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Let None Pursue By: Samuel Hayne

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Let None Pursue
Part I
By: Samuel Hayne


Lieutenant Henry Hollingsworth of the Federal army stared into the blank eyes of his old friend Ambrose Peyton who fell limp on the muddy Texas road. Peyton’s favored Starr Revolver remained gripped tight in his left hand. His handsome, often referred to as gentlemanly, face was splattered with blood and gore. Some of Peyton’s remaining teeth were visible through a hollow gouge in the left cheek. Hollingsworth turned his stern face away from the ghastly sight so that he might remain composed in front of his soldiers.

Sergeant Ambrose Peyton, who had left camp with twelve soldiers five hours earlier, returned alone, his uniform soiled with a mixture of blood and gunpowder smudges. Lieutenant Hollingsworth thought his second looked as though he’d recently been fired from the mouth of a cannon. The gold chevrons indicating Peyton’s rank were missing from the blue uniform, as was the entire right sleeve of his coat. What remained of the exposed arm was a bloody mess of torn meat with fist-sized chunks of flesh missing from the appendage.

The exhausted platoon of men gathered nearby, curious as to who had staggered into the camp. A short, bespectacled man with a wooden walking stick limped through the crowd calmly pushing the soldiers aside. He knelt beside the Lieutenant and a horrified expression, more near revulsion, contorted his face when he saw the carnage of Sergeant Peyton’s body. He replaced his disgust with a slightly more steeled countenance as the doctor leaned in toward the body to assess the damage. After a few silent moments of examining Peyton the elderly gentleman nodded a few times as if agreeing with an unseen visitor.

“These are not wounds consistent with weapons of war, Sir,” the field doctor said looking directly into the face of the Lieutenant. “And honestly, as a God fearing man, I hesitate to utter what I think made these injuries.”

He stared into the doctor’s solemn face. Had Hollingsworth not been an officer of the Federal army, leading the bravest of men to their deaths in this War Between the States, he would not have seen the deep fear hidden behind the physician’s weathered and watery eyes. Beneath the nicotine stained grey moustache, the doctor’s lips were pursed tightly together as if this action was the only thing keeping him from spouting out the heretical thoughts crawling around in his brain. His large leathery hands, famous for calmly stitching up soldiers even under cannon fire, belied the doctor’s typically steady behavior as he twisted the exposed tail of his blood streaked uniform shirt into a tight knot.

Henry Hollingsworth could sense the fear mounting in the soldiers by the manner in which they slowly gathered around, yet stayed at a safe distance. He imagined that their own superstitions were at work in their heads letting panic and trepidation boil together in a thick stew of fear.

“It’s okay, Doc.” Hollingsworth nodded. “You don’t have to say what’s on your mind. In fact, I think it is best you don’t. But I need you to stay here with Sergeant Peyton and myself.”

The physician silently agreed.

Henry took Ambrose Peyton up into his arms, pulled him close and held him tight against his own body.

“Peyton,” Hollingsworth whispered to his friend, unsure if he was still conscious. “Peyton, stay with us. I need you to tell me what happened out there. I need to know so that I can help the other men who did not return with you.”

“Chymer hon.” The dying man’s mouth moved, but only gibberish escaped through his cracked and bloodied lips. “'n chrauch boblogi.” His ramblings trailed off.

Peyton’s eyes, usually a bright and sunny sky blue but now a morbid grey, lazily rolled around in sunken sockets probing the sky, then dramatically the eyelids fluttered and his eyes slowly rolled back into his head.

“Ambrose Peyton!” Hollingsworth called out. “Stay with us Sergeant. Where are the other men?” Henry Hollingsworth, known by all of his soldiers as a rugged and stoic man, could feel the grief surging in his throat and was unable to resist the sadness that washed over him as he helplessly watched his friend begin to pass. “Peyton, damn you… don’t die.”

“It’s too late, Lieutenant.” The old doctor gripped Henry Hollingsworth’s strong shoulder more for balance than consolation. “Sergeant Peyton has passed from this life.”



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About the Author


Samuel Hayne has been published in The World of Myth, Dark Lives, The Harrow, and Cemetary Gates. He lives in Seattle, Washington with his partner and two french bulldogs Jedi and VooDoo. He is currently working on the serial novel TWILIGHT SONG.

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