“And warm?”
“As warm as a Texas summer.”
Silence eased in around them, and Dr. Martin was saddened to think that in this young man’s final moments, he was thinking of a woman he’d never met and never would meet. He reached into the deep pocket of his coat, withdrew an apple, and gave it to Clay.
Wrapping both hands around it, Clay relished the fruit’s smooth skin against his unnaturally frigid fingers. Bringing the apple close to his face, he cupped his hands over his nose and mouth, blocking out the odors mingling in the cell, as he inhaled deeply. The apple smelled so sweet, so deliciously sweet. As sweet as life.
He swallowed his sob and ground the heel of his hand into the corner of his eye. He refused to walk out of this room with tears trailing down his face.
Leaning forward, Dr. Martin planted his elbows on his thighs. “Clay, all you have to do is hold the damn rifle. You don’t even have to shoot it. They’re gonna fight those damn Yankees any day now. Wouldn’t it be more honorable to die on a battlefield? I could talk to Captain Roberts, have your sentence revoked—”
Slowly, Clay shook his head. For months Captain Roberts had insisted that he must follow orders and carry a rifle. For months Clay had steadfastly refused. “I will not take up arms against my fellow man.” “What am I to tell your father?”
“That I died with honor, fighting for what I believed in.”
Dr. Martin sighed heavily. He couldn’t deny that the boy had fought. His body carried the wounds from his battles. “Are you in much pain? I could give you some laudanum.”
“My misery will end soon enough. You’d best save your medicine for those boys whose misery will just be beginning.” He extended the apple toward the doctor. “Don’t think I’d be able to keep this down. Imagine you’ll be able to find someone who could appreciate it a little longer than I could.”
The key grinding in the lock caused Dr. Martin’s heart to slam against his ribs as though he were the one about to be placed before a firing squad. He took back the apple because he didn’t know what else to do with his hands. His noted bedside manner had deserted him.
The door swung open, and a sergeant, with two privates in his wake, stepped into the room. The sergeant’s deep voice bounced off the stone walls. “It’s time.”
Standing, Clay extended his hand toward the doctor. “Thank you, sir, for coming.”
Clasping the young man’s hand, taking note of the slight tremor, Dr. Martin wished he could offer more than a handshake. Clay stepped toward the open door.
A rope dangling from his hand, a private moved to block his path. “You need to put your hands behind your back.”
Despair flooded Clay’s face. “I’ve lost weight,” he stammered. “My trousers—”
The private turned to the sergeant who was already shaking his head. “He’s gotta be bound.”
“I’m not gonna run,” Clay assured him.
The sergeant appeared on the verge of relenting when he suddenly barked, “Orders is orders! Bind him.”
“Wait a minute,” Dr. Martin said as he shrugged off his coat. The young man had clung tenaciously to his dignity throughout his ordeal, and now they had the power to strip him of it. They’d fed him nothing but bread and water for so long that Clay was little more than a shadow of the robust man who’d once farmed the land in Texas. “He can use my suspenders.”
For the first time in his life, Dr. Martin fought a strong urge to strike someone—anyone—when gratitude filled Clay’s eyes as he attached the suspenders.
Clay placed his hands behind his back, fighting off the helplessness consuming him as the private wound the rope around his wrists. He wished they’d given him an opportunity to bathe, to make himself presentable. He reeked to high heaven and no longer remembered the feel of freshly laundered clothes against his skin.
He followed the sergeant out of the room and along the dim corridor. Squinting as they stepped into the bright sunlight, he took a deep breath of outside air. He smelled horses, leather, and gunpowder. The world had turned brown, orange, and gold. Autumn had come without his knowing.
The men had gathered at one end of the compound. He could feel their eyes boring into him. They knew he was a man who refused to become a soldier, who refused to carry a rifle. They thought he was a coward. They’d branded him a deserter.
The small procession approached the wall. Clay smiled. It faced east. He didn’t look into the faces of the six men standing before the wall, but moved into position silently.
Captain Roberts, a West Point graduate who could trace his family’s military history back a hundred years to the Revolutionary War, stepped forward. “Do you have a final request?”
“A prayer,” he croaked. “I’d like to say a prayer.”
Roberts nodded his approval of the request.
As Clay bowed his head, his voice became clear, strong, and certain. “Heavenly Father, please forgive those who stand before you today for they know not what they do. Amen.”
He lifted his brown gaze to the blue heavens.
