by Tara Johnson
The others in her regiment had noticed, and at their pointed questions, she’d told them she and Gabe had a disagreement but wouldn’t elaborate further. She was known for keeping to herself. Apparently Gabriel hadn’t said a word to anyone either, as she was still Private Thomas Turner. At least he’d been merciful in not exposing her charade.
The ill man grimaced against his cot. “I don’t understand the general. Why hasn’t he given orders to move? The Rebs are long gone.”
“I don’t know.” She blew out a heavy breath, trying to ignore the thick odor of sweat and sickness that hung in the hospital room. The air was more than stale and stuffy. It was turning putrid.
Some days she wondered what had possessed her to volunteer to feed cranky men, empty bedpans, or dig graves. Yet she knew what drove her. She longed to put distance between Gabriel and herself. The pain was keen. She missed his friendship too much to see him day after day and not feel the slice of hurt wedging deeper into her soul.
Work kept her busy, her mind numb and her body too exhausted to think.
With a scowl, Private Dillinger nodded toward the paper folded by the bed and closed his eyes, the strain visible on his pale face. “Will you read me the latest war news?”
Grabbing the oily pages, she muttered, “Isn’t much to tell, but I’ll look.” She scanned the bold headlines of the Tribune and winced. “Not much to read on battle lines and troop movement, but there’s plenty written about our leaders.”
Dillinger groaned. “What does it say?”
“Apparently—” she grimaced—“Walt Whitman is quoted as saying they feel ‘a mixture of awful consternation, uncertainty, rage, shame, helplessness, and stupefying disappointment.’” She skimmed further down the page. “Some senators are hinting that perhaps McClellan wants the Union to fail because he has Southern sympathies.”
Dillinger coughed and frowned. “I don’t believe that.”
“Neither do I.”
Still, for the sake of the cause—and Cassie’s own sanity—she needed Little Mac to make a decisive strike. Anything to keep her thoughts from the photographer would be a welcome change.
OCTOBER 21, 1861
LEESBURG, VIRGINIA
Gabe tapped impatient fingers against his leg, waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting . . .
The sun was rising far too slowly for his preference this morning.
It was nearly cool enough for his breath to fog in the morning air, though the pale light would hardly illuminate the frosty cloud. Orange streaked the horizon, yet he needed more light. More time.
Since Captain Philbrick had hurried to report the Rebels were perched on the other side of the Potomac in an unguarded camp, General McClellan and General Stone wasted no time in preparing a contingent to advance. Gabe had overheard the captain telling his men they might be able to overtake Colonel Evans’s men if they made haste.
Even knowing the regiment of soldiers crossing the Potomac was fairly small, and that Thomas—no, Cassie—was among them, Gabe had grabbed his camera, lens, and box of glass plates and trailed them as they rowed across the river in the dead of night. It had taken hours to find the perfect spot, hours of climbing around on rocky outcroppings while juggling his precious equipment, but he’d finally located an opportune place atop a small bluff to capture the battle.
Now to pray the light would prove sufficient.
He was determined to get a photograph of the actual fighting. It would likely be blurry and poorly exposed, but he couldn’t resist the challenge. He was weary of the sameness of everyday life. Weary of the anger churning in his gut. Weary of her.
Gabe couldn’t help watching Cassie anytime she was nearby. He searched for telltale signs of femininity, some clue he’d missed before, yet the illusion was flawless.
The memory of her curves as she stood in the river that early autumn day flickered through his mind again and he steeled himself against the flush of heat creeping up his neck. Her performance was not flawless enough to erase the images scorched into his memory.
She had seemed so sad in the past weeks, so distant and quiet, yet he kept his heart hard and dwelt on her betrayal. It stoked the anger that was dying inside. It was safer to be angry than to think.
He’d seen her gathering up her pack, ready to march forward with the rest of the soldiers, but he turned away from the sight. She shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be subjecting herself to the rigors of a man’s world. Shouldn’t be deceiving.
She’d already seen far too much, heard too much, and blended in far too well for his comfort. He should have reported her. Yet something held him back. What?
Shifting his weight from foot to foot, he clenched his jaw and looked through the lens, desperate for some kind of distraction.
Still too dark, but not for much longer . . .
He lifted the black curtain away and scanned the valley sloping below. A figure scurried up the bluff. He squinted. A scout, perhaps?
His movements were far too harried, his stride too fleet. Something was wrong.
He heaved his way to the top of the bluff, and Gabe saw the strain and dread on his face the larger he loomed. When he’d crested the top, he placed his hands on his knees and panted.
Gabe eased away from the rocky outcropping he’d positioned himself in front of and offered a canteen of water to the winded scout. “What’s wrong?”
Water dribbled down the man’s thick beard as he gulped the refreshment. Handing it over, he wiped the trickles away from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Captain Philbrick . . . made . . . a mistake.”
Gabe frowned. “What do you mean?”
The scout shook his head and heaved thick breaths. “No Rebel tents. Only trees. He scouted it at night. Made a mistake.”
Gabe groaned. All their work. The wasted hours. The anticipation. All of it destroyed. Kicking a rock near his feet, he raked his hand across the back of his neck. “So now what?”
The scout sighed. “I tell the captain. And we leave.”
With a growl of frustration, Gabe grabbed his plate box and prepared to hoist the cumbersome camera and tripod back down the bluff.
This day was not going as he’d anticipated.
The sun finally appeared. Taking a moment in the arduous hike, Gabe hastily positioned the camera and tripod, determined his effort would not be completely wasted. The soldiers had yet to brave the waters of the Potomac to cross back into friendly territory. He might as well imprint an image of their return in the midst of the debacle. His job was not to judge the captain or his decisions . . . only to capture the moments as they unfolded.
He squinted into the sky. At least the sunshine was finally alive, glinting sharply against the river like sparkling, fiery diamonds. The soldiers scurried down the pass below him, ready to pull themselves into their boats and row against the swirling currents of the Potomac.
Ducking under the black curtain, he dropped in a wet plate and removed the cover of the lens. One, two, three, four—
Rocks sprayed around him. Explosions. A sharp whizzing sound. Flying twigs and pebbles.
What was happening?
He crouched low, swinging away from the black cover, shielding his head when dirt sprayed again, assaulting his eyes and striking his skin. He stumbled away from his camera. The world tilted.
A sharp sting followed by an odd burning sensation clamped his calf muscle like an iron vise. The numbing crept up to his knee, and he knew . . .
Shot.
His legs slipped out from under him. He was falling, flailing, grasping . . .
Pain.
Black nothingness.
Chapter 14
IT HAD HAPPENED SO QUICKLY. One moment, she and her fellow soldiers were trudging toward the river to catch the boats preparing to cross. The next, chaos erupted.
And she knew who was to blame.
Her traitorous eyes had turned to glance behind her for the twentieth time to ensure Gabe was managing his cumbersome equipment as he crept d
own the bluff behind the exhausted regiment. She shouldn’t care. He had spurned her completely, making it clear that he found her transgressions unpardonable.
Yet she did care all the same.
It seemed he was lagging behind. Was he attempting to capture an image, or was he struggling to bear his load and traverse the rocky terrain? She wanted to fall back, longed for some small assurance that he would make it without mishap.
When she realized he was setting up his tripod for a war image, she sighed, frustrated at herself for noticing. He’d taken the cap off the lens, and she blinked, squinting as the sun reflected off the glass like a lighthouse between the rocky crevices.
The thought had just crossed her mind that if the enemy were lurking about, the light would be a flag to mark their location.
Then the Rebel bullets started flying.
Her heart hammered to a stop. Gabe had inadvertently given their position away.
Men shouted. She’d ducked, covering her own head as a man to her left screamed when a bullet whittled into his arm.
Feet scrambling. Rocks and twigs snapping. Rifles gripped in white knuckles.
At the captain’s shrill cry, “Engage the enemy!” she should have obeyed, but her feet would not move. She whirled around, her heart pounding in her throat when she realized Gabe’s tall silhouette no longer stood on the rocky ledge. Instead, he lay in a motionless heap at the feet of his tripod.
A wave of soldiers pressed against her, slamming her shoulders, propelling her body into battle, but she fought the crush attempting to distance her from the ledge. From the camera. From Gabe.
Pushing, shoving, clawing her way through, she stumbled as she panted to climb the steep bluff. Hand over hand. Pull. Heave. Sweat stung her eyes. Her lungs burned with need.
At last she reached his sprawled, motionless body and dropped to his side, slinging the rifle against her back as she allowed her hands to inspect his limp form.
A nasty bullet to the leg, just below his knee. A few cuts. No other wounds that she could see. Crimson blood pooled in the sand below his leg. She must get him help before the blood loss was irreparable.
Licking her lips and tasting salt, she sucked in deep, tight breaths and surveyed the area around her. She could not take the camera and his equipment. It would have to be retrieved later or counted as a loss. She could do little more than manage him down the steep hill. If that.
With a quick prayer for help, she hooked her forearms under his shoulders and started dragging him backward with strained grunts. Moving his deadweight to the river would be close to impossible without Providence’s blessing.
His head lolled to the side and she gritted her teeth, her muscles burning as she moved him a few more feet. Grunt, drag, strain, drag.
“Gabe . . . it’s a mighty good thing . . . you’re . . . already out,” she panted. “Because this trip . . . is going to be . . . no picnic.”
Sounds invaded. Far away at first. Muffled and watery. Murmuring voices. Sloshing water in a basin. Groans. The clink of metal against metal. The sharp sting of medicine snagged his senses, pulling him out of the darkness.
Yet he was helpless to find light. His tongue felt thick. A burning agony pulsed from his left leg.
His throat was dry. Swallowing, he groaned when the pain scorched sharper. As he turned his head to the side, a matronly voice that sounded like gravelly pebbles came from somewhere up above.
“There now. Come back. You’re safe.”
Summoning all his strength, he opened his eyes. White canvas loomed overhead. His gaze roamed over the strange space. How did he get here?
Last thing he remembered was positioning his camera over the valley. A valley filled with tired, blue-clad soldiers. An army contingent retreating. And then . . .
Shot!
He gasped, his muscles tensing as the memories came roaring back. A calloused hand pushed against his chest, forcing him to lie still. Pain radiated up his leg in waves. Sweat beaded on his upper lip.
A stout woman with a mop of springy gray curls appeared overhead, her face lined in a scowl. “You try to get up again and I’ll put a bullet in your other leg.” She tsked under her breath, but despite her harsh threat, her eyes were warm.
Before he could rasp out a word, she saw his need and placed a tin cup to his mouth. Blessed water trickled into his parched throat.
“Not too much at once, dearie.”
When he’d had enough, she whisked the cup away and studied him sharply. “Do you remember what happened?”
He lifted trembling fingers to his temple, kneading the skin. It was hard to think above the pain in his leg.
“A little. I was on a bluff somewhere above Leesburg when a scout told me Captain Philbrick had been mistaken. There was no Confederate camp. I was heading down the slope, and I remember stopping to take a view with my camera.” He paused. “Bullets started flying all around.” He glanced up at the gruff woman. “Was the scout wrong?”
She shook her head, jowls swaying slightly and gray curls bobbing like corks on a pond. “No, from what I hear, the captain indeed made an error. But it appears you and the soldiers you were with somehow alerted a different Rebel contingent to your whereabouts.”
He sank back into the lumpy cot with a groan. “How? Where did they come from?”
“Don’t know. Word is spreading it was a Confederate troop from Mississippi and Virginia. Not sure. They must have seen something that made them aware you were nearby.” She swirled a cloth through a basin of water, squeezing the excess water free before pressing it to his brow. He let his eyes slide shut in pleasure at the cool contact. “It’s an awful mess, though. I know that much.”
He sighed, attempting to glue the hazy pieces together. “So I was shot in the leg. How did I get here?”
A small smile creased her cheeks. “A scrappy soldier somehow managed to save your neck. Pulled you down the bluff and rowed you across the river before finding a litter to carry you here.” Her brows furrowed. “Poor fellow looked like a beat dog when he showed up lugging you behind him. Took more pluck than most men have, I’d wager.”
Gabe’s heart thumped slowly. Who on earth would have done that for him? He’d made many friends, but this? Willing to get shot to pieces to save him? His throat tightened. He wasn’t worth it. He had done nothing to aid the cause. Nothing.
“Did you speak with the man who saved me? Get his name?”
His nurse frowned. “Can’t say that I did.”
“I must find out. Thank him. Repay him if at all possible.”
She snorted. “Good luck to you, then. I’ve never seen such chaos in all my days.”
He braced himself, dread coiling within. “Why? What happened?”
The nurse glanced over her shoulder and dropped her voice. “It seems quite a melee ensued. Most of the men were dodging bullets. A small group tried to row like the devil across the river, but it took too long. Them only having four boats didn’t help a whit either. By the time Colonel Devens got word sent that reinforcements were needed, it was too late.”
His stomach tightened, cold fear seizing his breath. “Too late? Were they all killed?” Please, God, no . . .
“Not all. But most of those who didn’t make it back across the river were captured by the Rebs.” She grimaced, her eyes softening as she broke the news. “Some of the men drowned trying to make it across the Potomac without boats.”
The breath in his chest dissolved. What of his friends? Weeks, George, Selby, Briggs, Sven? A sudden crush of fear washed over him. Cassie?
A cool gust of wind rippled the walls of the surgical tent, tugging the fat curls framing the nurse’s face. He turned away from her probing stare and slammed his eyes closed. The pain in his leg refused to cease its scalding throb.
But the ache in his chest at the thought of Cassie’s death cast a far more painful blow.
“I hear tell you’re a photographer.”
He nodded dumbly.
“Should
have had your camera in here hours ago. It was a sight to behold.”
A niggling unease clawed at him. “What of my personal possessions? My camera and equipment?”
She frowned. “I’ve not seen anything delivered here. I’m sorry.”
Gone. His livelihood. Jacob’s sacrifice. His dreams. Shot down in an instant.
Yet it was Cassie’s face that kept stabbing him with fresh waves of misery. He moaned.
“Here. Take some medicine. It will help with the pain.”
A spoon slipped between his lips. Something sticky and bitter coated his tongue before he succumbed to merciful nothingness.
Chapter 15
“DID YOU HEAR Colonel Baker was killed in the skirmish? . . . How many drowned, do you think? . . . Where did they take our men?”
Jonah’s rapid, never-ending questions frayed the edges of Cassie’s already-taut nerves. After pulling Gabe to safety, she had stumbled into camp, spent beyond measure, and had promptly collapsed onto her bedroll. Sleep had been fretful and jarring. Her mind wouldn’t rest.
She’d risen and waited for news with the soldiers who had escaped the doomed excursion across the Potomac. They passed the afternoon in quiet. The silence in camp had turned thick and oppressive.
Save for Jonah’s nonstop chatter.
“I wonder if the captain will let me visit Gabe,” he said now.
Cassie dropped another wedge of firewood into the back of the supply wagon with a clunk. She’d been filling it under orders that a regiment on the other side of the camp needed a bigger supply of wood for their fires. Yet she suspected the commanders had given the majority of them tasks to keep their minds occupied.
It wasn’t working.
“I don’t know. I suppose it will depend on the captain’s mood and how much he needs you at camp.”
Jonah shoved his chapped hands in his uniform pockets. “Ain’t like there’s much to do around here. We haven’t moved since summer. One of the soldiers from Ohio told me he heard Little Mac is going to have us stay put through the winter.” He wrinkled his freckled nose. “If you ask me, he’s turning yella.”