Appomattox Saga Omnibus 2: Three Books In One (Appomatox Saga)

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Barnes is looking for trouble, but I’ve managed to keep my temper.” He grinned at her and nodded. “I must be getting senile. When I was younger, I’d have called him out for less than he’s done tonight.”

  “Oh, don’t do that, Burke!” Belinda’s eyes widened with alarm, and she put her hand on his chest with an imploring gesture. “Don’t fight with him!”

  “All right, but I think we’d better leave early. I don’t need to be tempted any more than I have been.”

  Burke managed to stay away from Barnes for the rest of the evening, and it was only when he was helping Belinda on with her coat that the trouble came. He felt a hand on his shoulder and was abruptly turned around. His temper flared when he saw that it was Barnes, and he said, “Keep your hands off me, Barnes!”

  “You’re touchy, aren’t you, Rocklin?” Barnes’s ruddy face was flushed with drink, and he sneered at Burke. “You might have Belinda fooled, but you’re not fooling me!”

  “Chad, you’re drunk!” Belinda whispered. “Come on, Burke—”

  But Barnes reached out and grabbed Burke’s arm. “Think I don’t know what you’re up to? You’re a woman chaser, Rocklin. Always were!” Barnes looked around at the faces of the guests and lifted his voice: “Why, when he was after Maureen Bailey—”

  A sudden crack across the face cut off Barnes’s words, and he stood there gaping with shock at Burke, who said, “You’re no gentleman, Barnes. I won’t have you mention a lady’s name in public.”

  A shocked silence fell on the room, and Barnes’s face drained. He touched his cheek, then said in a voice filled with fury, “My friends will call on you, Rocklin!”

  Burke said clearly, “You know army regulations forbid dueling, Barnes. Your friends can save themselves the trouble.”

  “Coward!”

  “You know my record better than that.” Burke would have turned and escorted Belinda from the room, but at that moment Barnes completely lost control. He drew back his massive fist and threw a tremendous blow at Burke’s head.

  Burke had seen the flash of movement and drew back just in time to avoid the blow. Off balance, Barnes fell against his opponent, but Burke gave him a hard push, saying, “You’re drunk, Barnes! Go home and sleep it off.”

  The push sent Barnes reeling back, but when he caught his balance, his eyes burned with drunken rage. “If you won’t fight with a gun, you’ll fight with your fists!”

  Several men came at once, trying to pull Barnes away, but he shook them off. “There’s no regulation about a fistfight, Rocklin. Now come outside—or are you yellow clear through?”

  Burke stared at the big man and knew there was no way he was going to get out of a fight. If he refused, he’d be branded a coward by everybody in Richmond. He said tersely, “If you have to have a fight, Barnes, I’ll give you one.”

  “Come outside!” Barnes cried out. “I’m going to open you up and let the yellow run out so everyone can see what you are!”

  Burke turned to Belinda. “You know this isn’t of my doing, but I’ll have to fight him.”

  “Oh, Burke! Be careful!” Belinda cried. “He’s so strong!” But Rocklin noted that her eyes were glistening with the thrill of the affair, and he knew that she was not entirely sorry to be fought over. Struggling to hide his disgust, he turned and moved away from her.

  Women are all alike—wanting men to fight over them like dogs!

  Barnes was waiting for him in a courtyard, the yellow light of the lanterns gleaming in his eyes. He stripped off his coat and threw it to the ground. As soon as Burke had done the same, he uttered a hoarse curse and threw himself across the flagstones.

  Burke caught the full fury of the rush and was driven back against some of the men who’d made a circle around the pair. He had misjudged the speed of the big man and took several painful blows to the chest and stomach as a result. Gasping with pain, he twisted free and stepped around so that he was away from Barnes.

  Got to stay away from him and wear him down, then take him out bit by bit. He’s too strong for me to fight head-on!

  Barnes came at him again, but this time Burke sidestepped and, as the big man stumbled, drove two hard blows to his face. The blows made a sharp, meaty sound, and a mutter went up from the circle of men. But if the blows hurt Barnes, he didn’t show it. Blood ran down from the corner of his mouth and he came in more slowly, but he was still dangerous. He had big legs and arms and hulking shoulders. His eyes glittered as he followed Burke over the rough flagstones. “Stand still and fight!” he grated, then without warning threw himself forward, aiming a tremendous blow at Burke’s face.

  If it had landed, Burke would have had his face smashed, but he managed to parry with his left so that his opponent’s fist only grazed his temple. There was nothing to do then but survive the blows that Barnes rained on him, and Burke took most of them on his forearms and his shoulders. They hurt and he knew he’d be black-and-blue, but he rode out the storm grimly, waiting his chance.

  The eyes of the spectators glittered by the light of the lanterns. They were like wolves gathered in a circle to watch a fight to the death, and the same faces that had seemed so cultured in the drawing room a few moments earlier were now cruel and predatory, for the men seemed to have reverted to some ancient strain of blood that craved action and violence.

  Burke was bleeding now, his face cut by the massive blows of Barnes’s fists. His ribs ached, and he suspected that one of them might be cracked. Most of the men in the circle, he realized dimly, thought he was whipped. But he had forced himself to wait and watch—and now he saw what he’d been waiting for: a slowness in the big man’s movements and a rasp in his breathing.

  Burke waited one more second as Barnes dropped his heavy arms and gasped for breath; then he moved. He shot forward and drove a thundering right into the mouth of the winded man, driving him backward. Following him fiercely, Burke hit his enemy in the pit of the stomach with as hard a punch as he’d ever thrown. The blow struck Barnes right below that spot where the nerves are bunched, just below the rib cage—and that punch proved a disaster for the big man!

  His arms dropped and his eyes glazed. Burke knew what that was like, for he’d been stopped in the same fashion. A hard blow in that spot robs a man of everything—he can’t breath or move or think, but is totally helpless.

  With almost any other man, Burke would have called off the fight, but he knew with Barnes that doing so could be fatal. So he moved ahead, determined to put Barnes down, which he managed to do only after striking him in the jaw repeatedly. The man sank to the flagstones, his mouth open, his arms pawing helplessly. He tried to get up, but his legs didn’t seem to support him.

  “That’s enough—!” Burke said, grabbing for breath. “Stay away from me, Barnes, or you’ll get worse!” He walked over to pick up his coat, and as he left, he felt the hands of the men on his shoulders and heard their voices congratulating him. If Barnes had won, they’d be saying the same things to him, he thought bitterly. He found Belinda waiting and knew she’d watched from the window. “Come on, let’s go,” he said almost harshly.

  When they were in the carriage, she leaned toward him and touched his wounded face. “Oh, my dear, he hurt you!”

  Burke let her murmur her little endearments but was aware that she was not nearly so upset as she pretended. She knows this will be all over Richmond, he thought wearily. Well, let her have her little triumph. I guess she’s giving me enough to make up for a few bruises!

  Burke was correct in assuming that the fight would furnish delectable fare for the gossip mills of Richmond. He was disgusted with himself and with Barnes, but he realized it added glitter to his “reputation” and so made no protests.

  His fellow officers ragged him a little but were mostly supportive. Colonel Gilmer, however, said sourly, “Better save some of that energy for real fighting, Lieutenant.”

  “It wasn’t of my choosing, sir,” Burke protested.

  “Well, this fight that�
��s coming up isn’t of my choosing,” Gilmer shot back. “If you’ve got time to roll around in a brawl, I guess you don’t have enough work to do. I’ll see to it that you have.”

  The colonel was faithful to his word, and for the next few days Burke was forced to stay late. Belinda pouted, but Burke pointed out that it was the price he had to pay for fighting over her. Belinda found this a satisfactory reason and said, “Well, you must get free next Wednesday. We’ve got an invitation to dine at the Chesnuts, and President and Mrs. Davis will be there!”

  Burke never made it to that engagement. He was greeted on Wednesday morning by Colonel Gilmer, who said, “Pack your gear, Lieutenant. We’re moving out.”

  Burke stared at him blankly for one instant, then inquired, “Where will we be going, sir?”

  “You’ll know when we get there!” Gilmer snapped. Then he mitigated his reply. “Didn’t mean to bite your head off, Rocklin, but we’ve got to move fast. All I can say now is that General Lee’s going to meet John Pope, and we’ve got to do some engineering for him in a hurry!”

  “Will I have time to say any farewells, Colonel?”

  “We’re leaving in two hours, but you’ll need that time to get your gear and help us load the equipment. Write your apologies and send a runner.”

  Hastily Burke wrote notes to Belinda and to his parents, explaining his sudden departure. The one to Belinda he dispatched by a corporal, and the one to his parents he was able to deliver himself into Clay’s hands.

  He found his older brother drilling his platoon, and after calling him to one side, he said, “I’ve got orders to leave right away. Will you see that Father gets this note?”

  Clay took the envelope but said, “I’ll have to send it out, Burke. We’re moving out ourselves.”

  “What’s happening, Clay?”

  “Going to whip Johnnie Pope, I guess.” Clay studied his younger brother, then said thoughtfully, “We’ve had differences, Burke, but let’s not be angry with each other now.”

  Burke was surprised but glad. “Sure, Clay!” He clapped his hand on Clay’s shoulder, saying, “We Black Rocklins have to stick together.”

  “That’s right.” Clay smiled. “Keep your head down, you hear?”

  “Can’t shoot a man who’s born to hang, can they, now?” Burke grinned and then left, saying only, “After this is over, we’ll have some time to go hunting, okay?”

  “God go with you, Burke,” Clay muttered under his breath as he watched Burke’s tall form march away. Then he turned to his men, calling out, “All right, men, let’s sharpen those lines!”

  Waco Smith came to Clay later, after drill was over, and asked, “We goin’ to see the Bluebellies, Lieutenant?” Smith, a Texan who’d been with Clay at Bull Run, still carried a .44 in a holster on his hip, the same one he carried when he’d been a Texas Ranger. He was a lean man with light green eyes and sharp features. He was utterly dependable and fearless to a fault.

  “I think that sums up our situation, Sergeant,” Clay said with a nod. “The men ready?”

  “Got to be.” Waco bit off a huge bite of tobacco, tucked it into his cheek, then nodded. “You watch out for yourself, Clay,” he warned, forgetting protocol for a moment. “I don’t want to have to go to all the trouble of breaking in a new lieutenant.”

  “I’ll do my best, Waco. And you show a little sense. Don’t try to whip the Yankees all by yourself like you did at Malvern Hill!” Clay’s eyes were moody, and he added with a sad tone, “This is going to be a long war, so take care of yourself.” Waco winked at him and walked away, but both of them were aware that there was no way for a man to “take care of himself” when the bullets started flying.

  The only people who have a very clear idea of what a battle is like are generals. Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson understood the entire scope of what was taking place on August 29, 1862, at the Battle of Second Manassas, but infantrymen knew only their small portion of it.

  Lee and Jackson planned a masterful campaign, one of the most daring in U.S. military history. Faced with superior numbers, Lee did an astonishing thing: He divided his small army into two smaller armies! This violated every rule of tactics in every military history book, but Robert E. Lee was an inveterate gambler.

  Acting on instinct, Lee sent Stonewall Jackson around Pope’s army, while he himself stayed in place and convinced the nervous Pope that the Confederate commander had his whole force with him. It would not have worked if Lee had not had Jackson, for no other general on either side could have accomplished such a march.

  When Jackson was in place, he struck Pope’s forces from the rear—and the Federal commander went to pieces. He lost his head, and he lost the Battle of Second Manassas.

  But all of this was unknown to most of the soldiers who fought the battle. They only were aware of their little area and fought and died for a small field, never knowing why it was so important to have the field.

  Clay’s company fought its way across a small creek and held a much larger Union force to a standstill. And while neither Clay nor his men knew it, their holding action had been the means for giving Jackson time to get into position to strike Pope’s army. Clay lost twelve men and grieved over them as if they were his own sons. He was relieved to see that Lowell and Dent came through safely, but was worried about Burke. He knew the engineers had been sent to bridge a small river and prayed that Burke had not been hurt.

  But even as Clay prayed, Burke lay unconscious. He and his fellow engineers had been caught up in an unexpected skirmish over the bridge. Two full regiments of Federals moved on the bridges, and Lee sent some of his best troops to stop the Northern troops from advancing. It had been one of those terrible battles, such as Shiloh, where ground was taken, lost, and taken again. Every man in a Confederate uniform was pressed into service, including cooks and engineers. Burke found himself lying on the ground, firing a musket at the men in the long blue lines who charged again and again.

  Finally the colonel came down the line, screaming, “Get ready! We’re going to drive ’em back! Get ready to charge!”

  Burke’s mouth was dry as he came to his feet. He had a musket with a bayonet fixed, and when the gray line moved forward, he found himself screaming with the rest. He had only one thought: to get to the line of trees where musket fire winked like evil red eyes.

  But he never made it.

  The Federals had gotten some artillery in place, and the shells cut the advancing Confederate line to pieces. Those who lived through the artillery fire were met by yelling Yankees who emerged from the trees in large numbers.

  Burke shot one soldier, noting that he was no more than sixteen years old. He felt a pang of grief, then was suddenly trapped in a fierce melee and began clubbing with his musket as the blue-clad men rushed toward the position. He was striking furiously when a thunderous sound came from overhead, and Burke Rocklin’s world suddenly exploded into a million points of pain—and a fathomless darkness.

  The shell that burst over Burke Rocklin and the men around him killed dozens of men and wounded many others. Reb and Yank lay intermingled, most of them killed instantly. The Confederates retreated, but some of them stopped beside the tangled bodies long enough to rob the dead. One of them bent over a still form and, seeing the bloody face, assumed he was dead. He looked at his own bare feet, then pulled off the injured man’s boots. Then he noted the fancy gold ring—the Rocklin family ring—and tugged at it until it came off. Slipping the ring on his own finger, the man looked fearfully around, then quickly stripped the uniform from the inert body, whispering, “I can sell this back in Richmond. Be worth a heap of money!”

  But the scavenger never made it to Richmond. He made it only as far as the point where a shell from one of the Union batteries caught him. It destroyed his torso, mangling his upper body and head beyond recognition. The sergeant who led the burial squad found the tattered coat of Burke Rocklin still clutched in the corpse’s hand. After looking at the papers inside one of the coa
t pockets, he said, “We’ll take this one back with us. There’s a lieutenant named Rocklin in the Richmond Grays.”

  After the battle, Dent and Clay came to identify the body. Both of them were sick when they saw the mangled body. Clay stooped and took the ring from the dead man’s finger.

  “Sergeant, I want to send my brother back to Richmond. Is there a coffin available?”

  “Pine one, sir.”

  “Put him in it. I’ll see to the transportation,” Dent said. He shook his head, adding, “This will just about kill the folks.”

  Clay didn’t even have the words to answer. He turned away, sick at heart, blaming himself for not having been more of a brother to Burke.

  “I’ll see if the colonel will let me go home, if it’s all right with you, Dent.”

  “Of course. I wish I could go, too.”

  Two days later Clay stood at his brother’s graveside. The service had been simple and brief. From where he stood, Clay could see the raw earth still mounded on Ellen’s grave. He stood there, tears in his eyes, and then turned away to comfort his parents, who had taken the news of Burke’s death very badly.

  Had he been able, Burke would have done all he could to let his family know he was not in the coffin that was lowered into the earth. But he was far from able. He was unconscious, lying on a bed in a military hospital…in Washington.

  When he’d been found in the midst of the Union dead, the stretcher-bearers had assumed that he was a Union soldier. The Confederates commonly robbed the dead for boots and clothing, so the stretcher-bearer had said, “This one’s alive, but the Rebs stripped him. Put one of them jackets on him, Maxie. If we get him to field hospital, I reckon he won’t die.”

  The man had been correct in his reckoning. Burke Rocklin had not died. The doctors had removed the shrapnel from his neck and back, had sewed up the cuts on his face, and then had sent him in an ambulance train that was headed back to Washington. But though he was alive, he did not regain consciousness. Even when he received better care and improved physically, he lay as still as a dead man.