No Greater Glory

by Cindy Nord

  Surrender became inevitable.

  “I know I got him!” the sharpshooter shouted. He reined his horse to a stop near the spot where he’d seen the Reb scout fall. With the barrel end of his rifle, he probed the heavy underbrush in search of the body. “Where the hell did you go, you bastard?” he mumbled. “I know I hit you.”

  Frustrated, he prepared to dismount when a second trooper rode up alongside. “The regiment will be here soon. You ain’t got time to admire your handiwork. Come on, we’ve gotta get over that ridge and make sure there ain’t no more of these bastards.”

  “But I damn well know I got him.”

  “You killed him, that’s all that matters. Now let’s go,” the man yelled over his shoulder as he galloped away. The scout shrugged, then settled back into his saddle, spurring his mount forward to join his comrade.

  A half-hour later, Reece returned the sharpshooter’s salute. “What’s your report, soldier?”

  “They’re up there all right, Colonel. Just like you said. Looks like a full regiment. Maybe more, including some artillery. I took out several scouts posted near the river.” He chuckled. “No doubt some of them Gray Ghosts. Hell, those sonsofbitches disappear even when you kill them.” Jackson, sitting on his horse nearby, swore under his breath and the scout glanced his way before returning his attention to Reece. “And they’re dug in deep all across the ridge line too, sir. Their trenches run for a good mile or more. They knew we were coming.”

  “Good work, private.” Reece dismissed the scout.

  “I knew this would happen,” Jackson snapped. “Didn’t I tell you? Weeks of waiting for those damn pontoons gave them all the time they needed to dig in. Jesus Christ, even Stonewall had time to make it from clear over in the Shenandoah. It’ll be hell to pay to break their lines now.”

  Reece swept his arm toward the continuous echo of gunfire from Fredericksburg. His expression darkened. “Listen to that, dammit. The infantry’s paying with their lives. We’ve got to make sure the Rebs don’t reinforce the city.” He dropped his hand, and watched the troops moving into position. “And that’s exactly what we’re going to do.” He turned to one of the three aides beside him. “Plans have changed. Tell Hayes to bring up his regiment to the left of Colonel Adams.”

  “Yes, sir.” The courier nudged his horse backward.

  “And, tell him to be ready to move out as soon as the artillery engages.” The aide nodded and spurred away. Reece directed his words to the second courier. “And you go tell Major Voelker to bring his battery into position on that ridge to the left of the river road. I want his cannonade to begin at ten o’clock sharp.”

  “Yes, sir.” The soldier jerked his horse into action.

  Reece’s last order went to the remaining aide. “And you go tell Captain Gardner to bring the ammunition wagons a quarter-mile closer. We’ll need his supplies earlier than anticipated.”

  After a hasty salute, off went the final courier.

  Reece turned to Jackson. “You make sure to hit these bastards hard on their left.” He pointed to a spot on the horizon hazy with smoke from the ongoing struggle in Fredericksburg. “I want you to go in there, just where that hill and wood line meet. As soon as Adams pulls back from his initial engagement, wheel your men around and drive the Rebs out of that trench.” He gathered his reins tighter and stared at the swell of land lush with evergreens and hardwoods. Bare limbs towered skyward on the horizon. Even under its winter garb, this country was so vastly different from the sun-baked heat of the desert. However, by the time the sun set this evening, the splendor would be buried beneath the wicked wrath of war. “I’ll give you one hour to get into position.” He turned in the saddle, glanced at his friend, then scanned back over the landscape. His mouth smirked sideways. “And don’t get yourself killed out there, either. You got that? I’d be hard pressed to find your replacement.”

  Jackson laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, tugging his hat brim low. “God knows we don’t want you overworked?” A split-second later, he set spurs and headed down the hill.

  Reece chuckled and shook his head, reining in hard on Saguaro’s bit in order to keep his horse from following.

  Sixty minutes later, the first crack of artillery shells whistled through the trees, exploding with a deafening roar that sent shrapnel and case shot into the gray-clad soldiers. Mud and debris mingled with the blood of the dying.

  Two hundred yards in front of the Confederate line, a solid wave of blue emerged from the cover of evergreens. Three companies of dismounted cavalry surged toward the Rebel entrenchments. Within moments, the air resonated with the din of musketry. Confederate cannons belched back, tearing huge gaps in the Federal lines. Union artillery answered with equal destruction. Iron shot and shell tore cavalrymen to pieces as the gruesome sound of lead pelted human flesh. Ranks of bluecoats rushed forward to fill the gaps left vacant by fallen comrades. And volley after volley of rifle fire rained down upon the Confederate position. The deeper, belching blasts of artillery rocked the ground. Thirty minutes into the engagement, as ordered, the Federals fell back. The lull gave the Confederates time to re-enforce their now-weakened center with men from their left flank.

  Stretcher-bearers surged past Reece toward the recently established hospital in a clearing at the bottom of the hill a thousand yards away.

  Raising his field glasses, he pulled his lips into a tight smile. “That’s perfect,” he said, watching as the Johnnies shifted their forces. His vision moved left. “Now, Jackson. Make your move.”

  Reece saw the top of the regimental flag through the tree line, the silk unfurling as his troops moved out from their protective cover. A split-second later, the ground reverberated with the pounding hooves of nearly nine hundred cavalry horses as they swung around the hillock and converged upon the weakened Confederate left flank. With the majority of gray-backs pulled away to support the center, the few Rebs remaining offered a brief, but futile fight. In just a few moments, the regiment overran the flanking enemy trenches.

  Sunlight glinted off the saber clutched in Jackson’s hand as he issued the order to regroup. As soon as headcount was established, he would press straight up the disjointed Confederates’ center to help crumple their main line.

  “Perfectly done,” Reece mumbled, shoving the field glasses back into the case that hung around the swell of his saddle. He spurred Saguaro forward. “Let’s ride, men,” he hollered over his shoulder to the nearby flag bearers.

  He led them down the hill toward Colonel Hayes’s position.

  Five minutes later, Reece spotted the venerable old soldier under a protective stand of cedars. “Brilliant job, Commander,” he said, leaning down from the saddle to shake his comrade’s hand. “Your troops did well. They allowed Major Neale’s regiment to crush the enemy’s flank. Let’s give him ten more minutes to rally his troops, and then we’ll hit the center with another assault.”

  “We took some casualties, Colonel, but I believe we can muster one more charge.”

  “One more is all I need. I’m riding to Adams’s regiment to relay the order. We’ll talk again after this is over.”

  The old man nodded and Reece set spurs to his horse. At the forest’s edge, he reined Saguaro to a stop. Adams’s regiment waited three hundred yards across the open field.

  Reece glanced toward the Confederate main line.

  The Rebs waited behind their fortified trench, an earthen wall four feet high and just as thick. Hundreds of long-barreled Enfields glistened in the rays of a late-morning sun.

  Beside him, a flag bearer whispered, “Looks like we’ll have to go around, Colonel.”

  Reece shook his head. “No time.”

  “But, sir, we’re dead if we try to cross here,” another added.

  “You’re right, if everyone attempts to cross. But a single rider, moving fast, is a difficult target. You men go around. I’m crossing alone.”

  Before they could voice their concerns, Reece slapped the leath
er reins across Saguaro’s neck and dug his spurs deep into the horse’s thick hide. The surefooted beast lunged forward, bolting into the clearing. Strong muscles bunched under his impressive speed. Reece leaned low in the saddle.

  “Come on, boy. Faster. You can do this.” With the swiftness of a tempest, his buckskin stormed across the terrain. Each thundering stride brought them closer and closer to the towering row of pines in the distance. Dirt clods churned up from the ground under Saguaro’s forceful power. Popping reverberations obtruded from the trenches to his left.

  A sidelong glance revealed puffs of smoke pouring from a multitude of discharging rifles. A second later, Minié balls whistled past his ear.

  “Come on,” he yelled, melting against Saguaro’s lathered neck as perspiration tracked in rivulets down Reece’s face. He concentrated only on the blowing sounds of the animal’s heavy breathing.

  The ground flew past them. Deadly missiles zipped around him. Yard by precious yard, they closed in on the protective tree line.

  Just as he brushed past scented evergreen branches and plunged into safety, Reece felt a stinging burn across his forearm. He pulled back on Saguaro’s bit and glanced at the jagged rip across his coat sleeve. Only then did he feel the warm spread of blood.

  Brennen jerked awake. Beneath him, the ground shook with artillery explosions. The pain in his shoulder lanced deeper. How long had he been unconscious?

  A few minutes? More? He rolled onto his back and groaned when a new wave of pain spilled from his body. He refused to die like this.

  Goddamnit, get up.

  He shifted, struggled onto an elbow and peered down at his wound. Blood saturated the left side of his shell jacket and turned the gold double braiding on his sleeve into a mud-colored tawny swirl. He wasn’t a doctor, but from the look of things, he damn well knew he needed one. And fast. A mile into enemy territory and with the battle underway, he wouldn’t be going back the way he’d come. But, where could he go to get out of this damnable cold?

  Shapinsay.

  Unless the Yanks burned the house, Em’s was his closest option. Brennen pushed into a sitting position and five agonizing minutes later, he climbed into a wobbly stance. Despite the breeze off the river, perspiration coursed down his face.

  He stumbled from the undergrowth. The faint popping of musketry filled the air. The ground beneath his brogans vibrated from nearby explosions. Brennen saw the tell-tale signs floating just above the treetops; smoke shimmered in hazy circles, strong testament of the ongoing battle beyond.

  He staggered forward. Shaking fingers worked to unbutton his coat as he slipped down the embankment toward the U.S. Ford. Since he was on the backside of the enemy, he’d shuck the gray outer garment, ease into the water and blend in with any other Yanks splashing across the river.

  Chapter Ten

  Emaline pressed the cotton wad into the wound across the soldier’s chest, trying to staunch the flow of blood until Doc arrived. She assessed the instruments lined across the table, making sure the surgeon had everything he would need. Forceps to extract the iron shrapnel. Tenaculum to seal the artery and prevent internal bleeding. Needles to sew a neat seam. She’d removed the implements from the boiling pot a few minutes earlier and hoped they’d be cool enough for him to handle.

  A half-emptied bottle of ether sat at the end of the table, along with the glass vials of opium, turpentine and quinine. All were running low. Would the supply wagons from the rear arrive in time? The cotton beneath her fingers darkened with blood. Emaline pressed harder. A great many if’s stood in the way of this man living. She chanced a quick glance toward the operation that took place on a nearby table.

  Doc bent over a battered body and the assisting steward near the surgeon’s elbow possessed the same determination. Blood smeared in darkened streaks across the front of their aprons and both men more resembled butchers cutting beef than medical professionals. She closed her heart against the agony of their decisions, hastily made in the face of so many injuries. The doctor’s soft voice drifted to her above the moans of the wounded.

  “…the shrapnel broke the bone near the knee,” he instructed. “Look, Jeremy, do you see where it protrudes just below the muscle?” With bloodied fingers, he brushed aside pieces of uniform and bits of metal imbedded in the wound of the now-unconscious soldier. The upcoming prognosis settled over Emaline in a wave of misery. She’d heard it at least a half-dozen times today. “Take the leg. Do what you can to seal the flap once you’ve removed the limb.”

  The assistant nodded and took over the procedure as Doc shifted sideways to join her. Emaline peeled back the saturated cloth to expose the jagged wound. Two minutes into the operation, the need to continue vanished along with their patient’s soul.

  “Loss of blood,” Doc mumbled, fishing into his apron pocket to remove a pencil and a small journal. He scribbled his diagnosis beside the man’s name.

  Emaline stepped aside while stretcher-bearers removed the body.

  From just beyond the tent’s entrance, a loud commotion disturbed the onward march of death.

  “It’s a damn scratch. The bullet only winged me.”

  Emaline turned toward the tent’s opening. She would remember the sound of that voice forever.

  “Dammit, I don’t want to take up their time. This is nothing.” Several soldiers pushed the daunting form of Reece Cutteridge inside, one of them bellowing for the doctor.

  In seconds, the surgeon appeared and made a hasty examination of the wound. “This won’t take long, Colonel. The Minié just creased your muscle. But since you’re already here and to appease your men, let’s just get it cleaned and bandaged.”

  Reece agreed and then turned to speak to the closest soldier. “As soon as you get the prisoners assembled have Captain Wells check with the Provost to see where he wants them held. And have Lieutenant Glave form a company to collect the scattered equipment and get burial details organized. Make sure they identify the dead on the battlefield too. And give the list to Major Neale.” The soldier nodded and vacated the tent.

  Doc pulled Reece deeper into the enclosure, leading the way toward Emaline.

  “She’ll take care of this, Colonel,” he said and then hurried back to his patients.

  When his gaze met hers, Reece’s eyes darkened into twin caverns of discernible fury. Only a heartbeat passed before his rage ignited into voice. “Em—Emaline?” The word jackknifed into her with a biting hiss. “Wh-what…Jesus Christ, what the hell are you—how long have you been here?”

  Even though his raw anger spiraled through her, Emaline’s face warmed. Her fingers, sticky with blood, curled around the edge of the table for support. She forced herself to breathe. And to remain calm. “Long enough,” she replied, her words as thick with emotion as the morning fog had been earlier. “I’m helping Doc.”

  Reece loomed closer, his body dwarfing hers. “You’re helping? Are you insane? Have you no idea the danger you’re in?” His hands snaked out to encircle her upper arms and he jerked her toward him, no softness anywhere in his touch now. “Who brought you here?” he snapped.

  "I rode over with Doc this morning.”

  “This morning?” His sharp exhalation moved the wisps of hair at her temples. “You could’ve been killed. My God, anything could’ve happened to you.”

  There was a potent danger to this man now—a dark power that enthralled her as much as overwhelmed her. She summoned the strength needed to pull from his grasp, then tamped down the rush of emotions. “But it didn’t. And I’m fine.” Reaching into the box of supplies, Emaline withdrew the necessary medicines she would use and then lined them across the table.

  Warm breath brushed over her as she concentrated on his wound, his nerve-wracking silence nearly her undoing. Were her lips trembling as much as her legs? Like a lifeline, Emaline clung to her task until she placed the finishing wrap. “I’ve soaked your bandage in belladonna. It’ll help ease your pain.” She captured her bottom lip between her teeth to
stop its quiver.

  Then raised her head to meet his eyes.

  When their gazes met, a surprising rush of desire replaced Reece’s comfortable anger of moments before. Fear for her safety tore a hole through his heart, so overpowering and raw he thought he might vomit.

  “There’s no pain,” he growled, pushing the words past tight lips. His pulse thundered in his ears, yet he allowed himself a slow breath, lifting her ephemeral fragrance deeper into his lungs.

  She exuded an unbelievable brightness amid the hellish darkness of this day.

  The pace of their breathing matched the expectancy in the air. The circumstances around Reece disappeared. He could not stop his hand from rising, from slipping around the back of her neck—couldn’t stop the pad of his thumb from seeking the hollow of her throat. He stroked the spot as if it were the softest thing on earth.

  Her eyes reflected pain, and weariness. And then, he saw something more, something hot and integral. Something he’d seen in the hazy twilight of the stable weeks before. Reece couldn’t stop himself. He bent his elbow. And then his head, drawing her toward him. Every single part of him focused on reclaiming her lips.

  “Excuse me, Colonel Cutteridge. This just arrived from headquarters.”

  The harried voice shattered the moment. Reece pulled away, releasing his hold. Gathering his response to her into a hard knot in his stomach, he turned to the courier standing near the entrance of the medical tent.

  Reece stepped back and shoved his bandaged arm into the sleeve of his frockcoat. He moved toward the soldier, his stride lengthening until he reached for the correspondence. A heavy weight engulfed him as he scanned the dispatch. “Sonofabitch,” he scowled as his already frayed emotions darkened further.