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randomweavingWorking Title: Dressing Boys Up Like Soldiers (or Civil War)
Characters: JD/Perry
Preview Rating: PG
Summary:An AU in which JD finds the medical journal of the civil war surgeon Percival Catherwood, wherein he discusses his involvement in the Battle of Wilson's Creek and the training of his apprentice, Jonathan Dwyer.
Standard WIP disclaimer: Most of these stories were begun a long time ago. We've grown as writers since then. These are also rough, as they're works in progress and have received no more than the most remedial editing. Keep this in mind. These are works in progress, progress being the key word. ;)
This story was born in early January of this year;![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thuri got the idea and told me about it while talking me through my boredom during the power losses of the ice storm. /trivia
Elliot was sneaky. Underhandedly sneaky.
Not that this should have come as a surprise to JD, he'd known her for years, after all. But he honestly couldn't work out how she'd gotten him here. He rubbed his eyes again, blinking in the pre-dawn gloom, listening to the sound of haggling-by-flashlight going on all around him.
A six o'clock in the morning trip to the Sunday swap meet definitely fell under the "above and beyond" category of friendship, he decided with a yawn, listening to her bargaining for some small plastic ponies. It'd seemed harmless at the time. Agree to go with her to look for replacements for some of the childhood things she'd lost when all her stuff had been stolen several years ago, maybe pick up some interesting things himself...But he hadn't realized she wanted to arrive as soon as the damn thing opened.
"But JD, that's when we have to go, all the good stuff is gone by seven!" she'd said, bouncing a little. "So you'll pick me up at five thirty, right?"
And God help him, he had.
He yawned again, following her down the aisle of booths and blankets, the leavings of a thousand lives still being spread onto their surfaces. Someone asked ten dollars for a silver hairbrush and mirror set, another charged a dollar per dog-chewed action figure. Even if the price was right, JD wasn't seeing much he wanted...
Except the books, of course. And maybe some of the albums, he still loved vinyl. And then there were the toys. And the other...things. He wondered if he could find a friend for Rowdy, if he looked hard enough. But no, he couldn't bring another stuffed dog home, even if he'd wanted to. Perry barely tolerated Rowdy as it was. But the older doctor's birthday was coming up, and if JD could find him something, too...
Fine. Stick to something small...and least likely to get you laughed at.
So while Elliot went through yet another bin of sickly pastel girlie toys--Oooo, is that a Pattie O'Green doll?--JD pulled himself away to flip through a box of books at the next table. He nodded to the old guy in his folding lawn chair. "You've got a lot of stuff here."
"Don't I know it. My aunt just died, she never threw a thing away, collected more than any one person should have owned." He shook his head, gesturing at the box JD was looking in. "I got more of those, and the letters!" His face twisted and JD made a sympathetic noise.
"They look interesting," JD offered, flipping one open. The plain, leather bound volumes turned out to have old-fashioned handwriting in them. Journals? He felt himself getting intrigued despite himself. "Were these hers?"
"Nah. She never wrote anything but nagging letters on how we never paid her enough attention...Those were my uncle's. He didn't write 'em, either. Civil War buff, collected everything he could find on it. Glad to get rid of the junk. Would've tossed it, but my wife couldn't bear to see it all go without trying to get some cash..." He kept grumbling, but JD tuned him out as he sorted through the box with new interest.
And then froze, distantly grateful the old guy didn't seem to need him to reply. Because he'd opened another one of the journals--he'd found three, so far, with the same handwriting--and the name on the first page made his eyes widen.
Percival Catherwood, surgeon. 1861.
"How much do you want for them?" JD heard himself ask, still staring at the page. Percival. Perry'd get a hell of a kick out of that, and if there were any procedures described...It'd be worth it for that, as well. "The whole box?" He'd sort out which was which later...
"The whole thing?" The man frowned, scratching his chin, the scrape of fingers against stubble making JD's skin crawl. "There's at least ten books in there, couldn't let it go for less than twenty."
JD started to reach for his wallet, when he felt a hand on his wrist.
"You just told him you were going to throw them out," he heard Elliot say sweetly. "He'll give you five."
Shrugging, JD tuned them both out and flipped through the first journal, excitement growing to see it was, in fact, as much a doctor's casebook as a record of daily life. He couldn't help being fascinated. A whole different Percival...
He looked down at the name again, written in faded ink, and the handwriting seemed almost familiar, now that he thought about it. And to think, someone had written these words over a century ago, and now he could glimpse into their life...his resulting shiver had nothing to do with the chill morning breeze.
* * *
The box of books ended up costing him twelve dollars. He paid absently, only half-listening as Elliot congratulated herself on her haggling skills and her own purchases, picking up the box and hauling it along with him, only just resisting the urge to plunk himself down and read.
It only grew, when she dropped her bag on top the books, tugging him after her to another booth of early eighties memorabilia. He wondered just how many toys Elliot had had that he hadn't seen in the short time they'd dated, if she felt the need to grab up a Care Bear, and a Cabbage Patch Doll and a Strawberry Shortcake, but he didn't protest as she piled them up in his arms.
And he was grateful to help her find bits of her childhood. He really was. Or so he told himself, as they wedged everything into the Prius JD'd given into getting when Sasha breathed her last, finally lashing a bookshelf Elliot had decided she couldn't live without to the roof. "Remind me to rent a truck, next time?" JD said with a grin, as they got back in and headed off. "And someone to help you carry all this stuff up all those stairs. Why's Sean always out of town when you need him?" He winked, though, knowing she'd wanted to hang out, just the two of them.
"I know it's a lot, but thank you so much, JD! I really appreciate it. And can you believe I got that guy down to only ten dollars apiece? True, I didn't strictly need new furniture, but that chair is just adorable and Sean will love that table and..."
JD made the appropriate noises to Elliot's excited remarks, his mind mostly on the box of books he'd gotten for himself. He didn't know much more about the civil war than most people. One of his mom's husbands had taken them all on a trip to various sites across the Midwest one summer, but he'd spent the whole time in the car reading, his walkman turned up high. And other than that, he'd had a couple units on it in school, and only remembered the highlights, now.
But reading a surgeon's account of it...that would've been fascinating enough no matter which war it dealt with. The medical profession had come an incredible way in the past 140 years, after all, and he was fully prepared to shudder at the descriptions. From what little he did remember of his classes on it, amputations were often performed with no anaesthetic, and of course hygiene was basically unknown.
Wondering how anyone had managed to survive at all in those days, he parked in front of Elliot's place, helping her haul all her own stuff upstairs, before finally heading home himself for a nap.
Or at least that was the plan. But when he dropped the box of books onto his bedside table, he couldn't help sorting through them, to find which were the journals of the long ago Dr. Percival Catherwood. God, what a name. And then when he finished sorting...he couldn't help taking the earliest dated one with him, stretching out on the bed. On Perry's side, of course, which he usually stole for reading.
Despite JD's fears of spidery writing and archaic spelling, it proved easy enough to decipher. The ink was faded but the writing itself was strong. Sprawling, but not hard to read.
In no time, JD was lost in a world gone by.
* * *
Percival had decided, long before the train pulled to a stop in Columbus, that this whole thing had been a mistake.
He groaned, climbing to his feet and grabbing his satchel, adjusting his glasses. A quick glance out the slatted window told him it was raining. It had been raining in New York, too, when he'd closed up his little office for the last time before officially checking in with the Federal Army's medical volunteer headquarters. Rain in New York. Bad omen, if he'd believed in such nonsense.
"You'll be traveling to Missouri," the officer had told him, handing him a ticket to attach to his luggage (which consisted of a few changes of clothes, what medical supplies he was willing to risk to the handlers, and a large stack of blank journals). "You'll stop in Ohio and meet up with the officials there; they'll be assigning you an apprentice. From there you'll travel by rail to St. Louis, then by horseback to the camp in Springfield. Your commanding officer will be Brigadier General Nathanial Lyon."
He'd been ushered onto the train, into the private quarters he knew were a luxury but actually felt more like a punishment. There was a bed in his compartment, to be sure, but despite this he found himself able to sleep in only fits and starts. The frequent stops the train made, picking up soldiers and supplies for the ride south, only exacerbated this difficulty; the lurching of the great engine rolling to a stop had given him a stomachache. He'd cut a slice of ginger root and seeped it in his tea, but it had only had a minimal effect on his nausea.
All in all, he was grateful when the conductor came by and knocked on his compartment door, announcing the last stop in Columbus.
He moved awkwardly through the narrow corridor, his trench coat slung over one arm and his hat, cane, and satchel in the opposite hand. The train to St. Louis wasn't supposed to leave until the next morning, so with any luck the army would have a better place for him to sleep.
He gripped the rail and eased himself down the grated metal steps of the train, ducked quickly under the awning of the station once his feet hit the solid wooden planks. He removed his glasses, scowling as he wiped the rain drops from them with a kerchief pulled from his waistcoat, then settled the thin wire frames back on his nose. He gripped his cane, using it to ease the amount of weight he bore on his right knee, and peered into air thick with steam from the train. He'd been told he would be met with a representative; he hoped they weren't planning on keeping him long. He had an appointment with a decent meal (steak, potatoes, fresh vegetables if he could find some) and sleep in a real bed, and he'd be damned if some godforsaken incompetent army idiot was the reason he was late.
"Dr. Percival Catherwood?" A voice behind him made him jump, and he turned, lifting one eyebrow.
"Yes?"
An officer stood before him, all greying hair and bushy eyebrows and brass medals. They've really called in the cavalry, haven't they...?
"I'm General Briggs," the man said, extending a hand.
Percival nodded politely, but indicated his armload. "Afraid the pleasantries will have to wait, General, until I find somewhere to set these things down," he said pointedly.
"Ah, yes, of course," the general said, clearing his throat. "My apologies, things are not running as smoothly as they would be under normal circumstances."
"Under normal circumstances, General, I would not be here," Percival returned. "And you may keep your apologies, but a hand with this bag wouldn't go amiss."
The general lifted his eyebrows. "Indeed," he said, but reached out and took the satchel from Percival's hand. Percival nodded his thanks, taking a moment to shrug into his overcoat and settle his hat upon his dampened curls.
"Much better," he murmured, reaching up to push his glasses back up onto his nose.
"This way, if you please?" the general said, indicating the station. "I'll debrief you on the way to your quarters. You're to be staying in the George Clark hotel on fifth; I've arranged a coach to transport you. Your bags will be sent ahead with the train, and they will be waiting for you in Springfield."
Percival nodded, feeling his shoulders relaxing a little. This was more like it. "And my apprentice?"
"Is already at the hotel," the general replied. "Very eager young man--arrived two days before his appointed time and volunteered to help out in the recruitment centers. He's been very anxious to meet you."
Percival snorted. "Perfect," he murmured. "I am to babysit him, am I?"
"You're to train him," the general said, clearly not interested in placating Percival any longer. "It was part of the arrangement when you volunteered, as well you knew." He gave the surgeon a sidelong glance. "I think you'll find the lad to be quite agreeable, if you give him a chance."
"We'll see," Percival murmured, pushing his glasses up onto his nose.
* * *
On the ride to the hotel, the General filled him in on the situation in Missouri. General Lyon, after successfully defending the US Arsenal in St. Louis and wresting control of the state government from the Rebel sympathizer Governor Jackson, had finally amassed enough soldiers to begin to march on the southwest corner of the state. They had established themselves in Springfield, which was apparently where Percival was set to be joining them.
"The Union's position in Missouri is precarious, at best," Briggs informed him, as the coach bumped along the rain-slicked cobblestone streets. "She wishes to maintain neutrality, but General Price still has a hold on the southern corner. If the rebels decide to march on Springfield we'll have a major battle on our hands."
Percival scowled out at the driving rain. "What about medical supplies?" he asked. "Personnel?"
"There are a number of other surgeons already at the camp, and several of the locals have volunteered as well, but the number of well-trained, educated surgeons is distressingly small," Briggs admitted. "That's why we're sending you out there, even though there were a number of stations much closer."
"I'd wondered," Percival muttered.
"Missouri's very important to this war," Briggs said. "If we lose her the scales could tip in favor of the Rebels very quickly. It's important our soldiers down there are looked after."
"I'm here, aren't I?" Percival snapped. "If you give me the tools, I'll do my best to do my job."
General Briggs smiled, nodding. "Good man," he murmured.
Or possibly very stupid, Percival thought, but instead he merely gave Briggs a terse smile in return, then turned his gaze back to the gloomy, rain-drenched city streets.
* * *
When they arrived at the hotel, Percival was led immediately to his room, which he was grateful to see had a large, well-stuffed mattress, and private bathing chambers.
"Your apprentice is still at the recruitment station," Briggs informed him. "But we've already sent someone to fetch him back. The two of you can get acquainted at dinner. Good evening, Doctor."
"Good evening," Percival said, waving a hand vaguely as he surveyed the room. He heard the door close quietly behind him, but did not turn; instead, he moved forward, hoisting his satchel onto the bed, then moved into the bathing chambers to wash up before dinner.
Apprentice. Well, if the lad was quiet, Percival supposed a shared dinner wouldn't be much worse than a dinner alone. After all, he was technically the lad's superior. If nothing else, he could simply order him to be silent, and the lad would be required to obey.
He splashed cold water from the large tin tureen into his face, reaching for the linen cloth that hung beside it. As he stood, he glanced at himself in the glass, taking in the tight lines around his eyes, the grooves next to his mouth from a face set into a near-permanent scowl. He sighed, reaching out to lay light fingers against that reflection, trying to recall a time when the face that greeted him every morning had been a smiling one, easy and happy. Back before the accident that had cost him everything--his health, his home, his... his family.
He closed his eyes, lowering his hand and turning away from the glass. A glance at his pocket watch told him he had another half an hour before he was supposed to be downstairs for dinner. He limped to the bed and lowered himself onto it gingerly, lifting the leg of his trousers and gazing despondently at the crisscross of scar tissue that ran from his right knee halfway down his calf. Burns. Long healed, but the scar tissue had left his leg partially immobilized, and prone to aches in weather like this. He lowered the cuff once more, reaching into his bag and pulling out a bottle of pills. He popped one into his mouth, dry-swallowing it, then replaced the bottle, relaxing back onto the mattress. Might as well enjoy the quiet while he could. Between one thing and another, he knew it wasn't going to last much longer.
* * *
There was a young man standing in the lobby when he entered it, once more leaning heavily on his cane. Percival took a moment to observe him in silence, noting the lankiness of the figure, the long, slightly curved nose, the wide blue eyes. The lad was shifting nervously from foot to foot, staring out at the rain, occasionally raking a hand through his dark, shaggy hair. He was wearing a blue pair of army-issued trousers that clearly hadn't been tailored for him; they were rolled twice at the ankles to keep them from dragging in the mud. His shirt, a button-down blue, was threadbare, and there was a small tear on the corner of one cuff.
But it was buttoned all the way to the boy's throat, and the pants were carefully pressed, the worn boots painstakingly polished. Ragged the boy might be, but he wasn't sloppy. Percival nodded slightly in approval.
The boy caught the movement, apparently, because suddenly he turned, taking note of the man standing before him, observing him. His eyes flicked quickly down to the cane, then up again, his whole body straightening slightly. "Dr. Catherwood?" he asked, his face relaxing into a shy smile. "I'm Jonathan Dwyre."
Percival tilted his head. "And just how old are you, Jonathan Dwyre?" he asked, face dubious. The lad looked to be no more than fourteen or fifteen, for pity's sake; he was supposed to train him? To do what, buckle his boots?
The lad straightened still further. "I'm eighteen, sir," he replied, the shy look of welcome slipping away, his face going carefully neutral.
Percival huffed. "Haven't overfed you, have they?" he murmured, eyes skimming over the boy's lean, awkward figure.
"No, sir," the lad murmured, dropping his gaze. He took a deep breath, and let it out again, glancing up once more, a smile once again playing about his lips. "So it won't cost the army much to feed me now, since I'm not used to it."
Percival snorted. "I'll make you a deal, Oliver," he growled. "You cut the lovable street urchin act right now and I'll give you my table scraps at dinner every night. Now. Do you have any medical experience?"
"Not very much, and mostly with animals," the lad admitted, shifting his weight again. "But I'm a quick learner. And it's Johnny, not Oliver, if you're going to call me by name."
"I'll call you whatever I want," Percival informed him, suspicions about the boy's level of literacy confirmed when he missed the Dickens reference. "And you'll answer, too, because the fact of the matter is, I'm your superior now, medically and in the chain of command, and when you signed your soul over to the government you signed on for the whole package. But I'll make you another deal: Don't give me a reason to address you outside of medical situations, and I'll call you by your name in every one of them. Now let's go. I'm starved."
"Looking forward to working with you, too, sir," Johnny muttered softly, though his tone wasn't--quite--disrespectful.
Percival sighed, though he didn't look back at the young man following glumly at his heels. In truth, he wasn't sure why he was being so hard on the lad. Maybe it was just because he was tired, the two-day journey having done a number on his nerves as well as his knee. Or maybe the young man reminded him too much of himself at that age: full of hopes for the future, certain that things would work out for him.
Not the way the world works, he thought bitterly, glancing back again. Johnny's head was lowered, staring at his feet, and his shoulders were a little slumped. The sooner he learns that the better...
But as they walked toward the restaurant, a strange sort of guilt crept, unexpected, in Percival's heart. The boy would learn, and sooner, not later. They were heading into war, after all; there was never anything easy or pretty about that. And from the looks of it, the lad hadn't exactly had it easy to start with, half-starved and dressed in rags as he was.
And, much as it annoyed him, something about Jonathan Dwyre brought up an instinct he hadn't felt in some time: the protective, almost paternal instinct to protect the spark of rare innocence he honestly didn't know how the lad had held onto this long.
He sighed, and paused, waiting until Johnny caught up and realized he'd stopped. The younger man's head lifted, brow furrowed. "Something wrong, sir?" he murmured.
Percival studied him a moment in silence, then shook his head. "No," he said quietly. There was another long silence in which the younger man watched him expectantly; finally, Percival drew himself up. "I'm not here to make your life miserable, lad," he stated.
"Think it's the Rebels who are planning to do that," Johnny offered, not quite smiling. He lowered his eyes for a moment, then looked back up, eyes apologetic but determined. "I know...I know I'm not much of an assistant, but...I really do want to learn," he said earnestly. "I'll do my best, sir, I promise."
"You will, or you won't last long out there," Percival agreed, though he was actually wondering what it was about the lad that had so abruptly broken down his defenses. Damned old fool, that's what you are, Percival. Damned old sentimental fool. "But if you listen to me and do exactly as I say, you should pick things up pretty quickly. Assuming you've a halfway decent head on your shoulders." He turned again, leaning on his cane as he headed toward the hotel's restaurant once more. "Now heel toe, lad. Let's get something to eat before there's nothing left."
Johnny followed him, an encouraged bounce back in his step, obviously full of barely suppressed questions. But he didn't voice any, for the time being.
* * *
JD paused in his reading, eyes wide. Percival's apprentice's name was Jonathan? Jonathan Dwyer, no less? So Percival C. was teaching a Jonathan D.?
He shivered. Talk about twilight zone. Rolling off the bed, JD scrubbed his hands through his hair, heading toward the kitchen to grab something to eat, and maybe call Perry. He'd planned to keep the journals a secret, and give them to the other man as a gift, but he was frankly too excited about them now. Besides, Perry would probably welcome a break from hospital news.
He opened the cabinet above the sink, rooting through the plastic bowls with cartoon characters on them and finally finding a plain ceramic bowl shoved near the back. Then he paused, realizing that Perry wasn't home to laugh at him, and replaced it, grabbing instead the Donatello bowl from the front. Jack wouldn't mind if he used it... and he wouldn't be home from Jordan's until after school the next day, anyway. JD could wash it by then.
He picked up his cell phone again and began to dial Perry's number. Hopefully he could catch him at his hotel. The two-week convention he was attending was a smart career move--finally--and they both knew it was for the best. JD'd pushed him into going, even. But now that Perry was gone, JD missed him.
"I'm such a girl," he muttered to himself, pouring out a bowl of Lucky Charms as the line began to ring.
After four rings, the voicemail picked up, and JD sighed, leaving a brief message that he was careful to keep casual before thumbing the end button and flipping the phone closed again. Still in conferences, then. Great.
He stuck the phone in his pocket, after setting it to vibrate, then wandered back into the den, flipping through the TV stations as he ate his cereal. But nothing caught his attention, and soon enough he felt himself glancing down the hallway, toward the bedroom where the journals lay waiting. Found himself wanting to know if Percival and Jonathan made it to St. Louis, and what they did there, and what happened in Springfield. There was a battle down there, wasn't there? Maybe Percival had written about it. And maybe some of those books in the box were Jonathan's...
He sighed, hitting the power button on the TV and depositing his now-empty bowl in the kitchen sink before darting back down the hallway and settling himself in again with the journal.
* * *
Johnny stood before the locked door, biting his lip and shifting anxiously. General Briggs had sent him up to wake the surgeon, when he hadn't arrived in the lobby at the appointed hour, but he honestly thought he would have rather gone undercover behind enemy lines than be the one who told Catherwood he had to get out of bed. Swallowing his nervousness, he reached up and rapped hesitantly at the door, praying the older man was already awake and simply running a little late. "D-Dr. Catherwood?"
There was a muffled groan from within the room, and Johnny distinctly heard an irritated mutter. "Go away."
He cringed, but plowed ahead. "Sir, are you awake?"
"Yes, I'm awake," the doctor snapped. "Now go away and let me remedy that."
Johnny bit his lip, trying not to smirk. The older man was a character, if nothing else... "Sir, the general told me to wake you. The train leaves in half an hour, sir."
There was a shuffle, and a muttered curse, then the door opened a crack. A grouchy face, curls in utter disarray, glowered back at him. "I was told the train would leave at nine o'clock," Catherwood growled at him. "It's only seven thirty."
"It's...it's eight thirty, sir," Johnny replied, proud he'd managed to keep his voice steady. "We need to leave within the next ten minutes, to make the train..."
Catherwood scowled, and vanished into his room; there was another muttered curse, and a crash.
Johnny bit his lip again. "Sir? Is everything all right?"
"Watch stopped," came the reply. "Goddamned rain..." More cursing.
"If you need help with your packing..." Johnny wasn't quite sure why he was offering, when he wanted to go back downstairs, and wait in relative peace, but... He wanted to like Dr. Catherwood, wanted to feel close to the man who, unknowingly, was giving him a chance at a dream he'd thought long dead.
"I'm packed, I'm just not dressed, so unless you'd like to help me with that, I suggest you go back downstairs and tell General Briggs that I'll be down presently."
"I'll tell him, sir," Johnny replied hurriedly, closing the door firmly. He returned to the general, feeling rather like he'd been lightly let off. From what he'd heard of the Southerners, more than one of them would've expected his help in dressing. Fortunately, New Yorkers were a little lower maintenance.
He returned to the lobby, where Briggs raised an eyebrow at him. "Well?"
"The doctor's watch stopped, sir," Johnny reported, holding himself as close to attention as he knew how. "He'll be down directly."
Briggs' eyes crinkled warmly, mouth curving into a smile. "At ease, soldier," he chuckled. "How are you holding up?"
Johnny relaxed, smiling shyly. "I'm well, sir, thank you. Looking forward to doing what I can to help."
"Well, we need every willing hand we can get," Briggs replied, nodding approvingly. "You're doing your country, and your president, a great service."
Johnny nodded, hoping he looked appropriately proud to be serving his country. In truth, he was more than a little nervous about the actual serving, but what he'd learn in return was more than worth it. He hoped.
"How are you and Dr. Catherwood getting on?" Briggs asked easily, apparently unaware of (or unconcerned with) Johnny's slight discomfort with speaking to the General.
"Well enough, sir," Johnny replied carefully. It wasn't his place to speak ill of his superiors, and he had no actual complaints against the doctor. Besides, saying "he scares me" was hardly going to impress the general.
"Bit of an interesting fellow, isn't he?" Briggs said, chuckling. "It's all right, lad, I shan't betray you."
Johnny was silent, realizing he didn't want to speak ill of the doctor, for his own sake as well as what the general might think of him. Obviously ill-tempered though the man might appear, he'd made an impression on Johnny, nonetheless. His eyes had softened behind his glasses, and there'd been true concern in his voice, in that moment he'd said he wasn't there to make life miserable. And that moment came back to Johnny just then, as he tried to find the right words. "I think he will take some time to get to know, sir, but I'm certain the effort will be more than worth it."
"Gentleman, if we're done chitchatting, I believe that's our coach," came a quiet voice from the doorway.
Johnny felt his face go deeply red, but the general didn't seem in the least perturbed to have been caught. He dropped into quick conversation with the doctor, as Johnny moved forward to take the older man's satchel, his own small, shapeless cloth bag already slung over his shoulder.
Dr. Catherwood responded to the general's comments, engaging in the conversation, but during the ride Johnny felt the doctor's gaze dart frequently toward him. He kept his gaze trained on the floor of the coach, wondering how much the doctor had overheard, and what it would mean, when they were alone. When they reached the train station, he leapt quickly out of the coach and held the door for the other two men, leaning in a little when Catherwood passed so the older man could use Johnny's shoulder if he needed assistance.
He didn't, but once he was down, he gave Johnny a nod. Johnny blushed again, grabbing the satchel and his bag once more, and following the other men to the train.
"This is where I say goodbye," Briggs said, stopping on the platform. "You gentlemen take care of our boys, and take care of yourselves."
"Thank you, General," Catherwood said mildly. "I'm sure we'll do our best on both counts."
"Thank you, General," Johnny echoed, smiling slightly at the other man, before following Dr. Catherwood onto the train. He swallowed hard, nervousness and excitement equally at war with each other. He'd only ridden a train once before, to come to Columbus in the first place, but didn't want to seem any more of an uncultured farmboy in the doctor's eyes.
Catherwood led them toward the back of the train, following the compartment numbering on his ticket, to the car near the back, before sliding the door open and stepping out of the corridor. Johnny hesitated in the hallway, wondering if he was supposed to join him or if he was in the passenger section of the train. He shifted his bag on his shoulder, glancing behind him, feeling the train begin to shudder to life.
Catherwood's head suddenly appeared from the compartment. "You stuck or something?"
"I...no, sir. I'm just not certain..." Johnny was tempted to grab himself by scruff of his neck and give himself a good shake, if it wouldn't have looked ridiculous. But he couldn't seem to stop stumbling over his words, in Catherwood's presence. "I had thought I'd be riding in the passenger section."
"You've still got my bag," Catherwood reminded him, one eyebrow going up as an amused smirk crossed his face.
"Oh!" Johnny's face flamed, and he handed it over, dropping his gaze. "I'll see you in St. Louis, then, sir? If I could just have my ticket?" Trust the general to have handed them both to the doctor...
Catherwood, to Johnny's surprise, began to laugh. "Get in here, would you please?" he said, disappearing into the compartment and shaking his head.
Johnny flushed again, but smiled, an odd tightness in his breast easing slightly as he slipped inside, trying not to stare at the lush surroundings. Or at Catherwood. Which left him relatively little space for his eyes to safely land upon.
Catherwood nodded toward the small table by the window with its two chairs on either side, bolted to the floor. "Have a seat, if you want," he said. "Or you can nap. I'm afraid you'll have to take the top bunk, as I'm not entirely keen on climbing up and down from that thing." He moved over to the counter top, reaching into his bag and pulling out an oddly-shaped object wrapped in a white handkerchief.
"Ginger root," the doctor explained, when he caught Johnny staring. "I'll have the porter bring us tea in a few minutes and I'll add this to the mix. Train rides do not agree with me." He made a sour face, then turned back to the root, pulling out a small pocket knife and slicing off a few shreds of the root before packing it away again. "Could get it powdered and dried, of course," he said, shrugging. "But I find the root is more potent."
Johnny nodded, trying not to wonder what exactly had changed, to make the doctor so forthcoming and talkative when yesterday he'd barely been willing to grunt at Johnny, let alone adress him. To distract himself, he moved forward, settling carefully at the table and looking out the window at the city sliding away around them. The train moved so quickly...it took his breath away, to think of it. Twenty miles an hour. Only a single hour, to go as far as his father's best horses could pull a wagon in an entire day. They would cover the entire 418 miles to St. Louis in only two days. And then take five times that long to reach Springfield, if they were lucky.
He shifted in his seat, wondering if they'd have to spend the entire time in silence. He'd tried to abide by Catherwood's request to keep quiet about all things aside from medical questions, and he had few enough of those, just at the moment. But Johnny was used to talking, to himself if to no one else, and the silence seemed oppressive.
The ginger and Catherwood's comments made him remember his own queasiness, on the journey to Columbus, and he hoped it would not recur. The last thing he wanted was to be ill in front of the older man; he had a distinct feeling that would not go a long way to raising the surgeon's already low opinion of him. He bit his lip, wishing he'd had the sense to sit on the forward-facing side of the table, and tried to steel his stomach against the lurch and bump of the train as it began to pick up speed, leaving Columbus behind and heading out into the wild western countryside.
Catherwood rang for the porter, ordering two cups of tea and some biscuits before pausing to glance at Johnny. "Anything else in particular sound good for breakfast?" he asked. "Or did you eat before we left?"
"I...I didn't, no," Johnny replied, surprised to be asked. "But I'll be fine, sir, really..." He rarely ate breakfast anyway, and having nothing in his gut might be a good thing, if his iron resolve not to be ill failed him anyway.
Catherwood eyed him for a moment, then turned back and murmured something to the porter, who nodded, casting an amused glance at Johnny before leaving. Catherwood turned from the door and moved back into the cabin, digging into his bag and pulling out a journal and a quill, along with a small pot of ink. He settled at the small table, across from Johnny, and placed the pot of ink in the small circular groove that had clearly been carved for it into the table. "Let's get one thing straight," Catherwood said, as he pulled out his knife again and began whittling at the quill. "If you're hungry, or tired, or cold, or sick, you'd better go ahead and tell me when I ask, because first of all, I'm a doctor, and chances are I'll already know, but more importantly, if you're going to be of any use to anyone else, you've got to first take care of yourself." He emphasized the last word with a final stroke of his knife, then folded it and replaced it in his pocket, blowing on the tip of the quill. "That clear?"
Johnny blinked at him, eyes very wide, then slowly nodded. "Yes, sir. It is. I'm...I'm sorry."
Catherwood glanced up at him. "And I think we're going to have to set a limit on the apologies," he murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. He leaned forward and dipped his quill into the inkwell, then opened the journal and began to write.
Johnny watched enviously, forgetting himself for a moment, before nodding again. "Yes, sir. No apologies, I'll tell you if I'm hungry or anything like it, and I won't speak of anything not directly medically related. Did I remember it all all right?"
Catherwood looked up sharply, face momentarily confused, then softening with pity. "Oh, come now, Johnny, you can't think I was serious," he said.
"You...you weren't?" Johnny asked, openly surprised.
Catherwood blinked. "You thought I was?" he shook his head slowly. "Heavens, lad, haven't you ever just had a bad day?"
"Yes, sir, I have, but I thought...Oh." Johnny blushed, dropping his gaze to the table, tracing the wood grain.
"Johnny, we're never going to make it all the way to Springfield if you're afraid of me," the older man said gently.
"I'm not afraid, sir," Johnny murmured, not looking up. "I just want to do well..."
"And if you listen to me, and follow my instructions carefully, I see no reason you shouldn't," Catherwood told him. "But you have to relax a little, first." He dipped his quill in the ink again, and began to write once more. "After all, you'll have enough to worry about when we get to Springfield without adding worrying about what I think to the mix. Right?"
"I suppose I do," Johnny agreed, watching Catherwood write, seeing the black marks appear strong and bold against the light paper. He sighed softly, looking out the window again. He should've gone to school, of course, but his mother had needed help on the farm, after his father died, and he'd never gotten the chance. One of the many reasons he'd had no chance of becoming a doctor.
Shortly after, there was a knock at the door, and it slid open at Catherwood's call of "Enter." The porter appeared.
"I have your order, sir," he said.
"Ah, good," Catherwood said, setting the quill aside and capping the ink before handing the book, open, to Johnny. "Hold that for a moment while the ink dries, would you?"
Johnny did as he said, looking down at the book without thinking, barely noticing as the porter brought in their tea. He only looked up when the porter left, finding Catherwood watching him, holding a large, covered tray, an eyebrow raised. "I didn't mean..." He flushed, dropping his gaze again. "I didn't read it, sir. I don't know how."
Catherwood frowned, moving forward and setting the tray on the table. "You don't read, lad?" he said softly, lifting the metal cover to reveal a large platter of eggs, a side of bacon and sausage, and a tin of biscuits. The tea was sitting on another tray on the counter; to cover his embarrassment, Johnny handed the journal back to Catherwood and stood to fetch it.
"No," he murmured in response to the doctor's question. "I don't."
"Why is that?" Catherwood asked softly.
"I never learned," Johnny offered, still not looking at the other man. "My father died when I was young, and my mother kept my older brother and me home, to work on the farm. She saw no need for schooling, when we could be doing something useful..." His shoulders slumped. He'd never agreed with her, longed for the worlds his father had once brought him, reading from the two books the family owned. But after his death...there'd been no chance for him to visit them again.
When he sat again, after placing one cup of the tea in front of the doctor, he realized the older man was watching him closely. He flushed, feeling self-conscious, and waited, staring into his tea mug and wondering if it would be impolite to ask for some of the man's ginger root.
"Would you like to learn?" Catherwood finally asked, after a long silence.
"Almost as much as I want to be a doctor," Johnny answered, very softly.
Catherwood nodded. "Well, tuck in," he said, waving his hand at the spread before them. "We'll have plenty of time after we eat to get started, I imagine. Train rides like these are interminably dull."
Johnny gaped at him. The few words were simply too much to take in. Dr. Catherwood meant to teach him? And to share his food? "I...but...I mean, did..." he flushed, breaking off, and finally decided to address the more pressing issue first. "Sir, I don't...I don't need breakfast," he said. "I...do just fine without it, most of the time anyway, and..."
"Nonsense," Catherwood cut him off, waving a hand. "It's the most important meal, didn't you know that?" He shook his head, looking amused, and began to scoop a few eggs onto his plate. "Start your day well, and it's more likely to end well, you know."
Johnny bit his lip. "All...all right, then," he said, "Thank you, sir. Very much. But...if I'm to be eating, could...could I perhaps ask you for some of the ginger? I don't think trains agree with my stomach much, either."
Catherwood looked pleased. "Absolutely," he said, digging into his bag and pulling out the root. He cut a few shreds before rewrapping it, then scooped them up and tipped his hand, letting them fall into Johnny's tea. "Believe me, you have my utmost sympathies. Let that steep for a few minutes, then just drink it like normal. It won't hurt anything if you ingest the ginger, but it's not necessary."
"Thank you," Johnny said again, wrapping his long, thin fingers around his cup. It was warm, against the damp chill of the day, and it felt good, making his fingers seem less sluggish and slow. He decided not to mention the writing just yet; chances were Catherwood would forget, or perhaps he hadn't been serious to start with. Johnny hadn't meant to hint around for lessons--that would have been unthinkably rude, after all, and a surgeon no doubt had better uses for his time--and if he didn't mention it, perhaps it would go away.
He felt a little wistful, but forced the emotion out of his expression, concentrating instead on sipping at his tea.
For a time they were silent, Catherwood digging into his meal with relish; after he'd had a bit of his ginger tea, Johnny realized he felt well enough to do so himself. He ate rather reservedly, still feeling shy, but still consuming far more than he usually would have. He set his fork aside some time later, feeling wonderfully full.
"I hadn't expected such good food on a train...It still seems strange to think of how quickly we're moving." Johnny shuddered, though, at a particularly large jolt. "If not very comfortably..."
Catherwood winced sympathetically. "All the more reason to distract ourselves," he agreed. He rang for the porter again, setting the tray on the counter next to the tea tray and clearing a space on the table. He reached into his satchel, pulling out another journal. "Now," he said. "How much do you know?"
Johnny flushed again, realizing the doctor apparently really did mean to teach him. "Sir, I...you don't have to do this," he said quietly, lowering his eyes and staring down at a small spot of spilled tea that was magnifying the wood grain of the table. He reached out, wiping at it with his thumb.
"Of course I don't," Catherwood said, surprising Johnny, who looked up in spite of himself. The surgeon looked amused. "Oh, come on," he said. "Do you really think you could make me do anything I didn't want to do, anyway? Don't be silly." He nodded back toward his satchel. "You'll be of more use to me if you can identify the medicines by their labels, when we're in the field, and I may need you to deliver messages, too. It would be useful if you could write them down when my hands are otherwise occupied."
Johnny hesitated, wanting to protest, but the doctor had made it clear he wasn't doing this for Johnny's sake. And, somehow, that made the whole thing all right--or at least more all right than it had seemed before. He nodded, slowly. "Yes, sir," he said.
Catherwood huffed, looking satisfied. "Good. Now, again: How much do you know?"
Johnny flushed, shaking his head. "That there are letters that make words. I know the shapes of them, mostly, though I don't know all their names." He blushed, when Catherwood waited expectantly, and added, "That's all."
Catherwood nodded. "We'll start with the basics, then," he said. "The alphabet."
He dipped his quill, and began to write, inscribing each letter and telling Johnny its name as he went. Johnny repeated the letters under his breath, trying to memorize them, watching with awe as the doctor's quill moved so easily over the paper.
When he'd inscribed them all, he handed the journal to Johnny, who took it with wide eyes. "Would you like to try?" Catherwood asked.
"I...truly?" he whispered, awed.
Catherwood smiled, looking amused. "It's the only way you'll learn," he reasoned, handing Johnny the quill.
Once it was in his hand, however, Johnny was at a bit of a loss. He'd tried to observe the way Catherwood's hand had looked, holding the quill, but he found he simply couldn't reproduce it from this angle. He frowned, trying several different poses before Catherwood chuckled gently. "Let me show you," the doctor murmured, standing and moving to lean over Johnny from behind. "Which hand do you favor?"
Johnny blinked, glancing up at him. "What?"
Catherwood thought. "When you're reaching for something," he said after a moment. "Do you reach with this hand"--he tapped the hand closest to the window--"or this one?" he tapped the other, which was currently holding the quill.
Johnny thought, then tentatively lifted the one nearer the window. "This one?"
Catherwood smiled. "You're left-handed," he informed him.
Johnny swallowed, eyes widening. "Is... is that... bad?"
Catherwood chuckled again. "Not at all," he said. "It makes you more unique, but it's not bad, despite what some think. I believe it is best to learn with the hand that feels better to you, anyway. Had you had traditional schooling, they probably would have forced you to use your right hand--that's this one," he tapped the hand holding the quill again. "But I shan't do that. We'll go with the hand that feels best to you; you'll learn faster that way."
He draped his arm over Johnny's shoulder from behind, gently removing the quill from Johnny's right hand and placing it in his left, then carefully shaping his fingers around the instrument. "Relax," he murmured, when Johnny gripped the pen tightly, determined not to let his fingers slip, now that they were in the right position. "Your hand will ache, if you try to write like that."
Johnny nodded, trying to relax his fingers slightly. He frowned down at the quill. It felt awkward, and he wondered if he'd be able to manage it. But he was at least determined to try. "All right. Now what?"
"Now you move your fingers to make letters," Catherwood told him. "Try an A, first."
Johnny bit his lip, concentrating, and obeyed. A moment later, the letter was on the paper, wobbly and with a few ink splotches on it, but recognizable. He grinned broadly, and looked up at Catherwood in amazement. "I did it!"
Catherwood looked amused. "You did," he agreed. "Let's go ahead and try it again anyway. This time, don't move your whole hand as much--try moving your fingers, instead, to make the quill go where you wish. It won't snag the paper as much that way, and leave blotches."
Johnny obeyed again, and soon the page was filled with As, each growing more confident than the last, though none were as sure as the one Catherwood had written at the top for him to model his from.
"This is more difficult than I imagined," he said softly, setting the quill aside and massaging his hand.
Catherwood glanced up from his own writing. "It will grow easier, as you practice," he assured him. "Your hand will learn to fit itself to the quill by itself, and the movements will become natural and automatic, so you won't have to think about them as much."
Johnny bit his lip. He didn't voice his thoughts, not wishing to sound ungrateful, but he wondered how much he would actually learn, before they'd be too busy to worry about letters. They had one more day on the train, then ten or so days on horseback--he couldn't practice then, but even if he practiced by campfire at night, he would be lucky if he even learned the alphabet by the time they reached Springfield.
He shook those thoughts off, however, deciding that even learning the alphabet would be more than he'd ever dared hope for. He glanced down at the journal page, prepared to start practicing Bs, when he suddenly realized there was no more room. He wondered if he should turn the page, but hesitated, glancing up at Catherwood. The doctor might not wish him to use all his papers for his childish scrawling, after all...
Catherwood, sensing his hesitation, glanced up at him, then at the journal, and frowned. "Is there a problem?"
Johnny shook his head quickly. "No, sir," he said. "I... I ran out of room."
"Turn the page," Catherwood instructed, a smirk flitting across his face before he returned his attention to his writing once more.
Johnny grinned, and obeyed.
By the time it grew too dark to see, Johnny had practiced all the letters, and on one page, in proud (if slightly shaky) letters, the words "Jonathan Dwyre" were written in thick black strokes.
* * *
Continued in Part Two
Characters: JD/Perry
Preview Rating: PG
Summary:An AU in which JD finds the medical journal of the civil war surgeon Percival Catherwood, wherein he discusses his involvement in the Battle of Wilson's Creek and the training of his apprentice, Jonathan Dwyer.
Standard WIP disclaimer: Most of these stories were begun a long time ago. We've grown as writers since then. These are also rough, as they're works in progress and have received no more than the most remedial editing. Keep this in mind. These are works in progress, progress being the key word. ;)
This story was born in early January of this year;
thuri got the idea and told me about it while talking me through my boredom during the power losses of the ice storm. /triviaElliot was sneaky. Underhandedly sneaky.
Not that this should have come as a surprise to JD, he'd known her for years, after all. But he honestly couldn't work out how she'd gotten him here. He rubbed his eyes again, blinking in the pre-dawn gloom, listening to the sound of haggling-by-flashlight going on all around him.
A six o'clock in the morning trip to the Sunday swap meet definitely fell under the "above and beyond" category of friendship, he decided with a yawn, listening to her bargaining for some small plastic ponies. It'd seemed harmless at the time. Agree to go with her to look for replacements for some of the childhood things she'd lost when all her stuff had been stolen several years ago, maybe pick up some interesting things himself...But he hadn't realized she wanted to arrive as soon as the damn thing opened.
"But JD, that's when we have to go, all the good stuff is gone by seven!" she'd said, bouncing a little. "So you'll pick me up at five thirty, right?"
And God help him, he had.
He yawned again, following her down the aisle of booths and blankets, the leavings of a thousand lives still being spread onto their surfaces. Someone asked ten dollars for a silver hairbrush and mirror set, another charged a dollar per dog-chewed action figure. Even if the price was right, JD wasn't seeing much he wanted...
Except the books, of course. And maybe some of the albums, he still loved vinyl. And then there were the toys. And the other...things. He wondered if he could find a friend for Rowdy, if he looked hard enough. But no, he couldn't bring another stuffed dog home, even if he'd wanted to. Perry barely tolerated Rowdy as it was. But the older doctor's birthday was coming up, and if JD could find him something, too...
Fine. Stick to something small...and least likely to get you laughed at.
So while Elliot went through yet another bin of sickly pastel girlie toys--Oooo, is that a Pattie O'Green doll?--JD pulled himself away to flip through a box of books at the next table. He nodded to the old guy in his folding lawn chair. "You've got a lot of stuff here."
"Don't I know it. My aunt just died, she never threw a thing away, collected more than any one person should have owned." He shook his head, gesturing at the box JD was looking in. "I got more of those, and the letters!" His face twisted and JD made a sympathetic noise.
"They look interesting," JD offered, flipping one open. The plain, leather bound volumes turned out to have old-fashioned handwriting in them. Journals? He felt himself getting intrigued despite himself. "Were these hers?"
"Nah. She never wrote anything but nagging letters on how we never paid her enough attention...Those were my uncle's. He didn't write 'em, either. Civil War buff, collected everything he could find on it. Glad to get rid of the junk. Would've tossed it, but my wife couldn't bear to see it all go without trying to get some cash..." He kept grumbling, but JD tuned him out as he sorted through the box with new interest.
And then froze, distantly grateful the old guy didn't seem to need him to reply. Because he'd opened another one of the journals--he'd found three, so far, with the same handwriting--and the name on the first page made his eyes widen.
Percival Catherwood, surgeon. 1861.
"How much do you want for them?" JD heard himself ask, still staring at the page. Percival. Perry'd get a hell of a kick out of that, and if there were any procedures described...It'd be worth it for that, as well. "The whole box?" He'd sort out which was which later...
"The whole thing?" The man frowned, scratching his chin, the scrape of fingers against stubble making JD's skin crawl. "There's at least ten books in there, couldn't let it go for less than twenty."
JD started to reach for his wallet, when he felt a hand on his wrist.
"You just told him you were going to throw them out," he heard Elliot say sweetly. "He'll give you five."
Shrugging, JD tuned them both out and flipped through the first journal, excitement growing to see it was, in fact, as much a doctor's casebook as a record of daily life. He couldn't help being fascinated. A whole different Percival...
He looked down at the name again, written in faded ink, and the handwriting seemed almost familiar, now that he thought about it. And to think, someone had written these words over a century ago, and now he could glimpse into their life...his resulting shiver had nothing to do with the chill morning breeze.
* * *
The box of books ended up costing him twelve dollars. He paid absently, only half-listening as Elliot congratulated herself on her haggling skills and her own purchases, picking up the box and hauling it along with him, only just resisting the urge to plunk himself down and read.
It only grew, when she dropped her bag on top the books, tugging him after her to another booth of early eighties memorabilia. He wondered just how many toys Elliot had had that he hadn't seen in the short time they'd dated, if she felt the need to grab up a Care Bear, and a Cabbage Patch Doll and a Strawberry Shortcake, but he didn't protest as she piled them up in his arms.
And he was grateful to help her find bits of her childhood. He really was. Or so he told himself, as they wedged everything into the Prius JD'd given into getting when Sasha breathed her last, finally lashing a bookshelf Elliot had decided she couldn't live without to the roof. "Remind me to rent a truck, next time?" JD said with a grin, as they got back in and headed off. "And someone to help you carry all this stuff up all those stairs. Why's Sean always out of town when you need him?" He winked, though, knowing she'd wanted to hang out, just the two of them.
"I know it's a lot, but thank you so much, JD! I really appreciate it. And can you believe I got that guy down to only ten dollars apiece? True, I didn't strictly need new furniture, but that chair is just adorable and Sean will love that table and..."
JD made the appropriate noises to Elliot's excited remarks, his mind mostly on the box of books he'd gotten for himself. He didn't know much more about the civil war than most people. One of his mom's husbands had taken them all on a trip to various sites across the Midwest one summer, but he'd spent the whole time in the car reading, his walkman turned up high. And other than that, he'd had a couple units on it in school, and only remembered the highlights, now.
But reading a surgeon's account of it...that would've been fascinating enough no matter which war it dealt with. The medical profession had come an incredible way in the past 140 years, after all, and he was fully prepared to shudder at the descriptions. From what little he did remember of his classes on it, amputations were often performed with no anaesthetic, and of course hygiene was basically unknown.
Wondering how anyone had managed to survive at all in those days, he parked in front of Elliot's place, helping her haul all her own stuff upstairs, before finally heading home himself for a nap.
Or at least that was the plan. But when he dropped the box of books onto his bedside table, he couldn't help sorting through them, to find which were the journals of the long ago Dr. Percival Catherwood. God, what a name. And then when he finished sorting...he couldn't help taking the earliest dated one with him, stretching out on the bed. On Perry's side, of course, which he usually stole for reading.
Despite JD's fears of spidery writing and archaic spelling, it proved easy enough to decipher. The ink was faded but the writing itself was strong. Sprawling, but not hard to read.
In no time, JD was lost in a world gone by.
* * *
Percival had decided, long before the train pulled to a stop in Columbus, that this whole thing had been a mistake.
He groaned, climbing to his feet and grabbing his satchel, adjusting his glasses. A quick glance out the slatted window told him it was raining. It had been raining in New York, too, when he'd closed up his little office for the last time before officially checking in with the Federal Army's medical volunteer headquarters. Rain in New York. Bad omen, if he'd believed in such nonsense.
"You'll be traveling to Missouri," the officer had told him, handing him a ticket to attach to his luggage (which consisted of a few changes of clothes, what medical supplies he was willing to risk to the handlers, and a large stack of blank journals). "You'll stop in Ohio and meet up with the officials there; they'll be assigning you an apprentice. From there you'll travel by rail to St. Louis, then by horseback to the camp in Springfield. Your commanding officer will be Brigadier General Nathanial Lyon."
He'd been ushered onto the train, into the private quarters he knew were a luxury but actually felt more like a punishment. There was a bed in his compartment, to be sure, but despite this he found himself able to sleep in only fits and starts. The frequent stops the train made, picking up soldiers and supplies for the ride south, only exacerbated this difficulty; the lurching of the great engine rolling to a stop had given him a stomachache. He'd cut a slice of ginger root and seeped it in his tea, but it had only had a minimal effect on his nausea.
All in all, he was grateful when the conductor came by and knocked on his compartment door, announcing the last stop in Columbus.
He moved awkwardly through the narrow corridor, his trench coat slung over one arm and his hat, cane, and satchel in the opposite hand. The train to St. Louis wasn't supposed to leave until the next morning, so with any luck the army would have a better place for him to sleep.
He gripped the rail and eased himself down the grated metal steps of the train, ducked quickly under the awning of the station once his feet hit the solid wooden planks. He removed his glasses, scowling as he wiped the rain drops from them with a kerchief pulled from his waistcoat, then settled the thin wire frames back on his nose. He gripped his cane, using it to ease the amount of weight he bore on his right knee, and peered into air thick with steam from the train. He'd been told he would be met with a representative; he hoped they weren't planning on keeping him long. He had an appointment with a decent meal (steak, potatoes, fresh vegetables if he could find some) and sleep in a real bed, and he'd be damned if some godforsaken incompetent army idiot was the reason he was late.
"Dr. Percival Catherwood?" A voice behind him made him jump, and he turned, lifting one eyebrow.
"Yes?"
An officer stood before him, all greying hair and bushy eyebrows and brass medals. They've really called in the cavalry, haven't they...?
"I'm General Briggs," the man said, extending a hand.
Percival nodded politely, but indicated his armload. "Afraid the pleasantries will have to wait, General, until I find somewhere to set these things down," he said pointedly.
"Ah, yes, of course," the general said, clearing his throat. "My apologies, things are not running as smoothly as they would be under normal circumstances."
"Under normal circumstances, General, I would not be here," Percival returned. "And you may keep your apologies, but a hand with this bag wouldn't go amiss."
The general lifted his eyebrows. "Indeed," he said, but reached out and took the satchel from Percival's hand. Percival nodded his thanks, taking a moment to shrug into his overcoat and settle his hat upon his dampened curls.
"Much better," he murmured, reaching up to push his glasses back up onto his nose.
"This way, if you please?" the general said, indicating the station. "I'll debrief you on the way to your quarters. You're to be staying in the George Clark hotel on fifth; I've arranged a coach to transport you. Your bags will be sent ahead with the train, and they will be waiting for you in Springfield."
Percival nodded, feeling his shoulders relaxing a little. This was more like it. "And my apprentice?"
"Is already at the hotel," the general replied. "Very eager young man--arrived two days before his appointed time and volunteered to help out in the recruitment centers. He's been very anxious to meet you."
Percival snorted. "Perfect," he murmured. "I am to babysit him, am I?"
"You're to train him," the general said, clearly not interested in placating Percival any longer. "It was part of the arrangement when you volunteered, as well you knew." He gave the surgeon a sidelong glance. "I think you'll find the lad to be quite agreeable, if you give him a chance."
"We'll see," Percival murmured, pushing his glasses up onto his nose.
* * *
On the ride to the hotel, the General filled him in on the situation in Missouri. General Lyon, after successfully defending the US Arsenal in St. Louis and wresting control of the state government from the Rebel sympathizer Governor Jackson, had finally amassed enough soldiers to begin to march on the southwest corner of the state. They had established themselves in Springfield, which was apparently where Percival was set to be joining them.
"The Union's position in Missouri is precarious, at best," Briggs informed him, as the coach bumped along the rain-slicked cobblestone streets. "She wishes to maintain neutrality, but General Price still has a hold on the southern corner. If the rebels decide to march on Springfield we'll have a major battle on our hands."
Percival scowled out at the driving rain. "What about medical supplies?" he asked. "Personnel?"
"There are a number of other surgeons already at the camp, and several of the locals have volunteered as well, but the number of well-trained, educated surgeons is distressingly small," Briggs admitted. "That's why we're sending you out there, even though there were a number of stations much closer."
"I'd wondered," Percival muttered.
"Missouri's very important to this war," Briggs said. "If we lose her the scales could tip in favor of the Rebels very quickly. It's important our soldiers down there are looked after."
"I'm here, aren't I?" Percival snapped. "If you give me the tools, I'll do my best to do my job."
General Briggs smiled, nodding. "Good man," he murmured.
Or possibly very stupid, Percival thought, but instead he merely gave Briggs a terse smile in return, then turned his gaze back to the gloomy, rain-drenched city streets.
* * *
When they arrived at the hotel, Percival was led immediately to his room, which he was grateful to see had a large, well-stuffed mattress, and private bathing chambers.
"Your apprentice is still at the recruitment station," Briggs informed him. "But we've already sent someone to fetch him back. The two of you can get acquainted at dinner. Good evening, Doctor."
"Good evening," Percival said, waving a hand vaguely as he surveyed the room. He heard the door close quietly behind him, but did not turn; instead, he moved forward, hoisting his satchel onto the bed, then moved into the bathing chambers to wash up before dinner.
Apprentice. Well, if the lad was quiet, Percival supposed a shared dinner wouldn't be much worse than a dinner alone. After all, he was technically the lad's superior. If nothing else, he could simply order him to be silent, and the lad would be required to obey.
He splashed cold water from the large tin tureen into his face, reaching for the linen cloth that hung beside it. As he stood, he glanced at himself in the glass, taking in the tight lines around his eyes, the grooves next to his mouth from a face set into a near-permanent scowl. He sighed, reaching out to lay light fingers against that reflection, trying to recall a time when the face that greeted him every morning had been a smiling one, easy and happy. Back before the accident that had cost him everything--his health, his home, his... his family.
He closed his eyes, lowering his hand and turning away from the glass. A glance at his pocket watch told him he had another half an hour before he was supposed to be downstairs for dinner. He limped to the bed and lowered himself onto it gingerly, lifting the leg of his trousers and gazing despondently at the crisscross of scar tissue that ran from his right knee halfway down his calf. Burns. Long healed, but the scar tissue had left his leg partially immobilized, and prone to aches in weather like this. He lowered the cuff once more, reaching into his bag and pulling out a bottle of pills. He popped one into his mouth, dry-swallowing it, then replaced the bottle, relaxing back onto the mattress. Might as well enjoy the quiet while he could. Between one thing and another, he knew it wasn't going to last much longer.
* * *
There was a young man standing in the lobby when he entered it, once more leaning heavily on his cane. Percival took a moment to observe him in silence, noting the lankiness of the figure, the long, slightly curved nose, the wide blue eyes. The lad was shifting nervously from foot to foot, staring out at the rain, occasionally raking a hand through his dark, shaggy hair. He was wearing a blue pair of army-issued trousers that clearly hadn't been tailored for him; they were rolled twice at the ankles to keep them from dragging in the mud. His shirt, a button-down blue, was threadbare, and there was a small tear on the corner of one cuff.
But it was buttoned all the way to the boy's throat, and the pants were carefully pressed, the worn boots painstakingly polished. Ragged the boy might be, but he wasn't sloppy. Percival nodded slightly in approval.
The boy caught the movement, apparently, because suddenly he turned, taking note of the man standing before him, observing him. His eyes flicked quickly down to the cane, then up again, his whole body straightening slightly. "Dr. Catherwood?" he asked, his face relaxing into a shy smile. "I'm Jonathan Dwyre."
Percival tilted his head. "And just how old are you, Jonathan Dwyre?" he asked, face dubious. The lad looked to be no more than fourteen or fifteen, for pity's sake; he was supposed to train him? To do what, buckle his boots?
The lad straightened still further. "I'm eighteen, sir," he replied, the shy look of welcome slipping away, his face going carefully neutral.
Percival huffed. "Haven't overfed you, have they?" he murmured, eyes skimming over the boy's lean, awkward figure.
"No, sir," the lad murmured, dropping his gaze. He took a deep breath, and let it out again, glancing up once more, a smile once again playing about his lips. "So it won't cost the army much to feed me now, since I'm not used to it."
Percival snorted. "I'll make you a deal, Oliver," he growled. "You cut the lovable street urchin act right now and I'll give you my table scraps at dinner every night. Now. Do you have any medical experience?"
"Not very much, and mostly with animals," the lad admitted, shifting his weight again. "But I'm a quick learner. And it's Johnny, not Oliver, if you're going to call me by name."
"I'll call you whatever I want," Percival informed him, suspicions about the boy's level of literacy confirmed when he missed the Dickens reference. "And you'll answer, too, because the fact of the matter is, I'm your superior now, medically and in the chain of command, and when you signed your soul over to the government you signed on for the whole package. But I'll make you another deal: Don't give me a reason to address you outside of medical situations, and I'll call you by your name in every one of them. Now let's go. I'm starved."
"Looking forward to working with you, too, sir," Johnny muttered softly, though his tone wasn't--quite--disrespectful.
Percival sighed, though he didn't look back at the young man following glumly at his heels. In truth, he wasn't sure why he was being so hard on the lad. Maybe it was just because he was tired, the two-day journey having done a number on his nerves as well as his knee. Or maybe the young man reminded him too much of himself at that age: full of hopes for the future, certain that things would work out for him.
Not the way the world works, he thought bitterly, glancing back again. Johnny's head was lowered, staring at his feet, and his shoulders were a little slumped. The sooner he learns that the better...
But as they walked toward the restaurant, a strange sort of guilt crept, unexpected, in Percival's heart. The boy would learn, and sooner, not later. They were heading into war, after all; there was never anything easy or pretty about that. And from the looks of it, the lad hadn't exactly had it easy to start with, half-starved and dressed in rags as he was.
And, much as it annoyed him, something about Jonathan Dwyre brought up an instinct he hadn't felt in some time: the protective, almost paternal instinct to protect the spark of rare innocence he honestly didn't know how the lad had held onto this long.
He sighed, and paused, waiting until Johnny caught up and realized he'd stopped. The younger man's head lifted, brow furrowed. "Something wrong, sir?" he murmured.
Percival studied him a moment in silence, then shook his head. "No," he said quietly. There was another long silence in which the younger man watched him expectantly; finally, Percival drew himself up. "I'm not here to make your life miserable, lad," he stated.
"Think it's the Rebels who are planning to do that," Johnny offered, not quite smiling. He lowered his eyes for a moment, then looked back up, eyes apologetic but determined. "I know...I know I'm not much of an assistant, but...I really do want to learn," he said earnestly. "I'll do my best, sir, I promise."
"You will, or you won't last long out there," Percival agreed, though he was actually wondering what it was about the lad that had so abruptly broken down his defenses. Damned old fool, that's what you are, Percival. Damned old sentimental fool. "But if you listen to me and do exactly as I say, you should pick things up pretty quickly. Assuming you've a halfway decent head on your shoulders." He turned again, leaning on his cane as he headed toward the hotel's restaurant once more. "Now heel toe, lad. Let's get something to eat before there's nothing left."
Johnny followed him, an encouraged bounce back in his step, obviously full of barely suppressed questions. But he didn't voice any, for the time being.
* * *
JD paused in his reading, eyes wide. Percival's apprentice's name was Jonathan? Jonathan Dwyer, no less? So Percival C. was teaching a Jonathan D.?
He shivered. Talk about twilight zone. Rolling off the bed, JD scrubbed his hands through his hair, heading toward the kitchen to grab something to eat, and maybe call Perry. He'd planned to keep the journals a secret, and give them to the other man as a gift, but he was frankly too excited about them now. Besides, Perry would probably welcome a break from hospital news.
He opened the cabinet above the sink, rooting through the plastic bowls with cartoon characters on them and finally finding a plain ceramic bowl shoved near the back. Then he paused, realizing that Perry wasn't home to laugh at him, and replaced it, grabbing instead the Donatello bowl from the front. Jack wouldn't mind if he used it... and he wouldn't be home from Jordan's until after school the next day, anyway. JD could wash it by then.
He picked up his cell phone again and began to dial Perry's number. Hopefully he could catch him at his hotel. The two-week convention he was attending was a smart career move--finally--and they both knew it was for the best. JD'd pushed him into going, even. But now that Perry was gone, JD missed him.
"I'm such a girl," he muttered to himself, pouring out a bowl of Lucky Charms as the line began to ring.
After four rings, the voicemail picked up, and JD sighed, leaving a brief message that he was careful to keep casual before thumbing the end button and flipping the phone closed again. Still in conferences, then. Great.
He stuck the phone in his pocket, after setting it to vibrate, then wandered back into the den, flipping through the TV stations as he ate his cereal. But nothing caught his attention, and soon enough he felt himself glancing down the hallway, toward the bedroom where the journals lay waiting. Found himself wanting to know if Percival and Jonathan made it to St. Louis, and what they did there, and what happened in Springfield. There was a battle down there, wasn't there? Maybe Percival had written about it. And maybe some of those books in the box were Jonathan's...
He sighed, hitting the power button on the TV and depositing his now-empty bowl in the kitchen sink before darting back down the hallway and settling himself in again with the journal.
* * *
Johnny stood before the locked door, biting his lip and shifting anxiously. General Briggs had sent him up to wake the surgeon, when he hadn't arrived in the lobby at the appointed hour, but he honestly thought he would have rather gone undercover behind enemy lines than be the one who told Catherwood he had to get out of bed. Swallowing his nervousness, he reached up and rapped hesitantly at the door, praying the older man was already awake and simply running a little late. "D-Dr. Catherwood?"
There was a muffled groan from within the room, and Johnny distinctly heard an irritated mutter. "Go away."
He cringed, but plowed ahead. "Sir, are you awake?"
"Yes, I'm awake," the doctor snapped. "Now go away and let me remedy that."
Johnny bit his lip, trying not to smirk. The older man was a character, if nothing else... "Sir, the general told me to wake you. The train leaves in half an hour, sir."
There was a shuffle, and a muttered curse, then the door opened a crack. A grouchy face, curls in utter disarray, glowered back at him. "I was told the train would leave at nine o'clock," Catherwood growled at him. "It's only seven thirty."
"It's...it's eight thirty, sir," Johnny replied, proud he'd managed to keep his voice steady. "We need to leave within the next ten minutes, to make the train..."
Catherwood scowled, and vanished into his room; there was another muttered curse, and a crash.
Johnny bit his lip again. "Sir? Is everything all right?"
"Watch stopped," came the reply. "Goddamned rain..." More cursing.
"If you need help with your packing..." Johnny wasn't quite sure why he was offering, when he wanted to go back downstairs, and wait in relative peace, but... He wanted to like Dr. Catherwood, wanted to feel close to the man who, unknowingly, was giving him a chance at a dream he'd thought long dead.
"I'm packed, I'm just not dressed, so unless you'd like to help me with that, I suggest you go back downstairs and tell General Briggs that I'll be down presently."
"I'll tell him, sir," Johnny replied hurriedly, closing the door firmly. He returned to the general, feeling rather like he'd been lightly let off. From what he'd heard of the Southerners, more than one of them would've expected his help in dressing. Fortunately, New Yorkers were a little lower maintenance.
He returned to the lobby, where Briggs raised an eyebrow at him. "Well?"
"The doctor's watch stopped, sir," Johnny reported, holding himself as close to attention as he knew how. "He'll be down directly."
Briggs' eyes crinkled warmly, mouth curving into a smile. "At ease, soldier," he chuckled. "How are you holding up?"
Johnny relaxed, smiling shyly. "I'm well, sir, thank you. Looking forward to doing what I can to help."
"Well, we need every willing hand we can get," Briggs replied, nodding approvingly. "You're doing your country, and your president, a great service."
Johnny nodded, hoping he looked appropriately proud to be serving his country. In truth, he was more than a little nervous about the actual serving, but what he'd learn in return was more than worth it. He hoped.
"How are you and Dr. Catherwood getting on?" Briggs asked easily, apparently unaware of (or unconcerned with) Johnny's slight discomfort with speaking to the General.
"Well enough, sir," Johnny replied carefully. It wasn't his place to speak ill of his superiors, and he had no actual complaints against the doctor. Besides, saying "he scares me" was hardly going to impress the general.
"Bit of an interesting fellow, isn't he?" Briggs said, chuckling. "It's all right, lad, I shan't betray you."
Johnny was silent, realizing he didn't want to speak ill of the doctor, for his own sake as well as what the general might think of him. Obviously ill-tempered though the man might appear, he'd made an impression on Johnny, nonetheless. His eyes had softened behind his glasses, and there'd been true concern in his voice, in that moment he'd said he wasn't there to make life miserable. And that moment came back to Johnny just then, as he tried to find the right words. "I think he will take some time to get to know, sir, but I'm certain the effort will be more than worth it."
"Gentleman, if we're done chitchatting, I believe that's our coach," came a quiet voice from the doorway.
Johnny felt his face go deeply red, but the general didn't seem in the least perturbed to have been caught. He dropped into quick conversation with the doctor, as Johnny moved forward to take the older man's satchel, his own small, shapeless cloth bag already slung over his shoulder.
Dr. Catherwood responded to the general's comments, engaging in the conversation, but during the ride Johnny felt the doctor's gaze dart frequently toward him. He kept his gaze trained on the floor of the coach, wondering how much the doctor had overheard, and what it would mean, when they were alone. When they reached the train station, he leapt quickly out of the coach and held the door for the other two men, leaning in a little when Catherwood passed so the older man could use Johnny's shoulder if he needed assistance.
He didn't, but once he was down, he gave Johnny a nod. Johnny blushed again, grabbing the satchel and his bag once more, and following the other men to the train.
"This is where I say goodbye," Briggs said, stopping on the platform. "You gentlemen take care of our boys, and take care of yourselves."
"Thank you, General," Catherwood said mildly. "I'm sure we'll do our best on both counts."
"Thank you, General," Johnny echoed, smiling slightly at the other man, before following Dr. Catherwood onto the train. He swallowed hard, nervousness and excitement equally at war with each other. He'd only ridden a train once before, to come to Columbus in the first place, but didn't want to seem any more of an uncultured farmboy in the doctor's eyes.
Catherwood led them toward the back of the train, following the compartment numbering on his ticket, to the car near the back, before sliding the door open and stepping out of the corridor. Johnny hesitated in the hallway, wondering if he was supposed to join him or if he was in the passenger section of the train. He shifted his bag on his shoulder, glancing behind him, feeling the train begin to shudder to life.
Catherwood's head suddenly appeared from the compartment. "You stuck or something?"
"I...no, sir. I'm just not certain..." Johnny was tempted to grab himself by scruff of his neck and give himself a good shake, if it wouldn't have looked ridiculous. But he couldn't seem to stop stumbling over his words, in Catherwood's presence. "I had thought I'd be riding in the passenger section."
"You've still got my bag," Catherwood reminded him, one eyebrow going up as an amused smirk crossed his face.
"Oh!" Johnny's face flamed, and he handed it over, dropping his gaze. "I'll see you in St. Louis, then, sir? If I could just have my ticket?" Trust the general to have handed them both to the doctor...
Catherwood, to Johnny's surprise, began to laugh. "Get in here, would you please?" he said, disappearing into the compartment and shaking his head.
Johnny flushed again, but smiled, an odd tightness in his breast easing slightly as he slipped inside, trying not to stare at the lush surroundings. Or at Catherwood. Which left him relatively little space for his eyes to safely land upon.
Catherwood nodded toward the small table by the window with its two chairs on either side, bolted to the floor. "Have a seat, if you want," he said. "Or you can nap. I'm afraid you'll have to take the top bunk, as I'm not entirely keen on climbing up and down from that thing." He moved over to the counter top, reaching into his bag and pulling out an oddly-shaped object wrapped in a white handkerchief.
"Ginger root," the doctor explained, when he caught Johnny staring. "I'll have the porter bring us tea in a few minutes and I'll add this to the mix. Train rides do not agree with me." He made a sour face, then turned back to the root, pulling out a small pocket knife and slicing off a few shreds of the root before packing it away again. "Could get it powdered and dried, of course," he said, shrugging. "But I find the root is more potent."
Johnny nodded, trying not to wonder what exactly had changed, to make the doctor so forthcoming and talkative when yesterday he'd barely been willing to grunt at Johnny, let alone adress him. To distract himself, he moved forward, settling carefully at the table and looking out the window at the city sliding away around them. The train moved so quickly...it took his breath away, to think of it. Twenty miles an hour. Only a single hour, to go as far as his father's best horses could pull a wagon in an entire day. They would cover the entire 418 miles to St. Louis in only two days. And then take five times that long to reach Springfield, if they were lucky.
He shifted in his seat, wondering if they'd have to spend the entire time in silence. He'd tried to abide by Catherwood's request to keep quiet about all things aside from medical questions, and he had few enough of those, just at the moment. But Johnny was used to talking, to himself if to no one else, and the silence seemed oppressive.
The ginger and Catherwood's comments made him remember his own queasiness, on the journey to Columbus, and he hoped it would not recur. The last thing he wanted was to be ill in front of the older man; he had a distinct feeling that would not go a long way to raising the surgeon's already low opinion of him. He bit his lip, wishing he'd had the sense to sit on the forward-facing side of the table, and tried to steel his stomach against the lurch and bump of the train as it began to pick up speed, leaving Columbus behind and heading out into the wild western countryside.
Catherwood rang for the porter, ordering two cups of tea and some biscuits before pausing to glance at Johnny. "Anything else in particular sound good for breakfast?" he asked. "Or did you eat before we left?"
"I...I didn't, no," Johnny replied, surprised to be asked. "But I'll be fine, sir, really..." He rarely ate breakfast anyway, and having nothing in his gut might be a good thing, if his iron resolve not to be ill failed him anyway.
Catherwood eyed him for a moment, then turned back and murmured something to the porter, who nodded, casting an amused glance at Johnny before leaving. Catherwood turned from the door and moved back into the cabin, digging into his bag and pulling out a journal and a quill, along with a small pot of ink. He settled at the small table, across from Johnny, and placed the pot of ink in the small circular groove that had clearly been carved for it into the table. "Let's get one thing straight," Catherwood said, as he pulled out his knife again and began whittling at the quill. "If you're hungry, or tired, or cold, or sick, you'd better go ahead and tell me when I ask, because first of all, I'm a doctor, and chances are I'll already know, but more importantly, if you're going to be of any use to anyone else, you've got to first take care of yourself." He emphasized the last word with a final stroke of his knife, then folded it and replaced it in his pocket, blowing on the tip of the quill. "That clear?"
Johnny blinked at him, eyes very wide, then slowly nodded. "Yes, sir. It is. I'm...I'm sorry."
Catherwood glanced up at him. "And I think we're going to have to set a limit on the apologies," he murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. He leaned forward and dipped his quill into the inkwell, then opened the journal and began to write.
Johnny watched enviously, forgetting himself for a moment, before nodding again. "Yes, sir. No apologies, I'll tell you if I'm hungry or anything like it, and I won't speak of anything not directly medically related. Did I remember it all all right?"
Catherwood looked up sharply, face momentarily confused, then softening with pity. "Oh, come now, Johnny, you can't think I was serious," he said.
"You...you weren't?" Johnny asked, openly surprised.
Catherwood blinked. "You thought I was?" he shook his head slowly. "Heavens, lad, haven't you ever just had a bad day?"
"Yes, sir, I have, but I thought...Oh." Johnny blushed, dropping his gaze to the table, tracing the wood grain.
"Johnny, we're never going to make it all the way to Springfield if you're afraid of me," the older man said gently.
"I'm not afraid, sir," Johnny murmured, not looking up. "I just want to do well..."
"And if you listen to me, and follow my instructions carefully, I see no reason you shouldn't," Catherwood told him. "But you have to relax a little, first." He dipped his quill in the ink again, and began to write once more. "After all, you'll have enough to worry about when we get to Springfield without adding worrying about what I think to the mix. Right?"
"I suppose I do," Johnny agreed, watching Catherwood write, seeing the black marks appear strong and bold against the light paper. He sighed softly, looking out the window again. He should've gone to school, of course, but his mother had needed help on the farm, after his father died, and he'd never gotten the chance. One of the many reasons he'd had no chance of becoming a doctor.
Shortly after, there was a knock at the door, and it slid open at Catherwood's call of "Enter." The porter appeared.
"I have your order, sir," he said.
"Ah, good," Catherwood said, setting the quill aside and capping the ink before handing the book, open, to Johnny. "Hold that for a moment while the ink dries, would you?"
Johnny did as he said, looking down at the book without thinking, barely noticing as the porter brought in their tea. He only looked up when the porter left, finding Catherwood watching him, holding a large, covered tray, an eyebrow raised. "I didn't mean..." He flushed, dropping his gaze again. "I didn't read it, sir. I don't know how."
Catherwood frowned, moving forward and setting the tray on the table. "You don't read, lad?" he said softly, lifting the metal cover to reveal a large platter of eggs, a side of bacon and sausage, and a tin of biscuits. The tea was sitting on another tray on the counter; to cover his embarrassment, Johnny handed the journal back to Catherwood and stood to fetch it.
"No," he murmured in response to the doctor's question. "I don't."
"Why is that?" Catherwood asked softly.
"I never learned," Johnny offered, still not looking at the other man. "My father died when I was young, and my mother kept my older brother and me home, to work on the farm. She saw no need for schooling, when we could be doing something useful..." His shoulders slumped. He'd never agreed with her, longed for the worlds his father had once brought him, reading from the two books the family owned. But after his death...there'd been no chance for him to visit them again.
When he sat again, after placing one cup of the tea in front of the doctor, he realized the older man was watching him closely. He flushed, feeling self-conscious, and waited, staring into his tea mug and wondering if it would be impolite to ask for some of the man's ginger root.
"Would you like to learn?" Catherwood finally asked, after a long silence.
"Almost as much as I want to be a doctor," Johnny answered, very softly.
Catherwood nodded. "Well, tuck in," he said, waving his hand at the spread before them. "We'll have plenty of time after we eat to get started, I imagine. Train rides like these are interminably dull."
Johnny gaped at him. The few words were simply too much to take in. Dr. Catherwood meant to teach him? And to share his food? "I...but...I mean, did..." he flushed, breaking off, and finally decided to address the more pressing issue first. "Sir, I don't...I don't need breakfast," he said. "I...do just fine without it, most of the time anyway, and..."
"Nonsense," Catherwood cut him off, waving a hand. "It's the most important meal, didn't you know that?" He shook his head, looking amused, and began to scoop a few eggs onto his plate. "Start your day well, and it's more likely to end well, you know."
Johnny bit his lip. "All...all right, then," he said, "Thank you, sir. Very much. But...if I'm to be eating, could...could I perhaps ask you for some of the ginger? I don't think trains agree with my stomach much, either."
Catherwood looked pleased. "Absolutely," he said, digging into his bag and pulling out the root. He cut a few shreds before rewrapping it, then scooped them up and tipped his hand, letting them fall into Johnny's tea. "Believe me, you have my utmost sympathies. Let that steep for a few minutes, then just drink it like normal. It won't hurt anything if you ingest the ginger, but it's not necessary."
"Thank you," Johnny said again, wrapping his long, thin fingers around his cup. It was warm, against the damp chill of the day, and it felt good, making his fingers seem less sluggish and slow. He decided not to mention the writing just yet; chances were Catherwood would forget, or perhaps he hadn't been serious to start with. Johnny hadn't meant to hint around for lessons--that would have been unthinkably rude, after all, and a surgeon no doubt had better uses for his time--and if he didn't mention it, perhaps it would go away.
He felt a little wistful, but forced the emotion out of his expression, concentrating instead on sipping at his tea.
For a time they were silent, Catherwood digging into his meal with relish; after he'd had a bit of his ginger tea, Johnny realized he felt well enough to do so himself. He ate rather reservedly, still feeling shy, but still consuming far more than he usually would have. He set his fork aside some time later, feeling wonderfully full.
"I hadn't expected such good food on a train...It still seems strange to think of how quickly we're moving." Johnny shuddered, though, at a particularly large jolt. "If not very comfortably..."
Catherwood winced sympathetically. "All the more reason to distract ourselves," he agreed. He rang for the porter again, setting the tray on the counter next to the tea tray and clearing a space on the table. He reached into his satchel, pulling out another journal. "Now," he said. "How much do you know?"
Johnny flushed again, realizing the doctor apparently really did mean to teach him. "Sir, I...you don't have to do this," he said quietly, lowering his eyes and staring down at a small spot of spilled tea that was magnifying the wood grain of the table. He reached out, wiping at it with his thumb.
"Of course I don't," Catherwood said, surprising Johnny, who looked up in spite of himself. The surgeon looked amused. "Oh, come on," he said. "Do you really think you could make me do anything I didn't want to do, anyway? Don't be silly." He nodded back toward his satchel. "You'll be of more use to me if you can identify the medicines by their labels, when we're in the field, and I may need you to deliver messages, too. It would be useful if you could write them down when my hands are otherwise occupied."
Johnny hesitated, wanting to protest, but the doctor had made it clear he wasn't doing this for Johnny's sake. And, somehow, that made the whole thing all right--or at least more all right than it had seemed before. He nodded, slowly. "Yes, sir," he said.
Catherwood huffed, looking satisfied. "Good. Now, again: How much do you know?"
Johnny flushed, shaking his head. "That there are letters that make words. I know the shapes of them, mostly, though I don't know all their names." He blushed, when Catherwood waited expectantly, and added, "That's all."
Catherwood nodded. "We'll start with the basics, then," he said. "The alphabet."
He dipped his quill, and began to write, inscribing each letter and telling Johnny its name as he went. Johnny repeated the letters under his breath, trying to memorize them, watching with awe as the doctor's quill moved so easily over the paper.
When he'd inscribed them all, he handed the journal to Johnny, who took it with wide eyes. "Would you like to try?" Catherwood asked.
"I...truly?" he whispered, awed.
Catherwood smiled, looking amused. "It's the only way you'll learn," he reasoned, handing Johnny the quill.
Once it was in his hand, however, Johnny was at a bit of a loss. He'd tried to observe the way Catherwood's hand had looked, holding the quill, but he found he simply couldn't reproduce it from this angle. He frowned, trying several different poses before Catherwood chuckled gently. "Let me show you," the doctor murmured, standing and moving to lean over Johnny from behind. "Which hand do you favor?"
Johnny blinked, glancing up at him. "What?"
Catherwood thought. "When you're reaching for something," he said after a moment. "Do you reach with this hand"--he tapped the hand closest to the window--"or this one?" he tapped the other, which was currently holding the quill.
Johnny thought, then tentatively lifted the one nearer the window. "This one?"
Catherwood smiled. "You're left-handed," he informed him.
Johnny swallowed, eyes widening. "Is... is that... bad?"
Catherwood chuckled again. "Not at all," he said. "It makes you more unique, but it's not bad, despite what some think. I believe it is best to learn with the hand that feels better to you, anyway. Had you had traditional schooling, they probably would have forced you to use your right hand--that's this one," he tapped the hand holding the quill again. "But I shan't do that. We'll go with the hand that feels best to you; you'll learn faster that way."
He draped his arm over Johnny's shoulder from behind, gently removing the quill from Johnny's right hand and placing it in his left, then carefully shaping his fingers around the instrument. "Relax," he murmured, when Johnny gripped the pen tightly, determined not to let his fingers slip, now that they were in the right position. "Your hand will ache, if you try to write like that."
Johnny nodded, trying to relax his fingers slightly. He frowned down at the quill. It felt awkward, and he wondered if he'd be able to manage it. But he was at least determined to try. "All right. Now what?"
"Now you move your fingers to make letters," Catherwood told him. "Try an A, first."
Johnny bit his lip, concentrating, and obeyed. A moment later, the letter was on the paper, wobbly and with a few ink splotches on it, but recognizable. He grinned broadly, and looked up at Catherwood in amazement. "I did it!"
Catherwood looked amused. "You did," he agreed. "Let's go ahead and try it again anyway. This time, don't move your whole hand as much--try moving your fingers, instead, to make the quill go where you wish. It won't snag the paper as much that way, and leave blotches."
Johnny obeyed again, and soon the page was filled with As, each growing more confident than the last, though none were as sure as the one Catherwood had written at the top for him to model his from.
"This is more difficult than I imagined," he said softly, setting the quill aside and massaging his hand.
Catherwood glanced up from his own writing. "It will grow easier, as you practice," he assured him. "Your hand will learn to fit itself to the quill by itself, and the movements will become natural and automatic, so you won't have to think about them as much."
Johnny bit his lip. He didn't voice his thoughts, not wishing to sound ungrateful, but he wondered how much he would actually learn, before they'd be too busy to worry about letters. They had one more day on the train, then ten or so days on horseback--he couldn't practice then, but even if he practiced by campfire at night, he would be lucky if he even learned the alphabet by the time they reached Springfield.
He shook those thoughts off, however, deciding that even learning the alphabet would be more than he'd ever dared hope for. He glanced down at the journal page, prepared to start practicing Bs, when he suddenly realized there was no more room. He wondered if he should turn the page, but hesitated, glancing up at Catherwood. The doctor might not wish him to use all his papers for his childish scrawling, after all...
Catherwood, sensing his hesitation, glanced up at him, then at the journal, and frowned. "Is there a problem?"
Johnny shook his head quickly. "No, sir," he said. "I... I ran out of room."
"Turn the page," Catherwood instructed, a smirk flitting across his face before he returned his attention to his writing once more.
Johnny grinned, and obeyed.
By the time it grew too dark to see, Johnny had practiced all the letters, and on one page, in proud (if slightly shaky) letters, the words "Jonathan Dwyre" were written in thick black strokes.
* * *
Continued in Part Two