Finally, the Rebels stopped flowing out of the cornfield and down the road. Bright red blood splashed all across the trampled cornstalks before them, standing out in stark contrast against the pale yellow. In that moment Sean decided he never wanted to eat corn again. Once his ears stopped ringing he realized the rifle fire he could still hear was far off and getting less and less by the moment. From looking around him, he had to guess that was because the majority of soldiers were dead—on both sides of the battle. Just as many blue coats dotted the road and field as gray.
Movement among the bodies down the sunken road drew his eye. At first, it looked like a man bent over. He almost dismissed it as medical staff seeing to the dying and dead, until he realized the figure moved on all fours. The huge thing trotted out of the settling smoke straight toward him, carefully hopping over and skirting around bodies. Its varying hues of gray made it appear as though it were a thing born of the smoke. Relief and concern warred within Sean as he realized the huge beast was Cliste.
The soldiers left alive between him and the hound reached out to pet her as she trotted by. She licked hands, faces, and arms, but didn’t slow her progress. Despite how they had first met, seeing her amidst all this death didn’t seem real. He hoped to Heaven it didn’t mean Ashlinn was out here. Upon reaching him, the hound licked the tip of his nose and sat at his feet. Ears drooping, she pushed her huge head into his hand that didn’t clutch his rifle.
“Ah, Cliste. What are you doin’ here, girl?” he asked softly.
Instead of wag her tail as he had half-expected, she whined so quietly he almost didn’t hear her.
“Is Ashlinn all right?” he asked.
He felt a bit ridiculous for doing so, but those of his men left standing all focused on loading their weapons or catching their breath, not on what he was doing. Though she looked up at him with profoundly sad eyes, Cliste thumped her tail once. He decided to take that as a yes, because to do otherwise would mean losing his mind. Setting his rifle to the side, he scratched both sides of her neck.
“Good girl,” he murmured.
Again, her tail thumped once. As he scratched her, he felt something upon her collar. The little cylinder attached to it. He had forgotten about it. Inspiration sent a thrill through him. If Ashlinn truly was all right, wherever she was, she knew about the amount of dead coming in and was likely out of her mind with worry over him. Perhaps he could put her concerns to rest a bit. Digging around in his coat, he found the pocket that held his sheet music and pencil. On one side of the paper, a partially written song was scrawled across the page, but the other was blank. He instantly set to writing her a letter.
Once finished, he rolled the letter into a small scroll, released the mechanism on the tiny cylinder on Cliste’s collar, and hid the letter within. Ensuring the box had latched tight, he patted Cliste on the head.
“You get that back to Ashlinn for me now, you hear?” he whispered.
Cliste perked up but didn’t move.
“I’ll be along soon enough. Go on now, go back to Ashlinn,” he commanded a bit louder.
Ears perking up, Cliste stood, turned, and took off like a shot up the hill behind him. Sean watched until the hound was out of sight before turning his attention back to the body-filled road he stood within. It was time to round up what remained of his company and get out of this hell.
Chapter 14
Hands bloody up to her elbows, Ashlinn stepped back and tried to wipe a strand of hair from her brow with her bicep. When that didn’t work, she cursed softly in Gaelic and turned for the washbasin. The sight of the pink water within the bowl made her cringe.
“Fresh water, please,” she called over her shoulder.
An ebony-skinned nurse hurried over with a new basin, thick gloves protecting her hands from the hot iron.
“Careful, Miss Ashlinn, still hot from de stove dat is,” the nurse said.
Despite the despair weighing her down, Ashlinn gave the dear woman a kind smile. “Thank you, Abigail.”
Not only was she a very capable nurse, unlike most, Abigail listened to her and seemed to agree with her ways regarding clean hands and instruments. The moment the toll of dead and injured had risen too high for the hospital to handle, Ashlinn had volunteered to work in another tent and had asked to take Abigail with her. Too busy hacking apart wounded men to argue, Doctor Taylor had no choice but to agree. For the past two days, she had been able to work in relative peace with no one questioning her practices. Relative in that her heart clenched at each new soldier they brought in until she saw his face and confirmed it wasn’t her brother or Sean.
At this point she knew it was silly to expect to see her brother, yet she couldn’t fight the desperate hope that he might still show up, wounded but alive. Silly, yes, but her little brother was fickle and lost his way often. The fact that neither of them had shown up dead was all that kept her going back in the hospital tent most days. She was angry at herself for allowing Sean to worm his way beneath her skin and expose her to more heartache. But she couldn’t dig him out from beneath it, no matter how many men she treated, bodies she carried out, or nightmares of her brothers’ deaths she had to endure.
Looking out across the dimly lit tent packed with cots so close one could scarcely walk between them, she began to question the wisdom of her request to work in a tent of her own. At first it had been only five wounded they had brought in. That five quickly became ten, then on the third day that ten became twenty-three. Thankfully—and sadly—no more had come.
Rather than wash her hands in the still steaming water, Ashlinn retrieved her surgical tools from the table beside her latest patient and dropped them in.
“Another for ya hands, ma’am?” Abigail asked.
Unable to voice anything that wouldn’t either be a cuss word or turn into a scream, Ashlinn nodded. Without a word, Abigail ducked out the back of the tent. A moment later, she returned with another pot, this one steaming less than the first. Raising a ladle from it, she gave Ashlinn a questioning look. Ashlinn held her hands out and nodded. The freed slave slowly dumped the ladle of hot water over her hands. It burned a bit but she ignored it and scrubbed away as much blood as she could. They repeated the process until her hands shone clean in the candlelight.
After a nod from her, Abigail took the remaining water and went to the cot of the soldier they had just finished sewing up. She hummed softly as she began to clean the blood from the unconscious man’s dark-skinned leg—a leg Ashlinn had managed to save by digging the bullet out. Over half the soldiers in the room were Negros. Doctor Taylor turned them away to treat the white soldiers first, something Ashlinn refused to do. It saddened her that the irony of allowing the very people you were fighting for to die was lost on him. But then, she supposed, people like Taylor weren’t fighting to end slavery; they were fighting to preserve the Union.
A noise at the tent’s back entrance drew her attention. Cliste pushed her nose through the closed tent flap and trotted inside, tail slowly wagging. The movement of her tail caused a spike of hope to plant within Ashlinn. The hound hadn’t showed even the slightest sign of happiness since the troops had marched off. Eyes glued to the tent flap, she waited and prayed for Sean to walk in. But he didn’t. She jumped a bit when Cliste pushed her head under her hand. On instinct, she began to scratch between her ears, but Cliste pushed past her hand until Ashlinn’s fingers rested on her collar.
“There you are. Done searching for Scáth, are you?” she whispered, partly because she was too exhausted to speak louder, partly because she knew the Gaelic name of her family’s second hound would be frowned upon by any English who overheard.
Out of habit, Ashlinn opened the cylinder and withdrew the paper from within. She nearly dropped it when she realized it wasn’t the note she had left in there, but a sheet of music instead. Not from her brother, for certain, but no less remarkable for that fact. Her fingers shook as she carefully unrolled the tiny scroll. On the other si
de of the song-in-progress was a note written in beautiful script.
My Dearest Ashlinn,
Bold and quite improper to call you mine, I know. But when facing death a man must have his dreams. I am alive and unharmed for the time. Far too many are not and I know the amount of those already returning to you no doubt has you fretting. The sun is near to setting and due to the cease in enemy engagement, I believe we may be returning to camp soon. I could not bear the thought of you searching the battlefield for me and putting yourself in danger. When Cliste showed up, I embraced the chance to send you this letter. I pray that she makes it back safely to you, for I hold both her and you close to my heart. When we return I shall find you tonight.
Yours Truly,
Sean MacBranain
The letter began to fall from her trembling fingers but Abigail’s dark hands were suddenly there, catching it before it could land on the muddy ground. With a tentative smile, she handed it back, holding onto it until Ashlinn was able to grasp it.
“A letter from ya sergeant, ma’am?”
Ashlinn nodded.
“He is a’right den?”
Clutching the letter carefully against her chest, she nodded again.
Hands rising up, Abigail’s eyes looked to the roof of the tent. “Praise de Lord!”
While she shared the woman’s joy, her heart was also heavy from the amount of dead and dying that had already returned. The amount of wounded in the hospital, as well as in this overflow tent, combined with the bodies stacking up like cordwood outside, made it clear over half the soldiers sent out today weren’t coming back. And when they did, they would be exhausted and dispirited.
Ashlinn folded the letter and tucked it into a pocket in her dress. After a quick scan of the room to ensure the wounded were resting as comfortably as they could, she started for the back door.
“Ya’ve de look of a woman on a mission, ma’am. Anythin’ I can do to help?” Abigail called after her.
Hand on the tent flap, she looked back. “Aye. Gather all the nurses you can, leave one you trust here to watch over the wounded, and bring the others to help.”
“What we goin’ to do, ma’am?”
“Set up the tents for the 69th. They will be in no shape to do so when they return and I will not have those men sleeping under the stars after what they have been through.”
Brilliant white teeth shown from within the gloom of the tent as the nurse grinned. “Yes, ma’am!” she said with so much enthusiasm it energized even Ashlinn’s tired soul.
Trusting the nurse to do as she asked, she removed her bloodied apron and marched off through the dreary encampment to the place she had seen the regiment drop their knapsacks. If she hadn’t taken careful note of the location upon their arrival, she never would have found it among the thousands of tents that spread across acre upon acre of land. The gently sloping fields of Bolivar Heights would have been lovely if not for that.
Dressed as she was in men’s clothing with her hair bound up and tucked beneath her cap, she felt secure enough that none of these strangers would recognize her for a woman. Most soldiers wouldn’t harass a nurse anyway, but she liked to take extra precautions whenever they joined a new group, especially one this large. Then, of course, there was the deterrent of Cliste trotting along her side like a small horse.
The moment she reached the pile of knapsacks she had seen the 69th drop, she began searching for Sean’s. It wasn’t until she heard the approaching footsteps of the other nurses that she finally found it. His violin was still safely within. Letting out a sigh of relief, she removed the tent from the top of the knapsack and began opening it, pausing when she didn’t see Abigail with the other three nurses.
“Where is Abigail?”
An older woman with her hair done up in a bun so tight it pulled at the corners of her eyes, straightened and let out a huff. “Said she would stay behind, see that things were done the way you liked them to be.”
Ashlinn smiled as she turned her attention back to the tent. “Good. Thank you all for coming; I know how busy things are back at the hospital.”
Another of the younger nurses picked up a second knapsack. “Yes, well, as you always say, we must tend to the living, too,” she said with false cheer.
The haunted look in the woman’s eyes told Ashlinn her cheer wasn’t faked because she didn’t agree with the words, but more because she was clinging to them like a life raft. With all the death they’d seen that day, she more than understood.
“How many do you think we should set up?” the third woman asked.
The answer stuck in Ashlinn’s throat. Clearing it, she was able to force one word out. “Half.”
Her estimation was based off the amount of dead she had seen return, along with the wounded that filled both the huge hospital tent and the secondary tent she had been working. While all weren’t from the 69th regiment, enough were that she had a staggering idea of how many they had lost.
The youngest of the nurses sniffled but none spoke as they set to the task of erecting the tents. Orange and red streaked across a horizon that began swallowing the sun by the time they finished setting up one hundred and fifty tents in perfect rows that mimicked those nearby. Knowing each soldier had his own blankets and such that he liked, they left the knapsacks in a pile near the beginning of the rows of tents. As much as Ashlinn wanted to make up their beds and put their things within the tents, she didn’t want them losing their precious belongings. Seeing as they had been sleeping on the battlefield for days, a dry tent alone would likely be enough to offer them relief.
Hands raw and sore from pounding in so many poles and tying off lines, she rubbed her fingers together as she turned back for the hospital tents. Something more than a lack of shared companionship held her back from following the other nurses right away. She called her thanks out to them and they responded kindly enough, but she couldn’t yet make herself move. Bending back down to the pile of knapsacks, she picked up Sean’s. His violin would be safer with her, and she knew he’d come find her and she could give it to him.
The sound of dozens of feet plodding rhythmically in a semblance of a march pulled at her. Though her mind told it was just another routine patrol around the edge of the camp, her heart insisted otherwise. Her eyes went to the distant horizon. Surrounded by the soft light of sunset, what remained of the 69th marched slow and steady into camp. The different companies began to break off at sound offs from their superiors, presumably heading toward their sections of camp. She counted scarcely more than a hundred: the size of a single company. Men shuffled past her as if she were invisible, some ducking into tents to collapse, others moving on to another section of camp. One came straight for her.
Though the light behind him only allowed her to see his silhouette, from his build and gait alone she knew it was Sean. The armor around her heart fell away piece by piece with each purposeful step he took toward her. Even splattered with mud and blood, hair sticking up in complete disarray, he looked amazing to her. His haunted copper eyes remained locked on her despite the flow of people that passed between them. The only thing that slowed him was Cliste trotting up to him to lick his hand. He scratched her head in a seemingly unconscious gesture and kept walking. Slinging his rifle back over his shoulder, he stopped before her, close enough that she had to crane her neck back to hold his gaze.
The pain of loss etched within the lines of his face brought moisture stinging to her eyes just as much as the sight of him alive did. With all the blood on him, she couldn’t tell if he was wounded, but he stood straight enough and had walked well enough that she didn’t think he was. She wanted to ask him, but she found she had no voice. If she opened her mouth, she feared a sob may come out, so she clamped it shut tight. Everyone else had either slipped into tents, or floated away like ghosts.
Slowly and with such gentleness that it made her ache, he took her face in his hands, bent down, and placed his lips upon hers. It didn’t matter
that blood and gunpowder covered his hands, or that he smelled of death. She wasn’t in much better shape herself. The kiss set her on fire in a way she had never realized something so chaste could do. He pulled back, his hands sliding down and around her back to clutch her tightly to him. Pressed so close, she couldn’t draw breath, but she didn’t care. So long as he was holding her, she didn’t need to breathe.
For the longest time they stood locked in an embrace, oblivious to the world around them that was swiftly falling into darkness. Wonderful though his embrace was, she couldn’t help but keep her eyes on the other soldiers, not out of fear of compromised propriety, but to search their faces for her brother. She was beyond grateful for the miracle of Sean’s safe return, but hoped one miracle might lead to a second. Ridiculous, she knew, considering how long Michael had been missing, but one she hoped for nonetheless. Soon she felt the rumble of Sean’s stomach and drew back.
“You must be starvin’. Come along, I will make you somethin’ warm to eat,” she said.
“So long as ’tisn’t corn,” he said. The same haunted quality she had seen in his eyes earlier darkened his words, warning her not to ask.
“No corn, I promise.”
She took his hand and began to lead him back to her tent. Keeping him at a distance wasn’t an option right now. Maybe it never had been. The man needed her help as much as any physically wounded soldier, and she would not deny it for her own sake. He was a friend—a very dear friend—who needed her. Tail unusually still and head low, Cliste trotted ahead of them.
Sean resisted, eyes scanning the mound of knapsacks. “I have to get me…”
She handed his knapsack to him. The barest hint of a smile touched his lips like a mirage as he accepted it.
Honor Before Heart Page 12