The barouche horses are bays, a young pair, well-trained, handsomely harnessed. My driver is a stalwart from Rhode Island; he says he used to work in a cotton mill; now, he looks forward to a job in a warmer climate.
We talk about the chestnuts and the oaks; for a mill worker he is well-informed about trees; suddenly, our drive is over.
Late
Nightmares occur.
I sit up in bed and recall in vivid detail scenes I have never witnessed, men dying under artillery and rifle fire, tent amputations, men struggling across a muddy, swollen river, a firing squad where men are shot down as I sit in a rocking chair.
I say nothing to anyone about these dreams but they are a weight to my world.
Lately, it is difficult to eat; I forget or refuse my lunch on its tray; coffee helps. I long to get away for a week or ten days.
Sunday