Both men nodded, and started off toward the line of ambulance wagons waiting in the near distance.
“Wait,” Rogan said, noting that Bridger had passed out again. This was both a relief and a concern—less chance his friend would say something that would give him away.
But he’d lost a lot of blood, and there was no telling how badly he was injured.
Alderman and Pickering were at a standstill, waiting for further orders.
“Take him back to camp,” Rogan went on. “That is, if it’s still there.”
Both men studied him closely, but neither spoke.
Rogan thrust out a sigh. “I’ll ride there first, and make sure. Then I’ll bring back one of the supply wagons.”
Alderman remained silent.
“This man a friend of yours, Captain McBride?” Pickering asked.
Sprawled on the litter, one arm dangling, Bridger moaned.
“Yes,” Rogan replied, having neither the energy nor the words to elaborate.
“There’s a buckboard you can use,” Alderman said. “We’ve been using it to haul medicine and bandages and the like from the main supply tent. We can take him there.”
Pickering nodded, in apparent agreement. His expression was grim and his eyes were watchful, but if he had any suspicions, he kept them to himself.
“Good,” Rogan responded. “Lead the way.” After a few moments of hesitation, during which he decided that offering the horse to one of these good men while he helped carry the stretcher would meet with instant refusal, he mounted Little Willie.
The act of swinging himself up into the saddle made the ground tilt sideways, but he managed to keep his seat.
Ten minutes later, they found the buckboard hitched to a pair of army mules and partially hidden by a stand of oaks and maples. Bridger made a gasping sound when they placed him in the wagon bed, between crates of ether and morphine, but he didn’t open his eyes.
Without being told, Alderman and Pickering unloaded the crates and stacked them on the ground; Rogan knew they’d retrieve them later.
He tied Little Willie to the buckboard and stripped off the heavy tack, tossing it in beside Bridger, while the other two men stood, awaiting further instructions.
With a sigh, Rogan dragged himself into the box, took up the reins, and asked, “Any further news from the front?”
Alderman smiled. “Yes, sir. General Lee’s been routed, good and proper. Whole Rebel army will be headed South, moving as fast as they can. This little scrap is over.”
Rogan released the brake lever with his left foot, glad he didn’t have to use his wounded leg. The shrapnel stung him all over, like a swarm of wasps. “Do what you can here, gather the other men, and meet me at the widow Hammond’s farm,” he said, too weary to comment on the assumed victory; it was too soon to declare a winner, although the brass was always ready to raise the flag of triumph.
Lee was a wily fox, quick on his feet, and his retreats, rare as they were, tended to be strategic ones.
If General Meade ordered the army to give chase—immediately—they could strike a decisive blow while the Confederate forces were weakened, and the war might finally be over for good.
Unfortunately, Union generals, at least in his experience, seemed to prefer long and ponderous deliberation over swift action. McClellan and Joe Hooker had led them to miss a number of opportunities to corner Lee, and Rogan had no reason to think Meade would be different.
Pickering and Alderman both saluted again, then hurried back to their task.
And Rogan set out into the dark but hardly silent night, his best friend lying insensible in the back of the buckboard, his weary, faithful horse plodding along behind.
He could still hear the cries of the wounded and the shouts of the men helping them into the ambulance wagons. Where they might survive. Or not.
13
Hammond Farm
July 4, 1863
Caroline
They came in the small hours of the morning, before the cows were milked or the chickens fed, before Caroline had roused herself from her bed, following yet another restless night.
Enoch called quietly from the base of the stairs. “Missus? You better come on down here, right away.”
There was no urgency in his tone, and Caroline wouldn’t have heard him at all if she hadn’t been awake, staring up at the ceiling, watching shadows dissolve slowly into light. She scrambled out of bed, careful not to disturb Rachel, who slept on, curled into a tiny ball, like a baby bird yet to hatch from its shell.
Caroline pulled on a wrapper and stepped into the hall. “What is it, Enoch?” she asked, as softly as she could. She’d heard hoofbeats, the rattle of wagon wheels and even footfalls on the hard-packed road throughout the night, holding her breath at intervals, afraid the farm would be overrun by fragments of a fleeing army.
When none had paused, she’d managed to doze for a few minutes, only to start awake when she heard mules braying, or men shouting, or any of the hundred other sounds of a large company passing by.
Now, a steady rain drummed on the roof and beaded on the windows. It was a blessing, she thought, always mindful of the crops; perhaps the downpour would offer a respite from the accursed heat, settle the dust and disperse the lingering smoke.
And cleanse the innocent earth of the blood shed over three days of furious battle.
“Take a look out front, Missus,” Enoch replied.
Caroline hurried across the bedroom, clutching her wrapper closed but leaving the ties to dangle at her sides, forgotten. Below, in the dooryard, she could barely make out the shape of a single wagon, drawn by a team of two mules. The driver, somehow familiar but hard to identify in the predawn dimness and the rain, secured the brake lever and looked straight up at her window, just as if he’d known she was there.
Captain Rogan McBride.
She whirled from the window, shedding her nightgown and donning fresh underthings and yesterday’s calico dress as quickly and quietly as she could. Sliding her feet into house slippers, since her shoes would take too long to fasten properly, she rushed downstairs.
Enoch waited there, silent, respectful and clearly worried.
“It’s Captain McBride,” Caroline said, strangely anxious. “He’s come back for the supply wagons.” With that, she started for the door.
Enoch immediately stopped her, taking hold of her elbow and letting go the next moment. “Best you let me speak to him first, Missus Caroline,” he said.
Caroline shook her head, puzzled and a little impatient. “If that’s Captain McBride out there, I don’t imagine we have cause to fear him.”
Enoch nodded, although he still looked unconvinced. “Most likely, we don’t,” he agreed soberly. “Just the same, it wouldn’t do for you to go rushing out there, especially in this rain. There’s too much we don’t know about the situation. When the captain was here before, he was on official army business, but it looks to me like his fortunes might have changed for the worse these last few days. So you let me do the talking, for now. Then we’ll figure out the rest together.”
Caroline nodded once in reluctant compliance. She truly didn’t believe the captain meant them any harm, but Enoch had reliable instincts. If he advised caution, she would pay heed.
“Might be prudent to put on some shoes,” he added, turning toward the door.
“Bring him to the kitchen house,” she said, raising both her chin and her dignity.
“Yes, ma’am,” Enoch said. “Friend or foe, that man is in want of a place to dry off.”
Five minutes later, Caroline was dashing through the torrent, a shawl covering her head and wearing her sturdy work shoes.
By the time she got inside the kitchen house, she was drenched to the skin. The rain was warm, though, and when she’d built up the fire in the cookstove, her clothes would dry
soon enough.
The room was dark, so she lit a kerosene lantern and considered the contents of the larder. Flour and salt and baking powder for biscuits, last year’s potatoes in the cellar, eggs, too, suspended in a large crock of glass.
Caroline added more wood to the stove.
Moments later, Enoch and Captain McBride stood in the open doorway, supporting a third man between them. Wet and muddy, from the top of his head to the soles of his boots, the stranger was clearly unable to stand.
Captain McBride, although upright, looked every bit as bedraggled as his companion. His pale face was stubbled with the beginnings of a dark beard, and his eyes, blue as indigo ink, were full of ghosts.
“Put him there,” Caroline said, arranging the kitchen chairs into a makeshift pallet.
Enoch and McBride half dragged, half carried the man across the room. He groaned aloud when they eased him onto the pallet.
“Enoch,” Caroline said, “please go back to the house for Mrs. Prescott. Tell her she’ll need Grandfather’s medical kit.”
Enoch nodded and lumbered toward the door, head turned so he could look back at her. “Yes, Missus,” he agreed, with a brief glance at Captain McBride. “I’ll be back in no time.”
Caroline lathered her hands with strong soap, dunked them in the nearly scalding water, and dried them on a clean dishtowel. “This soldier was hurt in the battle?” she asked.
McBride stared down at the man on the pallet.
“Yes, pretty badly,” he said, his voice hoarse. He did not look at her as he spoke; it was as though he believed that by watching the other man, he could somehow will him to rally. “He took a bayonet through his right shoulder.”
“What is this officer’s name?” Caroline asked.
“Bridger. Captain Bridger Winslow.” McBride bowed his head. “He’s...an old friend.”
Caroline moved to the man’s side, tucking her soaked skirts beneath her as she knelt. Oddly, the man’s tunic, though in a dreadful state, muddy and smelling of blood, was not torn where it should have been.
Her hands trembled a little as she carefully unbuttoned the tunic and laid it open.
She gasped when she saw what was beneath; the man’s shirtfront was crimson with blood, and puckered around a jagged puncture wound, already beginning to fester.
Silently, she pleaded with her grandmother to hurry, hurry.
Outwardly, though, she probably appeared calm. “Infection is setting in,” she said very quietly.
“Can you help him?” McBride spoke so earnestly, that Caroline felt emotional.
“I will certainly try, Captain McBride.”
“There will be more,” McBride said, but she didn’t immediately comprehend his meaning. “More wounded men,” he explained.
She looked up at him, horrified yet not surprised. Enoch had gone to town the night before, once the firing had stopped, to see what he could find out. Upon his return, he’d told her there were bodies everywhere, that he’d never seen the like of it, but then he’d made a strangled sound and left the house.
“The Union lost, then?” she asked, almost in a whisper.
He shook his head. “The Union won the Gettysburg campaign—no thanks to General Meade,” McBride said scornfully. “At least in the opinions of some. He appears to be in a hurry now, from what I gather. Too much of a hurry to take any further aggressive action against the Confederates.”
“You should sit down, Captain McBride,” Caroline said.
The captain drew a chair back from the table and eased himself onto the seat. The way he rested a hand on his right thigh confirmed what Caroline had already guessed; he, too, was wounded.
A moment later, Geneva burst in, carrying her late husband’s battered medical bag, Enoch directly behind her.
Geneva had reached the spot where Captain Winslow lay on the makeshift pallet, put down the medical bag and shed her wet cloak. “Mr. Flynn,” she said with brisk authority, “please place this man on top of the table, and be gentle about it.”
Together Enoch and Captain McBride hoisted Winslow onto the table. Watching, Caroline winced.
“Caroline,” Geneva said, as she gestured for Enoch and the captain to strip Mr. Winslow of his clothing, “We shall need a great quantity of hot water, clean cloths and blankets.” The old woman turned to Enoch then. “If I recall correctly, Mr. Flynn, you placed the medical supplies I brought with me in the cellar. I will need bandages, since there are few in my late husband’s case, God rest his soul.” Next, she addressed Captain McBride. “As for you, sir, I would advise you to sit back down before you collapse. I will tend to your injuries as soon as your comrade seems stable.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied wearily, sinking into his former chair at the table. The poor man did look as though he might keel over at any moment.
Caroline filled three of the large kettles she used mostly in canning season, hoping her water supply wouldn’t run out, and set them to boil.
When Enoch returned from the cellar with the requested bandages, along with a couple of blankets he must have found in one of the crates brought from Geneva’s house in town, he immediately saw the need for more water and set out to fill buckets at the well.
Geneva unfolded the blankets and spread them over the patient.
Caroline began preparing a breakfast, making room for her cast-iron skillet among the kettles.
She sliced bacon, peeled and chopped potatoes and mixed biscuit dough, grateful for the distraction the tasks provided. She made space on the counter to roll and cut the dough.
When Enoch returned with more water, his clothes soaked through from the continuing rain, he noticed the food and gave a wan smile of appreciation. “I looked in on Miss Rachel and Jubie,” he said. “They’re still asleep. I’ll take in their breakfast when it’s ready.”
“Thank you, Enoch. Why don’t you sit here by the fire for a while, dry off a little?”
But Enoch shook his head. “No time for that,” he said.
Just as she was about to put the biscuits in the oven, Geneva spoke. “Caroline, is that water ready? I cannot treat this man’s wounds properly until he’s been bathed.”
“Almost ready,” she said.
The patient seemed to be coming around a little, mumbling at first.
His voice seemed to have a distinctly Southern drawl.
Caroline turned her head, startled, and her gaze collided with that of Captain McBride. He looked rueful, but stubbornly determined, too.
“McBride?” the other man asked.
“I’m here,” the captain said.
“Where am I?”
“At a farm on the Emmitsburg Road. Having your wounds tended to.”
“My horse?” Winslow asked.
“Probably gone for good,” McBride answered.
Caroline glared. “That,” she accused tersely, “was unkind.”
“The truth,” the captain said, “is often unkind. Nevertheless, it is still the truth.”
“Some truths,” Caroline countered, still nettled, “can be withheld until a more appropriate time.”
“Not this one,” McBride said, with a note of finality. “There’s no good in giving a person false hope, Mrs. Hammond.”
Caroline turned away again, without a word, and went on with the making of breakfast.
Enoch filled a bucket and set it on the table when the water had finished boiling. Then Geneva asked Caroline for her assistance in bathing the wounded Captain Winslow.
“Come, Caroline,” she said. “We’ll all be doing this and much worse in the days ahead.”
“Of course, Grandmother.”
Was that a twinkle she saw, dancing in Captain Rogan McBride’s Union-blue eyes as she passed his chair?
He could bathe himself, she thought.
* * *
; Over the next half hour, Caroline helped bathe Captain Winslow, even though this task brought back painful memories of bathing Jacob in Washington City, after his death.
Bridger Winslow, however sorely wounded, was very much alive. His flesh, as revealed by soap and water, was sun-browned and strongly muscled.
His hair, when washed, turned out to be the color of caramel. And, when he opened his eyes briefly, she saw they were golden brown. They appeared to hold a glint of mischief despite the pain as he regarded her.
He was, she decided, even in his present state, much too handsome for his own good.
Worse, she suspected he was almost certainly a Rebel. An enemy soldier, despite the Union jacket. She was curious about his story.
He’d spoken with an unmistakable accent, smooth as sweet custard, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was a Confederate soldier, she reminded herself. There were, after all, Southern men who had opposed secession and thrown in their lot with the Union. And he was a friend and in the care of Captain McBride.
Even General Robert E. Lee himself was said to be against the idea of secession. He’d left the United States Army with reluctance, out of loyalty to his family, friends and home state of Virginia.
None of these insights, Caroline realized, made bathing a naked stranger any less disturbing.
Once Captain Winslow was fully clean, Geneva set about treating his shoulder’s deep wound. She could do little about any internal injuries, she said, not being a surgeon, but she believed the puncture was a clean cut and would heal if properly disinfected.
When she poured what seemed to be whiskey into the wound, he erupted with a howled curse. Then he fainted.
“Thank heaven for small mercies,” Geneva murmured, unwinding a roll of bandages. “The pain must be excruciating.” With that, she tore narrow strips of gauze, doused them in more whiskey and began packing the wound.
When the bandages had been wrapped, Enoch and Captain McBride lifted the patient and placed him carefully across the chairs again.
Geneva immediately asked for more hot water and strong soap, and scoured the table thoroughly. This strong, competent woman was the grandmother Caroline knew and loved—taking charge, giving orders, rising to the occasion. Her strength inspired Caroline.
The Yankee Widow Page 16