The sniper felt his numb feet hit the dirt, and he had a moment of panic that his legs wouldn’t work at all. He looked around and could see that others were having the same problem as men started to disperse in all directions but the one they had been heading. The sniper had one thing to do before he’d join them. He made his way through the confusion of soldiers—blue uniforms, gray uniforms, men who wept and men who cheered.
The horse danced in place at his master’s appearance. The sniper ran his hand down the length of the bay’s nose.
“Time to go home, boy,” he whispered.
“Leave the horse.”
The sniper turned to the guard behind him—the same pistol-brandishing guard who seemed to hate rebs more than all the other guards combined.
“He’s mine.” The sniper’s voice was low. He had to work to keep it steady. “I’m taking him.”
The guard cocked his revolver. “I don’t think so, Secesh.”
Before the sniper had time to react, his wagonmate came from nowhere and bowled over his Union rival. The men scrabbled on the ground, fists finding purchase, hate finding relief. All around him, similar skirmishes were breaking out.
A gunshot split the air. Then another. Men started yelling. Some of the former prisoners hadn’t turned to leave at all—some would rather die here than go home defeated. The short-lived calm of surrender had become thick with the tension of war once again. In the sniper’s line of sight, he watched two boys in gray fall and a blue coat stagger back from an attacking rebel. The sniper wished for a gun but wouldn’t take the time to try to find one. Instead, he worked frantically to free his horse from the tethered line. But he didn’t have time before an onslaught of Union men rushed toward him.
The sniper was left with no choice. Willing his half-starved, wounded body into action, he turned to run away from the chaos and smoking guns. He felt a sharp sting in the back of his calf and nearly fell face-first, but somehow recovered his balance. Somewhere in his brain he registered the warm blood gushing down his leg, but in mere seconds he had a new worry: a rumbling tremble underground seemed to be nipping at his heels. He glanced back to see two horses still tethered to a wagon careening straight for him. He kept running with the hot breath of the horses on his neck, then felt the power of the animals as they charged past, tangling him in the harness rigging. In moments, he was ripped from the ground as the horses became airborne. He heard wood splintering, the terrified noises of the horses as they fell; the world tumbled past in bits and pieces of grass, rock, and dirt. The face of the Union captain who’d given him the chain around his neck flashed before him just before his head slammed into a boulder. I think he knew this thing would kill me!
It was well past midnight when Dr. Abe Johnson yanked open his clinic door and scowled at the two middle-aged men standing outside. In the dark it was hard to make out anything about them, other than the fact that one of them had a slight man wearing a brown shirt and green pants thrown over his shoulder.
“We found this fella ’bout five miles outside a’ town.”
“Bring him in.” The doctor stepped back from the door, and the two men entered the clinic. Doc pointed at a table. “Put him right down there.”
They did as the doctor asked and stepped back a couple of feet. Dr. Johnson lit a lamp and moved it closer to the table to peer down at the man.
“Tell me what happened,” Doc said. He lifted each of the man’s eyelids and then turned his face from side to side to examine it.
“It’s a miracle we saw him at all,” one of the men said. “We pulled our wagon over because Tom there had to relieve himself.”
The man called Tom picked up the story. “I got myself off the road a ways and remember thinking I needed to be quick about it, on account of Dan gets testy when we stop.”
“Seems like we gotta stop every hour fer that peanut of a bladder you got.”
“Anyways, I was just finishing my, uh, business, when I heard something in the dark. Something below me. Turns out I was standing on the edge of a ridge.”
“Dang lucky you didn’t step off into nothing and kill yourself, Tom.”
“I called over to Dan so we could both listen, and that’s when we figured out we was hearing horses that had somehow wound up at the bottom of the hill,” Tom said. “We could tell they was hurting pretty bad.”
“We made it down to them in pretty good time and saw right away that there was no saving ’em. Never seen animals beg to be shot before—but those two surely were.” Dan shook his head. “I sure hate to hear an animal suffer.”
“We was just about to start climbing back up when we saw … him,” Tom said, directing his gaze at the injured man. “He was stuck under the rigging—must have gotten tangled up in the wagon as it went over.”
“He wasn’t moving, but he was breathing,” Dan said. “We hauled him back up the hill.”
“He been awake at all since you found him?” Doc asked.
Both men shook their heads.
“No,” Tom said.
The doctor continued to run his hands along the man’s arms, then his shoulders.
“You think he’ll live?” Tom asked.
Dr. Johnson began unbuttoning the man’s shirt. “I don’t know how badly he’s hurt yet. There could be internal bleeding, broken ribs.”
“I think he’s about starved to death too. He’s light as a feather,” Dan offered.
The doctor peeled back the material, and the three stared at a thick binding wrapped around the man’s chest.
“Let’s get him up so I can undo the binding,” Doc said.
They pulled the man into a sitting position. The doctor slowly began to unwind the binding. As the last of the cloth came off, Dr. Johnson cleared his throat. “Well, that explains the ‘light as a feather,’” he said. The three men stared in stunned silence.
“Gentlemen,” Dr. Johnson said quietly, “it seems we have been mistaken about the gender of the patient.”
“Mistaken about the sex, too,” Tom said. “That there is a full-fledged woman.”
Chapter Two
She opened her eyes and found herself in an unfamiliar room, looking at the back of an unfamiliar man, who was whistling. She must have shifted, moved, made some kind of noise herself, because he turned and looked at her, his lips still pursed in midwhistle. The sound died on his lips as he started across the small room toward her. He was older, with an average height and build. His shirt and trousers looked rumpled—as if he’d been sleeping in his clothes.
“Good. You’re finally awake,” he said.
She realized she was reclining on a cot, and when she tried to lift herself on her elbows, a heavy, throbbing pain in her head made her moan and sink back into a pillow.
“Where?” she managed to croak out of her parched throat.
“At my clinic in St. Louis,” he answered. He pulled a chair next to the cot and sat down. He reached for her wrist, but his touch made her jerk away. Her instinctual reaction caused her to grimace in pain. “Who?”
“You’re asking the right questions. That’s good,” he said. “I’m Doctor Abe Johnson. I’ve been taking care of you for the past three days.”
Three days?
She was confused. “Why?”
He frowned and studied her. “There was an accident. Don’t you remember?”
She stared at him without answering.
“I’m going to check your pulse now,” he said.
She felt him lift her arm with a confident touch.
“Excellent,” the doctor said with satisfaction. “Steady and strong.” He lowered her arm to the cot. “How is your pain?”
It was as if the question jarred her further into reality, and she quickly became aware of a myriad of things that didn’t feel right. Her head throbbed, her ribs ached, and when she stretched out her leg, she felt something akin to a
lick of fire run up her calf. She felt bruised and battered and tender.
“Pain … everywhere.” She lifted a hand to her head and gingerly ran her fingers over the thick wrap that ran across her forehead and, as far as she could tell, all the way around. She swallowed. All she could think of was water. “I’m … thirsty.”
“Of course you are.”
He pushed to his feet and went to a pitcher on a table across the room. He poured her a cup of water, but he handed it to her with an admonishment. “You’re going to be tempted to gulp this down, but I’ll advise against that unless you don’t mind vomiting.”
She nodded her understanding, and he helped her sit up. She tipped the cup to her lips. The water felt like liquid heaven running down her throat.
“Easy does it,” he said. She forced herself to stop drinking and gave him back the cup.
“How did I get here?” she asked.
“Two men brought you in.”
“Where are they?”
“Long gone. They were just passing through this area when they found you tangled up in some wagon rigging at the bottom of a pretty steep hill about five miles outside of town.”
“I was alone?” she asked after a moment.
“Yes, as far as I know,” he said. “Had you been traveling with someone else?”
She searched her memory for the answer. “I don’t remember.”
“Where were you going?”
“I … can’t say.” She looked past him, her big brown eyes filled with worry as her mind raced.
Intrigued, Dr. Johnson leaned forward in the chair and rested his forearms on his knees. “Your secret is safe with me.”
Her eyes flew back to his. “Secret?”
“I am obligated as your doctor to hold anything you say to me in confidence,” he said. “So whatever you were doing—whoever you might have been running from—you can tell me. Maybe I can help you.”
She felt as if she’d come into the room in the middle of a conversation. Your secret is safe with me.
“How long did you say I’ve been here?” she asked.
“Three days. But I have no way of knowing how long you were lying there unconscious before those men found you.”
Lying there unconscious. Your secret is safe with me.
She shifted again on the cot and sucked in a sharp breath when a ripple of pain shot through her body.
“You have several contusions on your skull,” he said. “The most significant is just above your left temple. I also found one located near the crown of your head—but I’d say that injury is older than the others. You have some bruising consistent with a bad fall, but as far as I can tell, nothing is broken.” He hesitated for a moment, as if carefully giving weight to his next few words. “It very well may be that the binding you had around your chest kept your ribs from breaking.”
Why is he talking in riddles?
“Binding?”
He raised his brows. “Yes. As I said, your secret is safe with me.”
Frowning, she shook her head, then immediately regretted the action. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t understand.”
He studied her for a moment, then said, “You have another significant injury that we haven’t discussed. A gunshot wound to the back of your calf. How did that happen?”
“I don’t know,” she said, more to herself than to him. “I don’t remember.”
“All right. I understand. I’m a stranger and we just met and, understandably, you don’t know if you can trust me or not.”
“No. You don’t understand. I don’t remember anything that you’re talking about. I don’t remember an accident, or falling, or being shot!”
He tented his hands together, tapping his fingertips while he studied her. “Your mind is most likely protecting you from what was certainly a traumatic experience.”
When she didn’t respond, he pressed on. “Let’s start with simpler things, shall we?”
She licked her dry lips and dipped her chin in agreement.
“I can hear a trace of the South in your speech,” he said. “Where are you from?”
She searched her mind, but it was filled with dark corners that seemed to be hiding the answers. I don’t know. I don’t know … how can I not know?
She uttered the words aloud. “I don’t know.”
He stroked his chin thoughtfully but sounded skeptical when he asked, “No recollection of that either?”
She tried again and reached inside herself for the information, but it wasn’t there. The moment stretched, and silence boomed in the small room. Panic started to swell in her throat.
“We’ll leave the geography questions for later, shall we?”
She swallowed and nodded.
Dr. Johnson offered a confident smile. “Let’s start with the very basics. What’s your name?”
She automatically opened her mouth to reply with the answer. Surely she knew her own name. But trying to retrieve the memory in the deep black chasm of her mind was like trying to catch the wind. There was nothing. Not a shred of anything to grasp and unfurl like a sheet where all the minutes, hours, days, and years leading up to this moment might be hiding. With frightened, heart-pumping adrenaline, she whispered her answer.
“I don’t remember.”
The admission hung in the air between them. Her large, frightened eyes studied the man sitting by her side as he studied her. It dawned on her that he was the only person she ever remembered having a conversation with. The thought stabbed through her, and she fought the urge to scream. Despite the splitting pain in her head, she swung her legs over the side of the cot and pushed herself to stand on her injured leg.
“Be careful now,” he said, slipping a steadying hand under her elbow. Even with the terror rising up inside her, she was cognizant enough to hear the intrigue in his voice.
“What’s happening to me?”
“As I said earlier, your mind might be trying to protect you from something you don’t want to remember.”
She turned to face him. “But my own name?”
He didn’t answer—just kept looking at her in a way that was becoming increasingly irritating.
“Let me reiterate—you can trust me,” he said. “I know we just met and you are likely skeptical about confiding in a complete stranger …”
Her voice was shaky when she replied. “You’re not hearing me. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know where I was headed, why I was traveling—where I’m from or even my own name!”
She looked down at the white gown she was wearing. Down at her bare feet on the floor. She wiggled her toes and shook her head at the same time.
“Those might as well be a stranger’s feet because I don’t recognize them!” She raised a shaking hand to examine it. “This could be a stranger’s hand.” A new thought took shape, and the tears she had held at bay spilled down her cheek. “I don’t even know what I look like.”
“What is the last thing you remember?” he asked, clearly more intrigued by the second.
She took a deep, steadying breath and looked up at him. “I heard whistling, opened my eyes, and saw you.”
He went to a small closet in the corner of the room and pulled some clothing from a shelf. Carrying the clothes back to her, he put them in her hands.
“You were wearing these when the men brought you in,” he said. “They are clothes that would be worn by a man, not a young woman.”
She inspected the wool shirt and pants. “If that’s true, then why would I have been wearing them?”
“Your chest was bound, and your hair is cut in a masculine style. My hypothesis is you did all of it on purpose in order to be perceived as a man.”
Tears slipped down her cheeks as she ran her hands over the rough wool of the brown shirt. “But why?”
“Cases like what?” she asked. A feeling of deep foreboding settled over her like a drape.
“Amnesia,” he said. “It’s the loss of one’s memory—usually due to a brain injury or sometimes even a terrible shock.”
She frowned. “That sounds—very bad.”
He pressed his lips together, and she saw pity in his expression. She dug the heels of her hands into her eyes as if she could press her memories back inside her head. Try harder! Remember something. Remember!
Moments later, she felt him gently pull her hands away from her face. He leaned closer to her as if the very action would help convey the sincerity of what he was going to say.
“It might very well be temporary.”
A ray of hope leapt up inside her. “Temporary?”
“Yes. I’ll need to do more research, of course, but I know the condition can last anywhere from minutes to hours to …”
“To what? Days? Weeks?”
“I don’t see the point in speculating about that right now,” he said. “Let’s just concentrate on the present.” He pulled something from his pocket and held up a silver medallion dangling from a silver chain. “You were also wearing this.”
She reached for it. Feeling his scrutiny, she fingered the medal and willed something to come back to her. The black drape across her mind remained firmly intact.
“It’s beautiful … but I don’t remember it.”
He reached out for it, but she tightened her fingers around it. “You said it’s mine.”
He withdrew his hand. “Yes.”
Traces of Mercy Page 2