"She can't," Hedges said softly, as he suddenly realized the reason for the girl's apparent narcosis. "The kid's blind."
Forrest swung around angrily to face Hedges, bringing up his fists as if he intended to rush across the room and lash out at him.
"Blind. Jesus!" Hedges felt the pressure relieved from his hip as Seward muttered the words and lowered his gun.
Scott turned to face the wall and emptied his stomach of the neat whiskey he had drunk downstairs.
"Bastard!" Bell exclaimed.
Hedges took, a step forward, away from Bell's gun, his blue eyes boring into Forrest's face. The power of the accusation forced back the big man's rage like a physical force ramming into a tangible energy.
He dropped his gaze. "How'd I know?"
Hedges turned away and went to the smashed window, to look out across the sweet-smelling porchway with the dead man on it, over the body of the equally dead trooper and into the green distance. He stood there for several moments, breathing deeply of the clean air, ridding his lungs of the putrescence of gunsmoke, whiskey, vomit and sex. Then a movement caught his attention and he focused on the group of huts to one side of the yard. Two Negroes stood there, a man and a woman, both in middle years.
"It's over," he called down to them. "There's a girl here needs your help." The slaves looked at each other, exchanged a few words and then advanced slowly across the yard. Hedges turned from the window and saw that each man was concentrating on the simple process of straightening his clothing. None would meet his gaze. He crossed to retrieve his arms and then went to the side of the bed. The girl had released her grip on the covers and had placed her hands over her bloodied loins; otherwise she had remained the same. Her dress was in tatters so Hedges went to the window again, ripped down one of the drape curtains and spread it over her nakedness.
Then he left the room and without a word the men shuffled out in his wake. The Negro couple were in the hallway below, the woman crying softly, the man holding his hat in front of his body as they looked into the room containing the two dead whites.
"They was good people, sir," the man said softly. "Mister Lincoln, he might be right about some slaves, but these was good people. We didn't want no freedom, sir."
"No way of telling the good from the bad," Hedges answered and glanced at Forrest. "Not even when they wear a uniform."
"How'd we know?" Forrest, demanded, his tone harder now, as he shared the responsibility for what had happened. "She didn't say anything."
"Right," Seward attested. "She could have said. She wasn't dumb."
"No, just proud," Hedges said softly as he watched the Negro couple start up the stairway. "We're the dumb ones." He went out then, and the others followed him, to round up their scattered horses.
*****
GRACE harnessed the big gray to the buggy while her mother gazed with concern at the low cloud and tried to decide if the brightness in the south was a sign of the sun breaking through or a new storm brewing.
"If it starts to look bad, you turn back, you hear," she said at length.
"It's not going to rain any more, mother," Grace answered. "I'm sure of it. I'll be back with the sheriff before you even know it."
"That means you intend to drive fast," the elder woman came back quickly. "You be careful, child. No telling what the rain's done to the trail. Easy enough for a horse to break a leg or a buggy to crack a wheel at the best of times. This is no country to be stranded in."
Grace sighed as she tightened the final strap and patted the horse on the nose. "Nor to be, alone with a murderer," she countered. "Certainly I'm going to hurry, but I won't be reckless." Her boots made sucking sounds as they came free of the yard mud and she climbed up into the buggy. "You have to be careful, too."
She made clucking noises with her tongue and flicked the reins. Her mother moved on ahead to open the gate and then waved as Grace drove the buggy through. She watched its lurching, splashing progress for a full minute before turning to go back to the house. Then she spotted the two guns leaning against the live oak—the stranger's Winchester and the old 'Spencer' from above the mantelshelf. She detoured to get them and took them into the house with her.
A glance into the bedroom showed the stranger was sleeping peacefully after a restless period during which he had cursed aloud at a man named Forrest. In repose his lean features looked more cruel and, at the same time, more handsome than ever.
"Yeah, I reckon you're a mean critter," she muttered. "Might have done the world a favor to let you die."
Then she got some rags from the cupboard beneath the stone sink and sat before the fire as she started to clean the guns. The tall case clock to the right of the fireplace showed the time as one-thirty. By her reckoning, it should take Grace a little over three hours to get to town and return. If the sheriff rode on ahead with his posse, leaving the slower buggy to follow, the waiting time would be less, of course. But the first minute seemed to take an hour and Margaret guessed this was the way it was sure to be.
But then she heard a painful groan from the next room and she got to her feet hurriedly and bustled over to the doorway. The stranger was bathed in sweat again and his facial muscles bulged as his body came as stiff as a ramrod.
"This is it, feller," she said as she went to the bed. "Appears you've fought harder battles than this. Little old fever ain't going to get the better of a man like you."
Edge groaned again, thrashing his arms against the constricting sheets and blankets and tossing his head from side to side as if he was trying to shake it free of his shoulders.
"Jesus, will you look at those stupid bastards!" he shouted at the top of his voice.
"Such language!" Margaret Hope exclaimed."
CHAPTER SEVEN
IF Margaret Hope had been at Bull Run even her strong opinion of foul language may not have been able to withstand the test of frustrating events over which she had no control.
It was July twenty-first and one of the hottest days of a long hot summer. A good day—if such there can be—for a battle, which was a deciding factor in the result.
The speed tempered by caution tactics which Hedges had adopted on the push through the mountains had succeeded in one aspect and failed in another. News of the troop's approach had not preceded its arrival but the battle had begun, with McDowell's Union army engaging Beauregard's Confederates, spread out in an eight mile defensive line.
The rebel general, a great admirer of Napoleon, had modeled his tactics upon the battle plan, at Austerlitz and launched an attack at McDowell's left flank. But this had gone badly wrong as a result of orders which either went astray or were misunderstood: McDowell replied with a thrust at the Confederate left and a large number of Union infantry crossed Bull Run at Sudley Church and moved along the river towards the rebels. It was as the opposing armies clashed at Stone Bridge that Hedges led his men at full charge into the heat of the battle and received his initiation into the full horrors of a war of amateurs.
"Who the hell's on our side?" Douglas yelled as the troopers galloped up behind the Union line, riding with heads down as rifle and artillery fire was directed at them.
As Hedges looked ahead and then across the river to where the main force was located, he drew in his breath and let it out with a stream of obscenity. The corporal had posed a valid question. The regular soldiers of the Union army were correctly attired in blue but the ninety-day militia men had been allowed to wear whatever took their fancy. Many of the soldiers wore gray while others were dressed in garishly bright colors, some patterning their uniforms after the French infantry, with red breeches, blue coats, scarlet sashes and turbans.
"The ones shooting at you are the enemy," Hedges yelled back as a rebel artillery shell dug a crater immediately in his path.
His horse reared and took three bullets in the neck. As the animal came down in its death throes, the rider slumped sideways and did a head-roll across the hard baked ground. A battery of rebel mortars opened up and Hedge
s lay still, Spencer clutched in his hands, protecting his head as great clods of earth and splinters of shattered rock rained down upon him. Small arms fire chattered and men screamed their agonies. Something thudded down at the side of Hedges' head and when he turned to look at it he screwed up his eyes tightly and felt the bitter taste of nausea in his throat It was a complete arm and half a shoulder, the shattered bone gleaming with an incredible whiteness against the oozing red of the torn flesh.
There was a sudden lull in the artillery barrage and he took advantage of it to scramble across the open, shell-scarred ground and into the fast running water of a narrow creek feeding the river. The water felt cool on his sweating body and he dipped his cupped hands to scoop some of it into his mouth. But then he threw the water from him, his face a mask of horror as he saw the pink tint in the liquid, turning a deeper shade as he watched. He looked to his right, along the creek and met the agonized eyes of one of his own troopers. The man was sitting in the water, resting his back against the bank, trailing his hands and making no attempt to move. Further along the creek men were lying in the water, firing towards the enemy lines. It ran clear where they were.
"I didn't think it would be like this, Captain," the injured trooper murmured, pressing his back into the bank as a new artillery barrage sounded, the shells arcing low over the creek.
Where does it hurt?" Hedges asked as he splashed along the creek bed, keeping his head below the level of the bank.
"All over, sir." He sighed. "Except my legs. My legs don't hurt." He abruptly closed his eyes and fell forward, toppling like a sack of potatoes. The creek gripped him and sent his body floating down towards the river outlet and Hedges caught his breath. Both the troopers' legs had been blown off.
For a few moments the creek ran clear, but then two infantrymen collapsed with gaping head wounds and Hedges, experiencing a stronger urge to empty his stomach, scrambled clear of the water and ran in a fast crouch towards a low stone wall. He heard shouting from behind him and glanced over his shoulder to see infantrymen and dismounted troopers streaming in his wake. Many others were running in the opposite direction, shedding their identifying uniform tunics and discarding their rifles and muskets.
As Hedges dived behind the wall another man thudded down beside him and began to loose off bullets at the deserters, bringing down three in quick succession.
"Chicken-hearted bastards," Forrest yelled, and spat in disgust as the men ran out of range.
"Anyone you wouldn't kill, Forrest?" Hedges asked as he watched the survivors of the advance sink behind the wall and begin to fire at the rebels near the bridge. He saw Douglas, Bell and Scott with several other members of his troop. There were many he could not see, but this. did not indicate they had been killed or injured, for the Union line was spread wide and rifle fire sounded from behind every form of cover.
Forrest grinned as he reloaded his rifle. "Don't reckon there is, Captain," he drawled. "Man gets in my way, he's just asking to get blasted."
"They weren't in your way," Hedges pointed out, going up into a crouch and pumping four shots towards the rebel position.
"Oh, my dear God," a man screamed near the end of the wall. Then he gurgled and slumped forward, choking up a great spout of blood.
"They weren't men," Forrest countered. "Just rats. I shoot rats for fun." He went up against the wall, stood erect and sprayed the Confederates with rapid repeater fire. He sank back again to reload.
"Those guys are in my way." He and every other man at the wall threw themselves to the ground as a half dozen shells arced in to spray up earth only a few yards behind them. "And their guns are bigger than mine," he continued as he wiped dirt from his face. "I don't like that."
"Me neither," Hedges answered, and looked along the line of Union men, able to ignore the bloodied bodies of the dead and the cries of the wounded as the anger inside him swamped the last vestiges of pity. "Is there a bugler here?" he called.
"Sir!" a young voice answered, and a brass bugle was held aloft, glistening in the bright sun as it wavered in a trembling hand.
"Sound the advance!" As the first notes of the clarion call split across the other sounds of battle it seemed to arouse in the men the same degree of anger which had gripped Hedges. Fear, despair, compassion, frustration and every other shade of emotion which can be generated by war was suddenly swamped by an irresistible rage to kill. The men rose in a single, synchronized movement and hesitated for only a split second, as a stray mortar shell smashed the bugle into a mass of twisted metal and drove this into the face of the musician with enough force to decapitate him.
"They shouldn't have shot him," Forrest muttered as the final note urged the men into a headlong dash for the rebel line. "He was doin' his best."
As other mortars zeroed in on what had been the Union line, the Yankees streamed forward, yelling their enraged hatred and firing as rapidly as their gunmanship allowed, having no time to aim but successful in harassing most of the rebels into an equally wild and inaccurate defensive fusillade. Inevitably, however, stray bullets and ballshot found their marks in vulnerable flesh and blue-coated men pitched to the ground at a rate matched only by the piling up of grey clad forms at the bridge.
Hedges felt invincible as he ran, emptying the rifle and then the Colt, drawing exhilaration from the whine of lead about his ears. He transferred both guns to his left hand and drew his saber as a Confederate lieutenant seemed to materialize ten feet in front of him.
The man aimed a revolver at him and the hammer fell with a dry click against an empty shell case.
"Sickening, ain't it," Hedges said as he lashed out with the saber, then twisted it.
The point sliced through one eye, carved a path through the bridge of the nose and gouged out the other eye. The man screamed and fell to his knees, clawing at his face.
"See what he means?" Forrest yelled as he launched a mighty kick at the jaw of the kneeling man, sending him over backwards.
"Aye, aye!" Seward said with a shriek of laughter, veering to run alongside the two men.
Three rebels came towards them, swinging their empty muskets around their heads like clubs. Forrest threw his knife into the throat of the man on the left. Seward fired his Colt into the stomach of the right marker. Hedges went in below the swinging musket of the center man and lashed sideways with the saber, severing the wrist.
"Guess he'll have to finish the war single-handed," he muttered as he leapt over the falling man, and slowed his pace as he peered through the smoke of battle. There were a great many grey-clad figures in evidence, out they were no longer standing up to face the advancing Union men. They were fleeing.
"We got 'em on the run!" Seward yelled in delight, surging forward, waving is empty Colt.
Hedges halted and dropped into an exhausted crouch, breathing deeply and feeling the strain of the advance for the first time now that he was no longer under fire. As he glanced around he saw other men were experiencing a similar degree of fatigue. But all were following his example by reloading their rifles and revolvers. Ahead, Seward, suddenly realized he was alone in chasing the fleeing rebels and abruptly halted, turned, and came back to the position of Hedges and Forrest, a shame-faced expression on his immature features.
"Forward to Richmond, Frank?" he said breathlessly, voicing the slogan dreamed up by some chairbound staff officer in Washington.
Hedges' hooded eyes examined the battlefield, with its many bodies sprawled in attitudes of death, and the greater number of writhing wounded calling for help. "You reckon it'll be worth it?" he asked of nobody in particular.
"Only if I get there alive," Forrest answered.
Hedges looked into his hard, cruel grin. He nodded. "Guess that's the only way to look at it," he said softly, as a supply wagon trundled across the Stone Bridge and the men gathered around it to receive an issue of ammunition.
A hospital wagon was immediately behind it and then, as the wounded were put aboard, a column of artillery moved forward
and was hauled in the wake of the rebel retreat. Captain Leaman and the remnants of his troop followed the big guns. His arm was still in a sling from the wound he had received on Rich Mountain, but the gauntness of his face, which seemed to have aged ten years since Hedges had last seen him, told of a mind scarred more deeply than his flesh.
"The rebs are massing at a place called Henry House, downriver," he told Hedges. "Looks like they intend to make a stand there. We're going to throw everything we've got at them."
And indeed, as he spoke, a second battery of heavy artillery crossed the Bull Run.
"We winning, Captain?" Seward asked, as he finished loading his guns and packing his ammunition pouch.
Leaman grimaced. "Any man still alive must be winning," he answered softly, clasping his hands together to stop them from trembling. He turned to his men. "Right, let's go."
Hedges gave no instruction to his own troopers or the infantrymen who had lost their own officers and chose to follow him. He simply set off and they straggled along behind him. Douglas, Bell and Scott were among them and Hedges began to wonder if somehow Forrest and his henchmen were immune to hurt and death. Whether their individual toughness and amorality fused into a single, penetrable shield against enemy bullets, protecting them while men with the higher attributes of humanity were killed and maimed. It was a futile and fruitless line of thought, but it enabled Hedges to occupy his mind as the Union army swelled around him on the forward push.
The Henry House stood on a wooded plateau under the crest of a hill and it was on the high ground that the Union batteries were positioned, commanding a good view of the green Virginia countryside spread out below. When they opened up their first barrage, the sound provided a spur to the mixed cavalry troops and infantry units bringing up the rear and the men surged forward with enthusiasm, sensing victory and anxious to achieve it so there would be time for rest.
But as the rebels retreated from the plateau the officers commanding the Union batteries were too hasty in ordering the gunners to follow. The cannon and mortars were hauled down the hill too far in advance of the supporting infantry. The error was realized and the forward movement was halted, the guns set up to lay a barrage into the retreating Confederates while the Union foot soldiers had time to join the battle.
Killer's Breed Page 10