Triumph

by Heather Graham

  “Now that’s ridiculous! Many, many women have very long hair.”

  “Very long, sleek, raven-black hair, and the form and figure of a Circe! And it has to be someone very, very familiar with the area. Then, I’ve actually had Godiva described to me. You see, I’ve met a few of the men led astray by Godiva.”

  “Risa, I never—”

  She broke off, alarmed by the sudden sound of gunfire and a barrage of shouts. Her eyes met Risa’s. Risa, she saw, was as startled as she by the commotion.

  “My God, what—”

  Tia leapt up in alarm, dragging the covers with her like a cloak. Both Taylor and her brother were out there. She had to find out what had happened.

  “Tia, wait—you don’t go running out when you hear gunfire!” Risa, always the general’s daughter, called. But Tia was already heading out, her heart in her throat. Men were running everywhere. Risa caught hold of her.

  “You can’t run out like this! At least get dressed.”

  Torn, Tia wasted several precious seconds thinking that someone may lie dying while she was taking the time for concessions to society. She was totally encompassed in the covers.

  “This might not even involve Taylor or Ian!” Risa insisted.

  “But it does. I know it. Help me! I haven’t anything—”

  “Tia, but you do. I brought you all kinds of clothing.”

  “Then give me something quickly, please!” Tia said.

  “All right. I’ll help.”

  Tia stepped back into the tent. Risa was as good as her word, ready with a cotton print day dress to slip right over Tia’s shoulders as she let the covers fall.

  Tia muttered a quick “Thank you,” eschewed the concept of looking for shoes, and went tearing outside. By then she could see that the men were gathering around a large circle by the hospital tent. She wedged her way into the circle, felt hands upon her shoulders, and knew that Risa was there. She became aware that there was a pileup of men in the center of the circle. All around the circumference, the men were cheering—and throwing out suggestions.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Fight—big fight!” one of the soldiers said cheerfully, then he looked at her. “Oh! Mrs. Douglas, it’s ... um ...”

  Taylor.

  Taylor was in the midst of it all. As she watched, she saw that there were actually three other men in the circle, and that the three of them were coming at him. One of the men she recognized. Private Long. The soldier who had talked about killing Rebel injured.

  Taylor was in his navy trousers and cavalry boots; his jacket and shirt—and weapons—were gone.

  “There are three of them against him!” she said indignantly. “There were shots ... and now this! What’s going on?”

  The soldier looked at her again uncomfortably.

  “There was an incident ... with some Rebs,” he said uncomfortably.

  “Get him, Colonel, get him!” someone cried, and the soldier turned from her again. “That’s it, Colonel, damn, sir, but that’s a good right hook.”

  Tia saw her brother then, on the opposite side of the circle. She tried to break through the men.

  “Ma’am, you mustn’t interfere now,” one soldier said politely, stopping her.

  She tried to break in elsewhere. A graying sergeant stopped her. “Why, Mrs. Douglas, we couldn’t let no harm come to you, ma’am!”

  “Tia, calm down, wait!” Risa called to her.

  “They’ll kill him! And Ian is just standing there!” Tia said indignantly, escaping Risa’s touch upon her arm.

  Wrenching furiously from the next man who tried to stop her, she made it around the circle to where Ian stood. At that point, one of the men lay on the ground. Two of them were making a calculated and coordinated running leap for her husband.

  “Ian! What’s happening? Stop this! My God—”

  She tried to rush past her brother, but there was no way to do so. He grabbed her back, not in the least afraid of using force with her, as any other man might have been.

  “Stop, Tia. Stop here, let it go.”

  “Let it go! He’ll be pummeled—”

  “He chose this.”

  “He chose this! But he’ll be killed!”

  “Tia, have faith. He knows his business.”

  Shouts were going out, calls, cheers, jeers.

  “Ian ...”

  The men were down in the dirt on Taylor. She struggled with Ian, staring helplessly as fists and earth flew. Then, she was startled when the two soldiers on Taylor went flying. They literally seemed to soar, up and away from him, and into the dirt.

  Then Taylor was standing.

  Hands on his hips, he looked at the downed men. His torso was muddied; there was a long scrape down his chest. His cheeks bore evidence of the brawl as well. But the three men who had attacked him lay in the dirt without moving. For a moment, Tia thought they were dead. Astounded and confused, she listened to the roar of the men, congratulating their colonel. She could still feel Ian’s hands on her shoulders.

  She twisted in her brother’s hold, anxious to see his face. “What happened?”

  “What you wanted, I think.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Ian’s cobalt eyes fell on hers. “They came across some Rebs, wounded at Olustee or during the skirmishing as we were chased back toward the coast.”

  “And?” she breathed.

  “One of them has nearly died.”

  “Oh?” Her heart seemed to be in her throat. “You said I should be glad for this. Is the Rebel someone we know?”

  “Not an old family friend, but if he is an acquaintance of yours, I don’t know.” He sighed, shaking his head. “We’ve been on an opposite side for years now. I don’t know who you know, Tia,” he reminded her.

  “But—there was a fight in a Yankee camp over a Rebel prisoner dying?” She couldn’t help sounding skeptical. There had to be enough concern here over their own dying men.

  Ian’s eyes fell sharply upon her again. “His condition has become much worse since he arrived.”

  “How?”

  “A bandage was ripped from him. His sutures gave; the artery was exposed. He nearly bled to death.”

  “A bandage was ripped from him ...”

  “Tia, you said you heard men talking about killing wounded Rebels. Taylor listened to you, more than you realized. He asked some questions among the men, found out who it might have been. The Rebs had just been found and brought in. He kept an eye on the suspects and caught them in the act of trying to kill the fellow. He took them by surprise—and they shot at him. He was furious; he dragged them out here ... and a crowd gathered.”

  “They tried to shoot him! He should have shot back—”

  “They claim they thought they were being attacked.”

  “They tried to murder a man!” she whispered. “They shot at him—”

  “If he’d shot back, he wouldn’t have missed. And he might have faced a court-martial.”

  “They shot at him.”

  “But they claimed to think themselves under attack by Rebels coming for their wounded. And after the fiasco at Olustee ... Taylor might have faced an inquiry at the very least. This way, the men will be sent to St. Augustine. And they’ll stand trial.”

  She turned back to look for Taylor. He was gone. And the men who had grouped around him were also gone. The soldiers he had fought and beaten were being dragged away by other men.

  “Where is he?” Tia asked anxiously.

  “By the water, I would think,” Ian said. “He’ll want to bathe. It looked like he was wearing half the mud in Florida.”

  “Ian—”

  His hands fell from her shoulders. “I think it will be all right if you go to him now.”

  Freed from her brother’s hold, she ran across the camp, through the men and to the pines. There was a picket on duty near their tent, but he smiled and waved her on. She ran quickly through the trees, bursting out on the copse before the pon
d where they had been the night before. As Ian had suggested, he was there, his back to her as he sat on a log. He used a yellow regulation-issue cavalry scarf to squeeze water over his shoulder.

  She stood dead still for a moment, wondering if he would want her there. But without turning, he knew that she had come, and he talked to her.

  “My love, please don’t just stand there and gape. Come over here and be helpful.”

  She walked around to him, inhaling sharply as she saw the depth of the jagged wound across his chest. She’d spent so much of the war treating injuries; it was instinct and habit to fall down on her knees before him where he sat on the log, take the cloth from him, soak it, and dab carefully at the wound. “Ian told me something of what happened, but I still don’t understand ...”

  He caught her hand, and still holding it, he placed his fingers under her chin, causing her face to rise, her eyes to meet his.

  “You were right. There were a few men determined that the only good Reb is a dead Reb. Last night, a foraging party came across a small band of wounded Confederates, and brought them back. This morning, I thought I should look in on them—I didn’t want to believe that there were such men under my command, but I can tell you, it has been a bitter war. I knew the most fanatic of the men serving beneath Captain Ayers, so I knew who to watch for.” He lifted his hands. “To kill a man so vulnerable would have been cold-blooded murder. They panicked and tried to shoot me.”

  “You would have been within your right to shoot back.”

  “Thank you, no. The temptation was great, but I have no desire to defend myself on any trumped-up murder charge. I think I broke a few bones, made my point. And the men will be out of here, and under arrest.”

  “But this slash on your chest! This is fairly serious! It should be stitched.”

  “Ah, I see! And I think I’ve gotten your gentle touch at last, when all you want to do is stick a needle into me!”

  “Taylor, I’m serious.”

  “So am I,” he murmured wryly, but he was smiling.

  “I do excellent stitches. And if you’re afraid of me, your camp is well enough supplied with morphine!”

  He stroked her cheek. “No morphine, not for such a trivial wound, and certainly not now. I want to be in full control of all my senses for the time I have remaining, thank you.”

  She flushed slightly, her eyes downcast, but persisted. “Taylor, the wound really does need to be stitched. If you don’t trust me—”

  “But I do trust you,” he said, and her heart seemed to warm. Then he added, “In this, I trust you.”

  Her eyes flew to his again. “Yes, well, I know how you feel otherwise. Risa is here—to keep an eye on me, of course.”

  “I was under the impression that Risa was a friend, as well as Jerome’s wife.”

  “Yes—the wife of a really wicked Rebel blockade runner.”

  “That wicked blockade runner is my relative as well, Godiva.”

  “Don’t call me that!” she whispered, dabbing carefully at the wound again. “Take an injury like this too lightly, Colonel Douglas, and you’ll find yourself falling prey to a fever. Even with this, gangrene could set in.”

  “It will be all right.” He caught her hand again. “Get what you need from Dr. Bryer. Meet me back in our tent. I just want to wash the rest of this mud off. Go.”

  She rose, hurrying to do as he had said; the wound needed stitching. As she moved back into the camp, she was surprised when she was suddenly stopped by Captain Ayers. “Mrs. Douglas! I just wanted you to know ... well, I’m sorry. Most soldiers would never attempt to kill an injured enemy; they know that they, too, could fall into the hands of those they fight. You must believe me. I didn’t know I had men capable of such heinous actions. Don’t despise all Northerners for the cruelty of a few men who have fought in one battle too many.”

  “I do not, sir,” she said quickly, uneasy with the way Ayers watched her. She couldn’t help wondering if he wouldn’t one day figure out that she had been the woman he had surprised by the stream that day.

  “Excuse me, please, I must see to my husband ...” she murmured.

  When she had obtained what she needed from the hospital tent, she hurried back to their own. Taylor had returned. His trousers and his hair were damp; he had washed away the dirt and blood and mud of the fight. The wound at his chest, cleaned much more briskly by his hand than hers, was bleeding afresh.

  He sat at the camp desk, a bottle of whiskey in his hands. He took a long swig from it as he beckoned her to him. “Ready?”

  She nodded, bringing sutures and a needle to the desk. He looked at her gravely, then offered her the whiskey bottle.

  “You’re supposed to drink for the pain, not me,” she told him. “You want small, neat stitches, right?”

  He smiled. “I was handing you the whiskey to pour on the wound,” he told her, and poured the whiskey over his chest himself. He winced with the pain, gritting his teeth. She rescued the bottle from his fingers, knelt down beside him, and began to sew. She did so as quickly and efficiently as she could, and when she had finished, tying a careful knot, she met his eyes again. Watching her, he took another long swig from the bottle.

  “You did that very well.”

  “Did it hurt?”

  “Did you want it to?”

  “I asked you first. Did it hurt?”

  “Not too badly. Disappointed?”

  “Not really—except that maybe some real pain might have made you more careful in the future!”

  He stroked her cheek. “I was careful. I knew what I was doing. And I thought that you would have been pleased that this matter was settled.”

  Her eyes fell. “I am pleased. I was saddened to learn that a vulnerable man was made worse. I am grateful to you.”

  “Don’t be grateful to me for this, Tia. I didn’t do it for you—I did it because it was the right thing to do.”

  She drew away from him, rising. He caught her by the tangle of her hair, not hurting her but pulling her back. She wound up on her knees before him again, and he caught her chin, meeting her eyes.

  “I didn’t do it for you—but I’m not unhappy if what I’ve done has pleased you.”

  “Why did you need to let them attack you?”

  “Because I was angry. And I wanted to hurt them for what they had done. But I can shoot the wings off a fly, and God knows, in this war, there are those who might have been against me if it came to a matter of military law. Frankly, I wanted very much to bash in the one fellow’s face—and I did so.” He hesitated a long moment, his eyes on hers, his fingers moving gently through her hair at her temple. “Tia, it was Gilly.”

  “What?” She felt the blood drain from her face. Her men, the men she had wanted so badly to protect, had been taken anyway.

  “Your friend, one of the young fellows with you when we met.”

  She started to rise. “I have to go to him! I have to see what I can do.”

  His pressed her back down, shaking his head. “Colonel Bryer is a really good man, one of the best surgeons I’ve ever had the pleasure to work with. He is also compassionate. He has done his best. Cecilia is there with him now. Risa is helping out with all the injured. You are surely wanted, and may see him in time. But you’re not needed in the hospital tent now.”

  “But—”

  “I need you here.”

  She nodded, trembling slightly. Her hands rested on his thighs; she felt very close to him, as if they were almost carrying on a real conversation between man and wife.

  “Taylor—”

  “He was one of the men you were trying to protect when you played your Godiva act and came here, isn’t he?”

  “Taylor, I didn’t play any act on purpose.”

  “So you came here, and now you are married and trapped in a lie, and it was all to no avail. Your injured have been taken by the Yanks.”

  “You know the truth now of what I heard the soldiers say! I had no choice, Taylor.”
/>   “That’s debatable. You heard the men. If you had brought what they said to Captain Ayers—”

  “How could I know that Ayers was any better?”

  “But look what your recklessness—or courage—had brought you to.”

  His eyes were so intently upon her; the almost tender massage of his fingers had not ceased. She lowered her head, then raised her chin. “Well, there were a number of people worried that a woman as decadent as a nurse would never find a husband.”

  “But you’ve married a half-savage.”

  “I know,” she replied gravely.

  He leaned forward, his knuckles grazing her cheeks. “I know your innocence, and your recklessness, I know that you are rash and determined. I know that you are loyal and headstrong, and that though your heart and passion are often in the right place, you are more likely than Robert E. Lee to take chances! Whatever any old biddies might have had to say, you could have acquired dozens of husbands, before, during, or after this war. But you have done the deed!”

  “Yes—a commitment on paper,” she reminded him.

  “A commitment you will live with!” His thumb padded over her cheek as he continued to stare at her. “I have to leave soon,” he said.

  “I know. In a few days’ time—”

  “Today.”

  She was startled by his words, and startled by the pain that seemed to strike deep inside her. “But you’re injured—”

  “A scratch.”

  “I warned you—”

  “I know how to keep a wound clean. I will not die of gangrene.”

  She stared down again. “How long will you be gone?”

  “A matter of weeks. I don’t know what will come when I return; Olustee Station was a total debacle for us—they may give up on penetrating into Florida again, and sit tight with what the Yankees hold along the coast. I may be ordered back to action in Virginia. But I’ll return to St. Augustine from the south, and I want you to be there.”

  She closed her eyes. It almost sounded as if he were asking.

  “I’ll be there,” she said softly. She looked at him, shaking her head. “I was with Julian for years without incident,” she told him. “I did nothing but help with injured men. I was never in danger.” Her head lowered again with the last. “I don’t think you understand. We can be so very desperate for help. I did nothing wrong.”