Chapter Text
JULY 1, 1863
WESTERN MARYLAND, NEAR WESTMINSTER
The early July morning has dawned hot and humid, with a thick haze blanketing the Maryland farmlands, obscuring all but the closest tents in the encampment from view. The rising sun will likely have burnt off most of the mist within hours, but for the time being, nothing seems to exist beyond this circle of tents surrounding the dying embers of last night's cooking fire. Captain Fox Mulder, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he gazes about at the world of white surrounding him, shrugs into his uniform jacket, buttoning it distractedly as he contemplates preparing coffee. Crouching by the fire pit, he stokes the embers and, with a sigh, decides to wait and come back when one of the other officers has gotten the cooking fire going again.
What Mulder really wants most, right at this moment, is something approaching real solitude. He has the luxury of having a tent to himself, it's true, but walls of canvas do nothing to contain the snoring of those sleeping near him, and within the boundaries of the camp, he never feels truly alone. The regiment will be on the move shortly- their march north through Maryland is being carried out with great haste- but for now, Mulder would like just a few minutes completely on his own before getting into position to march at the head of his company.
Beyond the outer circle of tents, the rolling Maryland wheat field continues for some two hundred yards before meeting the tree line. Mulder knows this, not because he can see any of it in the morning fog, but because he had glimpsed it in the moonlight as the regiment had made camp the previous night. He trudges across the field (making every effort to stay between the planted furrows; the army has trampled this poor farmer's lands enough already), making for the edge of the woods.
Like any good farmer, this one has taken great pains to clear all of the rocks and boulders from his field before planting, and they're piled just under the eaves of the trees. Mulder scrambles up onto a particularly large boulder, one that must have taken an entire team of horses to relocate, and lets out a deep breath.
Away from the camp, the only sounds that Mulder can hear are the birds in the trees overhead and the occasional rustle and crunch of leaves as squirrels and chipmunks go about their morning business. He spies a fat brown rabbit, scampering along the edge of the field, crossing directly in front of him, completely unaware of his presence, disappearing into the safety of the underbrush.
"You should have shot it."
Mulder jumps in surprise at the high, clear voice behind him, turning so quickly that he nearly falls from his perch atop the boulder. He relaxes with a sigh when he recognizes a small, slim figure clad in dark blue, materializing out of the fog like a mirage. He resettles himself on his rock, his heart rate gradually returning to normal.
"You're unnaturally quiet, you know that?" he grumbles.
"If you'd shot it, we could have had rabbit stew," the newcomer continues, disregarding Mulder's comment. "Would've been a damn sight better than bacon and hardtack."
"There probably wouldn't have been time to prepare it before we start marching again," Mulder says. "We can't have anyone getting sick from undercooked rabbit, not with the chance of battle so close." The young soldier stops at the foot of Mulder's boulder, thinking this over; finally, he shrugs.
"Well, have this, anyway," he says, tossing something up to Mulder, who catches it almost by reflex. It's a peach, ripe and freshly plucked, its skin soft beneath his callused fingertips. The young soldier clambers up onto the boulder beside him, a peach of his own clasped in one hand.
"Where did you get these?" Mulder asks.
"There's an orchard on the other side of these trees," the soldier answers. "It's a little early for peaches, but there were a few ripe ones within reach, here and there."
"You shouldn't be stealing from the farmers. Not when we're already inconveniencing them by camping in their fields," says Mulder. His companion holds Mulder's gaze, then sinks his teeth into his peach, juice running down his chin. Mulder sighs and looks down at his own peach. It's already been picked, he decides, so it may as well get eaten. Letting it rot would be wasteful. He sinks his teeth into the soft fruit, closing his eyes in ecstasy as the forgotten sweetness floods his mouth. When he opens his eyes again, the other soldier is grinning brashly at him. "Shut up," Mulder grumbles.
"Didn't say anything," the young man replies.
"I could hear you thinking," counters Mulder, and the soldier laughs, his voice high and unconcerned.
Private Daniel Scully, seventeen years of age and brimming with the overconfidence of youth, has been with the regiment, assigned to Mulder's company, for about three months. With his short stature, slight build, and fine, almost feminine features, he had, at first, been the subject of a good deal of ribbing from the other men- at least until they'd seen him shoot. Scully is one of the finest sharpshooters that Mulder has ever seen, able to hit a moving target, in low light, from an absolutely ridiculous distance.
But even more important than his aim is his temperament in battle. Even the best sharpshooter is useless if he freezes under fire, but Scully is unflappable, unshakable, seemingly impervious to fear. The teasing from his fellow soldiers had ceased immediately after witnessing him in his first engagement.
Mulder and Scully had struck up a friendship shortly after the latter's arrival, when they had discovered a common love of reading. In a regiment where competent literacy is rare, and advanced education is rarer still, the two former scholars had taken to one another almost immediately. Mulder had been studying at Harvard when the war had broken out, and Scully, tutored at home when his father had deemed the quality of education at the local schools unsatisfactory for one of his son's intelligence, had been destined for university himself. He'd broken his mother's heart by running away to fight, especially given that his father and two brothers had already left home to join the navy.
Sitting on the boulder, enjoying his peach, Mulder studies the young private closely. His uniform is neat and tidy as always, a sharp contrast to the unruly, unevenly-cut mop of bright red hair that's crammed beneath his cap. His face is perfectly smooth under the boyish dusting of freckles across his cheeks, and, stroking his own three-day growth of stubble, Mulder wonders, not for the first time, just how much younger Scully is than he'd claimed to be when he'd enlisted. Occasionally Mulder is tempted to blow the whistle on him- the fife and drum corp is a much safer option for someone who is likely not yet sixteen- but every time he considers it, he's reminded how much lonelier he would be without his young friend by his side each day. Mulder himself, after all, is only nineteen, and when it comes down to it, how much difference is there, really, between fifteen and nineteen? The enlistment officers are not exactly known for their choosiness when it comes to the ages of willing recruits, and Scully is certainly not the only teenaged boy whose inflated claim of age has been accepted without question.
And anyway, Mulder reminds himself, yet again, Scully's considerable skills as a sharpshooter would be wasted, were he to be relegated to banging a drum for the other men to march to. Scully is level-headed, mature, obeys orders well, and can be counted on in battle to do his job, and to do it well, no matter how dire the situation may seem. It's more than can be said for some men twice his age, and Mulder's not willing to sacrifice a soldier of Scully's caliber, no matter what his true age may be.
"How far do you suppose we'll march today?" asks Scully, and Mulder shrugs.
"Until sundown, I suppose," he says. "I asked Colonel Skinner where we were headed, last night, and he told me I'd know when we got there, and not to concern myself with it." Scully laughs.
"I'm betting he doesn't know, either," he says. Discarding the pit from his finished peach, he leans back on his elbows and regards the encampment, which has just become visible through the slowly dissipating fog. "It's going to be another hot day." Mulder nods. "How many do you reckon will go down from heat stroke before we stop for the night?"
"A good few, I'm sure. Speaking of which," Mulder says, fixing his subordinate with a stern gaze, "be sure you're drinking enough. You're no good to me being dragged along on a stretcher behind the regiment."
"Too dusty back there," Scully agrees. "Plus, I can't effectively annoy you from that distance, can I?" Mulder chuckles.
"No, I suppose not," he agrees, and they lapse into a comfortable silence as the morning warms around them.
"Have you had any letters from home?" Scully asks him, finally, and he nods.
"I had one from Diana a few days ago," he replies. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Scully wrinkling his nose, but he pretends that he doesn't notice. He's not quite sure what it is about his de facto fiancee that Scully disapproves of, beyond the fact that she's a southerner, from Virginia... but since Mulder himself is a Virginian (albeit one who's effectively abandoned his home and family to fight for the Union), he doesn't know why that would be an issue. He decides it's better not to comment, for now.
"How about you?" he asks Scully. "Have you come to your senses and written to your family yet?" Again, Scully's nose wrinkles.
"And have my mother come find me and drag me back home?" He shakes his head. "I don't think so. I've written to my sister in New York City. She'll let the rest of my family know that I'm all right, without telling them where I am."
"You really think your mother would come after you?" Mulder asks. "I can't see a woman making that journey alone, especially not when we'll be in a completely different place by the time your letter reaches her."
"You don't know my mother," says Scully darkly, and then lapses into a brooding silence. The topic of their respective families is one that they tend to avoid, mainly because neither agrees with the other's methods of dealing with them. Scully doesn't think that Mulder should be putting quite so much information about his regiment's movements into letters to a southern woman (especially not one who is the adopted daughter of a member of Jefferson Davis's inner circle), in spite of Mulder's constant reassurances that Diana, whom he has known quite literally his entire life, is as politically apathetic as they come, and unlikely to pass anything on to her father. Mulder, on the other hand, doesn't see why Scully is so convinced that his family will come after him, should they discover his location. Plenty of young boys have lied about their age in order to be allowed to fight, and he sincerely doubts, given the fact that the Scullys are a military family, that his parents or siblings would go to any great lengths to prevent one son from following in the footsteps of the other two.
From across the field, a bugle sounds, announcing the order to break camp and prepare to resume the march. Scully slides down the boulder, back to the ground, and Mulder reluctantly follows him. Together, they trudge back to the noise and the commotion of the regiment, leaving their short period of quiet behind for the time being, to be continued when the opportunity next presents itself.
Time alone is almost impossible to come by in a regiment constantly either drilling or on the move, and Mulder should be annoyed with Scully for so frequently encroaching on what little solitude he's able to find for himself... but oddly enough, he never is. He never bothers to question it, but somehow, he finds sitting with Private Scully, enjoying quiet conversation together, just as restful and rejuvenating as sitting in silence by himself.
Back at camp, Scully melts away into the mass of men in blue, and Mulder ducks into his tent just long enough to gather up his few belongings- his framed photos of Diana and of his sister, the letter he'd been perusing before going to sleep- and stow them in his pack. As he's exiting, strapping his gear onto his back, holstering his pistol, men from his company begin breaking down his tent, wrapping the canvas around the poles and lashing it into place, carrying it away to be thrown into the wagons following the regiment.
Private Scully suddenly re-materializes at Mulder's right elbow, soundless as always, holding out a tin cup full of steaming coffee. Mulder gratefully accepts it and takes a long swallow, scalding his mouth thoroughly, not caring in the slightest. Next to him, Scully, his own pack, blanket, and musket held securely on his back, takes much smaller sips of coffee from a cup of his own.
"Thanks," Mulder tells him, and Scully nods, saying nothing. Together, they trudge towards the dusty Hanover Road, where soldiers are beginning to fall in, preparing to continue the march towards Pennsylvania. As they approach, Colonel Walter Skinner, stern and imposing in his silence, is surveying the proceedings from atop his horse. He answers Mulder's and Scully's salutes stiffly, and the two men slow to a halt as they reach him.
"Any word on how far we'll be going today, Sir?" Mulder asks, knowing he's pushing his luck by repeating the same question his commander had shrugged off the day before. Skinner glowers for a moment, but still answers.
"Word's come back that Buford's cavalry is tussling with rebel soldiers about a day's march west of here," Skinner tells Mulder. "Just outside of a town called Gettysburg. Lee's main force isn't far off, and General Meade wants as much of the Army of the Potomac that he can get to march there as fast as conditions will allow." Mulder and Scully exchange a glance, eyebrows raised. The entire Army of the Potomac is marching at top speed to meet what's likely the full force of the Army of Northern Virginia. Whatever happens next, it's going to be a hell of a lot more than a skirmish.
Ahead of their regiment, the eighty-third Pennsylvania, the twentieth Maine is already standing in formation, first in line, ready to march. Behind them, further down Hanover Road, the forty-fourth New York is nearly ready to go. Mulder nods to Scully. "Come on," he says. "Better get into position." He glances down at Scully's belt, where his canteen is thumping against his hip. "How full is that, Private?" Scully grins.
"Full enough," he says.
"I wasn't kidding earlier, Scully," says Mulder. "The last thing I need is for you to go down with the heat, now, with a major engagement on the horizon." He fixes the smaller man with a stern gaze, doing his best to mask the apprehension that's suddenly begun to take over his mind. Since being promoted to captain, Mulder has only led his company in a handful of skirmishes. This will be his first true battle at the head of his men.
Private Scully, of course, sees right through him immediately.
"Mulder," he says, keeping his voice low enough that the men around them can't hear him, "you're going to do fine. Stop worrying." Scully reaches up and claps him on the shoulder, giving him a reassuring squeeze... and Mulder immediately feels better. He has no idea what it is about Scully's confidence in him that helps him put on a brave face, even when he doesn't feel particularly courageous, but he does know that having the younger man by his side lessens his fear considerably.
The last stragglers have taken up their places among the ranks, and ahead of them, the Maine boys are ready to go. Above the sounds of milling feet and quiet conversation, Mulder hears Chamberlain, the colonel of the Maine regiment, giving his men the order to march. Moments later, Skinner echoes it, and behind them, the New York commander adds his voice to the call. The fife and drum unit strikes up a marching tune, and the great line of blue begins to move down the road as one.
Mulder walks beside his company, Scully immediately to his right. He had, some time back, arranged his men so that Scully would be on the far left of the column, enabling them to while away long hours of marching in conversation. The men rib them about it, and a few are openly jealous of the friendship, but for the most part, there are no hard feelings, no accusations of favoritism. Occasionally the men marching closest will join in on their conversations, when the subject is religion, or farming, or military tactics, but when the topics veer into the more academic, as they so often do, the others generally fall to listening. One of the men had jokingly claimed that he had learned more from listening to Mulder and Scully talk than he ever had from his schoolteachers back home. Mulder can't remember who started calling them the Professor and the Doctor, but the nicknames have stuck.
Today, though, Scully is strangely quiet, as are many of the men. Word of the coming fight has spread, and with the very real possibility of death suddenly staring them in the face, most men's thoughts turn to home, to their families. Mulder thinks of his parents, of his father's fury and his mother's tears when they had learned that their son had decided to fight for the Union. He thinks of his sister Samantha, of how proud she had been of him, how she had confided in him that she wished she had been born a boy so that she could go, too.
And he thinks of Diana.
There has been no formal announcement of engagement, nothing printed in the papers, and no plans have been made for a wedding. Mulder has not even asked Diana's adoptive father for her hand, though it's clear that Charles Spender approves of the match between his ward and his best friend's son. When it comes down to it, there hasn't even been a verbal acknowledgement from Diana, either. Rather, there's simply an assumption, an understanding between the two families, that one day, their estates (and their considerable fortunes) will be combined through their children.
Mulder himself is often conflicted about the entire affair.
He's known Diana since she had been eleven and he had been thirteen, when her uncle had adopted her after her parents and older brother had been killed in a fire in Washington. He likes Diana well enough; he supposes that, if pressed, he would say that he loves her, though it's more like what he feels for his younger sister than anything else. It's certainly not the all-encompassing passion of Shakespeare's sonnets, to be sure, but Mulder's not completely convinced that such relationships exist anywhere else but in the imaginations of writers. It's certainly not the sort of thing he sees between his own parents, or any of the other high society families around which he had grown up.
It's steady, though, the way he feels about Diana. Stable. Dependable. She's an intelligent and attractive woman who shares his views in most things, who will give him children, run his household, and keep him company. It's not "Romeo and Juliet," certainly, but as he's constantly reminding himself, things did not turn out all that well for them, in the end.
He and Diana will be just fine. He has no idea why Private Scully finds her so objectionable, especially given that he's never even met her.
Mulder glances at Scully out of the corner of his eye. The younger soldier's face is blank and expressionless, impossible to read, and Mulder wonders what he's thinking about. His friend is so intensely private about some things, and his family is one of them. Mulder knows, so far, that his father, William, is stern and strict, and that his oldest son, Bill, is much the same. There's another brother, Charles, who is younger than Scully and a bit more free-wheeling, but still capable enough of conformity to have joined the navy. And the only daughter, Melissa, seems to be the black sheep of the family, having run away to New York city to live with friends, rather than settling down and getting married.
Mulder knows nothing about Scully's mother at all, except that her name is Maggie, and she doesn't approve of her son Daniel becoming a soldier.
"What's got you so quiet?" Mulder finally asks, and Scully, lost somewhere in his own mind, jumps slightly.
"Just wondering about tomorrow," he says with a shrug. "Wondering what's going to happen when we get there."
"Anyone not wondering that?" snorts the soldier to Scully's right, a blacksmith named Halsey. "Either Lee's gonna pull his boys back, and it'll all be over before we get there, or it'll be one hell of a fight."
"Lee won't withdraw his men," says Mulder. "Not unless he absolutely has to. And if all he's met so far is the cavalry, you can bet he's going to keep pushing them as hard as he can."
"So, a fight," says Halsey, and Mulder nods.
"Most likely," he agrees. Halsey looks sideways at Scully.
"Listen, Danny Boy-"
"Don't call me that," grumbles Scully, bristling at the mocking nickname he'd had to endure when he'd first joined the regiment.
"Fine. Danny. Doctor Scully. Think maybe you could help me write down a few words tonight? Something to send my wife and my boy? Just in case...." His voice trails off.
"Of course," says Scully. "Come find me before you bed down for the night. I'll help you write them a good letter." He reaches over and claps Halsey on the back, the same way he'd reassured Mulder earlier. "You won't need it, Halsey, but I'll help you write it anyway." Halsey nods his gratitude, his expression tight.
The day becomes unbearably hot as the sun climbs higher into the sky, and the men sweat and scratch at themselves beneath their woolen uniforms. Mulder drinks regularly from his canteen, the water kept refreshingly cool by the wet sleeve of wool around the outside. He keeps an eye on Scully (on all of his men, really), but they seem to have taken his orders to make sure they're drinking enough to heart. Even so, men throughout the regiment start to go down from the heat as the march drags on. They're picked up and carried to the side, to be treated and carried behind the regiment in wagons. Colonel Skinner gives orders for empty canteens to be carried off the road to a stream running nearby, where they're refilled.
The march drags on, and Mulder finds himself disengaging almost completely, all but dozing on his feet, surrendering his mind to nothing but the monotonous drone of left-right-left-right, concentrating so thoroughly on the rhythm that the rest of the world, even the oppressive heat, begins to fall away. The only thing he's conscious of, beyond the steady motions of his feet, is the equally steady presence of Private Scully by his side.
As the sun sinks below the horizon, the command is given at last to stop for the night. Scully disappears into the dusk, likely looking for Halsey, to help the illiterate blacksmith write home to his family, and Mulder, his tent pitched for the night, slings his gear on the ground, piles his uniform jacket on top of it, stretches out on his sleeping roll, and waits for his friend to come and find him.
He doesn't have to wait long; apparently, whatever Private Halsey had wanted to tell his wife and child, he hadn't needed many words to accomplish it. Scully pulls back the flap of his tent and ducks inside (not much- he really is quite short), sinking down onto the grass next to Mulder's gear with a sigh.
"He really thinks he's not going to survive the next fight," Scully tells him, shaking his head. "He's completely convinced that tonight is his last night on earth." Mulder nods, but chooses not to comment. It's certainly not unheard of- soldiers having sudden and unsettling premonitions that they don't have much time left, feeling a strong urge to be certain that all of their affairs are in order, that a letter has been prepared to be sent home to their families, that their brothers in arms know which personal effects to give to loved ones left behind.
"What about you?" he asks, peering over at the young private sprawling on the ground next to him. "Any special glimpses into your future this evening?" Scully rolls his eyes.
"Other than a strong suspicion that my tent tonight will be full of the sounds of Rawling's snores and the smells of Jorgensen's stomach upset, just as it has been for the past five nights? No, not really." Mulder chuckles. "Oh, sure, you can laugh, with this nice, empty tent all to yourself."
"Stay here tonight, then," Mulder yawns. "I don't mind." His suggestion is met with silence, and when he glances over at Scully, the young private has a peculiar expression on his face, one that Mulder can't readily identify. "What's wrong?"
"You're sure it's all right?" asks Scully hesitantly- almost shyly, Mulder might say, if he didn't know better.
"Of course it's all right. Why wouldn't it be?" Scully pauses.
"It's not where I'm supposed to sleep," he says, after a moment. "It's not where I'm assigned to be." Mulder waves a hand dismissively.
"I'm your superior, and I say it's all right," he says.
"Won't the other men complain?" asks Scully, chewing his lip.
"No more than they normally do," says Mulder. "It's fine, Scully. Take off your damn jacket and go to sleep." Scully doesn't, though, choosing instead to lie down fully clothed, removing his cap and allowing his unruly red hair to spill over the arm he's using as a pillow.
"Thanks," Scully says, smiling at Mulder, that same strange expression on his face.
"Don't worry about it," Mulder tells him, and Scully closes his eyes, dropping off to sleep almost immediately.
It takes Mulder a good deal longer, and when he finally does manage to fall asleep, he's plagued by the strangest dream he can remember having in a very long time. In it, he's back in Washington, out with Diana at a society ball, waltzing her around the crowded dance floor as he's done a hundred times. But this time, there's someone he can't see, someone hiding just out of sight, someone he knows, somehow, is a woman, a woman who is watching him disapprovingly. Whenever he turns his head to get a glimpse of her, she disappears, moving behind other guests who obscure her from view.
After a few more distracted turns around the dance floor, Diana finally gets fed up with his lack of attention and storms off with a pretty pout and a shake of her sleek, dark head. As she's swallowed up by the crowd, the feeling of being watched intensifies again, and Mulder turns quickly to see Private Scully, standing at the edge of the dance floor, watching him, that unidentifiable expression on his face yet again.
Almost as though he were jealous.