounted for."
His chest tightened. "The third time I took a count,” he swallowed “Sam wasn't there."
“Oh Wilson.”
Her softly uttered words of sympathy nearly undid him. Wilson moved to one of the windows and stood there with his back to the room.
Finaly he was able to continue. "I thought maybe he'd been separated in the confusion." His gaze settled somewhere beyond the schoolyard. "Every time we stopped, I'd look back into the fog expecting him to come riding in."
He never did. "I sent two men back to look. They came back alone."
He clasped his hands tightly behind his back.
"Then I rode back myself."
The silence stretched.
"I didn't dare go far. Every minute I was gone put the rest of the men at greater risk.
Some of the wounded could barely stay in the saddle.
The others..." He shook his head. "They were frightened, exhausted, and trying their best not to show it." But they’d held together. He’d been proud of them that day.
"I called his name until my voice was nearly gone." Nothing answered him but the fog.
Wilson closed his eyes. "I wanted to keep looking."
The next words came quietly. "If it'd only been my own life I was risking..." He stopped, unable to finish the thought for a moment.
"It wasn't." And there was no escaping that truth.
"There were fourteen men depending on me to get them home."
He turned and his gaze settled once more on the newspaper. "So..."
The single word lingered between them.
"I gave the order to ride." He drew a slow breath that did little to ease the ache.
"For weeks I convinced myself Sam had gotten turned around somehow. That he'd make his way back to our lines."
Wilson's gaze drifted toward the classroom door, though he saw only another time and another place.
"He never did."
Another silence. "It was months later before I learned for certain that he'd been captured."
His throat felt strained but he had to get this last bit out.
"He died of his wounds in a prison camp before anyone could reach him."
Wilson stood at the window, leaning back against the frame, for a long while before speaking again. "The army sent the official notice." His voice was steady, though it took effort to keep it that way. "There wasn't anything I could do about that."
He crossed his arms. "But a notice from the Government couldn't tell Sharon what kind of soldier Sam had been. Or all the things about his service he'd never have told her himself."
The memories came one after another. "How the men trusted him.
How he had a way of settling a room with just a few words.
How he'd carried more than one frightened recruit through his first fight without making the boy feel ashamed.
" He shook his head. "The way he could have an entire camp laughing without ever changing the expression on his face. I wanted her to know those things."
The words lingered. "So, I rode out to her place." He could still picture the white farmhouse standing quiet beneath the oaks. "Sharon recognized me before I'd crossed half the yard."
For the briefest moment he'd hoped seeing a familiar face might make what came next a little easier.
Instead, she'd looked past him.
Looking for someone else.
His throat tightened.
"When she realized I was alone..." He stopped.
He could still see the hope disappear from her face.
"I tried to tell her why I'd come."
He never got the chance.
"She said Sam had once come home with a bullet through his arm because he'd stayed behind to save my life."
Wilson closed his eyes.
"I told her I was sorry."
The words had sounded empty before they'd even left his mouth.