He opened his eyes for a moment. “Sarah…forgive me…the trouble,” he whispered.
“But you can’t do this.” she cried. “They will be here any moment!”
She stared at the unmoving man helplessly, a feeling of complete frantic terror wrenching her to the point of nausea. Her mind raced wildly, but after a few moments of agonized despair, she forced herself to take command and assume control of the situation.
Removing his boots, she shoved them under her bed, out of sight. Doing the same with his coat, she gasped at the amount of blood that had soaked into the shirt beneath. Although the distance was but three feet, it took a good bit of Sarah’s strength and ingenuity to get the barely conscious man onto the bed. He revived somewhat during the ordeal, but did not seem conscious of what was passing around him
Once he was safely on her bed, Sarah ran to the window, and scanned the road in both directions before returning to his side. He was still breathing, which gave her little comfort because it was labored and heavy. She knew she had to stop the flow of blood that continued to ooze from a wound just beneath his ribcage. Usually calm in the face of all danger, Sarah struggled to stay composed in this desperate situation.
Knowing that Yankee wounded would likely be arriving, she had to work fast. Running down the stairs, she grabbed what supplies she could and a large bucket of water she had sitting over the fire. Back in her bedchamber, she hurriedly washed the wound, packed it with clean strips of cloth, and wrapped it tightly.
Upon hearing the sound of approaching wagons, she took one of the bloodstained dressings she had used to clean up the blood and wrapped Benton’s head so he would not be recognizable. While she wiped the blood from the wall and the floor, the rattle of wagons and the shouts of command fell upon her ears. She ran to the window, and suddenly they were everywhere—men and horses—enveloping her home like the impending darkness itself.
* * *
“I’m afraid we’ve got some injured men here, Mrs. Duvall.”
Sarah stood in the doorway trying to appear calm as the Union officer began directing the removal of the wounded from the wagons into her house. She recognized him as one of Colonel Snipes men, and prayed Snipes himself would not show up on her doorstep.
After being beaten in battle on numerous occasions by Benton, Snipes had made a personal vow to rid the land of the renowned Confederate cavalry leader. Earlier in the war, Snipes had been cowardly and timid, but he was now cunning and brazen—and violent—with vengeance impelling his actions more than courage.
“I hope not too many.” Sarah tried to keep her voice from shaking. She was always permitted the sanctity of her bedchamber when Union troops overtook her home, but she hoped to keep the entire second floor from becoming overrun with Yankee soldiers.
“No not too many,” the officer said, looking over his shoulder at her curiously. “The worst of them were taken up to Wilson.”
“Very well.” Sarah turned back to the house. “I’ll help however I can.”
The next few hours were the most agonizing ones Sarah had ever endured. Although the men being unloaded were not the most seriously injured, they still needed wounds dressed and a place to rest comfortably. Sarah worked instinctively, her thoughts not on her task, but rather what she would find in her bedchamber when she could at last retire. She knew in her soul it would not be a corpse. Strong as Benton was, it would take an eternity to kill him.
After hours of agonizing work, Sarah was finally able to creep up the back staircase with another bucket of water and some fresh linens. Opening the door quietly, she stood motionless waiting to hear the sound of his breathing. It came to her soft and irregular, along with low murmurings as he talked in his sleep.
Lighting a lamp, she stood over the bed and watched his chest slowly rise and fall. With shaking fingers, she unwrapped the bandage around his head and put her hand on his brow. It felt warmer than she’d hoped, though was not hot with signs of fever.
Dipping a cloth into the cool water, she wiped his forehead and then proceeded to take a closer look at his wound. As she had suspected earlier, it appeared the bullet had entered the flesh beneath his ribcage and exited from his back. She was relieved there was nothing to attempt to remove, but only time would tell what damage had been done. As she began to rewrap the wound, Benton tossed his head and groaned. Sarah tried to quiet him, bending over him with the wet cloth to cool his fevered brow.
At last, around midnight, Sarah lay down on a pallet beside her bed and tried to get some sleep. Her usually peaceful surroundings were broken by Benton’s occasional murmurings, which sent her sitting upright, her heart pounding with fear that someone would hear.
Taking deep breaths, she tried to relax again, concentrating on the sound of the sentinels and the muted voices from below. Just when she thought she might be exhausted enough to sleep, the sun began pushing its soft light through the curtain. Re-dressing Benton’s wound before she went downstairs, Sarah stared at the pale countenance that she feared now battled an insidious enemy from within. The bleeding had stopped, but that did not lessen her concern that he was in danger. She considered it a miracle he had survived the night.
When Sarah had a moment to check on Benton in the afternoon, he spoke to her, but his words were not coherent and his eyes were not open. When she asked him a question, he gave her a rambling, nonsensical answer that made her heart double its pace. The situation could not be more precarious. One of the South’s most notorious Confederate officers was confined to her bedchamber—within mere feet of the enemy—and he did not know where he was or realize how dire the circumstances.
Whenever it was possible for her to get away, Sarah stole up the back staircase to her room, sometimes long enough to get a few spoonfuls of soup into his mouth and sometimes a few sips of water. By the second evening, his eyes opened when she removed the bandages, but they were glazed and staring, which frightened her more than when they had been closed.
Exhausted from anxiety and mind-numbing work, Sarah stared out the window at the lowering sun and wondered if Benton’s men knew he was at Waverly. Under constant scrutiny from the Union officer in charge, she was afraid to attempt to make contact, fearing she would put the colonel’s life in more danger than it already was.
Although her nerves were strung almost to the breaking point, Sarah continued her routine, all the while not knowing how long she could keep Benton’s presence a secret. On the morning of the fifth day, she found out. She had just finished re-dressing his wound and wrapping his head in a bandage to conceal his face when she heard a knock on the door.
“Yes?” She opened the door but a crack.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Duvall.” The officer in charge stared at her through the slight opening with an inquisitive eye.
“What may I do for—” From behind her, Sarah heard a deep cough, like someone trying to rid their chest of smoke that was not there.
The officer pushed his way into the room and gazed from Sarah to the man on the bed. “Who is this?” he roared.
Sarah ran to Benton, tears falling unhesitatingly down her cheeks. “I don’t know, Captain. A Confederate surgeon dropped him here before you arrived. He said his wound was mortal. I was only trying to let him die peacefully.” Sarah said the words clearly enough, but in her mind, she was thinking that Benton did not appear as mortal at all. Rather, he suggested the vitality of one with strength enough to sustain a thousand bullets.
“So he is a Rebel? You are aiding the enemy?”
“Oh, Captain, pray have mercy! I am childless, but I have a mother’s heart. You cannot send a dying man to prison. The surgeon gave him no hope.”
The officer looked at the bloodied rag that surrounded the soldier’s head and seemed to concur. “Very well. I’ll leave him in your care.” He started toward the door, but paused. “For now, Mrs. Duvall. But I came to tell you that we are beginning the process of moving men out. If your patient does not succumb before we have fully
vacated, I will be forced to take him along.”
When the door slammed shut behind him, Sarah sank to her knees by the bed and wept. Exhausted from her day and night vigil, debilitated from little sleep, she could no longer hold back tears of frustration and despair. She had suffered as he had suffered—perhaps more so—and now she feared her worst nightmare would come true. They would take him to a prison and learn his true identity—or he would die en route. The combination of fear, weariness and utter exhaustion reduced her to a state in which she could no longer think. She curled into a ball on the floor and prayed for strength as she cried tears of utter anguish and despair.
* * *
True to the officer’s word, many of the Union soldiers were loaded into wagons the next day, though the army seemed in no hurry to move them all at once. As days continued to pass, Sarah began to breathe a sigh of relief. Perhaps the man had taken pity on her and would allow her to continue with her patient’s private care. But her hopes were dashed when he approached her that evening on the porch.
“I am sorry to inform you, Mrs. Duvall, that it’s time your patient is moved.”
Sarah grabbed the front post for support. “Moved?”
“He’ll be treated kindly as a prisoner of war, but we cannot leave him here. Colonel Snipes is adamant about it. I’m sure you understand.”
Sarah swallowed hard, her mind racing with frantic fear. She didn’t want to argue or plea and raise more suspicions. This man was reporting directly to Colonel Snipes. It would do no good to beg for mercy. “When?”
The officer looked around the camp and seemed to be doing figures in his head. “The last of our men should be leaving within two days. I’ll leave a few orderlies for his removal.”
“I only hope he receives the care he needs,” Sarah murmured.
“He will not be mistreated,” the officer said somewhat coldly. “I believe I have shown you great courtesy in allowing him to stay this long.”
Sarah lowered her head. “Yes, of course, you have. I’ll see that he’s ready to move.”
When the captain began talking to one of his subordinates, Sarah turned and walked mechanically up the stairs. Barely having the energy to close the door, she put her back to the wall, slumping to the floor as Colonel Benton had done, her face in her hands as she sobbed. She had raised her hopes, but it was all for naught. All she had done, all she had endured, the sleepless nights, the pounding heart, the fear of his being discovered—and now he was going to die in the depths of a Yankee prison. Oh, it was not fair!
“Don’t …cry.”
Sarah pushed her fallen hair away from her face and looked toward the bed. What she saw made her stop and blink, afraid she was dreaming. His hand was reaching toward her with the bandage in it—and his eyes were open. She looked at him and stared as if to clear her vision.
“Don’t…cry,” he said again.
Sarah did not speak. She stumbled to her feet and knelt by the bed, putting his face in her hands and staring into his eyes to see if they were clear or burning with fever. When she saw her answer, she laid her head on his chest and sobbed even louder.
Tentatively he put his hand on her head to console her. “You…never did listen…to me,” he said weakly.
Sarah’s head jerked back up as she stared at him incredulously. “Are you really awake?” She stared down at him with imploring eyes, lines of fatigue marking her face.
He closed his eyes and licked his lips as if to see if they were working properly. “I’m not sure.”
“You are a prisoner. They are moving you in two day’s time. Can you ride?”
Sarah did not wait for him to answer. Despite her weariness and exhaustion, she stood and began pacing, trying to formulate a plan. She could not rest now even though she had little reason to hope for a happy outcome. If there was the slightest chance to help him escape, she knew she had to take it. One thing was clear. There were only a handful of men remaining now, and within a day, even fewer would remain to oversee the withdrawal of the remaining patients.
“Where are…my men?”
Sarah stopped pacing and knelt by the bed. “I don’t know, Colonel. I’ve had no contact. No word.”
“Can try to make it to Hampstead.” He coughed and winched. “Connelly may be there.”
“There should be few patrols.” Sarah stood again. “I will try to find out, but surely the way is clear to Hampstead.”
* * *
Sarah’s hand trembled as she reached for the bottle of brandy that had long been hidden in a small compartment in her closet for a special occasion. Knowing she could not overpower the remaining soldiers, she had to use diplomacy and deception as her weapons of choice. The alcohol would help cover Benton’s escape while keeping her free from any liability. Wearing a fresh gown and a warm smile, she descended the stairs and saw the three Union soldiers tasked with removing the remaining wounded, playing a game of cards on the front porch.
“Good evening Mrs. Duvall.” The men stood courteously as she opened the door.
“Good evening, gentlemen.” She put the bottle down on the table. “I understand you’ll be leaving in the morning and thought you might enjoy a parting gift.”
The men did not attempt to hide their joy or appreciation. They hooted at the sight and patted each other on the back. “Yes, ma’am. That’s very kind of you!”
“Enjoy.” Sarah turned to go back into the house when one of the man grabbed her by the arm. “Aren’t you going to stay and have a drink?”
Sarah’s heart beat wildly in her ears. “I have some chores to do right now, but thank you for the invitation.”
The men seemed to accept that—or were so eager to have a drink that they didn’t care. It wasn’t long before Sarah heard tin cups clashing together as the soldiers’ voices grew louder and their conversation more boisterous. Deciding it was time to act, Sarah saddled Chance and left him in the shadows of the tree line. She had done everything she could do to prepare. Now it was up to Benton.
A cold north wind was beginning to pick up as Sarah reentered the house, but the men seemed not to notice. They were singing now, and one of them had produced a fiddle. The clapping and stomping emanating from the front porch would surely cover any sounds from inside the house.
Trying to appear calm and composed as she went through the house lighting lamps in her usual routine, Sarah then retreated quickly up the back staircase. When she opened the door, her heart plummeted. Benton was sitting up, but his hand was on his wound as if it caused him great pain and his head leaned against the headboard as if that was as much as he could do. She ran to him and took his hand.
“It is time, Colonel. We must move quickly.” She threw his arm over her shoulder and struggled to stand under his weight.
“I’m not sure—”
“You can and you will!” Sarah stopped him in mid-sentence. “Come. This is your only chance.”
Benton wobbled weakly against her, but she was able to guide him to the staircase, which he descended by leaning on the bannister. Once outside, she leaned him against the outside wall and slipped into the darkness to get Chance. The singers on the front porch had not let up, and she began to breathe a little bit more easily. Perhaps she could get him away!
“Mrs. Duvall, what you doing out here?”
Sarah stopped in her tracks, and saw one of the soldiers coming out of some bushes, apparently having just relieved himself. She glanced back toward the house but saw that Benton was invisible in the shadows.
“Just out getting some fresh air,” she answered.
“Well, we’d pleased if you’d come join us.”
“Yes, of course. I’m planning on it.” Sarah watched the man sway as she talked and hoped he wouldn’t remember their conversation for long. “I’ll be along in a minute.”
When the soldier continued toward the house whistling out of tune, Sarah sprinted toward the trees. Already dressed in breeches and boots, she discarded her dress and led Chance towar
d the back of the house where Benton was waiting. From the front of the house, she heard the songs continue with tireless and terrible improvisations.
It was no easy thing to get Benton into the saddle, but once there, she mounted behind him and spurred Chance into the darkness. At first Benton was able to hold onto the saddle with legs and hands, but as the miles wore on, Sarah felt him getting heavier and heavier against her arms as he leaned lower and lower over the saddle. Closing her eyes against the tremendous weight, she concentrated on her horse’s hoof beats. “It’s only five miles,” she said to herself. “Only three now…Only two now…”
Benton had given her some direction about where Connelly might be found at first, but for the last mile he had been silent. To add to her desperation, a storm had hit with ferocity, soaking her and making the night even darker. She could feel, more so than see the tortured trees being bent this way and that, waving their limbs as if in agony. When she drew rein to get her bearings, she heard the simultaneous click of a few dozen revolvers.
“That’s far enough!”
The voice came from in front of her horse’s head, and she felt the reins being grabbed from her hands.
“Good Heavens. It’s Colonel Benton. Hurry up boys! Bring up Doc!”
“He’s been wounded.” Sarah tried to be helpful, but rough hands dragged her off her horse and twisted her arm behind her back. Someone shoved a lantern into her face, and she heard a gasp of surprise.
“Well I’ll be, look at them eyes,” one of the men said. “If it ain’t the Yankee widow. I told you when we found Vince so close that she was in on it.”
She heard Benton groaning as if he wanted to speak but was too exhausted to do so. “He was wounded in the engagement at—” Sarah’s voice trembled as she caught sight of the angry faces surrounding her, and realized she was at their mercy with no one to vouch her. “I have to get back to Waverly before they suspect anything.”
She turned to get her horse, but felt the barrel of a gun sink into her back.
Above and Beyond Page 12