The Cup

Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the TV program "Big Valley" are the creations of Four Star/Republic Pictures and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

Nick was glad when they decided to camp for the night. He was hot, dusty and tired. He and Heath had ridden two days to check out some breeding stock and it had been a total waste of time. These so-called "prime breeding stock" were some of the sorriest cows he’d ever set eyes on. He wondered if there were some sort of legal proceedings Jarrod could take against that stupid rancher for false advertising.

Nick snorted. Prime indeed. No self-respecting rustler would even bother stealing those cattle; they were that bad.

Heath hadn’t wanted to make this trip but Nick had insisted. Now that the trip turned out to be a bust, his brother’s none to pleasant mood had even turned even fouler. Charger throwing his shoe the other day had only added to the pleasantness of the trip along with the unexpected rainstorm last night that had caught them unprepared and drenched them. No sir, his brother was one unhappy cowboy.

Nick scanned the sky wishing for a little rain now to cool his parched throat. He decided to wander down to the creek and get a drink while Heath gathered some wood for the fire; a fire to cook their dinner of beans he thought distastefully.

Nick reached into his saddlebag to grab his cup. He grunted, as his hand did not immediately find it. Turning his full attention on the task, he went through each of his saddlebags methodically but no cup was to be found. Well, the way this trip had been going why should he be surprised it was gone?

Nick strolled over to Charger and rummaged through Heath’s saddlebags intending to borrow his cup. Nick pulled out the first cup he came across. He examined it, turning it over in his hands. It was certainly beat up. It was made out of tin, had a ton of nicks and dents, was rusty in spots and the handle was twisted. Oh well, what do I care as long as it holds water Nick thought as he headed for the stream.

Heath headed back to the camp with the firewood in his arms. He made his way across the meandering creek. He saw Nick a little ways down and headed in his direction. As he neared his brother, he saw him taking a drink from the creek using…

Heath saw red as the firewood dropped unheeded to the ground. He did even think about what he was doing as he strode over to his brother, knocked the cup from his hand and began to punch him. Nick was too stunned by the suddenness of the attack to defend himself. He stumbled to the ground under Heath’s relentless assault. When Nick fell onto the creek’s bank, Heath let up on him, bent down and tenderly picked up the cup from where it lay on the ground. He cradled it like a newborn kitten in his hands.

"Don’t you ever, ever touch my cup. Do I make myself clear! Touch it again and I swear I’ll kill ya."

Nick looked at his brother’s face contorted in a mask of rage. He didn’t even think Heath knew what he just said. Heath whirled and walked off leaving Nick lying on the ground, puzzled and confused.

Heath angrily marched up the creek until he came to a tree by its edge. He flopped down under the tree all the while holding his precious cup tightly in his hand. As the minutes passed his anger dissipated and was slowly replaced by unspeakable sorrow. He felt a tear slide unbidden down his cheek and into the tin cup. Heath gently set the cup down on the ground next to him and then cradled his head in his hands, allowing the tears to flow freely. Would he, could he, should he ever forget? He sat there, head in his hands allowing the painful memories to wash over him, living he agonies fresh anew.

Nick got up off the ground dusting himself off. What in tarnation had gotten into that boy? Nick headed off in the direction his brother went, planning to have a *talk* with him. Nick spotted Heath under the tree but stopped as he noted his brother’s grief. Nick quietly turned and made his way back to camp. Something had apparently deeply upset his brother and Nick knew it would be wiser to wait for Heath to come to him, if he so chose, rather then Nick barging in on his private grief. Nick loved his brother deeply, but also respected his right to privacy.

Heath sat under the tree long after the tears had stopped flowing and the pain had settled back to its customary dull ache. Nick. He knew he owed an explanation to him for his recent behavior. Coming out of nowhere and attacking his brother. What must Nick think? He picked the cup up and turned it over and over in his hand. He should have thrown the stupid thing away years ago. But somehow he had never been able to. It was his one link back to that place and to the promises made. Heath got to his feet and headed back to the camp. He could only delay the inevitable so long.

In his absence, Nick had started a fire and was eating a plate of beans with his usual reluctance.

"Left plenty for you. Course, they may not be as good as you make them," Nick teased.

Heath walked over to his saddlebag and put the cup away. He sat down opposite Nick but made no move to help himself to the beans. Nick didn’t say anything but went back to picking at his meal.

"Aren’t ya gonna eat?"

Heath silently shook his head no as he watched the dusk deepen into night. The sounds of the night came alive as the boys sat there. Nick finished his plate and walked down to the creek to rinse it off. When he came back his brother still hadn’t moved. Nick went to take the coffee off the fire and then realized his mistake. What were they going to do for cups? He replaced the coffeepot and sat back down to wait.

Nick was not a man of infinite patience and finally he couldn’t stand the silence any longer.

"Look Heath. About going into your saddlebags. I couldn’t find my cup and thought I’d borrow yours and…" Nick’s voice trailed off. He shrugged his shoulder. "I’m sorry."

Heath closed his eyes and grimaced at the word cup and borrow. Didn’t Nick know you never borrowed a man’s cup? A cup was your only means of survival, the last shred of dignity; the difference between being human or a mere animal. The only shred of dignity many men … Heath bit his lip and tried to block his mind from going any further down that path. He did not succeed.

"I suppose I owe you and explanation," he began slowly.

Nick studied his brother’s face in the glow of the firelight. He could see whatever was going on with his brother was painful, very painful. "No Heath. You don’t owe me anything. But if you want to tell me I’m ready to listen."

Heath closed his eyes and bowed his head. Perhaps if he could tell this one little story, perhaps, just perhaps, it would lighten the heavy load he carried on his soul. He opened his eyes and looked over at Nick, studying the older man’s face; searching his hazel eyes for something. He knew Nick had been in the war and was probably witness to some of the bloodiest battles. Nick knew about the atrocities of war. If anyone could understand the cup, it was Nick.

Heath looked back at the fire, as if trying to gather courage from those dancing flames.

Nick sat quietly, knowing if his brother was going to tell him, he would do it at his own pace in his own time. Nick leaned back deeper into his saddle and got comfortable.

"You know I fought in the war."

Nick nodded his head yes.

"Towards the end of the war I found myself back in New Mexico. We were working under a new field commander. By then, it seemed they were giving officer’s commissions to any Harry or Dick that came along. Anyway, this commander didn’t know what he was doing and ended up losing half his troops to enemy fire. Those of us that weren’t killed outright were captured and sent to Carterson Prison. In the months to come, we would often wonder who got the better end of the deal. Us or our comrades who we left dead on the field."

Heath paused and drew a ragged breath. He hesitated a long time before continuing.

"Seven months. I spent seven months in that hell hole until we were finally released after the war’s end."

Heath shivered and rubbed his arms as if he were cold.

"Of all that men that entered that place, less then half walked out in the end." Heath laughed bitterly. "If you can call it walking. Some men could do no more than crawl. Some were missing legs, arms, eyes, fingers, toes, you name it. And the ones that still had all their body parts were more than likely covered with whip scars or worse yet wounds, that festered and would not heal. There was not a man among us that resembled anything more than a walking corpse."

Heath ran a hand through his hair. "And to go along with the physical problems, a good many men had lost their minds … in fact I think we all did … some of us just were a bit better at hiding it. How can you stay sane when there is no hope and the only thing you have to look forward to is another day that will be worse than the one you just suffered through. Men crying and screaming day and night. Men fighting like animals."

Heath looked deep into the fire. "Oh yes, we fought … fought for survival. We fought over every morsel of maggoty food, every drop of putrid water, every scrap of cloth, every patch of earth … the only thing we all banded together on was our hatred for the commander of the camp … Matt Bentel," Heath spat the man’s name. "Yes we all agreed we would give up our lives for a chance to kill him."

Nick narrowed his eyes as he studied his brother’s face. He had never seen such hatred before. Nick had to admit it frightened him and he was not a man that was easily frightened.

"There are many stories I could tell you about that place but the one I owe you is that of the cup."

Heath got up and walked over to his saddlebag and removed the said object. He came back to the fire, sat down and rolled the cup between his hands.

"There was a small creek that ran through the compound. It wasn’t more than a small flow at the best of times but it was all we had in the way of water. With so many men using it, it quickly became fouled. You weren’t sure what you were drinking but you didn’t ask. You needed that liquid to survive. On some days, the guards would come around with a bucket of water. It wasn’t great but it was better than the creek."

Heath held the cup up in the firelight. "Of course, to have a drink of that water from the bucket you had to have a cup. No cup, no drink. A cup became a sign of humanity. It meant you didn’t have to go down to the putrid stream and get on your hands and knees and drink like an animal. It meant a chance of water from the bucket … it wasn’t much... but it was a scrap of dignity … a dignity that could be found no where else in the prison."

Heath lowered the cup and pleaded with his brother to understand. "To take a man’s cup was to take his dignity. It was an unforgivable offence. When someone died…" Heath looked away to compose himself. He was unable to meet his brother’s eyes again so he addressed the sky. "When someone died, we would fight, like the filthy animals we had become, for the dead’s possessions. His plate, his clothes, his shoes, his place to sleep, anything and everything to include his cup."

Nick swallowed hard, imagining the destitute of these men; what it must have been like to drive these men to do what they did. He looked at his brother in a new light wondering.

As if Heath had read his mind, he addressed Nick’s pondering. "I was no better and no worse then anyone else. I like to think I tried to help. I have the scars from being whipped, for daring to ask … but in the end, I was no better than the rest. I got this cup by…" Heath’s voice broke.

Nick got up, walked over and laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. "It’s all right Heath," he said huskily.

Heath flung his brother’s hand off and looked him straight in the eye. Nick had never seen such anguish in a person’s eyes.

"It is not all right Nick. I took a rock, a rock Nick and bashed some poor man in the head with it over a dumb cup. Bashed a man in the head over a dead man’s cup." Heath flung the cup across the fire.

"I tried to kill a person over a lousy cup." Heath laughed and continued with irony. "Oh in case you’re wondering, the man didn’t die right away. No he lived for at least a few more weeks before he finally died … of what, I can’t tell you but I’ve got to believe my bashing him in the head with a rock didn’t help matters any."

Heath looked away. "But that is what it was like there. Men, so driven, that they turned on their fellow man. I think the only thing that kept us from all killing each other was our common bond of hatred for the man that ran the camp and the dim hope of someday escaping to kill that bastard."

Silence fell about the camp again. The fire crackled and the night creatures were the only sound.

Nick squatted down in front of his brother and put a hand on his shoulder again. "No man should have had to go through what you and the other men in Carterson did. You men were forced, force by circumstances out of your control to do what you did, and to act in the manner you did. That doesn’t make what you did right or wrong … just necessary. And Heath, when it comes to survival, we all do what we have to … to survive. Jarrod or I would have acted no different then you and your fellow inmates."

Nick let his arm fall back to his side. "I’ll admit I never went through what you did in that prison and by God if I could change what happened to you and the rest of those men I would."

Heath gave his brother a half-smile. He could hear the sincerity in Nick’s voice and he believed this man would do what he said if it were possible.

"I done somethings in the name of war that I am not proud of," Nick went on to say. "But I have managed to put them more or less behind me. You have to…"

Heath protested. "You can’t put a place like that behind you Nick. It is always there, always gnawing at you in the darkest part of the night."

Nick continued. "I am not saying you can forget Heath … but you have to learn to let go enough that it doesn’t ruin your life."

Nick got up and walked over to where the cup lay tilted on the barren earth. He picked it up, went back and stood in front of his brother. "Don’t let this cup represent death and hatred but rather life. Even as battered and broken as this cup appears, it can still carry out its mission." Nick walked over to the fire, took the pot of coffee and filled the cup to the brim. He walked back over and handed the cup to his brother. "I can still do its job Heath. It is still a cup and you are still a man. Caterson can’t take that away from you."

Heath held the steaming cup of coffee in his hand. He looked from the cup to Nick and back. He knew he could never forget Carterson just as he knew if he ever came face to face with the man who ran that hellhole that he’d probably try to kill him. He had sworn that to the dead. But maybe Nick was right. Maybe he could put his hate, anger and bitterness on the back burner of his life and not let it destroy the good that was in him. Heath gave Nick a quick nod.

Nick answered with a smile. As he went back to lay down to sleep he said, "Heath, if you can, get rid of the cup. You don’t need it."

The brother’s never spoke on this subject again out of mutual respect. Nick noticed one day when he was in Heath’s bedroom, that the battered cup now resided on top of his dresser rather than in his saddlebags. Nick had the impression it was the first time that cup had parted from Heath’s company since he left Carterson. He took it as a positive sign that while Heath felt he couldn’t get rid of the cup, that he was at least able to separate himself from it for awhile. And, thought Nick, perhaps that is the all we can hope for. We can not totally separate ourselves from our past, but perhaps we can separate ourselves from the bad parts so we can enjoy the good parts of our future.

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