Chapter One
January 1866 - The Journal
The room was now quite dark. Faint shafts of moonlight that filtered through the heavy muslin
curtains did nothing to penetrate the overall gloom. But it wasn’t merely the lack of light that made
the room dark and gloomy. There was something else, something intangible. Something was missing.
Not an object. It was more like a feeling, a sensation. The room lacked warmth. It lacked hope. But
more than that, the room lacked something much more important. It lacked life itself.
***
Although reasonably large, the room was sparsely furnished. It had not always been like that. In
times gone by the house was furnished in the finest of styles, with the very best of everything. Just a
few short years before, silk curtains draped the windows, thick pile carpets covered the floors, and
fine walnut paneling adorned the walls. From the ceilings hung large crystal chandeliers imported
from Europe.
The solid oak dining table that stood in the centre of the room would have been surrounded by
chairs upholstered in the very best of satin brocade. On the table would be the finest linen tablecloths
that money could buy, the finest lead crystal glasses, sterling silver cutlery from England, and bone
china crockery from Europe.
***
Then the house had shone and sparkled, bright and alive, bustling with activity. Fresh flowers
could be found everywhere, and their perfume had filled the air. People would come from miles
around to attend the lavish dinner parties and the house would be full of laughter and happiness, and
the sound of music.
But that was before the war, before the Union soldiers had arrived. That was before they had
ransacked the area. Before everything had either been destroyed, or stolen. Everything had now gone.
There was no more laughter. No more happiness. No more music. Now the house was silent, desolate.
The heart had been taken from it, ripped right out.
***
Seated close to the fireside, in the large high back chair, was an elderly man. He sat hunched
forward, his head hung down, his white hair shimmering in the firelight. Billows of smoke, from his
pipe, rose into the air and disappeared into the darkness. Curled up on the rug next to him was an
elderly dog fast asleep, its head resting on its front paws. The man looked down at the dog for a few
moments, and then slowly turned to the last page of the handwritten document that he was reading. He
gasped audibly.
Although he had read the small faded document several times already, he was still shocked to
notice that the handwriting on that last page had become quite shaky, and he had some difficulty in
actually reading the words.
“I can hear them coming,” the document read. “They are coming up the staircase.” He had read
the document so many times that he actually knew the words by heart. “They are outside now,” he
whispered. “Banging on the door, they are coming for me.”
The man looked up, staring into the darkness. He shook his head. “Banging on the door,” he
repeated slowly, in a hushed voice. He could almost see them, running up the stairs, their boots
echoing loudly on the timber treads. Then they were there, standing outside by the door to the boy’s
room. He could hear their breathing, their hearts beating fast. He could imagine them calling excitedly
to each other.
“Here,” one would cry out.
“In there,” said another.
“We have him now,” cries a third.
“He cannot get away, not this time,” from a fourth.
The elderly man could hear the heavy thud as they smashed on the door, first with their fists,
then with their shoulders, and finally with a battering ram hurriedly brought in from outside.
“Open up,” they scream, as they strike the door over and over again. “Open up, you can’t get
away.”
He could almost hear the timber doorframe splitting, as the door was being wrenched from the
hinges, the frame being torn from the wall.
“They are coming for me,” the document continued. “There is no way out. There is no escape.”
The man could only imagine the torment, and the fear that the young man must have felt at that
precise moment. His situation was completely hopeless. He was completely alone. Capture was
inevitable. Did he call out for me, the man wondered, or perhaps he had called for his mother? Did he
pray? He shook his head sadly. There was no way of knowing. But what he did know was that the
young man must have been frantic, desperate. What could he do? There was nowhere to turn. There
was no one to help. He was trapped. “No way out,” the man murmured. Then there came that last cry
for help. “May God have mercy on my soul.” Then the document came to an abrupt ending. It was all
over.
What had happened next could only be guessed, but the elderly man did not need to guess. The
blood staining on the last few pages of the document gave a small clue. But he did not need clues. He
did not need hints. He knew precisely what had happened. The report of the public inquiry had been
quite detailed in that respect. No detail had been omitted. Nothing had been left out. He had been told
everything.
It would haunt him for the rest of his life.
***
Aaron Thackery sat back in his chair, his eyes closed tightly. “There is no way out,” he repeated.
“There is no escape.” The dog looked up momentarily, and then lay back down. The man’s eyes
opened wide. “No escape,” he whispered. His breathing became heavy, and labored. He started to
sweat. He suddenly felt very hot. His hands started to shake. He began to choke as he gasped for air.
There was that sharp pain in his chest once again, as he placed his hand over his heart, and gently
massaged the area.
He had been getting that pain quite often just lately. Overtired, that was all. It was nothing more
than that. Doctor Philips said that it was his heart, and that he should take it easy. What did he know?
Take it easy indeed. Since the war he had no choice but to take it easy. He had nothing else to do. His
orchards had all but been destroyed. There was nothing left. The Union soldiers had seen to that,
setting fire to them as they had ridden through. His barn had been razed to the ground. He was too old
to start again. He didn’t have the heart for it anyway. Not now. What was the point?
“Heart trouble, what utter nonsense,” the man smiled as he thought of old Doctor Philips. “The
silly old fool, he should have retired years ago. He should have been forced to retire.” He paused for a
moment. “He should have been put out to pasture.” He shrugged. “No, he should have been put down
more like.”
Certainly he was a little breathless at times. There was no doubting that. No argument in that
respect. He was not as young as he used to be. At least the Doctor was right about that. He was not
able to do the things that he used to do. There was nothing strange about that. The years had taken
their toll. He had slowed up, no question about it, he and hundreds – nay, thousands of others.
Certainly the pain was quite severe at times, and certainly it was becoming more frequent. And yes,
the pain seemed to last a lot longer as well.
It was probably nothing more than indigestion or a touch of heartburn perhaps. He was just
getting old that was all. You got these little problems as you got older. It was a fact of life. There was
no mystery. It wasn’t anything unusual, nothing to get too concerned about. There was nothing you
could do about it anyway. You just had to get on with it. He was just a little stressed maybe.
A little stressed, he murmured. That was an understatement if ever there was one. These last few
months had been nothing less than a nightmare, a living hell. There was no other word for it. It was no
wonder that he got the pain and a lot more beside. He laid his head back, and closed his eyes once
again. He took one or two deep breaths. His hand stopped shaking. The pain eased slightly, but he
knew that it would return later. A tear started to slowly roll down his cheek. Then there was another,
and another. He took off his eyeglasses. He gently rubbed his eyes, and took another deep breath.
The grandfather clock standing in the hallway started to chime loudly. “Eight,” the man started
to count. Bong. “Nine.” Bong. “Ten.” Bong. “Eleven.” “Eleven o’clock.”
On the table next to him lay a silver fob watch and chain. He reached for it, pressed the catch and
opened the case. The watch indicated that it was a few minutes before eleven. “Slow again,” he
murmured. He gave the watch a gentle shake. Why was it always slow? It had been that way for years.
His eyes then turned towards the lithograph that had been placed inside. It was of a young woman, no
more than eighteen years old. His eyes began to fill once again as he gazed upon the faded image. He
looked up and stared into the darkness, as though looking into the past.
“Forty-one years,” he murmured. “So long ago, so many years, where had they all gone?” he
asked. Things had been so different then.
They were happy days, carefree days, days that he would have gladly had once again if it had
been possible. Sadly he knew that it was not possible. He knew that those days had gone, gone
forever. He looked at the image longingly. “Emily,” he whispered softly. “Emily where are you?”
***
“Emily,” he called gently. “Emily where are you?” He walked slowly into the room, glancing to
the left and the right. He nodded in recognition as he passed some of his guests. “Emily,” he called.
Where was she? Where could she be? He had looked everywhere, or so he had thought.
Then he saw her standing over in the corner of the room. She was deep in conversation with two
of their neighbors. He walked over to her. “There you are, Emily dear,” he said as he reached her,
placing his hand on her arm. “I have been looking for you simply everywhere.”
She turned around, taken by surprise. She smiled when she realized who it was. “Aaron, my
dear, I’ve been here all the time,” she responded, and began to laugh. “Come and join us.” She half
turned to face the two people standing with her. “Miles and Henry have been talking about the
possibility of a nasty old war.”
Aaron said nothing, merely glancing at the two men.
“I told them that such a dreadful thing was not going to happen. Indeed it would not be allowed
to happen. That nice Mr. Jefferson Davis would not allow it to happen.” She opened her fan, and
began tapping her palm with it. “Indeed,” she continued. “I would not allow it to happen.”
“There you are gentlemen,” Aaron said, smiling, holding his hands outstretched. “There you
have it, Mrs. Thackery has spoken. She would not allow it. And her decision is final. There is really
no more to be said.” He started to laugh. “A war would just not be tolerated. It would be inconvenient.
So a war is just not going to happen.” He put his arm around his wife’s shoulder and gave a gentle
squeeze. “So, gentlemen, you see a war would be totally impossible.”
Miles shook his head.
“What is it Miles?” asked Mrs. Thackery.
“Well Mrs. Thackery it certainly looks as though a war could be very possible, I’m afraid,”
Miles replied nervously. “In fact I would say that it is very possible indeed.”
He paused as he noticed the look in his brother’s eyes. He shrugged his shoulders, and then
continued. “More and more of the States are leaving the Union, and joining the Confederacy.” Henry
nudged him hard in the ribs. Miles looked at his brother once again. He then turned back to face Mrs.
Thackery. “Lincoln is not going to idly stand by seeing that happen and do nothing, that much is
certain. He will act, and soon. Mark my words.”
Aaron and Emily Thackery 1850
“There will be no war,” said Aaron emphatically, stepping forward. “Take my word for it.”
Somebody tapped his shoulder as they passed by. Thackery turned, and gave a cursory wave. The
person had already gone by.
Thackery turned back to face Miles. “What was I saying?” he asked, tapping his forehead. He
thought for a few moments. “Ah yes, I remember now.” He paused briefly. “Getting a little forgetful
sometimes, age, I suppose.” He paused once again. “Now Miles you’ve known me for a long time,
haven’t you? Why you are almost like another son to me, you know that.”
“Yes sir, I know that,” Miles agreed.
“Well then let me assure you, there will be no war,” Thackery continued. “You can take that
from me.”
Miles looked at him hard. He then looked at his older brother and shook his head. He turned
back to face Thackery. “Make no mistake Mr. Thackery, sir. There will be a war. It is inevitable. It
will come, whether you like it or not.” He paused for a moment. “I don’t know when. This year
perhaps, or next year at the latest, I don’t know. But it will certainly come. You can be sure of that. It
will come, and we all need to be well prepared.”
Thackery took a deep breath, and shook his head. “Miles please do not be offended, but you are
young,” he replied. “You don’t understand the things of which you speak. You cannot possibly
understand them. I have already experienced war. War is a dreadful thing. People will do anything;
indeed they must do anything and everything, to avoid it. Nothing can be gained by war. Nothing ever
was, or will be.”
Miles moved forward shaking his head. His brother placed his hand upon his arm, attempting to
restrain him. Miles looked up and glared at his brother. He angrily shrugged the hand away. “I may
not fully understand everything Mr. Thackery. As you say I am young, and perhaps, therefore, I do
not possess the wisdom of those older than myself, but I can recognize the signs. I can see what is
happening all around me.” He paused for a few moments. “I am no ostrich,” he continued. “I do not
bury my head in the sand as some others do.” He looked towards his brother. Henry said nothing, and
merely looked down at the floor.
Thackery did not want to think about a war. He had been involved in the last one against Mexico
back in 1848. He had been badly wounded in that conflict. He had not fully recovered, and still
walked with a pronounced limp. It was only thirteen years ago,he did not need another war, not quite
so soon. The Country did not need another war. Deep down though, he knew that Miles was
absolutely correct. The war was coming, and it would come quite soon. He also knew that if it came –
when it came – it would be quite different to the last conflict. This would be a civil war, the worst
kind of war any Country could wage, fighting against itself. There could be no winners in such a war,
everyone lost. He did not want to think about it. Perhaps he was one of those ostriches with its head
firmly in the sand that Miles spoke of. If so, then so be it. If the war is coming there is nothing we can
do to stop it.
“There will be no war,” he repeated once again. “So let there be no more talk of it.” He placed
his hand on Miles shoulder and smiled.
Miles looked down at the floor, shuffling his feet. He then looked up at Mrs. Thackery. “It is not
I that is saying the war will come, you understand,” he continued. “But it is the talk of the town.”
Henry glared at him, but still said nothing. He was trying very hard to think of a way to change the
subject, to lighten the mood.
“Well even if it is,” Emily replied quickly. “We are not going to talk about it anymore, on such a
lovely day as this. Are we Aaron?” She started to laugh, as she fanned herself once again.
A war between the States was unthinkable, and yet there was talk, a lot of talk, he knew that. He
looked at Miles. Many others thought exactly like Miles. Why even his own son Jacob had spoken
about the possibility of a war.
“That is absolutely right, my dear,” he replied. “It is too nice a day. And you are much too pretty
to worry about such things anyway.”
Suddenly music could be heard coming from the adjoining room. He looked in the direction of
the music, and then turned to face his wife again. He took her hand. “Excuse us, gentleman,” he said,
bowing his head low. “Emily this is our dance I believe.” She nodded, and curtsied to the two
brothers, and Aaron led her from the room.
***
Emily Marshall - 1826
He had first met Emily Marshall when she was only eighteen years old, and he was twenty-two.
It was at one of those functions that the Gardiners were always holding. Funnily enough, he hadn’t
meant to go. He hated those occasions. They were all too formal for his liking. However he had been
persuaded to go at the last moment.
He thought she was the prettiest thing he had ever seen, with her soft curls, blue eyes, and
wearing that blue crinoline dress. He was smitten; there was no other word for it. The attraction was
mutual but it was to be another six years before they were married. Aaron was twenty-eight years old,
and Emily was twenty-four. It was to be the social event of the year, and guests came from all over.
***
Thackery placed his hand over the image. “Emily,” he cried out once more. “Why did you leave
me? Why did you have to die?”
He looked back at the watch, and slowly closed the case. “Eleven o’clock,” he whispered. It was
much later than he had thought. He had been seated there, reading the document, since just after eight
thirty. He had read it over and over, trying to make sense of it. He was none the wiser. It made no
sense. No sense at all. Why had it happened? Why hadn’t he just come home? Why had he got
involved? Why had things gone so badly wrong? “Why? Why? Why?” he stammered. The man shook
his head. He knew that he would never know the answers to these questions.
Things had been so different at the beginning of the war.
***
Chapter Two
Shattered Dreams
Certainly things had been different then. Things had been so full of promise and expectation.
Everyone had been so excited. Everyone had been so proud. It was a just cause they said, a
worthwhile cause. Right was on their side.
The elderly man shook his head. No, he murmured. No, it wasn’t worthwhile. It had never been
worthwhile. It had been pointless, and futile. All had come to nothing. Unfulfilled promises and
shattered dreams, nothing more. Shattered dreams, and shattered lives.
“All of those dead young men,” he whispered, as he stared into the darkness. “Young men from
both sides, north and south.” His eyes glazed, and his voice began to falter. Tears ran down his cheek.
“Husbands, fathers, brothers,” he hesitated. “… and sons.”
The dog stood up and walked over to his master and nuzzled his face into the man’s hands,
gently licking them with its tongue. The man absentmindedly patted the dog’s head. After a few
moments the dog returned to its spot by the fireside. It lay down, curled up, and very soon fell back to
sleep.
The man reached over to the table at his side, and picked up a brandy glass. He took a large
drink, and replaced the glass on to the table. He turned the document over, back to the front page, and
started to read it through once again.
“The Journal of Captain Jacob Thackery, of the Army of the Confederate States of America.” He
placed his hand over the name and gently ran his fingers over the page. “Jacob,” he called out. “What
happened?”
***
“Jacob,” he called out. “What happened? Where were you?”
Jacob looked down, shuffling his feet.
“Well, speak up boy,” his father continued. “Where were you? Out with it.”
Jacob continued staring at the ground. “I was with Miles,” he replied, barely audible. “Miles
Drew.”
“What did you say, Jacob?” his father said. “Speak up.”
Jacob watched in horror as his father started to slowly tap his fingers on the left side of his face,
a sure sign of his displeasure.
“I said I was with Miles,” Jacob repeated, louder this time. “You know Miles, Miles Drew.”
Aaron glared at his son. “I know who Miles is,” he said dismissively, the tapping becoming
slightly faster. His son was being devious, secretive. Something had happened. That much was
certain. The boys face was flushed, as it always was when he tried to hide something. Aaron was
determined to find out what it was. He stopped tapping and moved closer towards his son.
“Look at me boy,” he said, as he grasped the boy’s chin, forcing his head up. Then he noticed the
discoloration to the skin. “What’s that bruising on the side of your face?”
Jacob pulled away. “It’s nothing sir, I just tripped and fell, that’s all.” He looked up at his father.
The tapping had re-commenced. “It was a simple accident, sir, nothing more. It’s nothing, nothing at
all.” His voice trailed away.
Then his father noticed more bruising, this time on the boy’s knuckles. “Not so,” he retorted.
“You didn’t just trip and fall. You have been fighting haven’t you? Who were you fighting with?”
Jacob looked at his father, hesitant. I could never fool him, he thought. He always knows when
I’m lying. “Miles,” he replied finally. “I’ve been fighting with Miles.”
His father was puzzled. Miles was his son’s best friend. They had never fought in the past. They
would never fight. They were inseparable. Why Miles was like a brother to Jacob. Something was not
quite right. He moved his hand away from his face, and placed it gently on to Jacob’s shoulder.
“Miles did you say? Why on earth would you fight with Miles?”
Jacob said nothing for a few moments. Then he took a deep breath. “This war that they are all
talking about,” he replied. “We had a fight about the war. Miles said that the whole idea of the South
going to war against the Union was stupid. The South would be crushed in no time.” He paused for a
few moments, and looked down at the floor. “He said that it would be foolish for the South to even
consider fighting. They had no chance, no chance whatever.” He looked back up at his father. “Then
he said that it was a pointless struggle anyway, and that he would not fight for the South. He said that
if war did come, he would join the Union Army.” Jacob paused for a few moments, and took another
deep breath. “I just lost my temper, and hit him. Hit him hard.”
Aaron tried to keep from smiling. He put his hand up to his mouth, and started to cough trying
not to laugh. “Oh I see,” he said. So the divisions were already starting. First dividing friends, next it
would divide families. Brother against brother; father against son. Then, it will split the Country, and
tear it apart.
He looked at his son. “Jacob, no matter what happens, just remember that friendships are
important.” He hesitated. “This war, if it comes.” He paused for a moment. “When it comes, it will
last a few months, a year maybe. Perhaps two, then it will all be over.” He moved closer to his son,
and placed his arm around his shoulder. “Friendships are forever, remember that,” he said gently.
“You and Miles should make up, and accept your differences.”
Certainly they should make up. There was no question about that, his father was absolutely
correct. But there had been no opportunity. Miles had stormed off without another word. He hadn’t
seen him since. There had been no reconciliation. Jacob looked up. “We already have made up, sir,”
he lied.
His father stared at him. He knew that his son was not telling the truth.
***
“Jacob,” he whispered. “Jacob, you lied to me. Why?” More tears ran down his cheeks. His gaze
returned to the document, “The Journal of Captain Jacob Thackery.”
The Thackery Journal
Journal was probably an overstatement. It was no more than a collection of loose pages roughly
tied together with a length of cord, and held inside a leather pouch. The faded pages were stained, and
yellowed. There were also a number of bloodstains, especially on the last page or two. The edges
were substantially frayed and torn. The document had been well used. Of course the investigators had
gone through it very carefully. They had examined every word, extracting every possible shred of
information that they could from it. It wasn’t much to show for somebody’s life. A few tattered sheets
of parchment and that was all. Tattered, just like the life that the pages spoke of.
Aaron Thackery counted the pages. There were no more than three or four pages for every year
of the young man’s life. Of course the Journal did not tell the whole story, far from it. Much of the
detail had actually been provided by the official inquiry that had been carried out. A copy of the
formal report had then been given to Thackery. It was of some help, but the Journal was different. It
was more personal perhaps, closer to home maybe, actually being written by the man’s son. Somehow
the man felt nearer to his son. Yet at the same time he felt that they were so far apart. This Journal had
been written by a son he didn’t know, a stranger. The tears started to fall once more, dropping onto
the opened page, mingling with his son’s blood stains.
He was distracted by a gentle tap on the door. The dog looked up for a brief moment, and then
went back to sleep. The door opened, and in came Thomas Lane, the elderly man’s cousin. Thomas
had lost everything, including his home, early on in the war. Aaron had had no hesitation in taking
him and his family into his home.
***
Thomas had thanked him profusely but said he could not impose. He did not wish to be a burden.
“After all you have enough of your own worries,” he had said. “What with Jacob being away and
everything considered.” He would be all right. There really was no need to worry.
Aaron would not hear of it. He had insisted. “This is your home now, Thomas,” he had said.
“Yours, and Agnes’, and young Samuel’s no arguing. You are family, my family.” He paused and
sighed. “These are troubled times, families should stay together. There’s plenty of room, so there is no
problem. There is nothing further to be said.”
***
Thomas looked towards the man seated near the fireplace. He noticed the tears running down the
man’s face. He knew that he was reading that document again, as he did every evening, as he had
done for many months now. He quickly looked away as though they had gone un-noticed, so as not to
cause any embarrassment.
“Shall I draw the curtains, Aaron?” he asked. “It’s getting a little chilly in here.” He walked over
to the windows, and started to pull the curtains together. As he did so there was a flash of lightning
that lit up the sky, then there was a loud crash of thunder. The elderly man looked up, and shivered.
He looked at the glowing embers of the dying fire in the grate. The wind and rain started to rattle at
the windows. It was getting cold, the man thought. Thomas drew nearer. “Shall I stoke the fire for you
Aaron?” he asked. “I can put on another log if you would like.”
The man looked up. “Another log,” he repeated. “No. No thank you,” he said. “That’s quite all
right, Thomas, I’ll do it.” He looked down at the document. “I’ll be going up quite soon now anyway.
I’m very tired.”
Thomas looked at the man for a few moments. What he saw was a sad reflection of the man that
he had known not so long ago. The once upright body was now hunched, and so thin. The sprightly
step had long gone. The once smiling face was now drawn and gaunt. But it was the eyes, the eyes
told everything. They were the windows to the soul, or so it was said. Once they had been alert,
vibrant, and alive. Now they had lost their vitality, their sparkle. But Thomas knew that it was more
than that. It was much, much, more. The man himself had lost the will to live, lost the reason to live.
The news of his son’s death had been a bitter blow. He had taken it hard, very hard. Then there was
the death of his wife so soon afterwards. Consumption the doctors had said, but Aaron knew that it
was more than that. He knew that it was a broken heart that had killed her. He had not been there, not
when she had needed him. He had been in prison at the time that she had been taken ill.
***
They had come for him in the early hours of the morning. They had forced their way into the
house, and rushed up the staircase to where he was sleeping. They had a warrant for his arrest, they
said. What was the charge? They would not say. Where were they taking him? They made no reply.
His questions were ignored and he was dragged down the stairs and out of the house. He could
smell the acrid smoke. His eyes began to water and he started to cough, as the smoke filled the air.
Then he saw the flames as the orchard caught fire. The flames quickly spread to the stable block, and
the barn, before heading towards the house.
He was pushed into a wagon and driven away. The wagon turned towards town and the house
disappeared from view. All that he could see was a bright red glow in the sky. All that he could hear
was the crackle of burning wood.
Emily was never to see him again.
He had been arrested and questioned over and over again. What did he know about the plot?
What part did he play? What role had his son played? What did he know about the others who were
involved? Where were they hiding? What did he know about the gold?
Nothing, he had replied. He knew nothing. What plot? What others? What gold? He told them
time and time again that he knew nothing. They did not believe him. He was beaten and tortured. He
still knew nothing. They placed him in solitary confinement. What could he tell them? He did not
know anything. Why would they not believe him? He begged and pleaded with his captors.
Eventually, after three months incarceration, the questioning stopped. He was handed an old leather
bound journal, and released.
By then it was too late, much too late. Emily had died three days earlier. He aged overnight. He
had lost everything. That had been six months ago. The sorrow had not diminished. The pains had not
eased. The passing of time had not healed the wounds. Nothing would ever heal them.
***
Thomas slowly walked over to where the man was seated. “Can I get you anything Aaron?” he
asked. The man said nothing, but continued to stare into the fire. “All right,” said Thomas gently. “I’ll
say goodnight then.” He placed a blanket around the man’s shoulders. He then walked behind the
chair, and over to the fire. He looked at Aaron once again, and shook his head. Despite what had been
said Thomas knew that the man could well remain there for many hours to come, reading, and rereading that document.
He picked up the iron poker and stirred the glowing embers. As he replaced the poker in its
stand, he looked down at the sleeping dog. He bent down and placed his hand on to the dog’s back
and gently stroked him two or three times. “Good boy, Prince,” he whispered. “You’ll look after him
won’t you?” He stood up and looked over at Aaron once again. He then turned, and walked back
towards the door.
When he reached the doorway he stopped and looked back into the room. “If you need anything
Aaron, anything at all, you know where I am. All you have to do is just call.” He hesitated, reluctant
to leave. There was no reaction from the elderly man. Thomas wished that there was something he
could do, but there was nothing. Nobody could do anything. Who could turn the clock back? “Good
night, Aaron,” he said. He turned and left the room, closing the door behind him. The dog moaned
under its breath, but did not stir.
Aaron looked up as he heard the door close. “Good night Thomas,” he called, but Thomas had
already gone. Aaron shivered and pulled the blanket closer around him. He looked towards the fire,
watching the dying flames. He then picked up the brandy glass and finished his drink. He looked
down at the document he was holding. Just below the name was a date, April 16th 1861.
That was when the Journal had been commenced. It was the date that Jacob had gone down to
the Court House. It was the day that he had enlisted. He could not wait. He had been so proud, so
excited. Everything had changed that day. It seemed such a long time ago. It seemed like a lifetime,
he thought. He took a deep breath. It was a lifetime ago, he murmured. In fact it was two lifetimes, his
son’s and his wife’s. He laid his head back and removed his eyeglasses, loosely holding them between
the first finger and thumb of his left hand. His eyes were beginning to ache, and the bridge of his nose
was sore. He reached up and started to massage the sides of his nose. After a few moments he
stopped. He closed his eyes. Very soon he was sound asleep. The eyeglasses dropped from his fingers,
and slid to the floor. Prince looked up momentarily, and then settled back down and went to sleep.
***