Down the River

Booker DeWitt strummed his guitar to the tune of Down the River, Down the Ohio. He was so distracted by his playing that he hadn't even noticed Lieutenant Slate sitting across from him. "If you hadn't noticed, the white's only campfires are over that way." Booker said, thumbing over his shoulder.

"DeWitt, it doesn't matter a lick to me if you're an injun or not. I sit with the real soldiers."

"...Thanks."

A thick New York accent cut through the air, followed by a mocking laughter. "You going native, Slate?"

Slate simply ignored them and watched the rations cook. "You got a family, DeWitt? I mean a wife and kids" He asked with a suddenness that surprised DeWitt.

"No, Sir." Booker replied, looking up from his guitar.

"Damn shame, that. You know, I used to be married myself."

Booker shook his head and stopped his playing. Slate was a mystery to him. He seemed more like a god of war than a man. The very notion of Slate having a wife or family rattled him. "I had no idea."

"She died of the consumption three years ago on this day." A very real sadness swept across his face.

"I'm sorry, sir."

Slate simply unscrewed his ration of whiskey. "Nothing to be sorry about, DeWitt. Just keep playing. And pass me some of that salt fish."

Slate didn't talk much after that. Booker obliged his silence by playing on into the night, something soulful and true. Not a mask of patriotic cheer. He supposed he couldn't really consider Slate a friend. He supposed Slate didn't really have any friends. But it felt good to be treated like Booker DeWitt, soldier.