Memphis

by Sara Orwig

  “Will!”

  Moaning, Will struggled to rise. Caleb jumped off his horse, snatching Will up over his shoulder, flinging him across his horse as he mounted to ride behind their lines and leave Will in safety.

  Again he was in a charge that was repulsed, watching Gibson charge again and again and lose more men. Feeling a growing dismay at the carnage, Caleb fought doggedly, his enthusiasm turning to a stomach-wrenching sickness. No one expected Yankees to dig in and fight like this—as if their homes and families were at stake. Manassas had been a rout. This was a slaughter, and the killing and loss of good men shocked and sickened him. As the sun shifted across the sky, his despair over the slaughter changed to anger at the uselessness of the attacks.

  In late afternoon Caleb spotted the rumpled uniform, dark hair, and craggy profile of General Bragg. To hell with insubordination, he told himself. Good men were dropping all around him. Trying to curb the anger he felt, he rode to the general.

  “Sir, ’tis support we need to attack,” Caleb said, lapsing into a thick Irish brogue. “There have been a dozen bloody charges; we’re losing hundreds of men.”

  “General Ruggles is getting his cannon in line.” Bragg’s voice was impassive, the words clipped. “Hold your men until I give the order.”

  “Thank God. Yes, sir.” Relief made him weak. Caleb saluted and rode down the line. Beyond him near a creek, a doctor was tending the wounded, both Union and Confederate. Will was stretched on the ground, a man tying a bandage around his leg.

  Caleb spotted the first cannon and then others as General Ruggles massed a line facing the road. Wheels creaking, cannon were rolled into place. “… twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five,” he counted aloud, amazed by the massive artillery being lined up.

  It was the most cannon Caleb had seen in a battle, the line stretching out of sight over a rise. Feeling relief tempered by a grim knowledge of how much death the cannon would bring, he turned to find what was left of his men. Then the roar of cannon and screaming canister shut out all other sounds, hurling two rounds a minute into the Federal line.

  Captain Dickinson rode up. “I’m to commence attacking again. We’ll take that damned hornet’s nest,” he called as he passed Caleb.

  Caleb moved to the front while his remaining men lined up to charge. He gazed across the ground at the woods. He might not survive the next clash. Why had he ever thought war an adventure? Taking a deep breath he flicked the reins.

  “Charge!” Caleb galloped forward, and in minutes he was across the fence. A shot hit Caleb in the shoulder. He pitched off his horse, striking a tree and falling to the ground. When he regained his feet, pain shot up his arm. Caleb reached for his rifle and gasped. He couldn’t straighten out his arm. White flags appeared while Yankees threw up their hands and dropped their weapons. As Caleb’s head swam, he collapsed.

  He stirred and looked up at green leaves. Cannon and shot were in the distance; moans were loud and close beside him. Rows of wounded men surrounded him on the ground. He sat up, pain making him dizzy. His arm throbbed and ached; wounds in his shoulder and thigh burned unmercifully.

  “Cal—”

  Will was stretched on the ground with two men between them. Before he could answer Will, a scream from a soldier sent a chill down Caleb’s spine. Feeling his stomach twist, he turned to see a doctor working on the wounded man. Beneath interlocking branches of oaks, a surgical table had been set up with planks across two tables.

  “Caleb.” Will’s voice was feeble.

  Caleb struggled to get to Will. Every movement sent pain shooting through his arm and leg. A bloody bandage swathed Will’s leg.

  “He’ll take off my leg,” Will said. “Get me out of here, Caleb, and back to my family in Memphis. I know Doctor Perkins there. Please, get me home.”

  Caleb looked at the doctor bending over the man on the makeshift table. He felt gorge rise and fought it down. “Can you travel as far as Memphis?”

  “Can you get us horses?”

  “I’ll try.”

  It took half an hour before Caleb found a horse. Pain from his arm was consuming him like flames, but he didn’t want to lose his arm and he didn’t want Will to lose his leg. He knelt beside Will.

  “I’ve hurt my arm. I’ll help you up, but I can’t carry you.”

  “Let’s go,” Will whispered.

  As they struggled, Caleb gasped with pain. Will’s face turned ashen as they hobbled away from the wounded. When they were out of sight of the men, Caleb leaned Will against a tree.

  “Hang on. I’ll bring the horse. I could only get one.”

  When he returned, Will was slumped unconscious on the ground. At twenty-three, Will was two years older than Caleb, but he looked like a boy now. His cheeks were flushed, his sandy hair full of grass and leaves.

  “Will!” Caleb shook him until Will’s lashes fluttered and raised. “You have to climb on the horse. I can’t move my arm.” Together, the two mounted and Caleb rode behind, turning the horse east along Lick Creek as he heard the first rumble of thunder.

  “We’re almost to the Tennessee River,” Will mumbled. “Drop south, Caleb, we’ll head west. We’ll go through La Grange and Germantown.”

  “We have to go through our men and theirs,” Caleb said, feeling doubts assail him. Both men were on the verge of losing consciousness, yet they could lose limbs if they didn’t get to Memphis.

  What had happened to the woman soldier? Caleb wondered. Had she survived the carnage?

  In minutes Caleb turned east to avoid Confederates. Will slumped against him, his weight sagging. Thunder rumbled, and in the growing darkness Caleb strained to see. Alongside a creek he topped a small rise and finally headed west to follow a path through the trees.

  Hours later he was drifting in and out of awareness. Pain consumed him. Cold driving rain poured over them; Will felt as if he were burning with fever and every time he stirred, he wanted water. They had to find some kind of shelter. Another hour passed before a silvery flash of lightning illuminated a weathered barn. Caleb tugged the reins and headed for the dark interior.

  As he dismounted, Will slid from the saddle. When Caleb tried to catch him, they both toppled down and pain made Caleb’s head spin.

  “Dammit!” He moved out from under the dead weight of Will and rolled him over. It was awkward and tedious to spread a blanket and get Will bedded down. Caleb could use only one arm. He sank down exhausted, enveloped in pain, hungry, leaning back against a stall. Closing his eyes, he wished he could lose consciousness briefly as a respite from hurting.

  Caleb heard a whicker, then horses moving about in the barn. Close by, straw rustled, and a soft hiss of breath was barely audible.

  Caleb felt a tingle across the back of his neck. His hand slid to the butt of his Colt to ease it from his gun belt. He and Will weren’t the only people in the barn.

  Chapter 2

  Straining to hear, Caleb listened. He was fully alert now, sensing danger.

  Straw rustled. Someone was in the empty, hay-strewn stall behind him. As quietly as possible, Caleb shifted and stood up, biting back a gasp from pain in his leg.

  Caleb’s eyes adjusted to the darkness until a flash of lightning brought the brilliance of noonday, and then he was blind again for seconds afterward.

  Keeping his eyes closed to avoid momentary blindness during the next lightning flash, he waited with his finger on the trigger. After the flash, he slipped into the stall and pressed against the wall, counting on lightning blinding the other man.

  He saw the muzzle of the rifle first, and then golden hair that was a dull sheen in the darkness. The man faced the front of the stall, unaware that Caleb was almost beside him.

  Caleb stepped forward and thrust the muzzle of the Colt against the man’s temple. “Drop the gun,” he ordered.

  Lightning crackled, a snapping pop that sounded as if it hit the barn. Dazzling white light bathed them. Caleb looked at the female in a Yankee uniform; her eyes were enorm
ous and strands of yellow hair curled around her face.

  Startled blue eyes met his. He saw the flare of rage and recognition before the barn plunged into darkness.

  “Drop the damn rifle!” he snapped, prodding her.

  With a thud it hit the hay-strewn dirt floor. “I thought all our men were gentlemen, but I was wrong,” said a voice that had a soft drawl, the “our” coming out in two syllables.

  “Our men?” he repeated, lowering his pistol and scooping up her rifle. “Get your hands on top of your head.”

  “You were a beast on the battlefield!” she flung at him.

  “You’ve a Southern accent, yet you wear a Yankee uniform and you came out of the Yankee line, so you must be a Union soldier.”

  His eyes adjusted, and he saw her chin tilt up in a haughty air. “I’m not a soldier. This uniform enables me to be with the men. You startled me today. I wouldn’t have shot you.”

  She was Southern—no mistaking the accent. But if she wasn’t a soldier, what the hell was she? He clamped his jaw shut and stared at her. There was only one other reason for a woman to want to follow an army of men. The chit was a camp follower, plying her trade during the long days when the Union army had camped by the Tennessee River. Lightning flashed, and his gaze raked over her.

  “You said, ‘our men,’ yet you’re in a Federal uniform.”

  “All my loyalty is with the South, sir!”

  Her Confederate loyalties weren’t as hopeful to him as her profession. She should be willing to do most anything for a dollar. Was she a Bluecoat or a camp follower? He felt dizzy and hot as fire and had to make a decision. Her accent was Southern and she was miles from the battlefield now, on the road to Memphis. He didn’t have a choice; he had to trust her. He and Will needed help desperately. He prayed she was a camp follower and loyal to the South.

  “I can make it worth your while to get me and my friend to Memphis. I’ll pay you fifty dollars in gold,” he said.

  “You’re both Confederates?”

  “Yes, we are,” he said. “My friend is hurt badly.”

  “Why Memphis?” she asked.

  “He’s from there,” he said, growing weaker and more impatient.

  “Who is he?”

  “What does that matter?” Caleb snapped, feeling his knees shake. “Will you or won’t you?”

  “What choice do I have?”

  “You have a hell of a choice, because I’m going to pass out any minute now,” he said, hearing his words slur, feeling the earth shift beneath his feet. “Fifty in gold. I’m Major Caleb O’Brien and I have an older brother, Rafferty O’Brien, in New Orleans,” he added. Why didn’t she answer him? What was she debating? Had he guessed wrong and she was really a Federal? Or did she want more money?

  “I’ll take you without pay, because of your Memphis friend. I’m from Memphis, too.” She drew herself up. “Otherwise, sir, I wouldn’t take you to the devil.”

  His head spun and he needed to sit down. He had to trust her. Wondering if he was being a gullible fool, yet knowing he had little choice other than to kill her, Caleb lowered the pistol. “We have a deal. I’ll pay you fifty,” he said. Whatever she was, sooner or later she would want money. “Now I want the truth—are you a Bluecoat sympathizer? You were ready to shoot me.”

  “I told you, you startled me. I was trying to get away from the battle and behind Confederate lines when I encountered you.” Again he watched her draw herself up. “I’m as loyal to the Confederacy as General Robert E. Lee or President Jeff—”

  “Spare me the speech. We’re on the same side.”

  “Sir, you and I will never be on the same side. I was on the battlefield because I was spying.”

  “You’re a spy!” Spy, soldier, frustrated spinster, whatever she was, she was too touchy to be a camp follower. The loose women he had known were always ready for a good time. Particularly when money was involved.

  “You’ll get us to Memphis. Both of us?” he asked, emphasizing both. He didn’t believe she was a spy. From what he had seen of Southern families, women were sheltered and protected and they didn’t traipse around on battlefields in enemy uniforms.

  “I’ll consider it my patriotic duty since you’re dressed in gray.”

  His head spun and spots danced before his eyes. He moved away from her. “I’ll help you with Will, but we have to wait until the rain lets up or he’ll get pneumonia.”

  “Will? What’s his name?”

  “He’s Captain Will Stanton.”

  “Oh, my heaven!” she gasped and moved forward. “Where is he?”

  “You know Will?” he asked, feeling another jolt of surprise. Who was she? How did she know Will? Caleb didn’t hear her answer as he followed her out of the stall and sank down. Dizziness came as he watched her kneel beside Will’s still form. “We may both be unconscious by morning. Remember, fifty in gold.” Caleb leaned back, yielding to blackness that swept over him.

  Sophia Merrick smoothed Will’s hair off his forehead and turned to look over her shoulder. Major Caleb O’Brien was the name the soldier had given. She crossed to him and eased him down. He was as unconscious as Will and she had to get them both to the hospital in Memphis. How could she move two unconscious men? she wondered.

  Major O’Brien from New Orleans. A man too bold and brash and cavalier. With a brother named Rafferty. Had the major told her about his brother because he didn’t expect to survive, and she should know whom to notify? Or had he told her, so she would summon his brother? She remembered his ordering her off the battlefield, shouting with rage at her. He was no gentleman like Will.

  She pushed the slouch hat off the major’s head, letting his tight brown curls brush her palm, and the contact was as jolting as everything else about him. He annoyed and frightened her, but because of his concern for Will, she could forgive him his surly manner. It was a relief to have his eyes closed and not have to deal with him.

  Hannah Lou was worried sick about Will. So were their parents. Mr. and Mrs. Stanton would be wild with relief. If Will lived that long. Sophia felt a pang. Could she take care of two severely wounded men?

  A cold gust of wind blew through the open barn door. She closed it and walked back carefully in the dark. Removing the blanket from her saddle, she spread it over Major O’Brien. He had placed his own blanket over Will. She stretched out on hay and in minutes was shivering from the cold.

  Will lay alongside the wall. She raised his blanket to lie down beside him and saw she would be against his injured leg and she might hurt him if she bumped him.

  Feeling reluctant she stared at Major O’Brien. She needed a blanket. Would he waken? She didn’t want him to find her pressed beside him. She slid beneath the blanket, leaving a space between them, but in minutes she was still shivering. With his fever, he would never know. She moved against him and felt the heat from his body warm her. Placing her hand on his forehead, he felt as hot as Will. Both of them were unconscious and feverish. Dear God, help me get them home, she prayed.

  She had never been physically close to a man like this. He was warm, comforting. If he awakened and discovered her with him—he must not. She blushed thinking of the conclusions he would draw. Acutely aware of his every breath or slightest movement, she finally warmed and relaxed.

  Groans came and she stirred, moving against a solid warmth. Drowsy, between sleeping and waking, she rubbed her cheek and pressed against his chest. She slid her arm across him as awareness overpowered sleep. Her arm circled a slender waist, a flat belly, taut with hard muscle. Her eyes fluttered open. Startled, she sat up, shocked at herself, burning with embarrassment that she had hugged him.

  Major Caleb O’Brien lay with his arm outflung, his chest rising and falling with his shallow, fast breathing. Brown stubble showed on his jaw. In sleep he still exuded an aura of danger, as if his eyes would open and his hand would reach out to hold her. Yet in sleep he looked younger; his mouth was well shaped, his lower lip full; she felt a peculiar warmth as s
he studied him. His lashes were thicker and curlier than a woman’s. His face reminded her of a painting her father had of a mariner in a storm at sea, face lifted in a defiant stare. Even in sleep, Major O’Brien had a look of determination in his square jaw. It would be a relief to turn him over to the hospital in Memphis not only for his welfare, but so she wouldn’t have to deal with him.

  She moved to Will who felt hotter to touch than he had hours ago. His skin was ashen and she felt afraid. She had to get them both to Memphis as soon as possible. Please, Will, hang on. I’ll do what I can, she vowed silently.

  She stood up, cold and hungry. There was the Crawford store at Walker Station on the way to Memphis where she could get some food, but first she had to find transportation. She pushed open the barn door.

  Thirty minutes later as the first rays of dawn hid morning stars, she knelt beside Will and stared at him, feeling his forehead, then moving to do the same to Major O’Brien. Will felt the hottest. She shook the major with both hands.

  “Major O’Brien! Major O’Brien, wake up!”

  Even in the dusky light of the barn, she was startled by the green of his eyes. He stared at her and he moved, then gasped and grimaced.

  “I need your help if I’m going to get you and Will to Memphis.”

  He moaned and closed his eyes and she shook him. Feeling more frightened, she debated leaving them and riding for Memphis to get help, but both men might not survive the wait until she could return. “Major O’Brien!” His lashes fluttered, and he stared at her.

  “You have to help me,” she urged. “I’ve found a wagon and hitched our horses to it. Help me get Captain Stanton up. I can’t lift either of you into the wagon.” All the time she talked, she tugged on the major to help him sit up. Finally she slid her arm beneath him, pressing against him. His good arm went around her, and she pulled him to a sitting position.

  “Now get on your feet.” When she tried to stand and help him up, she thought he would pull her down, but he slid his arm around her waist and braced himself against the wall as he gained his feet.