Paracelsus III
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  My Dearest Melly,
  
  I almost wrote "my dear wife," and had to stop myself.  It just flows
  automatically from my pencil to the page; I can barely remember a time
  when you were not my wife.  
  
  My life has been so full and your presence colors so much of it.  I
  think of you as pink, Melly: the palest, most delicate shade of pink. 
  You are the touch of fine lace on a hem and the tip of a rosebud as it
  unfurls.  My mother I think of as soft yellow; the color of morning sun
  rays and sweet lemonade.  My father was royal blue; a solid, proper
  color, and appropriate for almost any occasion.  Samuel is red, like the
  human heart and the flag the matador waves at the bull.  He is the color
  of passion and life and warm strawberry syrup.  This woman, Dana, I
  don't yet know what color she is.  Perhaps she is none: a clean slate. 
  Perhaps she is a chance to try again.  
  
  I know she is hurting; I see pain scouring her like sand against fine
  porcelain.  I do not think this is real for her yet; she is simply
  functioning, finding comfort in the mundane until reality catches up
  with her.  You found comfort just having me close to you, as though I
  protected you from the nightmares and the monsters in the shadows.  I
  wonder if she feels the same tonight.
  
  I wonder if I should tell her the last woman I kissed besides you was
  your sister, and that was when I was barely fifteen.  I have not told
  her about Sarah at all, though I should before we reach DC and someone
  else does.  There are so many secrets I should tell her, but I do not,
  and I am not sure why I do not.  I lock them inside me in that most
  private place in my heart where I know they will be safe and I do not
  give the key to anyone.      
  
  When we left her home, she gave me only one bag to put take to the
  buggy, and it is mostly things for the baby: I peeked in it when she
  wasn't looking.  I am accustomed to your packing, and I thought how sad
  it was that she could fit everything precious to her into one bag and a
  makeshift-cradle.  And then I looked at my battered old knapsack…      
  
  She sleeps like you do, Melly.  She closes her eyes and is gone,
  oblivious to the world.  I watch her sleeping now and feel many things,
  but mostly comfort.  I know how to do this: how to be someone's husband. 
  And I know how to be a father.  I was both before most of my friends had
  tasted their first drop of whiskey. That is what Dana and her daughter
  need, and I need to be needed, so perhaps she and I will fill in the
  cracks in the other's soul.   
  
  Trust that I love you.  Always.  You are with me for eternity: locked
  safely away inside my heart where no one can hurt you.
  
  Mulder
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  Shadow seemed perplexed at his demotion from dashing cavalry horse to
  carriage nag, and kept turning his ears backward, listening to see if
  the joke was on him.  He and Dr. Waterston's buggy had been introduced
  before dawn and had spent an hour achieving a cordial, if stilted
  relationship before Mulder had been certain it was safe for Dana and
  Emily.  The big gray animal still seemed offended, and looked back as if
  to plead "What have you reduced me to?"   
    
  "Only for a bit, boy," Mulder interrupted his story to assure him.   
  
  Shadow answered with a haughty snort, then picked up his pace, eager to
  get wherever they were going before any of his horse-friends saw him. 
  It was a very nice buggy; Shadow was just a snob.  He was still
  technically the property of the US Federal Government, and like some
  civil servants, he felt it was his place to be competent, not versatile. 
  
  The Confederate Army had requisitioned almost all the horses in the
  south halfway through the war, so Mulder had found a collection of
  forgotten carts and buggies in the carriage house, most in perfect
  condition.  The slaves had taken some of the smaller wagons, but under a
  layer of grime were beautiful two- and four horse-carriages, remnants of
  an era when the stables must have held a hundred horses, with four
  matching bay mares just for going to church on Sunday and a pair of
  black geldings only for funerals.   
  
  "That was my husband's favorite as well," Dana had said of the first
  light gig he'd hitched Shadow to, and so that one had immediately been
  replaced with a black, two-seated open carriage with a canvas roof to
  protect them from the sun.  He and Emily were conversing philosophically
  in the front seat, and Dana was sound asleep in the back, a jumble of
  dull black silk and white petticoats across the velvet upholstery.       
  
  Comfortable Shadow wasn't going to bolt or swerve, Mulder switched the
  reins to one hand and offered the baby his finger to grip while he
  searched for the right word.  He could say "regal," but that didn't
  quite fit the tone and these little touches were important.  As he drove
  past, he looked at the crumbling chimneys marking where a plantation
  house had stood, then across the broad lawn and down the hundred year-
  old rows of gnarled oak trees 
  lining the driveway.
  
  "Palatial," he finally told Emily, who blinked at him sleepily.  He
  thought a moment, pooling his editorial resources. "The palatial stone
  walls rise from the scorched earth; the broken-out windows dark,
  distant, distrustful eyes."  
  
  Deep in a padded basket on the seat beside him, Emily yawned.  The buggy
  swayed gently on its springs as the wheels rolled over the muddy road to
  the river, lulling her to sleep.
  
  "I'm not going to finish if you're going to be so critical of my
  consonance," he said softly. "Anyway, the Federal Army swept through the
  countryside, an unflinching blue force leveling anything in its path. 
  It's called 'total war,' Emmy, and in the end, it looks like this.  We
  won, but we ripped families apart and tore our nation in two to do it. 
  I heard one of my men say, 'I love my country, but if this war - where
  we burn cities and turn women, 
  children, and old men out to starve in order to win - ever ends, I swear
  to God I will never love another.'"
  
  "But we did win, and we marched through Washington as conquering heroes
  while ladies cheered and threw flowers, and then, after the parade, here
  we are.  We have not only conquered, we have crippled the south and now
  hold it tightly by the throat under military rule.  We are too angry to
  rebuild it and too proud to let it crawl away and lick its wounds, so we
  grind it under our boot heels when there is nothing left to grind. There
  are more than a million freed slaves expected to make their way, most
  unable to read or write.  Some go north, only to find the north is only
  marginally more hospitable to Negroes than the south.  Some go back to
  the plantations, only to find nothing but this-" he nodded across the
  fields to the burnt mansion. "For miles.  And some go to the cities,
  where the vultures are already circling, waiting to pick the Confederate
  carcass."
  
  He paused again, filing that last phrase away for later use.      
  
  "There are so many widows that there is a shortage of black crepe for
  mourning dresses.  In our cemeteries are two hundred and fifty thousand
  'glorious dead', though I doubt a corpse cares if it is buried in blue
  or gray.  And the soldiers who survived, the heroes: the worst of our
  scars do not show and, I fear, will never fully heal.  We fought for
  ideals and we ended up ankle-deep in our own blood and rhetoric, Emmy. 
  After so much war, people forget what they are fighting for, and when it
  is over, whether they have won are lost, they only remember that they
  are tired.  And tired, hungry people, black or white, are easy prey.  We
  have won the battles, but I think this country will spend the next
  hundred years finishing this war."
  
  Emily yawned again, settling firmly into her morning nap.
  
  "Daddy's opinions," he added as she closed her eyes, "Are not always
  popular, but Daddy owns the paper, so he can print what he wants."
  
  In back seat of the buggy, he heard Dana finally shifting.  Mulder
  exhaled, blowing the dust off his husband role and putting his inner
  self away like summer clothes packed between layers of tissue in a 
  trunk in the attic.
  
  "I have her, Dana," he told her from front. "Are you thirsty?"
  
  He heard her pat the empty space on the floor of the buggy in front of
  her, hesitate, pat again, and then sit upright as quickly as her tightly
  laced stays allowed.
  
  "I have her," he repeated, looking back over his shoulder. "She's up
  here with me."   
  
  The carriage tilted slightly and her silk dress rustled as she moved,
  looking around as she tried to get her bearings.  Blinking sleepily,
  Dana leaned over the front seat to check on the baby, then stared out at
  the road as Shadow clipped along.
  
  "I did not mean to fall asleep.  Where are we, Mr. Mulder?"
  
  "Mulder," he corrected yet again. "The first dock is not far from here. 
  We will be in Savannah by evening.  Sit back before you fall."
  
  Ignoring him, she rubbed her cheek, then glanced at the sunlight
  blinking through the trees.  While Mulder got up to meet the sunrise,
  Dana and that hoot owl would be compatible roommates; his definition of
  leaving early had been about two hours earlier than hers.           
  
  "Not long," he answered before she asked how long she'd been asleep.
  "Lie back down if you want."
  
  "What am I doing in the back seat?"
  
  "Snoring and drooling on the upholstery," he teased. "Well, only a
  little and only in a very feminine manner.  You fell asleep against my
  shoulder.  I put you back there so you would be comfortable.  Are you
  thirsty?"
  
  He reached into his knapsack at his feet and handed his canteen back
  over the seat, accidentally, blindly bumping his forearm against her
  breasts.  
  
  "Sorry," they both said at exactly the same time, then listened to the
  carriage wheels roll along for several uncomfortable minutes.  
  
  "The baby will need to eat soon," he informed her, as though he would
  know better than she. 
  
  "Not yet," she answered.
  
  "No, not yet, but soon.  She is asleep right now."
  
  He was still getting used to touching her, casually and otherwise, being
  acceptable, even expected.  He'd held her hand and stroked her face,
  once even leaning over and kissing her cheek, but each move was
  carefully rehearsed in his mind beforehand.  
   
  "Which type of husband are you?" Dana asked after a long silence.
  
  "Which type of husband am I?" he echoed, watching the road. "You make me
  sound like something you'd buy at market.  Do you mean 'what kind of
  husband' am I?"
  
  "Yes.  That is what I mean."
  
  "You know me, Dana."
  
  "No, I do not.  You live far inside yourself, Mr. Mulder.  I think you
  could walk for miles and not meet another person inside your thoughts. 
  No, I do not know you."
  
  He stared at the horse's haunches, trying to formulate an acceptable
  answer - some way to convey that her faith in him wasn't misguided.     
  
  She'd been loyal to Dr. Waterston, only to discover his affections had
  been duplicitous, to say the least.  Some wives would have been relieved
  to have their husbands' physical advances directed elsewhere but, out of
  pride, if nothing else, he doubted Dana was one of them.  Aside from
  their conversation in the barn the previous night, she refused to
  discuss it, of course.  She'd already been "fine, Mr. Mulder" several
  times since breakfast.
  
  "You know me as well as anyone.  Perhaps not which shirt is my favorite
  and how I like my tea, but those are details.  You have seen me angry. 
  I have a temper, but I try not to take it out on my family.  I am
  headstrong.  I tend to want my way and want it now.  I have been known
  to confuse opportunism with recklessness.  I curse.  I seldom drink, and
  I usually curl up and go to sleep if I do.  I come home at night.  Often
  I come home for lunch, too, but if I do not, my office is only a few
  blocks away; just send a servant if you need me.  I like children,
  obviously," he added, nodding to Emily in the basket beside him. "Did I
  answer your question?"
  
  "No, you answered everything but my question."
  
  "Bidd-a-ble," he reminded her. 
  
  "I am trying," she said edgily, still partially asleep. "I only want to
  know what you want from me and you will not tell me."  
  
  Sighing, he tightened the reins, stopping Shadow and turning back to
  look at her. "I think you just have a case of pre-wedding jitters.  Come
  sit up front," he said, climbing down and offering his hands to help
  her. "And I will tell you all about Washington.  It's a nice place,
  except for the open sewage canal and the pickpockets."
  
  "What is jitters?" she asked, scooting to the left side of the seat.
  "Like vapors?  No, I do not have that."
  
  He grinned as he put his hands around her waist and steadied her as she
  stepped down. "Mind your skirt, Miss Difficult," he reminded her out of
  habit. "The wheels are muddy."
  
  There wasn't much space between the high carriage and the muddy ditch
  running alongside the road, so he stood close, and her body slid down
  the front of his as he lowered her to the ground.  It was another
  accident, but a highly erotic one that make his breath catch in his
  throat.
  
  Instead of flinching, blushing, or jerking away, she stood still,
  leaving her hands on his shoulders and staring up at him.  
  
  In the depths of his mind, he saw a fleeting image of him kissing her
  passionately, devouring her mouth as he tangled his fingers in her long
  hair.  In the vision, he gathered up her cotton shift and jerked it over
  her head, then roughly pushed her back onto a soft mattress,
  unapologetic about what he wanted.  As he undressed, she opened her legs
  shamelessly and watched him, waiting.  He saw himself nude, yellow
  candlelight flickering over his skin as he knelt in front of her on
  their bed, letting her wait a few more seconds.  She wanted him inside
  her: hard, fast, forceful; he could see the impatience in her eyes.  She
  wanted him to revel in her body, to lose control, to make her lose
  control until they were both spent and sated.
  
  Then he blinked, and the already half-forgotten vision was gone.
  
  He licked his lips.   
  
  "These," he answered hoarsely, putting his hand over her heart as they
  stood beside the buggy, "Are jitters."
  
  For almost an instant, he truly believed he was only trying to clarify
  the English language for her.  The heel of his hand resting at the top
  of her breast was merely a coincidence.  He even looked down at his
  hand, wondering how it had gotten there.  Queen Victoria would be
  appalled.
  
  "Are they?" she whispered as if there was anyone around for miles.   
  
  "Yes," he answered automatically, barely hearing her.  His body hummed. 
  She seemed electric, and his fingertips tingled like he was touching a
  telegraph wire.  She was wearing what must have been her pre-War, pre-
  baby, Sunday-best black dress, her corset was laced tightly to get it to
  fit.  With no way to take a deep breath, her chest rose and fell rapidly
  under his palm.  
  
  "Is this what you're asking?" he murmured, "What kind of husband am I?"
  
  Her head moved almost imperceptibly and he covered her lips with his,
  tilting her face upward.  He'd intended a chaste kiss, but then he
  closed his eyes and the ruined world receded except for the feel 
  of silky fabric, the scent of her skin, and the taste of her mouth.  
  
  "Is this what you wanted to know?" he whispered, his face still close to
  hers. "If I am rough?  Am I rough?"
  
  "No," she mumbled, leaning heavy against him.     
  
  "No," he answered, brushing his mouth against hers as he spoke. "I am
  not.  I said I wanted you, not that I wanted to hurt you." 
  
  "You did say that," her soft voice agreed from far away.
  
  To Mulder, they were standing still and the planet was pivoting around
  them, a brilliant swirl of greens and blues.  Closing his eyes, he urged
  her lips apart, needing to be inside her.  Her heart beating faster as
  he slid his fingers down, gently weighing and exploring her breast.  She
  gasped as he ran his thumb over her nipple, and he felt her hands
  tighten on his shoulders as if they were making love.
  
  "Did you want me to be rough?"
  
  "No," she breathed out shakily.
  
  "Are you sure?" he responded in a low, gravely voice that recalled dark
  alleys and elicit acts. "You know I want you, but what do you want:
  politeness or passion, Dana?  I lived politely for fourteen years.  Is
  that what you want?  Or do you want something more?"
  
  "I do not know," she mumbled, gasping as he found her nipple again with
  his thumb, passing over it in long, luxurious strokes.
  
  "I think you do," he whispered into her ear. "I think you do know what
  you want." He slid his other hand down her back and over her bottom,
  cupping it and pulling her pelvis against him.  She murmured something
  in Gaelic, but didn't try to pull away, although she must have been able
  to feel him hard against her abdomen.  Against his neck, her breath came
  short little pants, feeling like sparks against his skin. "Don't you?"
  he asked huskily.    
  
  The carriage rolled a few inches as Shadow shifted his feet, bringing
  reality and morality back like an explosion of light.  
  
  Mulder startled, then recoiled as if he'd tried to embrace fire. 
  Staring down at Dana's swollen lips, he wiped his mouth on the back of
  his hand, trying to figure out what had happened.  It wasn't real; he
  wasn't doing this.  Another minute and he'd have her on the wet grass in
  the next field like they were only the rutting animals Darwin said they
  were.
  
  She opened her eyes, seeming dazed as she looked up at him.  He hoped
  she'd faint in mortification and forget what had just happened, but Dana
  didn't seem like the fainting type.  Letting her go, he braced himself
  to be slapped, but she just stood there, trying to catch her breath.  
  
  Taking another step back, he swallowed nervously and avoided eye
  contact.  He couldn't have been more horrified at himself if he'd just
  been caught in an alley with a prostitute with his trousers around his
  ankles.
  
  By his mother.  And all his mother's socialite friends.  
  
  "My God, Dana, I am sorry," he said earnestly, not sure what to do with
  his hands except not to put them on her again. "You aren't yet my wife;
  I shouldn't have touched you like that.  I certainly should never have
  said those things to you.  Not ever.  I don't know what I was thinking. 
  Really, I do not."
  
  Another nod as she stared at the ground, smoothing her already-smooth
  hair.  
  
  "Dana?"
  
  "I am fine." She looked up, then dropped her gaze again, clearing her
  throat and moving away.  
  
  She didn't look fine.  Her face was flushed and her eyes shone like the
  surface of a lake in the moonlight.  She looked as drunkenly wanton and
  dangerous as he felt.
  
  He stared at her as she stared at the muddy road, then he exhaled
  forcefully.  He could have belabored his apology, but it seemed easier
  to just move on and save both of them the embarrassment.
  
  "Up you go," he instructed primly as though nothing had happened, and
  she put her hands on his shoulders again, letting him lift her carefully
  onto the seat.  She slid the baby to the corner and scooted over, making
  room for him beside her. 
  
  He climbed up after her, picked up the leather reins, and told Shadow to
  walk on.  The buggy lurched, then rocked from side to side as the horse
  trotted.  As they turned a bend on the road, he looked back, wondering
  about that rash, shameless man who had briefly taken control of his
  body.  He couldn't imagine what Dana must think of him.   
  
  "I met you here," he commented, needing to say something. "On this road. 
  Just before Emily came."
  
  "Yes," she answered, staring out at the cypress trees, keeping her hands
  properly folded on her lap.
  
  "Had I met you before?" he asked curiously. "In New York, perhaps?  You
  said your family settled there."
  
  "No.  I do not recall meeting you," she said politely.
  
  "I travel on business, sometimes.  I just thought perhaps…" He trailed
  off, knowing he was talking nonsense.  Her family had come to America a
  year before she met and married Dr. Waterston and moved to Savannah. 
  Two years after that, she'd been sent to his plantation in the swamp for
  safekeeping, where she had seldom seen a soul except the servants. "When
  I kissed you, you seemed familiar to me, as though I had known you."
  
  "You do know me, Mr. Mulder," she said, again misunderstanding his
  meaning.
  
  "Of course," he agreed, dropping the subject.   
  
  "She agreed to be your wife," his rational self argued silently. "She
  has been married before; she knows what that means." He turned his heart
  over, examining it for signs of guilt, but instead found fear.  He had
  not been raised to treat women roughly or disrespectfully, and it
  frightened him that it came so naturally.   
  
  And she had not objected; it bothered him that she had not objected. 
  Then again, why bother to object?  He'd been honest about why he wanted
  to marry her.  Aside from being concerned for her and Emily, he wanted a
  home, a family, and her in his bed.  It was a common enough reason to
  take a wife, but didn't seem so romantic in the prudent light of day.
  
  A generation of marriageable men was dead, leaving a generation of well-
  bred ladies who had been brought up exclusively to marry and make homes,
  but there were few husbands left to do that with.  Some widows took
  comfort in their black veils and destitution, but others married far
  beneath their social rank out of desperation.  Any single man found
  himself knee-deep in adoring young women, most of whom had small
  children, no money, and no place to go.  It was all very flattering if
  one didn't think too hard.  The choice was often tolerating a husband's
  demands or tolerating starvation, and he wondered if Dana was making
  that choice.
   
  He opened his mouth to apologize, to even lie and say he loved her, then
  closed it again without speaking.  
  
  Mulder slapped the reins against the horse's rump, ordering him to trot
  faster. Immediately, he decided that was too bouncy for the baby and
  tightened the reins, slowing them.  Shadow glanced back at him, looking
  annoyed.  
  
  Searching for something to do, Dana picked up the sleeping baby and held
  her, putting the basket in the back seat.
  
  "She looks like you," he commented, searching for a neutral topic.
  
  "I had thought she looks like her father."
  
  "Bald?" 
  
  "No, not bald," she responded, sighing. 
  
  He grinned at her, letting her know he was joking. "Well, regardless, I
  think she looks like you and she is beautiful.  Even bald," he could not
  resist adding to his roundabout complement.  
  
  "You can be very difficult as well, Mr. Mulder." 
  
  Chuckling, he tugged gently at her sleeve, making physical contact again
  and watching to see how she'd react. "It's part of my charm." 
   
  "Did you pay money for this charm?" she responded uncertainly.  
  
  At first he thought she'd misunderstood, then realized he was now the
  one being teased. "Bidd-a-ble," he mouthed at her, smiling, and she laid
  her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes again.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  He didn't think of himself as the most rugged, kill-it, skin-it, and
  eat-it-bloody-and-raw man's man, but he wasn't a limp-wristed city boy
  who sat around polishing his nails all day, either.  He could spend the
  night on the dirt floor of the nasty clapboard shack, huddled near the
  fire and playing poker with marked cards.  He could take his turn as
  they passed around the bottle of cheap rum, laughing and slapping each
  other in the back as they choked it down.  He even had a few dirty jokes
  he'd been saving to tell Frohike, and those were sure to make him some
  friends among the rough men at the dock.  It could actually turn out to
  be a pleasant night.
  
  The problem was what to do with his soon-to-be wife and stepdaughter.
  
  Mulder looked back at the buggy where Dana was jiggling the wailing baby
  against her shoulder and watching him expectantly.  She had suggested
  waiting for a river boat at the docks near Waterston's plantation, but
  Mulder hadn't seen any reason why they couldn't just drive to Savannah
  and catch a steamer the next morning; he saw no sense in spending the
  night on a boat when they could spend it in a nice hotel.  Putting his
  hands on his hips, he turned back to survey the churning, muddy river. 
  They'd crossed the others with no trouble, but all the water from the
  storm two nights ago seemed to have ended up here.  
  
  "Ferry's done washed away," some Goliath of a man wearing buckskin
  informed him. "Ya ain't gettin' 'cross tonight.  Best try in the
  mornin'"
  
  "What about a flatboat?" Mulder asked as the water lapped over the edge
  of the pier. "Could we rig a rope and pole across on a flatboat?" 
  
  "Ya could try." Goliath nodded back at Emily. "How well ya reckon that
  baby can swim?"
  
  "You're not being very helpful."
  
  "I ain't sayin' ya cain't try it.  It's a free river.  That's an awful
  pretty young Missus ya got there.  Tell ya what: you tie a rope to the
  dock, strip down, jump in, and swim it 'cross to the other side.  After,
  say, ten minutes, I'll pull yer body back, no charge.  Leave them
  breeches here, 'cause I'm thinkin' they'll fit me fine.  Always did
  favor blue." 
  
  Mulder gritted his teeth and exhaled slowly through his nose.  It was
  almost dark.  He could sleep outdoors, but Dana and Emily couldn't. 
  They could turn back, but even if he had any lamp oil for the lamps on
  the buggy to see to drive at night, they hadn't passed a standing house
  in more than an hour.  The Low Country was a series of swamps, inlets,
  and islands, and if this river was cresting, the others were as well. 
  They were trapped, and the motley river men standing outside the
  bunkhouse didn't look like promising roommates for a woman and a baby.  
  
  "We'll need a place to sleep.  Is there anywhere else?  A barn? 
  Anything?"
  
  "Why, there's a fine hotel just up a piece.  Shine yer shoes while ya
  sleep an' everything," Goliath answered sarcastically. "Just set 'um
  outside the door."
  
  Mulder gave up and walked away.  Groping her like a savage this morning
  followed by a night in a filthy shack with a half-dozen strange men, a
  bed on a dirt floor, and a colicky baby: what better way to impress a
  woman?  
  
  "Ya'll can put up here," the man yelled from behind him. "Won't charge
  ya much.  We stink fer free."
  
  *~*~*~*  
  
  Melly had been breathtaking.  Not pleasant, not pleasing, not lovely:
  stand-there-and-just-stare-at-her breathtaking.  Ethereal.  Agelessly,
  classically stunning.  Of the two Kavanaugh sisters, she was said to
  have been the prettier one, and Sarah, even at fifteen, had been
  strikingly beautiful in her own right.  Melissa had been tall, with high
  cheekbones and thick, black hair that recalled Cherokee in her ancestry. 
  Deep brown eyes, full breasts, a tiny waist, and then long, shapely
  legs; an artist couldn't have drawn her any more flawlessly. He used to
  run his fingertips over the broad, red slash of her mouth and down the
  delicate skin of her throat and just marvel at the perfection.      
  
  Dana was pretty.  He had noticed.  She was fair, with beautiful, wavy
  auburn hair and big blue eyes, like a china doll.  She was petite -
  dainty, almost - and it made a man feel very masculine to stand beside
  her.  Being Irish added a mysterious, exotic air of crumbling stone
  castles and fairy-people.  And, if one didn't mind bright women, she
  could be dryly, unexpectedly funny.
  
  Dana was pretty.  He had noticed, he was hadn't given it much thought. 
  No woman compared favorably to a ghost. 
  
  It took him a while to realize the men outside the bunkhouse were making
  excuses to talk to him just to be close to Dana.  Some were crewmen
  waiting for the next boat, some were hunters or trappers, and some had
  just had enough of civilization for a while.  They were coarse,
  cautious, lonely, and as delighted as children at Christmas to see a
  pretty lady.  
  
  Dana seemed unaware of the surreptitious attention.  She had been quiet
  since noon, and that was never a good sign with her.  It seemed to be
  becoming real for her, how much her life had changed in the last thirty-
  six hours, and she needed time inside herself to just be still.  Mulder
  remembered what it had felt like after Melly's death.  For weeks, he had
  lived in a separate world where colors and sounds and tastes were muted. 
  He understood, and as much as possible, he wanted to give her that time. 
      
  
  "Little 'un ya got there," Goliath observed, squatting down to examine
  Emily, who was still squalling unhappily in Dana's arms.  Dana had
  nursed her, burped her, changed her, held her, put her down, and picked
  her up again.  Emily seemed to be crying simply because she felt like
  it. "Six weeks?" 
  
  "Eight," Mulder answered for her.   
  
  "Umph," he responded, taking a good look at Dana as he sat down heavily
  on the ground. "He ain't happy."
         
  "She," Mulder responded, taking the baby, who immediately started to
  settle down.  
  
  "She wanted Daddy," Goliath said decisively, and didn't get a response.  
  
  Dana was sitting on a bench beside Mulder and keeping her head down, but
  he saw her glance at him out of the corner of her eye.  
  
  There was a respectful hush as two men stepped out of the woods: an old
  trapper and a teenage boy barely old enough to have a mustache.  
  
  "You steal that uniform?" the old man with a gray beard halfway down his
  chest and tobacco-stained teeth asked, propping his Revolutionary War-
  era musket against the outer wall of the bunkhouse and standing over
  Mulder.   
  
  Mulder had been in his shirtsleeves all day, but had brought his uniform
  jacket from the buggy in case Dana got cold after the sun went down.  He
  was planning on putting it on long enough to get married, then never
  wearing it again for the rest of his life. "No," Mulder answered. "It's
  mine."   
  
  "Says yer an officer, Yank."
  
  "I was." 
  
  "Lost an arm to the Yanks at Gettysburg," Yellow-teeth informed him,
  tilting his head toward his empty left sleeve.  The old man leaned
  close, fingering the Bowie knife on his hip. "And my nephew here lost
  his Pa.  You at Gettysburg?"
  
  "No."
  
  "Antietam?"
  
  "No." 
  
  The other men were beginning to gather in a half-circle to watch. 
  Mulder really didn't want to begin married life with a knife fight, but
  this man seemed to be itching for a brawl.
  
  "Fredricksburg?  Bull Run?"
  
  Another "No."  
  
  The old man paused to spit. "Then where the hell were ya, Colonel Yank?" 
  
  Goliath looked up, and Yellow-teeth and a half-dozen other men smirked.
   
  "I was with General Grant at Shiloh," he answered coolly. "Then
  Chickasaw Bluffs.  Vicksburg.  Stone's River.  Chickamauga.  I served
  under General Sherman in Chattanooga.  Then Missionary Ridge.  Lookout
  Mountain.  Dalton.  Kennesaw Mountain.  Peachtree Creek and on to
  Atlanta, then Savannah, and the Carolinas."
  
  There was a pause, and he felt Dana's body tense on the bench beside
  him.
  
  "Get wounded?"
  
  Mulder handed her the baby, and Dana lowered her head farther, focusing
  intently on Emily.  Standing up, he unbuttoned his shirt and revealed a
  pink scar from a bayonet that crossed diagonally from the left side of
  his chest to his abdomen.  Later in the war, a minie ball had grazed his
  shoulder, but that wound wasn't as impressive or as life threatening as
  the one he'd gotten in Tennessee.  It was one of those "another inch
  either way and it would have killed you" wounds, and the scar had a
  sobering affect on the river men.
  
  "Chattanooga," he told the old man, who leaned forward to examine the
  long, raised, jagged line, tracing his dirty fingernail over it. "My
  father died during the siege of Richmond; one of my uncles was killed at
  the first battle of Bull Run.  My only son went missing last fall; he
  just never came home from the war.  The fighting's over, and even if it
  wasn't, I've seen enough death for one lifetime.  So has every other
  soldier, regardless of which side he was on."
   
  "Amen," Yellow-teeth decided, producing and offering a jug of some
  mysterious clear liquid.  Whatever the test was, Mulder must have passed
  it.  He buttoned his shirt, sat down, and relaxed, running his hand over
  Dana's back to assure her it was all right.   
   
  As Mulder put the bottle to his lips, several of the men dispersed into
  the woods, disappointed, but others grinned expectantly.  He swallowed
  against his better judgment, then gasped, "My God. What the hell is
  that?"
  
  "Mother's milk," the old man grinned as Goliath reached for the bottle.
  "No offense to the lady: my language at all."
  
  "None taken," Dana answered as Mulder felt the homebrewed alcohol
  burning its way down to his stomach.   
  
  It was the first time she'd spoken, and the men looked at her again,
  taking note of the accent.  After two months, Mulder almost didn't
  notice it.  It seemed as natural for her to speak with a Gaelic accent
  as it was for Melly to speak with a hint of the Tennessee Smokey
  Mountains in her voice. 
  
  A quiet, red-haired man was sitting on a stump near the bunkhouse, and
  immediately addressed her, saying what sounded to Mulder like. "Gobledy-
  gobledy-guke?"
  
  "Gobledy-gook," Dana responded immediately, her eyes lighting up a bit.  
  
  "Gobledy-gook-guke-gobledy-guke?" the Irishman asked, coming over and
  boldly plopping down on the ground beside the bench where he and Dana
  were sitting, like they were old acquaintances.
  
  Mulder cleared his throat, trying to be subtle.  He shifted his feet. 
  He told her he wanted a drink, only to have her get up, bring him a
  dipper of water, and sit back down without ever pausing what must have
  been a captivating conversation with the Irishman.  They could have been
  discussing running away together for all Mulder knew.  He couldn't
  remember her ever being that interested in anything he had to say.   
  
  "Dana," he finally said firmly, and she glanced back at him in surprise,
  as though she'd forgotten he existed.
  
  "I am sorry; I did not mean to be rude.  This man was in one of the
  Irish brigades from New York.  He was asking me about his brother, and I
  was asking if he knew my father and brothers," she explained.
  
  "Did he?"
  
  "No, I-" She paused while Irishman said something, producing a yellowed
  envelope from his pocket. "He wants to know if you can read.  He paid a,
  a," The Irishman repeated a word, and Dana shook her head and blushed,
  not sure how to translate it into English. "A mistress.  No, not a
  mistress, but like a mistress for money.  He paid this kind of woman in
  town write a letter to his brother's commanding officer for him, and
  this is the response.  It is in English.  He would like for you to read
  it, and for me to tell what happened to his brother."
  
  "Of course." Mulder took the letter, the edges brown from being carried
  around for so long.  In theory, the Army posted lists of the dead,
  wounded, missing, and captured, and notified families of changes in
  their loved one's status.  In practice, it was an inaccurate science. 
  One mangled body was mistaken for another; a deserter was thought to be
  missing in action; a man deserted under one name and re-enlisted, and
  died, under another; a soldier directly in front of a cannon blast
  simply vaporized.  In practice, many men were still "missing" months
  after the war had ended, and would continue to be for the next fifty
  years.   
  
  He skimmed the paper, summarizing, "His brother was captured and sent to
  Andersonville.  It was a Confederate prison camp in Georgia where
  captured Federals - Yankees," he clarified, "Were housed.  After that,
  the commanding officer does not know, but he offers his condolences. 
  It's not in the letter, Dana, but tell him the government just tried
  Henry Wirz, the man who ran Andersonville, and sentenced him to hang. 
  The newspapers say more than thirteen thousand - thirty percent - of the
  men sent to that camp died, most of starvation."
  
  While Dana translated, Mulder reread the brief letter, then added, "The
  commander suggests writing to a nurse named Clara Barton.  She went to
  Andersonville after the war ended to organize the records and graves of
  the dead, and if there's any record of how or when his brother died, the
  commander believes she might know of it."
  
  Again, Dana repeated that, and then there was silence.  The other men
  around the campfire stared into the flames, pretending they weren't
  listening.  The Irishman nodded curtly, said something, then stood and
  disappeared into the woods.
  
  "He said to tell you 'Thank you,'" Dana said softly, and Mulder rubbed
  her back again.  She turned her head to look at him, and he stroked her
  cheek, smiling sadly at her.  
  
  "He wanted to know.  You said it is better to know than to wonder," he
  whispered. "Right?" 
  
  She nodded, focusing on the baby again, and he slid off the bench to sit
  on the ground in front of her, stretching his high boots toward the
  fire.  The bottle came around again, and Mulder took his turn and passed
  it on.  Someone thought it would be a good joke to offer the moonshine
  to Dana, but saw the warning look on Mulder's face and changed his mind. 
  
  As it grew dark, the men continued to drink and the stories started,
  each more outlandish than the last.  His head began to feel heavy and he
  leaned it against Dana's skirt, forgetting about the Irishman and
  smiling contentedly as she ran her fingers through his hair. "How much
  do I have to drink not to be a Nancy-boy?" he whispered to her as
  everyone else laughed uproariously at some vulgar joke.
  
  "I think that might be enough," Dana answered casually, but her eyes
  looked watchful.  For whatever reason, she didn't like him drinking. 
  
  "You're tired.  I'll fix you and Emily a place to sleep," he said
  nonchalantly, getting up and waving away the last swallow from the
  bottle. "Come with me.  I don't want you out here alone." 
  
  No one seemed to notice their absence; the hour was getting late and the
  voices were getting loud around the campfire.
   
  Dana waited inside the door of the bunkhouse while Mulder hung the
  canvas fabric of his Army tent from the ceiling like a curtain,
  partially cordoning off one corner of the cabin and creating some
  privacy for her.  His bedroll wasn't luxurious, but it was warm and it
  would keep her off the dirt floor, and she could cover up with his
  jacket too, if she needed to.
  
  "If you need to go outside during the night, wake me and I'll go with
  you," he instructed her, returning from the carriage with the basket
  Emily had been sleeping in earlier and a second blanket. "I mean, don't
  go alone.  I don't think any of these men would hurt you, but they're
  drinking.  With any luck, they'll pass out around the campfire and we
  can be gone before they wake up in the morning."
  
  She nodded, putting Emily down in the basket, then looking around. 
  Mulder raised the candle, showing her their sparse surroundings.  The
  bunkhouse had four cots on the opposite wall, one grimy window with a
  pane missing, and not much else.  It was a far cry from a suite in
  Savannah's best hotel.
  
  "Dana, I am sorry.  This is not how or where I had in mind to spend the
  night."
  
  "I know," she answered softly. "Do I, do I undress?"
  
  "I don't think you can stand to sleep in your clothes."
  
  Mulder stepped around to the other side of the makeshift canvas curtain,
  near the door, and blew out the candle so there was only the moonlight
  coming in through the small window.  He heard rustling as she unfastened
  her dress and folded it carefully.  There was a deep, relieved
  inhalation as the corset came off, then more rustling for petticoats and
  shoes.  
  
  "All right," she murmured, stepping from behind the canvas curtain in
  only her old chemise.
  
  He had the sudden, warm sensation she hadn't expected to be sleeping
  alone.
  
  "Do you want to nurse the baby?"
  
  "She is asleep," Dana reminded him.
  
  "All right." He cleared his throat. "Go lie down.  I'll be right here. 
  If you sleep with your feet to the door and the curtain, I'm parallel to
  you.  To get to you, they'd have to get past me, and that won't happen. 
  Again, I don't think anyone will bother us, but if you get scared, just
  reach over and wake me.  I'm a light sleeper." 
  
  She moved away, and her chemise hissed against the wool blanket as she
  lay down.  Once she was still, he unrolled his own blanket and stretched
  out, cushioning his head with his forearm.  The canvas curtain hung
  between their feet and the cabin door, and, as promised, he lay parallel
  to her, about a yard away.
  
  "Are you all right?" he asked into the darkness.
  
  "I am not sleepy," she answered. "I do not think I can sleep."
  
  "I know, but you don't need to be outside.  Close your eyes and try to
  rest, even if you don't sleep."
   
  She exhaled, shifted, and there was silence for several minutes.  Dana
  had taken a nap during the day, but Mulder hadn't, and he was dozing
  when she asked, "Does it snow in Washington, D. C.?"
  
  She pronounced it as three separate sentences: "Washington.  Dee. Cee."
  
  "Yes, it snows," he answered softly.
  
  "It does not snow in Savannah.  I am not sure what to expect."
  
  "It snows.  It snows, sometimes."  He paused, searching for words. "But
  right now, the leaves are changing.  The trees are every shade of orange
  and scarlet and yellow and even lilac.  Winter will come soon, but right
  now, DC is beautiful.  The wind blows the leaves across the yard and
  into heaps beside the road, and when it rains, you can hear the
  raindrops landing on them, sounding fat and lazy.  Part of the house has
  a tin roof, and you can lie in bed and listen to the rain pattering down
  like little bells chiming, and then running down and dripping off the
  eaves."
   
  "That sounds nice."
  
  "It is nice," he assured her. "I had almost forgotten how nice my life
  was.  The closets have their skeletons, but I keep them locked, and I am
  the only one with a key.  I get up, put on my suit, go to work, come
  home, enjoy my family, eat dinner, and go to sleep in a soft, warm bed. 
  It is nice.  That's what I meant to tell you this morning."
  
  "What is your work?"
  
  "Oh," he said, realizing he hadn't told her. "I have investments, but
  mostly I own a newspaper."
  
  "Oh," she echoed, then startled as a glass bottle broke outside and the
  campfire exploded as someone tossed alcohol into it.  A dozen male
  voices laughed drunkenly, like wild dogs howling at the moon.
  
  "They are just letting off steam," he promised her.  "Just don't pay
  them any mind.  They have probably forgotten we're even here."
  
  She said nothing for so long he started to get worried. 
  
  "Are you all right?" he asked again, reaching out and searching for her
  in the blackness.  Finding her shoulder, he asked, "Dana, are you all
  right?" 
  
  As soon as he touched her, she was very still, not flinching, but not
  relaxing, either. "I am fine," she answered carefully, sounding like she
  was holding her breath. 
  
  "No, you aren't." He outlined her shoulder with his hand, stroking
  lightly. "Relax," he said softly. "It's all right.  Those men aren't
  going to hurt you.  I'm not going to hurt you."
  
  Her head nodded tensely.
  
  "We're not married yet," he reminded her. 
  
  "I was not sure if it mattered to you," she whispered, still not looking
  at him.
  
  "It does.  Even then- The Irishman earlier: the word he said in Gaelic
  that you could not translate?  Prostitute.  The English word is
  ‘prostitute.' That is not what you are.  Not here, Dana.  Not like
  this," he promised. "Relax and go to sleep."
  
  She nodded again.
  
  "You can cry if you want," he murmured. "It is allowed."
  
  "I do not want to cry; I just want to be warm inside."
  
  He didn't ask how she could possibly be cold when it had been eighty
  degrees that afternoon and there was a campfire blazing outside.  He
  understood what it was like to be cold.  Not outside, but inside: to
  shiver like he'd eaten too much ice cream.  It was a different kind of
  cold. 
  
  "If I just lie beside you – and nothing else - would you want that?  My-
  Melissa wanted that, sometimes."
  
  "Yes," she responded, barely audible.
  
  Without another word, he got up, moved his blanket, and lay down behind
  her, putting his hand on her shoulder again but otherwise not touching
  her. "I'll keep you warm.  Go to sleep."
   
  *~*~*~*
  
  End: Paracelsus III