Anatomy of a Rebellion

Chapter 17

Thoughts to be Sorted

Three days after Doyle's men made an unflattering first impression, an unsettled Freddie wandered town with nothing to do. He hadn't slept well the night before; a dull ache in his chest had kept him up. He had locked himself into a philosophical debate. How much responsibility did he hold for the death of Abigail? While he understood that she had attacked the Sergeant, the truth was the Sergeant never would have been there had Freddie not been there first. So where did responsibility for one's actions end, and where did it begin to influence the fate of another?

He had walked around town in an attempt to figure out his mental state and ended up by a church. Outside resting on a bench in full dress was Wallace. The Warrant Officer kept his head down and failed to notice Freddie. So he ignored the soldier and continued. Whatever drove him he did not know; he just knew his feet carried him behind the church and down a dirt path. When he got to the end of said path, he found himself standing in front of an old house. Freddie wasn't the kind of man to believe in fate or destiny, but he couldn't help but feel as though he had been brought to that house for a reason. So with as much courage he could muster, he knocked on the screen door of the old home. Patiently, he waited for someone to answer.

The door flew open to reveal a blonde woman not much younger than himself. Her hands were full; one carried a young baby and the other a mixing bowl. Instantly he felt his face flush in embarrassment. How would he explain his sudden appearance at her house? To his surprise, she smiled warmly at him and said, "You're here just in time for breakfast! Come inside!" Dumbfounded, his feet became trapped by hesitation. Why would a woman let a stranger into her house? After standing like an i***t outside of her house for five seconds, he finally managed to lift his feet and step inside.

It was a cool and cozy house. The atmosphere reminded him of a happy home, filled with children's laughter and love. Behind him the door closed, and he carefully followed the friendly woman into the kitchen. When he turned the corner he found himself being gawked at by two young children, one a girl no more than ten and the other a boy no more than five. The girl grabbed her mom's skirt and asked, "Mommy, who's that?"

"Why don't you go introduce yourself?" she answered. The child stared, captivated at the handsome scholar in front of her. He seemed clumsy to her, despite his looks; it was as though he wasn't sure how to respond to basic questions. There was something about the way he awkwardly smiled at her that made him seem real. With small steps she patted up to him, extended her hand and smiled.

"I'm Becca!" she cheered happily. Freddie blinked down at her before slowly taking her small hand in his. She giggled at his embarrassment. "You're funny!"

"Uh… yeah," he spluttered out. It was then that he noticed the young boy had followed in his sister's footsteps. He sat down at Freddie's feet and watched him, curious as to whom the newcomer was. Freddie's brow raised and he frowned, which caused the young boy to laugh, excited at the funny face.

"Becca," the woman interrupted. "Why don't you go get your father and Nadia?"

"'Kay!" she sang as she skipped out. The young boy got on his feet and waddled after his sister. Freddie looked at the mother of the children and tried to gauge her. She wasn't what he would call attractive, although she wasn't ugly either; it was pathetic to say, but she seemed average. Yet she was so charming and warm, it almost felt like he belonged there. Immediately he shook his head, surprised he thought something like that about another's wife.

"Please make yourself at home," she beamed at him. Again he felt clumsy as he gracelessly walked towards the table. He sat down at a random chair at the table, unsure if that was alright. It was fairly comfortable. "I hope you don't mind waffles."

"Mind them? I love them!" he blurted out. His cheeks went red in an instant, but she only smiled more. Afraid of eye contact he stared down his plate instead. The smell of the cooking meal made his stomach growl. A warm hand was placed on his shoulder and he felt it was only polite to gaze up. The baby was no longer in her arms and when he found her eyes, she gave his shoulder a loving squeeze. It made him uneasy to think she was being so open towards him.

"Sorry if they made you uncomfortable," she apologized. Freddie was confused at first, but then quickly remembered his odd behavior around the kids.

"Oh, no, I just don't have a lot of experience. With kids, that is," he stumbled out. For a man known for his ability to network, Freddie was socially inept and quite frankly unsure of himself. Never in his life had he met a family that seemed so socially graceful before. It reminded him of his days as a young child, and he felt a warmth entire his being that he hadn't felt in a long time. Was that the purpose of his visit here?

"Mom!" a teen girl shouted from the back door. "Dad's being a prick!"

"Nadia!" the woman shouted, surprised and angry. "Watch your language young woman!" At that time a young woman only about sixteen wandered into the kitchen. She passed a quick glance at Freddie before looking back at her mother. With one hand on her hip and the other pointing a whisk at her daughter, the woman lectured, "That's no way to talk about your father, especially in the presence of company."

As the mother lectured, she snuck over to the table and took a seat. "But mom, Fletcher promised me he'd take me to Carson's Path tonight!" Nadia whined. "Dad said he's not mature enough to be taking a girl anywhere."

"I don't see what the problem is," she said as she went back to preparing breakfast. "Fletcher is more responsible now than your father when he was twenty. You know he is just worried about you."

"No he's not, mom," Nadia pouted. "He doesn't have faith in me."

The sound of a screen door being closed silenced both Nadia and her mother. Becca ran into the kitchen and hopped into a chair next to Freddie. She smiled at him and giggled when he raised his brow again. The resounding footsteps of an older man filled the house and Freddie could see the teen situated at the table stiffen. From the back of the house entered a sturdy built and dark haired man, and in his arms he carried the young boy that had followed Becca. Freddie and the newcomer made eye contact, and he felt a combination of pity and hatred being directed towards him. Fortunately for him, it was broken when the woman made her support of Nadia known.

She started sweetly, "Honey, I've heard something from Nadia that needs to be cleared up." The man took in a deep breath. "She says you won't let Fletcher take her out for a walk."

"A walk?" the man asked, irritated. He set the youngster down in a high chair and then took a seat at the table. "Lindsey, the boy is not interested in just walking. I was his age once, too."

"Of course, they'll want to talk also," Lindsey joked. Freddie couldn't help but smile at the dry response – that was his type of humor. She turned and faced her husband, clearly angry at his position on the matter. "Warren, if you don't expose her to those situations now she'll act more irresponsible when she's older. For all we know, Nadia's already more experienced then we'd like to believe."

"Hey now, saying a thing like that…" Warren muttered. He countered, "We were married when I was eighteen. Do you have any idea how much control it took to last that long? We had your father breathing down our necks all the time."

Freddie began to wonder why he was still there as the quarrel continued. It was interesting to watch a couple argue over their child yet not become angry over it. Somehow they both remained levelheaded and in control. It ended with Lindsey winning, though it was obvious the resignation from the husband was not something he was proud of. He forgot all about what it was about and why he was there the minute warm, homemade waffles appeared on his plate. It had been a long time since he had a real home cooked meal, breakfast or otherwise. Yet he remained patient and waited for the okay to begin eating. After all, he was still a guest in someone's house.

Once the meal was finished he gave Lindsey a hearty thanks and asked if he could help clean up. She refused the offer immediately and said that guests should never be required to help with chores. Warren quickly took advantage of her refusal and asked Freddie, "Would you mind coming with me for a moment?" Freddie agreed, and he found himself following Warren through the house and out the back door. Once on the back porch, he stopped and made sure the door was closed. Freddie felt threatened by Warren's strong appearance; Warren, too, may have felt threatened by Freddie's smooth looks and intelligence if he hadn't been more interested in why he was there.

"It's not every day my wife feeds a terrorist," he joked, yet his tone was awfully serious. "So it's only natural that ask why you're here."

He thought quickly to think of a reason other than "it just made sense," but nothing came to him. Resigned, Freddie finally admitted, "I don't know. I found myself at the church and just kept walking."

"You must need guidance," Warren said matter-of-factly. "I can only show you to the path towards God, I can't take you to Him."

"I forgot you were a minister," Freddie said, understanding a bit more of his situation.

"A Progressive Presbyterian," answered Warren with a small smile. His smile fell just a tad when he thought about why Freddie might have been there. "Is this about the shooting?" he asked. When Freddie bowed his head and his cheeks flushed, Warren knew he guessed correctly.

"I'm just really confused," Freddie admitted. He gazed up at the Presbyterian minister and saw that he was listening intently. "Is it alright if I confide in you? I'm a Lutheran, I don't know… I don't know how you view other –"

"We're all children of God," Warren interrupted. "Before I am a Presbyterian and before you are a Lutheran we are both men, living creatures with conscience and emotion. Pray tell me of your problems."

Freddie let out a sigh and began, "I was the one who shot the man in the alley. I'm the one who killed him. Because of that, those soldiers came to Union. It was my action that inevitably led to her death. Do you think God is angry with me?"

Warren had heard this question many times. "For the entire history of man, we have fought, killed, and sacrificed in the name of righteousness. Is it possible that soldiers go to Hell; is God angry with them? We could not debate that they were just following orders, for we are aware of our actions, and as such could easily dismiss the commands; it may cost us our life, but wouldn't God be happy for this choice?"

"It was an accident," Freddie blurted. "I saw the man running and my first instinct was to shoot him. I knew he had attacked others. I knew he was guilty."

"Proof, then, that human beings are still animals under the guise of virtue," he mused aloud. He clasped his hand onto Freddie's back and said, "Come with me, I have something to show you." He led Freddie through the backyard, where the grass was a terrible tan color because of the lack of water. Freddie watched as his feet crushed the dead grass; it only made him feel worse. At the back of the yard there was a wooden fence, and Warren opened the gate to reveal a well-kept field littered with headstones. There were two trees, the largest of which had a group of children under it. They were laughing, enjoying the summer time and playing a game of marbles

"What is this? A cemetery?" Freddie asked as Warren led him inside the field.

"Oh, man!" one of the kids shouted. It was a boy about the same age as Royal. The rest of the gang laughed; apparently he had a rather embarrassing defeat against a child much younger. "I'll get you back for that one!" he yelled again as he rose to his feet. One of the children laughed and stood up before running away as quickly as he could. Warren and Freddie watched as the game of marbles erupted into a game of tag.

"It's fascinating, isn't it?" Warren asked with a smile. "We worry so much over whether God is angry with us; we try so hard to justify our mistakes or right our wrongs; sometimes we even go so far as to condemn others to Hell. Yet life goes on; we hand off our mistakes and achievements to the next generation for them to improve on. Children never think about what the cross represents. Even if we told them, some are too young to understand. Wonderful youth passes by us too quickly. But that doesn't answer your question does it?" Warren laughed. "Remember this: no one is righteous in death. Martyrdom is best left to saints, not to men. For the rest of eternity, man will raise the battle flag, each time believing they are blameless. You made a choice when you fired that weapon. You choose to defend someone. I don't believe God will be angry at you and I do not believe you are responsible for Abigail's death."

Freddie was silent as he thought about those words. He felt as though Warren had justified his actions while condemning them at the same time. In a way, it not only helped him ease his confusion, but it propelled him towards a new philosophy. Freddie smiled at Warren, thankful the man had talked to him despite his obvious dislike for his "terrorism." He extended his hand to shake, which Warren accepted.

"Thank you, Minister," he said. "I hope we can talk again."

Warren forced a smile for the sake of being polite, but he couldn't get rid of the feeling that Freddie would be bad news for his town.

For Wallace, he had yet to move from his spot on the bench outside the church. He hated being in a dress uniform. It was so tight and fitted he felt as though he couldn't breathe. He was suffocating. The shoes never seemed to break in and for some reason the pants felt a little small. Yet he felt the need to wear it; he would wear only the best clothes he had for his sister's memorial service. Even though it wasn't for about thirty minutes, he refused to move from the church.

Soon he was joined by one other, Adela. All morning she had been looking for him but to no avail. The church was her last stop as it was on the edge of town. Slowly she approached him. Not a single word left her lips when she finally found him. Instead, she sat next to him; she made no motion to touch him or acknowledge him. He was thankful for this. Her presence alone was enough at that moment. Together they sat in silence.

The next to arrive was Mackenzie. She wasn't there for Abigail, she was there for Wallace. More than anything, she could not forget the desolate expression on Wallace's face when they were finally able to get him to move from Abigail's body. Afterward, the heart wrenching sound of him sobbing in the empty office building was so upsetting it seemed to haunt her. She had never seen him react in such a manner. How betrayed he must have felt, to see his sister killed by another soldier.

She wanted to avoid the subject of work, but he brought it up on his own. "Tell Percy I'll be ready for work again, tomorrow," he informed her.

"As your superior, I want you to know that there is no rush for you to return to duty," Mackenzie said. "Your wellbeing is much more important."

For the first time all day, Wallace looked up. His neck was getting stiff anyway, so the movement was needed. When his eyes caught Mackenzie's, he saw genuine concern. It was rare for her to display such an emotion. If it was any other day, he would have joked, "So you aren't a robot!" However, nothing managed to escape his lips.

Movement behind her caused him to shift his gaze. Stopped a few steps away was Pierre. His left hand gripped that of Othello's in a protective manner. It was obvious he did not want to face Wallace or Mackenzie; certainly, his hatred was greater than Wallace's and directly squarely at all soldiers. Still, he had to continue forward to reach the church. His grip on Othello's hand tightened as he began to move forward again.

Before he reached the entrance he stopped. In one glare, he managed to channel all of his hatred at Wallace. The Warrant Officer felt something pang in his chest at such an expression. "You don't deserve to be here," Pierre said. "You could have stopped them, you know?" When Wallace didn't respond, Pierre got even angrier. "You don't care if your family is hurt, do you? Just like when Alan died, you weren't around. Figures. I bet your –"

"That's enough," Mackenzie sternly warned. "You have no right to talk to him that way."

"He does," Wallace said. His voice was so soft, so sorrowful; it was unlike anything they had ever heard leave his lips. "I fought so that he could say whatever he wanted. Please don't take that away from him."

"Most sensible thing that's ever come out of your dumb mouth," Pierre muttered.

For little Othello, the mixed emotions being emitted from his father and Uncle upset him. He could feel his dad grip his hand tighter than he'd ever held it before. It was shaking; shaking from the pain of losing his wife and the hatred he had suddenly felt inside his chest. It made Othello's entire body tremble. Yet the boy could not hate Wallace as well. Although his time with his Uncle was limited because of war, he held Wallace in high regard. All of the memories they had together was something the youngster thought of fondly.

Othello felt as though what his heart felt was soon to be felt all throughout town. He refused to say such a thing aloud, however, afraid of what his grieving father might say.