by Alison Hart
“The Rebels are murdering the wounded.” Captain Waite places his hand on his holster.
My mind reels as I think about Private Lewis back at the cabin. Did they kill him? And what about Pa and Private Black out there on the hillside with no protection?
“There’s no time to waste,” the assistant says hastily. “Confederate surgeons have set up a hospital at Emory and Henry College a few miles from here. They’ve pledged to care for the Union wounded as if they were their own. We have no choice but to believe them. We’re loading the injured officers into a wagon.”
Captain Waite nods. “Help me off my horse.”
“Sir, don’t go,” I protest. “If you hurry you can meet up with your regiment. Champion can take you.”
“I’ll be safe, Gabriel. But your father may not be. Take Champion and ride to Chestnut Ridge before the fog lifts. See if you can find him. That’s an order,” he adds sternly.
“Yes sir.” I salute him, sadness heavy on my chest: I may never see Captain Waite again.
The assistant and I are helping the captain off Champion just as a wagon pulled by a fresh team of horses wheels up to the porch. “Hurry!” the driver shouts. “We have to get everyone out now. Word is that Champ Ferguson and his guerrillas are killing all Union soldiers left behind.”
Guerrillas. The word strikes new fear in my heart. I met guerrillas in Kentucky a while back, so I know they are renegades who have neither law nor mercy.
Captain Waite slings his arm around the assistant’s shoulders. His face is flushed with fever. “Goodbye, Gabriel,” he says, forcing a smile through his pain. “You’ve been the finest aide an officer could ask for.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ve been honored to serve you.” Supported by the assistant, the captain hops toward the wagon. He doesn’t turn back, so I doubt he’s heard my words.
Crack, crack, crack. This time the shots ring out from the top of Chestnut Ridge. In one swift move, I swing into Champion’s saddle, gather the reins, and kick him into a gallop.
I hope it’s not too late.
Chapter Thirteen
Champion gallops from the yard and into the mist. I steer him down the hill, through the brush and into the ravine. We follow the ravine to the left for a while before cantering up the mountainside.
By the time we reach the rock where I found Captain Waite, the fog is lifting, and the sun is poking through the clouds. I rein Champion to a halt and stare in stunned silence as the morning light creeps over Chestnut Ridge.
The hillside is littered with bodies: black and white, gray-clad and blue-coated, piled atop each other without thought of uniform or skin color. No one—Confederate nor Union—escaped the wrath of the bullets and balls, and hated enemies now lie side by side.
My throat grows tight. Ma was right. War is about death.
Movement along the top of the ridge reminds me I don’t have time for ponderin’ or prayin’.
Dismounting, I lead Champion back to the ravine and hide him in a clump of scraggly cedars. I pull the canteen and rucksack from the saddle and sling them over my shoulder. Crouching low, I run back to the bodies. I scurry around them like a rat, peering at faces. Here and there an arm stirs, a voice cries out, a leg shifts. There are plenty of soldiers—Rebel and Yankee—alive on this ridge, but many of them won’t last through the day. I cringe with the knowing that I can’t help them. I have to keep moving if I’m to find Pa and Private Black.
I spot Confederate stretcher bearers working their way from the summit. Ducking from sight, I pull a Rebel kepi from a dead soldier’s head. I replace my blue cap with his gray and hope that with my now dirt-colored jacket the stretcher bearers will take me for a Reb. I feel like a traitor to the Union, but if it buys me time to find Pa, I don’t care.
Ahead I spot a boulder jutting from the hillside. Heaped behind it, as if they were seeking protection from the bullets, are several soldiers in blue. As I scuttle toward them, I hear a gruff voice say, “Kill any Negro found alive.”
I dive behind the rock and flatten myself against the ground. Shutting my eyes, I go as limp as the dead.
Footsteps crunch closer. I hear a whump, as if someone’s turned a body over. Then a voice hollers, “The Tennesseans sure gave these bluecoats heck. Nothin’ left here but buzzard food.” The footsteps move away.
I squint one eye open, and my guts twist. The man’s carrying a pistol in his hand as he steps over bodies. He’s dressed in a butternut jacket, but I see no insignia. He’s wearing blue jeans instead of Confederate gray.
Not stretcher bearers. Not soldiers. These men with pistols are Rebel guerrillas.
A plea for mercy followed by a gunshot tells me they’re bent on revenge.
I feign death until I hear no more voices and no more shots.
But the sun is rising, and I know I have to stir soon. Every moment I lie here increases the chances that someone will find me or Champion. Every moment I lie here lessens my chances of finding Pa and Private Black alive.
Surrounded by these departed souls, it’s hard to believe that’s still possible. But I have to keep looking.
I lift my head and listen. I peer up the hill and down. Far to my left, Confederate stretcher bearers are hauling their wounded soldiers to the top of the hill where an ambulance wagon awaits. They’ve a job to do but won’t bother with us Union soldiers until last.
Inch by inch, I drag myself to the boulder. Resting my back against it, I face downward. I move my gaze from fallen soldier to fallen soldier, searching for sergeant’s stripes or a sign of life.
A breeze ruffles a sleeve. A fly buzzes against a cheek.
Then I see it—the pointy end of a brown and white striped feather. Delirious with hope, I scramble down the hill. The feather’s still stuck in the brim of Pa’s cap, but the cap’s lying on bare ground, as if blasted off his head. I snatch it up and hold it to my chest.
He’s got to be here! I dash from body to body, unmindful of the danger. And then, just beyond a tangle of brush I see three yellow stripes. Pa!
He’s face down, his cheek scrunched in the dirt, his rifle and arm stretched in front of him as if he fell trying to reach that summit. His hair and forehead are matted with blood.
I shoo away the flies and place my ear to his lips. “Come on, Pa,” I whisper, “you have to be alive.”
A soft rush of air brushes my ear.
Tears spring to my eyes as I gently turn him over. He has a long gash on his head as if a bullet creased his scalp, and he moans when I move him.
“Pa, it’s Gabriel.” I yank the canteen and rucksack off my shoulder. I pour a little water on his face and on his wound. He tries to sit up, but I press him down. “Hush now, Pa. Guerrillas are hunting wounded coloreds,” I warn. “I’ve got to get you out of here.”
He stares up at me with startled, blood-crusted eyes as if he understands the danger. Keeping my eye on the movement to the west, I check his arms and legs, noting no other injuries.
“Do you think you can walk?”
He gives me a silent nod. Quickly, I bandage his wound. I tuck his cap in my jacket and place a Rebel kepi on his head as well. Two coloreds wearing Confederate gray caps ain’t going to fool anyone for long—it just has to fool them long enough for me to get Pa on Champion.
“Did you see Private Black?” I whisper.
Pa has trouble speaking. I give him a sip from the canteen, and he finds his voice. “He . . . was . . . beside me . . . when I . . .” He flaps his hand to his left. “Over there.”
Crouched furtively, I scoot from soldier to soldier, but there’s no sign of Private Black, or of life. Voices from atop the ridge remind me we’re running out of time.
I look toward the ravine, which seems a mile away, then glance toward the stretcher bearers. They’re still working along the summit and the west side of the hill, but they seem to be moving this way. I don’t see the guerrillas.
Then I hear gunshots from the direction of Governor Sander’s house, an
d I pray Captain Waite and the other officers are long departed.
“Come on.” Reaching around Pa, I help him to his feet and lead him down the hill toward the ravine. Pa leans heavily on me, both of us stumbling in our urgency to reach the cedars.
Champion greets me with a whicker.
I boost Pa into the saddle, and then untie the reins. The shooting grows nearer.
Pa clutches the pommel. Blood’s pooling under the bandage on his head.
“Go,” I tell him, holding up the reins. “They won’t find me in the thicket.”
He shakes his head. “We . . . go together . . . or not at all.” He stretches out his hand to me.
Shouts ring close by, and Champion dances in place. Grabbing Pa’s hand, I swing up behind the saddle and land on the horse’s rump. Startled, Champion kicks out, but I nudge him hard in the sides, and he plunges from the cedars.
We don’t dare head in the direction of Governor Sander’s house. I rein Champion to the east. He races along the ravine, jumping gullies and logs.
“Colored Yankees!” someone hollers.
My heart drums as loudly as Champion’s hooves.
I glance over my shoulder. A handful of Rebels is charging after us, their revolvers raised. In front of me, Pa’s slumped heavily. Champion’s carrying two riders, and we’re headed in the wrong direction. Betting money would be stacked against us, but I ain’t quitting. That quick look told me those Rebels ain’t ridin’ Thoroughbreds, while Champion, like Aristo, was born to race and win, no matter what the odds.
Champion gallops gamely up the hill, and I steer him behind the cabin, trying to shake my pursuers. We reach the top of Sanders Hill and plunge down the other side. Pa’s clinging tightly to the pommel, but I can feel his energy draining. To keep Pa from falling, I wrap one arm around his waist and steer Champion with the other hand as we fly up the hill. The bonfires are still smoldering, but there ain’t a Union soldier in sight to come to our rescue.
I dare another look behind us. The Rebels have crested Sander’s Hill. They halt as if worried a Yankee cannon might be aimed and waiting, but when they see it’s all clear, they whoop like banshees and spur their horses.
Champion weaves around the fires and along the muddy path by the river. I fear he might fall, but he’s sure-footed and true as his hooves grab the earth churned by departing horses and wagon wheels. Our brigade’s had a night’s head start, but there ain’t no refuge for us here in Virginia. Our only hope is to catch up with the retreating troops.
Champion slows to a trot when we reach our camp from two nights ago. Discarded bundles, bloody bandages, cold campfires, and a dozen hastily dug graves are all that’s left. I can tell by the ruts and hoofprints that Colonel Ratliff’s brigade has fled across the river toward Clinch Mountain.
Champion’s sides are heaving; his nostrils flare pink and his neck is lathered. I don’t know how much longer the horse can carry us both.
“Gabriel, leave me,” Pa whispers. “Save yourself.”
“No,” I say fiercely, tightening my grasp around him. “We go together or not at all. ’Sides, Pa, I’ve been up against guerrillas before. And this time, they ain’t bestin’ me.”
A shrill ki-yi-yi sends shivers through us both.
“Run, Champion,” I urge, aiming the horse toward the Holston River. “You can outrun those Rebel nags.”
The short rest has given the stallion a chance to catch his wind. He races for the river and leaps into the water with such force that my kepi flies off my head. Legs reaching high, he trots across. In the distance, I see the rise of Clinch Mountain. If we can just make Low Gap, we might be able to hide in the crevices and boulders.
Champion springs up the bank and canters down the wide trail. His breathing’s labored but he don’t quit. The trail grows steeper and the woods thicker. I spy fresh horse droppings, and I pray we ain’t far behind the 4th Brigade.
Gunshots dash my hopes. The Rebels are gaining on us.
Bullets whack the tree trunks lining the path. Pa and I hunker down on the horse’s back, cringing as the shells zing over our heads. Champion stumbles, then rights himself, but I know something’s wrong. Behind me, blood blooms on his rump, and his stride grows uneven.
Champion has been shot.
Chapter Fourteen
The Rebels are so close now I can hear the huff, huff of their mounts. “We’ve got them colored Yankees now!” one of the Rebels cries, the hate in his voice ringing in my ears.
I feel my innards plummet as I realize that without Champion to carry us, Pa and I ain’t going to make it out of Virginia alive.
“I love you, Pa!” I shout in his ear, and if the Rebels hear, they must believe I’m daft. But Pa’s slouched forward in the saddle as if unconscious, for which I’m grateful. At least he won’t see the rage in those guerrillas’ eyes when they kill us.
Champion slows to a lurching trot. I hold tight around Pa’s waist and wait for a bullet to knock us off the horse’s back.
A deafening volley fills the air. But the gunfire’s coming from Low Gap. And the bullets are kicking up dirt in front of those Rebels, not us!
Champion startles, tossing me sideways, and I scramble to hang on. A trumpet blasts, and two dozen cavalrymen gallop toward us from Clinch Mountain. I see from the colors it’s a company from the 11th Michigan.
When Champion stops, I lose my grip and fall with a thud by his hind legs. I jump up, but I’m barely in time to catch Pa and lower him to the ground. I kneel beside him. His eyes are shut and his bandage is soaked with blood, but he’s still breathing.
The cavalrymen charge past us with whoops and hollers. The guerrillas have swung wide and are racing to distance them. The company’s surgeon rides up and dismounts.
Standing on wobbly legs, I salute him. “Thank you, sir!” I croak through cracked lips.
“At ease, Private.” He pulls a rucksack from his saddle and bends to look at Pa.
“Will he be all right?” I ask.
“With good care.”
I hobble over to Champion. His legs are splayed, his sides heave, and his head hangs as he blows air in and out of his nostrils like a bellows. The wound on his hindquarters oozes blood. “Sir, may I use your canteen and antiseptic?” I ask the surgeon. “It’s for my horse.”
I expect him to scoff and refuse, but he nods without looking up. “You did a fine job bandaging this sergeant, so I believe you can handle your mount.”
I pour water from the canteen into Pa’s cap and give Champion a sip of water. Then I soak my jacket and rub it over his neck and chest to cool him off. With the last of the water, I cleanse the gash. The horse cocks his leg as if it hurts, but I probe gently with my fingers and determine that the bullet only grazed the flesh. I pour a little of the antiseptic over the wound and hand the bottle back to the surgeon. By the time the cavalrymen ride back, Champion’s breathing has evened and Pa’s sitting up.
The soldiers are grinning mightily. “Scared them varmints right back to Saltville,” a corporal brags. I salute the captain in charge.
“You two from the Fifth?” he asks.
“Yes sir. This is my— I mean, this is Sergeant Alexander of Company B.”
“Captain Waite’s company?”
“Yes sir. Captain Waite broke his ankle. He’s in the hands of Confederate surgeons. And sir, thank you for coming to our aid.”
“Our pleasure.” The captain scowls. “Sorry to hear about Waite. Hope those Rebel doctors take good care of him. Colonel Ratliff didn’t agree with General Burbridge’s order to leave,” he adds. “We fought side by side on that hill with you men of the Fifth. No one should have been left behind.”
The other riders murmur in agreement.
“Colonel Ratliff ordered us to stay behind and protect stragglers. We were glad to do what we could.” The captain grins. “Although you were the first being pursued by such a ragtag band. We’ve been itching all morning for a good skirmish.”
I’m mighty
glad someone enjoys fighting. Me, I’ve had enough for a lifetime.
The captain straightens in his saddle, ready to be on his way. “Sir,” I call, “did you happen to find a Private Black from Company B this morning?”
“Not that I know of.” He shakes his head. “Scant few survivors have come by here, but we’re under orders to wait out the day, just in case. I’ll send a detail to escort you and Sergeant Alexander to your regiment. Colonel Ratliff’s brigade should be camping on the other side of Clinch Mountain tonight. We’ve an extra mount for your pa. Do you think your horse can make it?”
“I won’t leave him behind!” I declare.
“Whoa, son.” He holds up his palm. “I’m not asking you to leave him.”
I lace my fingers through Champion’s mane. “He’ll make it. I’ll lead him the whole way if need be.”
A cavalryman rides up with a horse trailing behind him. It’s Hero! “That’s my pa’s mount,” I tell them.
The surgeon grins as he takes Hero’s reins and hands them to me. “Sergeant Alexander’s horse helped me lead a wagon of wounded to safety. He’s a fine animal.”
It takes three of us to boost Pa into the saddle. But once he’s seated on Hero, he attempts to sit tall. “I’m ready,” he says.
It’s a long, slow walk over Clinch Mountain. By the time the detail from 11th Michigan leads Pa and me into the 4th Brigade’s camp, it’s past dark. Several white soldiers rise from their fires to meet us. They help Pa off Hero and take us to where the Fifth have bivouacked. As I walk the horses around the campfires, I notice that the lines of the white and black regiments have blurred. Soldiers of the 11th Michigan, the 12th Ohio, and the 5th Colored Cavalry are seated together, talking of the battle.
When we reach Company B, a grand hurrah rings out. The regiment surgeon and his assistant escort Pa to the hospital tent. A lieutenant sitting on a rock outside the tent limps over to me. His arm is in a sling. “What happened to Captain Waite?” he asks. “His company was in front of ours on that ridge. Seems his men got hit the worst.”