The Inheritance Paradox
Thirty (Eugene’s Story)
EUGENE HAD BEEN traveling to other times for nearly a year. He worried that it was hurting his relationship with Lynn. He’d never be able to settle down with her until he quit this wandering through time to get other women pregnant. He’d proposed three months earlier and she’d yet to respond.
“I don’t think it’s quite the right time for that yet,” she’d said one evening.
“I’ll quit time traveling.”
“When?”
When Wells freezes over.
“I don’t know. I’m going to refuse the next one. I need to see a hypnotist, so I don’t have these dreams anymore.”
“Dreams. If you don’t stop soon, you’ll be too old for me.”
He knew it was true. His watch showed he’d lived more than eight years in the past. He tried to ignore the evidence of aging more rapidly than he should.
“Lynn thinks I visit a past life on a different plane while I’m dreaming or meditating. I’m beginning to think she’s right. I’ve been doing this for months and I don’t know what’s real and what isn’t. I’ve been getting women pregnant in the twelfth through the eighteenth centuries. At least once in the nineteenth century. What kind of man does that? How do I know what’s real? You could be a figment of my imagination!” Eugene shouted as he sat in the Laboratory Between Times. “I don’t want to grow old in the past!”
“I thought giving you a couple of weeks between trips to ground yourself in your own time would help alleviate those questions,” Wells said. “You bring back souvenirs from each of your trips. Doesn’t that help?”
Your wonderful collection of stuff. You know it’s a typical mark of a serial killer—to collect something from each of his victims.
“A ribbon. A coin. A button. Things I could have picked up off the street and made up a story about,” he answered. “Like Garfield Goose.”
The puppet character had often gone on remarkable adventures and brought back things that could be household items—like a fishbowl for a space helmet.
“I see. You need contemporary evidence of your journey to the past.”
“I can’t even visit the places I’m supposed to have been. Somewhere in Europe or a remote part of the Americas. Canada or the West. Rescuing an Indian maiden during the French and Indian Wars. Moving French Canadians who were being trafficked. Prostitutes during the American Revolution. Romania or Hungary or Germany or France or Scotland. It’s all surreal. I’m doubting my sanity.”
Every woman willing to have you make her a mommy. That’s suspicious.
“Okay. I have another mission and this time you will find evidence. Genuine evidence. You can reinforce the genes you implanted years ago. You’ll find a change of clothes in the dressing room.”
Eugene went into the dressing room to change clothes and found a blue uniform. It was slightly worn, but clean. He wasn’t sure if it was authentic or a reproduction.
At least you’re on the winning side.
Galahad helped him figure out how to wear the belts and found the shoes and socks to be surprisingly comfortable, though also quite worn. He put on the cap that went with the Union uniform and rejoined Wells.
“Civil War?” Eugene asked.
“Yes. You’ll be joining a regiment as a field replacement. You’ll figure it out from there. The sooner you find someone, the quicker you’ll be back,” Wells said. “This regiment is from Michigan, and you’ll be able to search its records when you return to your own time. Now here is the other gear you’ll need.”
He buckled a long knife onto the belt.
“No sword?” Eugene asked.
“Only for officers. You’re a lowly private. And your rifle won’t accept a bayonet, so I’ve given you this in case you need to cut yourself in order to bleed into someone. Here’s your rifle.”
“I thought they used muzzle loaders in the Civil War.”
Do you think you could load one?
“I’m trying to give you a few advantages, so you don’t get killed. It’s a nasty war. The Henry was a valuable rifle and loads prepacked shells in a magazine. While most other soldiers will be stopping after every shot to reload, you will have a full magazine of fifteen cartridges and one in the chamber. It is a more familiar rifle for your era with lever action to advance the shells. And your ammunition pouch has a few dozen shells for when you reload.”
I have an inventory for your knapsack.
Wells kept loading him up with a knapsack, ammunition pouch, canteen, and bedroll.
Expect to be cold at night. This isn’t a thermal blanket.
“This stuff weighs a ton. How am I supposed to fight?” Eugene asked.
“Hope you don’t need to,” Wells answered. “Mostly, hide behind trees or lie flat on the ground. You’ll be among soldiers from Michigan, but they won’t know you as a replacement. When they ask, give them your name.”
And try not to be shot as a spy.
“Right. How am I supposed to find a woman on a battlefield?”
“It doesn’t actually have to be a woman. You’ve found that out before. Transfer blood and saliva. Or experiment with a man in order to stay warm at night. Otherwise, you’ll figure it out. Now, get to work and try to live through the experience. I’ve never sent you into an actual war before. Don’t see a way around it this time in order to give you evidence you can verify.”
Eugene felt the dizzying disorientation and then people were shooting all around him.
“Why did you land me right in the middle of a firefight?” Eugene screamed.
It was the easiest place to arrive without being noticed.
A tree limb exploded over Eugene’s head and he rolled back. He pulled the rifle from its sling and placed it against his shoulder.
Don’t forget to cock the hammer.
Eugene pulled back the hammer and scanned the area for enemies. He saw a puff of light gray smoke and the soldier next to him screamed. Eugene fired at the smoke, not knowing if he was even close to the target. It was the first time he’d ever fired a rifle.
He reached for the fallen soldier beside him to pull him to shelter. The guy moaned.
“Help me!” he rasped. Blood soaked the side of his uniform.
“Medic!” Eugene yelled.
Not in this war! You’re it.
Eugene pulled the wounded man to him, tearing the shirt away from the wound. He was lucky. It looked like the slug had gone clean through. He quickly made a small cut on his hand and pressed his flowing blood against the wound.
Nothing here to stop the bleeding. Get him to the back of the line.
Eugene dragged him to the rear where there was a wagon. A couple of civilians took his burden and pushed him back toward the front line. He looked over a mound and saw half a dozen gray uniforms running away.
“Shoot them! Don’t let them get away!” a soldier yelled from nearby. There were a couple of scattered shots, but the rebels all disappeared.
“Sound recall!”
The bugle sounded and the soldiers all started falling back. It was dusk and it would be seriously foolish to try to chase the rebels into the forest at night.
You should have stayed with the wounded.
“I didn’t have much choice,” Eugene snapped at Galahad.
Don’t forget to cock your rifle to eject the spent shell.
Eugene worked the lever and the shell popped out, advancing another into the chamber.
“Saw you take out that Johnnie and drag Wilbur back to the ambulance wagon,” a soldier said, sitting down on a fallen log next to Eugene. “Thanks for that. He’s a good boy. I’ll be right beside you tomorrow.”
“It was just what needed to be done,” Eugene said. The soldier eyed the rifle as Eugene slung it over his shoulder.
“Nice rifle. You must be rich,” his companion said. “If something happens to you—and I hope it doesn’t—toss it my way. Just tell them you’re giving it to Lorne Appleton. That’s me.” The soldier held out a hand to Eugene.
“Eugene Holbrook,” Eugene said, shaking the offered hand. “Just got here as a replacement this afternoon.”
“Glad to see they’re sending us replacements. We been three days pinned down here. They say the rebs are moving east, so I figure we’ll be following them in the morning.”
Why not stab yourself and get sent back.
“Don’t want to need a replacement soon.”
“Who knows what the officers plan? It’s just a guess.”
They conversed and found a place to stretch out on their bedrolls for what sleep could be had. Galahad continued to interject comments in Eugene’s mind, mostly focused on how to get out of the front line.
You could always shoot yourself in the foot.
In the morning, the order was given to break camp. Supply wagons were loaded and followed the troops as they moved east along the river. They saw no sign of the rebels until a scout reported they were dug in two hundred yards ahead. The union soldiers readied their arms and dropped to the ground to crawl forward.
Pull back the hammer and keep the business end pointed ahead.
Eugene’s companion and another private who joined them both carried muzzle-loading muskets. They were good quality Springfields, according to Lorne, but had seen a lot of service already. Eugene’s Henry looked brand new by comparison. It even had his name, “E.W. Holbrook” engraved on the brass receiver.
They crawled forward until a burst of fire came from a ditch ahead of them. The light gray smoke indicated the rebels would need to stop and reload.
There was some answering fire, but no one could see a clear target until another phalanx of shooters rose to fire. Eugene and his two companions fired and one of the rebels fell.
You missed.
His companions ducked behind the next line of shooters to reload their muskets while Eugene covered them. He fired twice more in the time it took them to reload. He knew this time he’d hit one of the shooters, but he wasn’t that happy about it.
It’s war. You’re supposed to kill the enemy.
“I don’t want to,” Eugene said beneath his breath. “They’re kids.”
Wars are always fought by kids. You’re too old.
The battle continued. It went much more slowly than Eugene expected. Most soldiers on each side had to stop for a minute to reload between shots. Hence a few soldiers would pop up high enough to fire, then duck behind a tree or another soldier to reload. After a beat, another row of shooters would pop up. Eugene and his companions did okay for an hour or two, him covering them when they needed to reload. Then his own chamber clicked empty.
He slid down for the minute it took him to reload the magazine and snap it into place. He levered a shell in the chamber and put one more cartridge into the magazine tube and capped it, then rolled back into position just in time to hear the ‘Advance!’ command shouted along the line. He saw gray shadows moving back into trees but didn’t clock a target in time to fire.
Lorne and Rex, his companions, both rose enough to fire and were immediately met with answering shots. Eugene aimed a shot at each of the puffs of smoke as his companions howled in pain. Both had been hit. Lorne had blood running from his head but was still breathing and cursing with every breath. Rex had been hit squarely in his rifle shoulder and his arm lay limp at his side.
Give them blood!
Eugene sprang into action. He cut his arm and dripped some of his blood into each wound. Then he crouched over and grabbed each of his companions by an arm to pull them away from the front line. A searing pain caught him in his right thigh. He pitched forward, but kept moving on hands and knees, dragging his buddies, until the gunfire began to fade behind him.
He finally saw the ambulance wagons ahead and called out weakly. Two civilians rushed to get his companions. Rex was unconscious and Lorne was still cursing. Eugene was helped into the wagon as well, and the nearest equivalent of a medic triaged their wounds as more were loaded into the wagon. It was soon full and the horses pulled it back nearly to where their camp had been the night before.
A medical tent had been set up, and patients were moved into it and out of it as their wounds were treated. There were screams of pain as some had limbs removed. Others didn’t get a chance to scream but were taken from the tent dead.
Finally, Eugene was moved into the tent and laid face-down on a cot. He’d wrapped a scrap from his shirt around the cut on his arm but hadn’t been able to do anything about the bullet. His trousers were pulled down to expose the wound in his thigh.
This looks like you were running away and got shot in the back.
“Not far off.”
“What’s not far off,” a woman said.
“I guess the bullet wasn’t far off its target.”
“Caught you retreating?” she asked as she began to probe the bullet hole.
“Dragging two wounded to the ambulance,” he said, grimacing in pain as she continued to search for the lead.
“You the guy that brought in Lorne and Rex?”
“Yeah. We were a team and they both got hit. How are they?”
“Lorne is pissed. He’s got a hard head, and the bullet just made a crease that cracked his skull. A little lower and he’d be dead. Rex is pretty serious. Not sure how he’s hanging on. He lost a lot of blood. I don’t know if he’ll make it,” she said. “So, you’re Eugene?”
“Yes. Who are you?”
“I’m Sarah Gilland.”
“Doctor?” Eugene asked.
“Ha! Doctors don’t have time to spend extracting bullets. They went to town an hour ago and are probably drunk by now,” she said.
She finally found the ball in his thigh and pulled it out. Eugene did his best not to scream as she poured alcohol on the wound. She began applying a bandage.
“Let me see what you’ve got wrapped on your arm,” she said. “You want this bullet? Guys collect them as souvenirs.”
Eugene sat up and unwrapped his arm.
Wells said you’d have proof when you returned. A bullet and matching scar fit the bill.
“Sure. If I don’t take the bullet, no one will believe I got shot when I get back home.”
She handed him the piece of lead and looked at the cut on his arm. There was blood all around the cut as well. She washed it, poured alcohol on it, and wrapped a fresh bandage around his arm.
Eugene stood and pulled his trousers up. Sarah was a good ten inches or a foot shorter than he was. Her once-white apron was soaked in blood, and she wiped her hands on a clean spot she found. She had soft brown hair and a pleasant smile.
“Where’s home?” she asked.
“Michigan. Uh… Flint.” He hoped Flint had been a town during the Civil War. “I suppose now that I’m patched up, I have to return to camp. Do you know where it is?”
“A couple of miles back the way you came. Stay here for the night until you’re sure you can walk. What unit are you with?”
“You know. The one up front. I’m a replacement who just arrived yesterday and was sent straight into the front line. I’m not sure who I’m attached to,” Eugene said.
“I bet you aren’t. Sure or attached. Your friend Lorne started in right away when we were bandaging his head. ‘If Eugene is dead, he promised that Henry rifle to me.’ Of course, he’ll be happy to hear you’re alive. When I asked him what unit you were in, he just looked puzzled and said, ‘Ours, I suppose.’ I bet you don’t have papers, do you?”
“I think they got lost in the scuffle.”
“Mmmhmm. Everything about you, right down to that Henry rifle and long knife you’re carrying, says you were turned down for enlistment. You’re too old. Forty? Yeah, at least. You were freshly barbered not more than a couple of days ago. You managed to borrow equipment and a uniform from a dead man and hiked in to join a battle. There’s a hole in your shirt. Noble and brave of you, but you aren’t in the army.”
Impressive. This is a smart woman!
“My. Any other evidence?” Eugene asked.
“Yes. Your rifle isn’t army issued. It was purchased somewhere up north, and you were proud enough of it to have it engraved with your name.” She reached for his rifle beside the cot and traced the engraving on the brass receiver: E.W. Holbrook. “So, you must be kind of rich, too. A rifle like this would cost at least sixty dollars. Maybe seventy-five. I think I’m going to keep you near, Eugene Holbrook.”
Sounds like an invitation.
“I’ll be happy to be near you, Sarah,” he said.
“Not that near,” she laughed. “Bed down over there with the other wounded and treated. Nurses are separate.”
When reveille sounded in the morning, Eugene rose and put his kit in order. He didn’t see Lorne or Rex around, but after asking, was pointed toward a recovery tent. He limped over and found Lorne there.
“Hey. You doing okay?” Eugene asked. “Where’s Rex?”
“Man, he was right there on the cot next to me, but around midnight they hauled him out. He didn’t make it.”
Too bad.
“I gave him blood! What happened?”
Not enough. Your blood helps to heal and prevents some disease, but it isn’t able to resurrect the dead.
“You did your best, getting us out of there,” Lorne said, noting how upset Eugene was. “Guess I won’t be needing that rifle of yours. They’re sending me north for re- something. I think they don’t like the way I smell. What happened to you?”
“Caught a slug in my thigh while hauling the two of you out of there,” Eugene said. “Reckon I’ll need to head back to the front now.”
He couldn’t treat losing Rex lightly. Maybe if he’d shouldered him instead of dragging him, he wouldn’t have lost so much blood. But what would have happened to Lorne then? Besides, the slug that hit him in the thigh could just as easily have hit Rex if Eugene was carrying him.
There’s no good answer.
How many rebels had Eugene hit that didn’t have buddies to carry them away? Did they bleed out in a slow death? Eugene left Lorne and grabbed a tin of mash at the cookfire. Sarah caught up with him there.
There’s the light of your life.
“I’m going to need your help. We’ve been ordered to evacuate and move north across the river. The rebels launched a counterattack early this morning and our front lines are falling back,” she said.
“We’re not that far behind them,” Eugene said.
“We’ll load the wagons with all those who can’t travel on their own. You’ll need to walk with me. I’ll help support you. Our responsibility will be to keep anyone from falling behind.”
“Rear guard?”
“Captain Mitchell, the doctor figured with your rifle, you’d be perfect to defend the rear if any rebels start across the river.”
North of the river should be safe.
“If we get there.”
“We’ll get there,” Sarah said. “Here comes our wagon. Help me get this tent evacuated.”
Eugene got right to work, carrying stretchers and then supplies to the wagon. Finally, the tent came down and was loaded on the side. They were the last ones in camp and their driver headed for the river ford. They needed to get across and away from the banks as quickly as possible. Their own troops should make it to the ford before the rebels did—unless they were all wiped out.
Please feel free to send comments to the author at devon@devonlayne.com.
