same, but it wasn't harb*
Posted by TarheelIllini on November 8, 2019, 16:38:16, in reply to "I was expecting, ‘shinobi’ at some point*"
A week had passed since our misfortunes at Bull Run. We had breathed into our nostrils the smoke of battle, listened to the voice of the canon, seen the finest of pageants, the most splendid of dramatic spectacles – the death struggle between armed arrays of men. We, who were numbered among the Sons of Muses, found ourselves, a week later, counted among the full-fledge Sons of Mars. We had fought, suffered, and survived to tell our tale.
We were the lucky ones – not entirely whole – but nonetheless fortunate. My days as a soldier were over. An enemy sniper took part of my arm, the field surgeon took most of the rest in a prophylactic attempt to stave off the scourge of infection. I was going home soon, back to the green mountains of my beloved Adirondacks, and to my betrothed, Elizabeth, who I left expectant with child.
I longed for the adrenalin of battle. Lying on a dirty cot in a makeshift field hospital left me with nothing but pain and monotony. Even the moans and wails of my fallen comrades who were strewn about the camp could not prevent me from worrying about my Elizabeth. A wisp of a woman, I could not help but wonder how, or God forbid, if she had survived the wrath of winter, alone. She had not written in months, or, I hoped, she had but her letters had been confiscated by the Rebs.
As darkness encompassed the camp and the moans of the wounded receded, my anxiety was interrupted by a dark figure throwing open the flaps of the tent. He was young, 16, maybe 15, black as onyx and panting like dog on an August day in New Orleans. His eyes were bloodshot from exhaustion and dehydration. His mail cart had left Charlotte a week earlier, but his steed had come up lame along the way, forcing him to carry his parcels by foot the last 80 miles. He made haste knowing the importance of what he would deliver. While only a boy, he was already tall, muscular, and had broad shoulders. This was obvious even though he was hunched over in exhaustion.
Though desperately grasping for oxygen, he smiled when our eyes met. Too many of linen items he carried would go undelivered, the intended recipients captured or lifeless on the bloody battlefield not a hundred yards away. He did not know it at the time, but he carried the King’s Ransom in his canvas pouch: news that my lovely Elizabeth was alive, well, and had brought forth a daughter, who she named Mary.
In a soft voice he said, “Private Lusk? Private William Lusk?” I cautiously nodded in affirmation to the dark stranger in my tent. “I bring news from home.” After receiving the envelope and reading its contents, not once, but twice, and a third time to ensure that my eyes were not deceiving me or that my mind had not been poisoned by infection. I looked up at him and asked, “Son, what is your name?” He stood straight up, his lips curling into a slight, wry smile, and responded, “Sir, my name is Malone. Karl Malone.” He turned suddenly, and left, robbing me of the opportunity to thank him. I still wonder at times whatever happened to him.
"Nominate a clown, get a circus."....VIV
Trump eres un pendejo
Courage is a muscle. You exercise courage by consistently doing things that scare you.
History doesn’t repeat itself but it often rhymes.