Ashes by Haunted Computer Books Page A

goods. Eggs, squash, a small rasher of
bacon. And soap. Wilkie hadn't seen soap in six months.
    Tibbets held his hands out to Wilkie. The
meaning was clear. The goods were a gift to Wilkie. He set down his
musket, trembling, and reached out to the corpse.
    The eggs were cool to the touch, cooler than
the dead fingers. The bacon had oozed some grease in the heat, but
hadn't yet spoiled. The squash was shriveled but whole. And the
soap . . .
    Wilkie put the soap to his nose. The scent
made him think of Susan, her clean hair, the meadow behind her
father's cornfield.
    Wilkie gazed gratefully into the dead man's
eyes. "Why?" he asked.
    The pale lips parted, and Tibbets's words
came like a lost creek breeze. "You cried."
    Tibbets turned and headed back toward the
stand of jack pine.
    Wilkie bit into the neck of one of the summer
squashes. It was real. The impossible had become probable, and all
that was left was for Wilkie to accept the evidence of his eyes,
ears, hands, and mouth. "Wait," Wilkie called after Tibbets.
    The dead Yankee paused, tilted his head as if
heeding some distant command, then slowly waved for Wilkie to
follow. Wilkie looked back toward the stockade, where nothing
waited but the duty of another day's death watch. He peered through
the branches to the dead-house, where maggots roiled. When he
looked back, Tibbets was gone, the pine limbs shaking from his
passage.
    Wilkie stuffed the food and soap into his
pockets. Leaving the musket, he slipped into the pines and wandered
until he saw Tibbets far ahead. Wilkie walked, occasionally
breaking into a run, never gaining on Tibbets. His limbs were heavy
with fatigue, his uniform soaked with sweat. A blister rose on his
big toe. Surely he had followed for hours, yet the sun still hung
high in the sky.
    At last he heard the soft twanging of a mouth
harp, the duet of a banjo and guitar. Laughter came from behind the
next stand of trees, and wood smoke filled the air. Someone was
broiling meat over a fire. The clank of flatware and tin was
accompanied by the rich aroma of brewed coffee. An unseen horse
whinnied.
    Wilkie burst into a run, using the last of
his strength. He fought through a tangle of briars and scrub
locust, kicking at the vines that kept him from those delightful
sounds and smells. Finally he fell from the grip of the forest into
an expanse of twilight. The air had gone crisp with chill.
Campfires dotted the horizon as far as he could see. Around them
huddled groups of men, joking, eating, drinking, writing letters or
playing music.
    Rows of tents stood lined in uniform rank,
not a rip among them. This had to be a Union camp. If so, he would
gladly surrender for just one good meal and a chance to hear that
peaceful laughter and camaraderie. Wilkie approached the nearest
campfire.
    Two men rose from the log they were sitting
on. One was dressed in a Union cavalry uniform, bright with
polished leather and buttons. The other was Tibbets, in his
prisoner's rags. Tibbets made a motion with his hand for Wilkie to
sit. Wilkie nodded to the cavalry officer and sat rubbing his hands
before the flames.
    "This is Wilkie," Tibbets said.
    Wilkie glanced up, about to ask the dead
prisoner how he knew Wilkie's name. But in the land of the
impossible, why shouldn't he?
    The officer gave the open-handed Rebel
salute. "Welcome."
    Wilkie wondered why no one brought weapons to
bear on him. Then he noticed that none of the men were armed. He
studied the men sitting across the fire from him. They wore gray
Confederate jackets. One of the men had cornbread crumbs in his
beard. The soldiers nodded in greeting, then turned their attention
back to the warm pork that filled their hands.
    "Where do I go to surrender?" Wilkie asked
the officer.
    The officer's mouth fell open, then, after a
moment, a laugh rolled from deep inside his chest. The other men
around the fire joined in, along with several groups from nearby
campfires. When the officer regained his composure, he said,