He made his way to the rescuers, took hold of one end of a makeshift stretcher and emerged from the woods at the edge of a blackened clearing. Charred stubble smoldered here and there. Numerous lumps of blackened material lay on the ground and massed together in a narrow gully. He’d helped maneuver the stretcher halfway around the clearing before he jerked to a stop, drew in his breath with sick recognition of the field he’d crossed just hours ago, the heaped bodies of the charging infantrymen, now burned beyond any hope of recognition.
The turnpike swarmed with men and wagons, couriers carrying messages from the front lines, ambulance drivers trying to maneuver through crowds of walking wounded. David stood staring back at the clearing, still unable to take in the fact that only an afternoon had passed since he’d tied up his mount to take a look at the battle. His horse was nowhere in sight; he bestirred himself, walked slowly down the road.
A clump of newsmen had gathered near a muddy creek, not far from Grant’s headquarters. David walked over as they hailed him and slumped to the ground, not returning their greetings. He yanked off his smoke-grimed shirt, soaked it in the stream and doused water over himself, washing layers of soot from his face and hair, scrubbing as if he could wipe away the images of the day. One of the reporters handed him a whiskey flask. He gulped deeply, still not speaking.
Ed Forbes sat alongside him, soberly and mechanically adding crosshatching to a sketch of rescuers carrying wounded from the flame-threatened wilderness. The correspondents compared notes, trying to piece together a coherent account of the day’s battles, arguing over mistakes in strategy. David sat on, unable to care which flank had been left unsupported, which generals were found wanting in strategy. He reached for the flask and drank again.
Alf Waud raised his head from his sketchpad, looked at him with concern. “You all right, old chap? Better buck up now. You look as down in the mouth as your chum here.”
David started, for the first time noticing Al, sitting a little ways off from the other men, his head down on his knees, shaking. Al looked up. “I didn’t know it would be like this,” he said, his voice tremulous.
“Hell, kid,” one of the Herald men asked, “you think you came out here to cover a picnic?”
“Shut up, dammit!” David told him. “Leave him be.” He looked back at Al’s dazed face, his eyes about to swim over with tears. He got up and walked over to him. “No sense sitting here rehashing things. Let’s get away from here.”
Al nodded gratefully. They walked aimlessly, following the creek, till they were out of sight of the reporters, sank down finally in a leafy hollow away from the road. Al gave a deep sobbing breath. “I just never thought how it would be, I never pictured it, all those boys like my brother Jimmy, he’s a soldier you know. One minute they’re cussing and joking, and next thing you know they’re laying there screaming with their guts hanging out.” He struggled to overcome sobs again. “Reckon you think I’m pretty chickenhearted.”
“Christ, no!” David said, searching fruitlessly for words to console him. Al put his head on his knees, his shoulders trembling. David reached out a hand, stroked his hair. “I know how you feel,” he said.
Al’s body shook with strangled sobs. Hell, David told himself, he couldn’t just sit there, he had to comfort him somehow. He put an arm around Al’s shoulders, held him tightly. “I know just how you feel,” he said again.
Al gave a choking sob, drew closer to David, nestled against him, threw an arm around his neck. He cried on, his tears hot against David’s chest. David stroked his hair, wrapped his other arm around him, rocked him gently. God, he wished he could rid himself of his own memories of the day. That kid he left— Most likely burned to death by now. He shuddered, held Al tighter. Christ, he needed comfort as much as Al.
The roar of musketry in the distance died away as darkness fell. Al’s sobs quieted. He pulled back a few inches, rubbed his sleeve across his face. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make a such a fool of myself.”
“You didn’t,” David said. He moved his hand from Al’s hair and stroked his face, brushing off tears with his fingers.
“Well, thanks. I reckon I feel a little better now.” Al sighed and slumped back against David, leaning into the circle of his arm.
“Reckon we’d better get on back,” Al said at last.
“I suppose,” David said. He didn’t move, suddenly wishing he could just go on clinging to Al, forget everything but Al, warm and alive in his arms.
“Reckon I’ve gone and cried all over you,” Al said. He gave a tremulous smile, ran his hand over David’s chest. His fingers sent tingling shocks along David’s bare skin. David smiled down at him and caressed his face again. He could feel Al’s breath, warm and moist, coming in short, ragged bursts against his neck. He drew in his own breath, leaned down a little to kiss Al, his lips gently brushing the corner of Al’s mouth.
Al gave a start of surprise.
David jerked back, filled with sudden, painful awareness. My God, he thought, what in hell was he going to say to Al? Then Al reached up, his arms encircling David’s neck as he returned his kiss. David gasped, drew Al closer, held on to him with helpless longing. Al gave a contented sigh as they finally drew apart. “I was afraid you’d found me out. Reckon I half wanted you to.”
“I—” David shook, unable to answer, unable to stop himself from running his fingers through Al’s cap of curly hair, stroking his back. Unable to stop himself from inevitable sin. Hell, he thought. What could God have in store for them any worse than the hell he’d witnessed today? “I guess I did,” he answered.
He gathered Al into his arms again, covering his face and neck with kisses, letting his hands slide down his back to caress his slim hips, trembling now with pent up eagerness. God, it was good to lie here like this after all those lonely nights—holding someone in your arms, sharing increasingly passionate caresses, feeling strong and alive with desire.
“Wait just a second,” Al murmured. “Let me get rid of these trappings.” He unbuttoned his shirt and undid a cloth band wound tightly around his chest, caught David’s hand and pressed it to a woman’s warm, velvet-soft breast.
David drew in his breath. “Oh my God, my God—”
“I knew you’d guessed,” Al whispered again.
“I—” David drew back his hand. He lay stunned, feeling the touch of Al’s body, warm and yielding, next to his, her hands caressing him with gentle eagerness. His desire vanished. For a second he trembled with near revulsion. Oh Christ, he couldn’t let her know.
He closed his eyes, letting himself recall the excitement of the nights he’d lain pressed close to Zach in lovemaking. Zach’s voice filled his ears, his body pressed David’s in remembered frenzy. Zach’s tongue teased David’s lips, his strong arms held him as he stroked Al’s breasts, took her in his arms and managed to complete the act.
Chapter 19 — 1864
BURSTS OF GUNFIRE FORCED DAVID FROM A TROUBLED SLEEP. It was barely light. Al was sitting on the ground bent over the notebook on her lap, writing with fierce, jabbing strokes of her pencil. He watched her numbly. “Al—What—”
“Writing up my dispatch. I was too upset yesterday to set anything down.” She glanced at him, looked quickly down at the paper again.
“My God, Al— You shouldn’t— What’s your name? That can’t be your name.”
She managed a quick smile. “It’s Alice. I just shortened it a tad.”
“Alice. What in hell— I’m sorry— I didn’t mean to swear. I mean—”
“It’s all right. I’ve been listening to you cuss all winter.” She smiled again. “Reckon I owe you an explanation. ‘Course I never intended to let on. Not till I’d made some kind of name for myself anyway. Showed a woman can do as good as a man.
“Anyhow, there’s not all that much to explain. I always signed the dispatches I sent the Republican with my first initial. Figured it would be easier to get them printed if the editor didn’t know I was a woman. So there was n
o trouble getting him to take me on as a stringer. And I told my sister I was heading East to get a job as a government clerk, now they’re willing to take on women, sent her a letter when I got to Washington City. We’ve never been close. I figure she has her hands too full to worry over me.”
“But you can’t— I mean, hell, Al— Alice. I’m sorry. But a woman—Well, I guess you realize that now. You’ve got to let Grant know. He ought to be able to arrange some kind of escort back to Washington.”
She shook her head. “I’ve been sitting here a couple hours mulling it over. I reckon now I’m here I’ll stay on and do what I set out to. Reckon the folks back home oughta know what it’s like for the soldiers.” She paused. “Now I know what to expect, I figure I won’t lose my grip again.”
“But— Oh God, Alice. I— I’m sorry. I mean— About last night.”
It was light enough now that he could see her flush. “Reckon you oughta keep on calling me Al. It’s all right, David. You didn’t take advantage of me against my will.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Nancy, David told himself. Nothing but a damned nancy. Goddamned nancy pervert. He sat slumped on the ground, his head in his hands, a little ways off from Grant and his staff, ignoring the furor of the command post, the steady roll of musketry that had resumed with new ferocity at daybreak. The events of the night before played themselves over in his mind.
He’d lain with Al’s head pillowed on his shoulder after his charade of lovemaking, envying her exhausted collapse into sleep, wincing at the rhythmic rise and fall of her breasts. He’d reached over and covered her with her discarded shirt, hiding the soft, mocking contours of her figure. Small, delicately swelling breasts where he’d expected a boy’s firm strength.
At least Al hadn’t sensed how he felt, hadn’t seen behind his mumbled apologies, his promises never to repeat his act. As if he had any desire to lie with her, now that he knew the truth.
The truth about himself.
A pervert. Nothing but a damned pervert.
A pervert and a liar. Christ, all those infuriated protestations he’d made to Zach that his desire for him was nothing more than an overblown flowering of their friendship. His refusal, just days ago, to ride into town with the other reporters. He couldn’t enjoy the pleasures of a prostitute’s body after his closeness to Zach, he’d told himself.
But he’d grown close to Al during their months in camp together. Close enough that he hadn’t given a thought to Zach while he was lusting after Al. Hell, he still cared about her despite his discovery.
A discovery that would excite the envy of any man in camp. Anyone but a damn nancy like him. A discovery that shriveled his lust at its core.
No wonder Zach had sought him out. Images rose in front of him. The same damning images that had come to him when he’d at last sunk gratefully to sleep. Men’s bodies: half-naked, glistening with sweat, moving easily in the proud, casual knowledge of strength. Rippling muscles propelling a skiff swiftly upriver. Lean black men hefting loads onto barges with back muscles knotted. Weightlifters poised in the gymnasium, muscles bulging before that final burst of effort. And himself, sketchbook in hand, gazing with mute, transfixed admiration.
Right back to boyhood. That first visit to a bawdy house with his college friend, John Eustis. There in the parlor where the whores had posed, waiting to be chosen. He’d kept his eyes on John, told himself it was nervousness, embarrassment at his inexperience that riveted his eyes to his friend, to his laughing, handsome face, his broad, muscular shoulders. Till one of the painted women had taken his hand, led him toward the staircase. And upstairs, when he’d finally lain with a woman for the first time, he’d still— Christ! He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to dispel the memories.
“Hey, Carter!”
David jerked to attention, looked up into the grinning face of the Herald chief, Sylvanus Cadwallader. “You asleep there? You’re in luck. I found your nag—that spotted brown mare with the bad swayback, right? Saw her over by Warren’s headquarters when I was riding back to check the action on Plank Road. I tied her up for you at the bottom of the hill.”
“Thanks,” David managed.
“Sure.” Cadwallader stared down at him with curiosity. “You been here all morning? What’s the news from Hancock’s lines?”
David shook his head numbly. Cadwallader gave him another curious glance and a brief wave of farewell. He’s not much past thirty, David thought, watching him ride off, and in charge of that whole Herald crowd. Riding up and down skirmish lines without a thought for his safety. While I sit here like a coward—
Of course, he’s not a damned nancy.
No wonder I deserted that poor kid yesterday. It’s what you’d expect from a nancy. Damn perverted nancy. Oh Christ!
I ought to at least see to the horse. He stumbled to his feet, fed and watered the animal. The mare nuzzled him, then shied skittishly as artillery thundered. David climbed back up the hill. No use even pretending he had the guts to ride toward the skirmish lines. He reached the cleared top, looked over toward the turnpike. The battle had surged toward the command post; Warren’s rear lines straggled back toward headquarters. Shells crashed onto the knoll.
David stood stunned, staring at Grant as the general calmly puffed on a cigar, then raced down the back of the hill again, grabbed the mare’s reins and flung himself on her back. They crossed Germanna Road, well away from the battle, before he pulled up and dismounted, sank panting to the ground.
Rounds of musketry, wild yells and cheers sounded in the distance, an echo of the day before. He stared down at his hands, cursing his cowardice. Damn cowardly pervert. Unclothed men flexed their muscles, advanced on him with knowing, wanting grins.
Dammit, no!
He’d managed to hold onto his sketchpad. He looked down at its blank pages. Hell, he could still draw, still give Leslie what he was paying him for. He willed away the taunting images, closed his eyes till he saw Union troops charging fiercely across the meadow, branches lopped off by bullets, men writhing in agony, stretcher bearers staggering from the woods, a soldier blowing his brains out seconds ahead of approaching flames, that boy he’d left— He dug a pencil from his pocket and began to sketch.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Cadwallader sat his horse with obvious impatience, stuffing reporters’ dispatches into his saddlebags. Two days of heavy fighting had petered out to sporadic skirmishes by the third day, the seventh of May. With communication by rail and telegraph disrupted, the Herald chief had announced he would ride to Washington City with the accounts of Herald correspondents and casualty lists compiled from field hospital records. “Eight to nine thousand on our hospital books,” his voice boomed out to another reporter. “I’d put it at an equal number dead and prisoners. Maybe half that many for the Rebs.”
“My God,” David breathed softly. He stood at the edge of a cluster of reporters from rival papers, who milled around uneasily, arguing the advisability of accompanying Cadwallader.
“And no better than a standoff,” Alf Waud said disgustedly. “The talk in the regiments is that Grant and Meade will hightail it back over the Rapidan like Hooker before them.”
David nodded silently. Ed Forbes touched his shoulder. “We oughta make up our minds which one of us is going with him. Leslie’s liable to blow his stack if we let Harper’s or Leggett’s Illustrated beat us out.”
“I suppose,” David said. His thoughts came with difficulty, as if he still stumbled through wilderness thickets. Ed wasn’t eager to leave the army with Grant’s next move still unrevealed, he realized. He should offer to go. Hell, he ought to leave for good, run back to New York like the coward he was. Only how could he face—
“I’ll take them for you. You and Ed both.” David started, looked into Al’s determined face. “I’m going with them. Reckon that’s the best way to get my dispatch telegraphed to my editor.”
“Say, would you? Thanks, we’d appreciate it.” Ed dug into
his knapsack, pulling out a carefully wrapped bundle of sketches.
“It’s liable to be dangerous,” David protested, trying to recall the scraps of information he’d just overheard. “Grant can’t control the Reb guerrillas between here and Washington. And you’re likely to run into Confederate troops on Germanna Road.”
Al shrugged. “Cadwallader’s planning to cut over to Ely’s Ford to avoid them. He says once we’ve crossed the river, we can catch a ride to Washington on a hospital train. They’ll be under escort all the way.”
“But still, for a—” David stopped himself. He couldn’t give her away in front of Ed and the half dozen other reporters within earshot. Everyone knew they’d been bunking together all winter; he couldn’t expose her without ruining her reputation. Well, hell, she’d be in as much danger with the army. If only she’d come to her senses and stay in Washington once she got there! “Watch out for yourself,” he muttered, holding out his sketches.
“I reckon I’ll be all right,” Al assured him. “I expect I’ll see you again in four, five days.” She gave him a quick smile and reached out for his drawings; her fingers pressed his a moment as she took them.
Cadwallader’s party trotted off. The rest broke up into aimlessly chatting groups, or took advantage of the late afternoon lull to grab a few hours rest. David lay on his blanket and waited tensely for sleep. Memories mocked him, as they had the night before.
The hell with it, he thought, rolling the blanket up again. He didn’t need to be alone with his thoughts right now. He sipped black coffee, listening halfheartedly as reporters second-guessed Grant’s strategy, finally decided to see how Pete and Colin were doing while he had the chance.
He saddled the mare and headed down Brock Road. The Second Corps was stretched out along the road behind breastworks whose logs were charred and blackened. Men sprawled in sleep or sat in numb exhaustion, watching him with dulled, smoke-streaked faces. The stench of smoke hung over the wilderness; saplings split jaggedly in two by cannon balls rose from the blackened forest floor. It seemed impossible that only three days had passed since he’d ridden with Al through woods sprinkled with dogwood and wildflowers.
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