A Springfield cracked and the Confederate cavalryman arched his back, threw up his arms and did a backward somersault off his running mount.
Twelve men, Griff thought darkly, and he the only officer surviving. Across the body-strewn field he saw the Union regiments forming up for another attack. Drums rolled and a few unspiked field pieces belched smoke and flame.
Cannon balls roared and whistled overhead.
Then the Yankees came.
Like the ceaseless waves of some mighty ocean, file after file of blue uniforms crossed the sundered ground. Here and there clumps of dried, last year’s grass flickered with flames started by artillery rounds. The Confederate guns remained silent, their crews standing at the ready. Seeing this, a ragged cheer rippled along the front rank of advancing Yankees; it quickly became a shout of triumph. The distance closed.
Then, like a mighty peal of thunder the Rebel cannon gave voice to their brave defiance. Grape and canister and leather bags of musket balls slashed into the bunched lines of Union soldiers, gutting wide swaths like the scythe of the Grim Reaper. Men shrieked and begged for the mercy of death, others turned pale and hesitated. Their pause proved fatal, when another lash of deadly lead and steel balls punished them. The Union again broke and ran, only a few standing bravely and firing their rifles into the Confederate ranks.
One of those balls slammed with numbing force into Griff Stark’s leg. He lurched backward in the saddle, a gaping wound in his left thigh. He bit back a cry of agony and searched in one saddlebag for some stout cord. With it, he tied himself into the saddle.
“Let’s run ’em back to Frederick!” Griff shouted to his remaining dozen men. His words had an electric effect on his troops.
Keening Rebel yells filled the air and the thirteen mounted men surged out onto the battleground, revolvers and carbines blasted death at the Yankee stragglers, sabers glinted blood red and silver in the bright March sun.
At the sound of pounding hoofs, all semblance of order left the withdrawal. Terror reigned. Only the most disciplined veterans maintained presence of mind enough to turn and fire at their pursuers. One by one the gallant Confederate cavalry began to fall.
A big .50 caliber slug from a Springfield smashed into Horse’s plunging chest. He instantly went to his knees with a shriek of mortal pain. The fall pitched Griff over his head. The bone in Stark’s wounded leg, lashed to the stirrup fender, snapped with a pop like a gunshot. His involuntary bellow of pain got swallowed up in the tumult. Instantly, the four remaining cavalrymen gathered around him, turned outward to face the enemy. Two squads of Yankees charged.
Six of the Bluelegs succumbed to a torrent of lead before their own weapons found targets in the breasts of two of Griff’s men. They fell, sprawled in the grotesque postures of death. Then another went down. Griff sat upright and plied his Le Mat. Another Yankee died. Griff eared back the hammer and took aim. Then he slammed backward into the ground, shot through the right shoulder.
He didn’t hear it when the Union soldiers swarmed over their position. Blissful unconsciousness masked him from the indignity of capture.
Chapter Eight
SCREAMS CAME FROM two of the three trestle tables in the Divisional Field Hospital. Chloroform fumes permeated the air, along with the sickly-sweet odor of blood. Moans rose from those recovering from surgery and others awaiting the knife. Two hospital orderlies lifted the slack form of a Confederate officer onto the vacant table and stepped back, awaiting instructions.
“Both legs will have to go,” a voice dimly perceived by Griffin Stark spoke from somewhere above him. “He’s taken a bad one in the left side and the right shoulder. Bound to be bone splinters up there. If we removed the right arm, too, we can probe for them and get ’em out easier.”
“But there’s no wound in the right arm,” a younger sounding voice protested.
“He’ll not thank us for taking both legs, Doctor. Another limb gone will hardly be of importance. The left first. That thigh wound is pumping a lot of blood. Then we’ll take a look at the right knee.”
“One moment, Doctor Gornt. Let me have a look at this man,” a firm baritone voice, which sounded somehow familiar to the semiconscious Griff, interjected.
The surgeon looked up at the newcomer. He frowned, puzzled. The man was a stranger. He had no medical department caduceus on his collar badge, yet he knew Gornt by name. Puzzled, the doctor replied cautiously. “Yes, Major? Are you with the Surgeon General’s office by any chance?”
“No. I’m on Grant’s staff. I’m here to investigate wounded prisoners. It’s essential that we learn the extent of casualties and the general condition of the Confederate forces we’re facing.”
“Some sort of spy, then,” the doctor replied disdainfully.
“No. A trained analyst.” The speaker looked down at the pale, haggard features of the Confederate on the table. Oh, God, Griff, how you have suffered, he thought with burning compassion. “This man is a cavalry officer, a major. I would suppose a squadron commander. Can he be revived enough to let me talk to him? I’m afraid so many amputations at one time might kill him before I can question him.”
“Well … this is rather irregular, Major. But I suppose. We haven’t administered chloroform as yet. May I have your name, please, for the records?”
“Carmichael. Major Damien Carmichael. I’ll gladly sign a receipt form if necessary. Have him taken to the small room I am using over at that farmhouse.” Damien pointed outside the tent toward a shot-through clapboard two-story dwelling a hundred yards from the Divisional Field Hospital.
“Yes, Major Carmichael. If you insist.”
Twenty minutes later, the senior army surgeon, from Grant’s headquarters, knocked at the door to Damien’s office. “Good afternoon, Carmichael. What’s all this about?”
“Hello, Fred. I want you to take a look at this man. Give me an opinion.”
Lieutenant Colonel Fred Banner bent over the recumbent form of a Confederate cavalry officer and peered closely at his wounds. “Hmmm. This side wound’s festered some, but apparently it didn’t enter the abdomen. With a handful of maggots it could be cleaned up nicely. Amputation is called for on the legs. A little exploratory work in the shoulder area should insure the joint will heal free to move, I would say. No sense in moving too fast on treatment. The shock could well kill him on the table. Why the special interest?”
“I kn …” Damien nearly added the betraying words, “know him,” but cut it off short. “I know he must possess vital information I need to develop an overview of conditions on the Confederate side. Can he be moved? Say to the General Hospital at Frederick?”
“Risky at best. I’d deal with the shoulder and his side first, let the man regain some strength that way.”
“I’d prefer even that to be done there.”
“Don’t you approve of Captain Gornt? He’s the … best we have. At least he isn’t drunk half the time he’s operating.”
“I don’t doubt that he’s competent. Only, I am going to exercise my special powers, place this man under my protection as a valuable prisoner. The less known of him and the less he is seen around here the better. You understand?”
“Yes. Though I sometimes wonder at what is done with these ‘special’ cases of yours.”
“All in the arcane secrets of the intelligence service, Fred.”
“I’ll go along with you, then. An ambulance will be here in less than an hour, I hope. You can ride right in with your prisoner.”
A small brick factory had been taken over at Frederick to serve as a general hospital for the Army of the Potomac. Orderlies in crisp, clean uniforms, unhurried by the demands of the battlefield, appeared at a closed Rocker ambulance wagon to assist the driver and stretcher bearers in removing Griffin Stark from the rear. They directed the way to an airy, well-lighted room, the general work floor that boasted huge windows with a southern exposure.
There, Griff was placed on a clean surgical table and a graying surgeon wi
th a spotless white coat over his spare frame bent low to touch Griff here and there with the cone of his stethoscope. He prodded and poked and brought forth soft moans from his patient. All the while, Damien Carmichael stood beside the table, an expression of anxiety on his dark, handsome features.
“This man is near death,” the doctor finally rendered his opinion. “Immediate amputation is called for, both lower limbs.”
“Isn’t there some other way, Doctor?” Damien appealed. “I was acquainted with this man before the war. He’d rather die than go through life like that.”
The doctor studied the intense young Major. In his features he recognized a deep compassion, coupled with an aversion to the wasting of human resources through the expedient of amputation. He shared that feeling, he realized. And, more surprising, he acknowledged a mutual bond for survival between himself, the Union major, and the dying Confederate officer.
“I’ll try. Doctors in Europe, in England particularly since the Crimean War, have been doing some amazing things toward restoration instead of removal. I will do my best. Orderly, arrange for some catgut, lots of it, to tie together the inside of that thigh wound. We’ll start there and go on. The knee may be permanently stiffened, but at least he’ll have a chance to walk.” The doctor looked up from the shattered body on the table and his gaze locked with that of Damien Carmichael.
“Trust me, Major. If your friend has any chance at all, I’ll magnify it every bit I can.”
“I didn’t say he was a friend,” Damien protested in self-defense.
“You didn’t need to. It shows in your face. Somehow, I sort of think I would like to know him, too.” He returned to his preparations.
Damien remained motionless beside the table.
“I presume you wish to stay. You’d better fortify yourself,” he said, handing Damien a bottle of medical brandy and a glass. “This will take a long time, and it won’t be pleasant to watch.”
What was all that infernal clatter? Through a delirium of fever and pain, Griffin Stark tried to take stock of his body and his whereabouts. The rocking and clattering continued. Did they have wagons to take you to hell? Then, blurred and indistinct, he made out the slender, graceful form of a woman at the reins. She wielded a thin, tasseled whip and called to the horses for more speed. Griff’s vision cleared slightly and he raised his left arm to remove the blanket that covered him.
A blue uniform? No. This was all wrong. He had been in the Army of Northern Virginia. Where was his gray tunic? Dull, constantly throbbing pain in both legs and his right shoulder sent waves of nausea through him. He sank back, content to let events progress without his effort.
He awoke again after dark. The wagon continued on down the road, only the reins must be held by someone else, Griff decided. The young woman, who had a hauntingly familiar face, knelt beside him, a cool, damp rag in one hand, with which she wiped at his burning brow.
“Whaa … W-where? Who ...?” His words came out a croak and the young woman, a girl really, pressed the metallic-tasting rim of a tin cup to his lips. Gratefully, Griff drank, his fever-riddled body craving moisture. He tried again to speak and she hushed him with a finger to his chapped lips.
“Rest now. We’ll talk about it when we get you safely away.”
Griff surrendered to the delirium that possessed him, drifting into a light sleep, his thoughts flying away to Georgia, to his wife and child.
Early morning sunlight filtered down on Riversend. A dozen field hands worked three small, fenced patches near the main house. Although “freed” by the Union occupation forces, the former slaves knew of nowhere else to go or of any occupation but work on the plantation. Bobbie Jean Stark worked alongside her employees. It was hard to think of them as that. Even so, she and all the other planters’ wives and elderly parents had been sternly reminded by the Union colonel that they must pay wages or send their darkies away. Everything about this new way the Northerners had introduced seemed alien and unnatural to Bobbie Jean.
“Keep those furrows straight, Caesar,” she called to a huge, broad-shouldered black who guided a plow behind a span of mules.
“Yes, ma’am, Mizus Stark.”
“We have to have this corn in by day after tomorrow. It will feed people and livestock as well.”
“Momma,” five-year-old Jeremy piped up. “I found a toad.”
“Agh! Ugly creatures.”
“No, they’re not,” the nearly white blond-haired little boy countered. He squatted, barefoot, in a freshly turned furrow, small hands grubby with the moist ochre earth. “They’re soft and warm. I think he wants a fly.”
Bobbie Jean stopped shoving the chisel edge of the corn planter into the ground and studied her son. He had the same dark eyes and honey gold coloring, high cheekbones and wide-tread foot as she, an inheritance from nearly two centuries ago when Cherokee blood had been infused into her family. He had his father’s sweet smile and mischievous intelligence, the fair hair and stocky build of the Starks. All in all she felt rather satisfied with their son. Her only regret was that Jeremy had no brothers or sisters to provide him company. The fortunes of war, she thought sorrowfully.
Ah, the awful war. Now that the Yankees controlled the entire state of Georgia, she had heard nothing from Griff in months. No letters, no messages brought by friends. She didn’t even know if he was dead or alive. Everyone had heard, of course, about the fierce fighting in the northeastern part of Virginia and in Maryland. Had he been there? The not knowing seemed more awful than a certainty that he had fallen in battle.
“Daphne,” she broke her reverie to summon the young former slave.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Bring the hands some cool water, put a bit of lemon juice in it if there are any lemons left.” “Yes, ma’am. Still no idea when Massah Griffin will be home?”
“No, Daphne. As long as the Yankees run things, I am about convinced I never will hear from him. Oh, this wretched war!”
“Doan say dat, ma’am. Idain de wo’ dat’s so awful, it’s dese horrid Yankees. Why, dey seem ta think all us darkies wanta do is run away up No’th and work in some dreary fact’ry. All da time comin’ roun’ de qua’tuhs talkin’ all silky and sly.”
“Those civilian sweet-talkers have been here again?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. On’y Cicero an’ me we done sent ’em packin’. Tol’ ’em we was loy’l to Riversend an ain’t gonna go acrost da street for one o’ dem Yankee jobs.”
“Bless you, Daphne, I don’t know what I would do without...”
Bobbie Jean broke off and looked up at the sudden drumming of hoofbeats.
A clump of riders thundered up the long graveled lane that led to Riversend. She shaded her eyes and tried to make out their clothing. Blue uniforms? Or gray? Or ... Her lids rose, betraying her confusion. The men appeared to be wearing a mixture of Yankee blue and civilian clothing. The implication sent her stooping to where she had leaned the heavy saddle holster that contained a long-barreled Starr revolver Griff had brought to her on his last leave home.
“Dey’s renegades, Miz Stark,” Daphne confirmed, her own eyes round with fear.
As she spoke, the riders spotted the women in the field and swung their mounts in that direction. They pounded across the plowed furrows in a spray of soil and dust. At the head, an ugly, scar-faced individual yelled in anticipation.
“Yippie! I gets the pretty one with the dark red hair!”
“You white trash git de hell outten here!” Caesar shouted from where he stood behind the plow.
The apparent leader of the band of ruffians drew an 1860 Colt Army .44 and with seemingly casual disregard, shot Caesar twice in the chest. “Damn niggers,” he told his companions through a laugh. “We come down here to free ’em and they don’t have any appreciation at all.” He halted abruptly a few feet from Bobbie Jean and Daphne, a shower of dirt spraying out in a fan from his horse’s hoofs.
“You scared my toad!” Jeremy Stark complained.
“Shut up, brat,” the leader growled. He touched two fingers to his dirty, slouched blue kepi and addressed himself to Bobbie Jean. “Colonel Darryl Butterfield of Sherman’s Irregular Foragers, honey chil’. You two gals has been requisitioned to provide my men with some poon; then we’re gonna search that fancy palace of yorn for contraband.”
Bobbie Jean raised the Starr and coolly shot the bogus “colonel” through the left eye socket. Bone, blood, and gray matter splattered the men behind him.
Butterfield flew out of the saddle and landed solidly on the ground. At once his men spread out, side-jumping their mounts and jostling to get a clear shot at the defiant woman. Beside her, Daphne screamed and started to run toward the shelter of the house and the concealed rifles that waited there for such emergencies. One of the Bummers raised his revolver.
A sharp report preceded Daphne’s pained yell. She pitched forward, a small spot on her right side beginning to enlarge into a wet, red stain, and she took a stumbling step before falling face first in the plowed ground. Instantly the marauders converged on Bobbie Jean. She fired again, wounding a horse. The pain-crazed beast threw its rider and raced off emitting shrill whinnies. Jeremy Stark screamed and began to cry, crouched low in the field. One of the raiding party jumped his mount forward and knocked Bobbie Jean to the ground with its broad chest.
A musket ball cracked over the heads of the Bummers and they looked up to see Cicero standing outside the west wing of the plantation house, a long-barreled musket to his shoulder. He lowered it and set it aside, to take up another loaded piece and point it in their direction. The new, self-appointed leader took charge.
“Shoot that darkie, then some of you boys get over to the gawdamned house; search it good for hidden loot and burn the sumbitch.” He didn’t neglect Bobbie Jean, either. “Now for you, sister, we’re gonna hump you cross-eyed.”
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