Triumph

by Heather Graham

  The doors burst open. Taylor was able to get a full count of the men. Seven of them, including the leader, who remained mounted, staring down at Sydney. His six men entered the barn. The blacks had tried to hide in the musty hay once they’d known the soldiers were coming in, but one of the soldiers picked up a pitchfork and started to aim at a too-large pile of straw. Sissy cried out, and the man stopped, turned, and grabbed her. “I think we got the one we’re after—damned pretty piece of black baggage, sir!”

  “Hang her—hang her now, and fast, and get the rest of them out here. Let ’em know that they’ll die for this, and others won’t be quite so willing to run!”

  “No!” Sydney cried. “Stop it, stop it now, I’ll report you—”

  “You won’t be reporting anything, miss. You’re the worst traitor here. When I finish with you, sweet little belle, there won’t be a pretty thing about you, and you surely won’t have lips and teeth to do much talking.”

  He dismounted, grabbing Sydney before she could turn to flee. She fought him, catching him in the eye. The blacks in the barn were beginning to scream. One of the soldiers drew his gun. Taylor had wanted a clearer shot, but he didn’t dare wait.

  He drew his Colts, aimed first for the man getting ready to shoot, and caught him. straight through the heart.

  Then taking a split second longer to make sure he didn’t hit Sydney, he caught her attacker dead center in the forehead. Screams rose all around him as the slaves in the barn feared for their lives. The five remaining soldiers pulled their guns; five more shots from the Colts brought the Rebels down, all dying while still trying to find the position of the enemy.

  Sydney saw him. She hadn’t moved; the man who had assaulted her lay dead at her feet. She stared at him. “Taylor?” she whispered incredulously.

  He came down the ladder quickly. Sissy stood by the doors again, staring at him as well. “Get your people into the wagon fast,” Taylor ordered, “and get them the hell out of here as quickly as you can. Stick to the small trails—most regular troops are going to be too concerned with the major battle coming up to mind much about a wagon going by.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sissy replied. “Come on now, people, you heard the man. Get in the wagon, under the straw in back, fast!”

  Her elocution was perfect, her voice soft and melodic. She gazed at him with steady brown eyes, and he realized that she had never been really afraid. If they had chosen to hang her, she would have been willing to die.

  Sydney, a little wobbly, walked into the barn. “Taylor, I ...” She stopped, staring at the dead men around her.

  “Sydney,” he said flatly. He came to her, stopping two feet in front of her, suddenly sickened by what the war was doing to all of them. “For the love of God, Sydney, what he hell are you doing? Sweet Jesus, you could have died here!”

  “Oh God, Taylor, they’re all—dead.”

  Sydney looked at him, stricken. But Sissy came to life with a vengeance. “Sydney, they were going to kill us, every last one of us!”

  “But they were ... Rebels. I never really meant to betray my people.”

  “Sydney! They weren’t your people. They were the scum of the earth!”

  Sydney stared at Taylor again. He thought she was going to crack.

  “You killed them all,” she said.

  “I hate killing people, Sydney. I just didn’t see a choice.”

  “No ... no ... it was all my fault!” she cried, and she suddenly threw herself at him, and she was shaking very hard. “Taylor, if you hadn’t come ... oh my God, they were going to hang us! Without a judge, without anything legal, without—”

  “They were scum. White trash!” Sissy said. She was staring at Taylor. “Thank you, sir. I don’t know you, but I am mighty beholden. It’s a miracle that you’re here.”

  “Not a miracle. I went to Sydney’s house. I thought ...” He shrugged. “I thought she was running intelligence behind the lines.”

  Sissy was very still, her chin high for a long moment. “Not intelligence. People, Colonel. Black people. Yes! She’s slipped behind Rebel lines. And she slipped back through Yankee lines. Saving lives, Colonel, saving lives, saving people!”

  Taylor drew away from Sydney, slowly arching a brow. Her face flooded with color. She lifted her hands. “Jesse would still want to throttle me!” she said hoarsely. “And if Jerome knew ... or Brent, or my father ... Julian. Tia ...” Her voice trailed.

  “You’ve been working the underground railroad,” he said incredulously.

  “No!” Sydney said. “Not really. I didn’t mean—”

  “Yes!” the beautiful black woman declared defiantly. “She has been incredible.”

  “By accident!” Sydney said. He shook his head. Accident? He’d heard those words before. What happened that people were drawn into this conflict?

  He smiled slowly, gravely. “Sydney McKenzie! I will be damned.”

  “Taylor, you understand then? You won’t tell—”

  “Sydney, you turned into a Yankee?”

  “No! I’m a Rebel in all things ... but this!” she whispered. “Taylor, you must keep my secret, you must—”

  She broke off because he was shaking his head. “Sydney, I can’t keep your secret. Jesse thinks you’re spying for the Confederacy, so what you are doing has to be better. But he’d be angry because what you’re doing is really dangerous. You’ve been branded a traitor. Go home, and stay under house arrest.”

  “Taylor, you can’t mean to tell Jesse—”

  “Sydney, I’m afraid that I do.”

  He leaned forward, giving her a kiss on her cheek. “I think he’ll be very proud of you, too. After he throttles you, that is. But no more outings, Sydney. A good soldier knows when to lay down his arms.”

  Sydney lowered her head. “I know.”

  “We’ve got to get moving. I can follow you for about ten miles—that should bring us to a Union outpost, at the least.”

  Sissy was staring at him, smiling. “You one mighty fine man—for a white boy, that is. Are you married, Colonel?”

  “No, he isn’t,” Sydney said.

  “Yes, I’m afraid I am married,” he told Sissy, grinning in return. He looked at Sydney to explain. “I’ve remarried.”

  “You have? When? Who? I’m so happy for you, Taylor. I know how deeply you were hurt when Abby died. When did this happen, where—”

  “Tia.”

  “Tia!”

  “Yes. Tia.”

  “Tia McKenzie?” she asked incredulously.

  “The same. But now, if you’ll excuse me, you have people beneath straw in that wagon, and God knows if these fellows had any friends following behind them. Sissy, it’s been a pleasure meeting you. You are one of the most courageous—and beautiful—women of my acquaintance. Sydney, again, I’m very proud of you, but I’ve just left your father, and he would want to flay me alive if I didn’t make you swear you’d never take such a chance again. Ever.”

  “I do swear, but—”

  “Then let’s get going.”

  “Let’s get going, just like that!” Sydney protested, her emerald eyes as wide as saucers. “Taylor, wait, you can’t really have married Tia—”

  “I did, but we’ve no time to talk. Sydney, for the love of God, get in the wagon!”

  She stared at him, threw her arms around him, and hugged him fiercely. “Thank you, Taylor, thank you so much for being here to save my life! I do swear that I’ll guard it now myself!”

  He didn’t have to tell her again. She slipped from his embrace and into the wagon. Taylor dragged the dead man who lay outside the barn into the center of it, slapped the Rebel horses on their rumps, and whistled for Friar.

  He followed the contraband wagon to the first Union picket he could find.

  Then he turned back for the battle lines himself.

  Tia lay in what felt like a strange state of twilight. She wasn’t sleeping, but she wasn’t awake. She didn’t want to wake up. Waking meant the most awful
sensation of loss. Just now, she was numb, and she liked the feeling.

  Suddenly, she was being jarred out of sleep.

  “Wake up, Tia!”

  Brent was shaking her hard. Almost brutally.

  “Stop it, Brent!” she protested angrily. “I want to stay here in bed. I want more laudanum.”

  “Not on your life. I’ve given you too much already. You’ve grieved for the dead; it’s time to care about the living again. Get out of bed and get dressed. Fast.”

  “No.”

  But her cousin wrenched her covers away, caught her arm, and dragged her to her feet. “Tia, there’s a major battle going on. Injured men all over. I’m being sent out to a field hospital. You’re coming with me.”

  “No ... no. You’ve got Mary. Nurses, orderlies—”

  “Mary is coming. And you’re coming with me, too. You’re experienced. You’ve worked with Julian. You know me, and you’ll be good with me.”

  “No, Brent, I don’t care anymore. I’m sick of injured soldiers and chopped-up men.”

  “Oh! You’re suddenly sick of them? Well, believe me, Tia, they’re sick of being chopped up!”

  “I don’t care.” She closed her eyes.

  She was startled when her cousin suddenly seized hold of her, shaking her. “Damn you, Tia, now! I need your help—they need help. They’re suffering. Not crying over what they can’t change!”

  “Brent!” She pulled free from him, taking a deep breath, meeting his eyes. What was the matter with her? “Brent, I’m sorry ... I’ll get dressed. Quickly,” she told him.

  “Good! I really need you, Tia.”

  Within a few minutes, she was ready.

  With Brent and Mary, she rode down the street to the hospital, where dozens of wagons were being prepared with canvas tents and medical supplies. Men were shouting orders, horses were neighing, bugles were blowing, drums were pounding.

  “The engagement has begun!”

  “The bloody Yanks are everywhere.”

  “They say there will be thousands fallen.”

  “The Yanks don’t give a bloody damn how many they kill, not even of their own!”

  “Lee will beat them back. He always does.”

  “They’re fighting right near Chancellorsville again.”

  More troops were amassing—cavalry, infantry. The street was filled with those leaving, and with those looking on.

  And those afraid that Grant would ride into Richmond.

  Soon their wagons were ready, and they were riding. Out to the Wilderness, an area of no-man’s-land near Fredericksburg where the forest and foliage were nearly as thick as the earth.

  And none of them knew just what kind of an inferno was about to be set loose.

  Chapter 20

  ALMOST A YEAR EARLIER, the same ground had been traveled by both armies—to fight the battle of Chancellorsville. Both Union and Confederate troops had died in the forests of the Wilderness.

  Riding hard along the trails as they sought the best ground to establish their field hospital, Brent, Tia, and their party passed by sad and ghostly remembrances of the deadly battles gone past: bones, bleached white by the sun, stripped of all flesh by prowling creatures, lay in piles far too numerous all about the roads and among the trees and foliage. Tia tried to tell herself that they were the bones of horses, but a human skull kicked forward by her horse’s hoof dispelled whatever illusions she might have cherished.

  They found a copse far back in Rebel lines. Brent began to shout orders, and men were quickly setting up the tents, folding tables, chairs, stretchers, and instruments. Before they were set up and prepared, the injured began to come in, some screaming in pain, some silent, some awake, some unconscious. There were five surgeons beneath Brent, ten nurses including Tia and Mary, and six husky orderlies.

  Within an hour, the tables were stained with blood.

  Tia forgot the strange apathy that had seized her, yet it seemed that she remained numb. She was glad, for she worked with an insane speed, fearful only that her haste would cause her to drop and lose the instruments the doctors called for. She was reminded of the battle at Olustee Station, and yet, within a few hours, she felt that Olustee had barely prepared her for this.

  The day seemed endless. Tia felt as if she wore a second skin of blood. Stay numb, she urged herself. Yes, numb. Just keep moving, and moving.

  That night, there was no end. Darkness had brought an end to the fighting, but not to the arrival of the injured. Yanks came into the surgery along with the Rebels.

  She kept hearing where the different armies, divisions, and brigades were deployed. Information that meant little. The armies had met and clashed in the Wilderness, and it was highly unlikely that any of the commanders really knew where to find their own men.

  Tia slept on a saddlebag by the field hospital, but only for a few hours. In the tangle of growth, injured men were lost and forgotten, found when another group of men stumbled upon the same scene of battle.

  Dawn came without much light. The woods and copses were so filled with powder from the cannons and guns that it was hard to discern day from night.

  She thought that it was midmorning. Mary had left with a wagon of wounded, desperate to obtain more supplies from a railway deposit that had been expected during the night.

  Tia worked across from Brent, clamping an artery as he removed a minie ball.

  He looked at her over the man’s body, shook his head. “We’ve lost this one.”

  She lowered her eyes. There was no time for sorrow. The orderlies were already coming to take the man away and bring another in.

  Flies buzzed all around them.

  In a corner of the tent, a pile of limbs rose very high. The stench of the blood was almost overwhelming.

  “Kneecap is shattered; the leg has to go,” Brent said.

  There was a sudden, whizzing sound that made even Brent flinch. “Who the bloody hell is shooting off artillery into woods like that?” Brent swore.

  Soon they began to hear the sounds of screaming.

  Then, the smoke began. Worse than the powder, it began to fill the air.

  One of the wounded men brought in was shouting wildly. “God, God, God, someone has to stop it, stop it! They’re burning alive out there, oh my God, burning alive, burning to death, sweet Jesus, sweet Jesus ...”

  An orderly rushed over to Brent. “Colonel McKenzie! Colonel McKenzie, it’s true! The Wilderness is burning. Men are ... are burning to death. Caught in the trees. The fire is coming this way. We’ve got to move the hospital. Quickly!”

  Taylor left the women at the first Yankee picket post, then turned and rode back for the main army lines. He rode into hell already taking shape.

  Owing to the troop movements in place, Taylor rode around half of both armies before finding Grant’s headquarters.

  He wasn’t assigned to ride with the cavalry, or to lead troops, though he discovered that both Jesse Halston and Ian were out there somewhere, both in the midst of the fighting. His orders from the unassuming Grant sent him circling around the rest of the action, trying to discern the positions and number of the enemy. By reaching the general alone, at his headquarters near the woods, he had gathered a lot of the information about the Rebel units that the command had needed.

  General Grant, chomping on a cigar, told him quietly that he was weary of the Confederate numbers being exaggerated—something which had happened frequently from the days when McClellan had been leading the Yankee troops on down. Union officers had been far too cautious. And far too often, even after taking a victory, Union officers ordered a retreat.

  “We’re not going to retreat, Colonel. We’re going to fight.”

  By nightfall after the first day, Taylor had managed to circle a number of the Rebel divisions, discern the leadership, then meet back with Grant and his officers to point out their current situation and how they had come to it. After leaving the general, Taylor found out where some of the captured Rebels were being kept. A
number of the men had been taken that morning, and he hoped that someone might have news about Brent McKenzie.

  The Rebs were on a small hill, watched over by a number of Union infantrymen. Captured, they were at their leisure, many of them eating Yankee provisions, and most of them looking as if they needed many more decent meals. Their uniforms were more than frayed, and most of them were hardly regulation anymore. Many wore pants taken from dead Yankee soldiers, and ill-fitting boots taken from the feet of the fallen as well. Some were nearly barefoot. Yet when he first arrived among them, they remained defiant, no one answering when he first asked about the surgeon, Colonel Brent McKenzie.

  “Why are you askin’, Colonel?” an infantry captain asked him.

  He turned to the man. Tall, lean, and grave, he watched Taylor with careful eyes.

  “Because he’s kin,” Taylor said. “And I believe that my wife is traveling with him.”

  The captain was quiet for a minute, then told him. “McKenzie was working at the hospital just outside Richmond; he had been called out to work in a field hospital right after our first skirmishers ran into one another. Last I heard, he was doing just fine, setting up his surgery down the Plank Road.” The captain kept studying him. “You’re married to Tia?” he inquired.

  Taylor had heard that note of skepticism so often. “Yes, captain, I am married to Tia McKenzie. The war does make for strange bedfellows. You know my wife?”

  The captain nodded. “There was no finer place to be asked than Cimarron, sir. I hailed from South Georgia, and attended many a ball and barbecue at Cimarron. No one would ever forget the daughter of the house, sir. She possessed such beauty and grace in those days ... and yet I had heard that she quickly turned to compassion once the war began, discarding fashion and finery for blood and death. My congratulations, sir.”

  “Thank you, Captain. You are certain she is with her cousin now?”

  “No, I’m not certain. I did not see her myself, but I heard from mutual friends that she was with Brent, and I cannot imagine they would be wrong.”

  He thanked the captain again, then asked him if there was anything he could do for him. The captain hesitated, then pointed to a man seated by a tree. “Private Simms received a wound some time ago that continues to plague him. I know that we will probably be sent to different prison camps in the North ... is there any way you can see to it that he goes to Old Capitol? I have heard it is the best, since it is beneath the nose of many Southern sympathizers, and that Old Abe is actually a man of compassion himself.”