by Diane Wylie
“Halt and identify yourself!” The voice was distinctive, rich and low-pitched at first, then squeaking before breaking into a higher pitch, a boy-man’s voice.
David could see the rifle pointing at his chest. That particular voice was one he would never forget; it was one of his own men. “Is that you, Caleb Peters? It’s Captain David Reynolds!”
“No kidding?” But there was a slight pause as the youth hesitated. “Maybe you’d best come a little closer and let me see for sure that you ain’t playing no tricks.”
David laughed. The ever-cautious Caleb took his job seriously. “It’s me, Caleb. Don’t go shooting me now. I just got over the last bullet hole.” Easing Napoleon closer, he could almost see the freckles on Private Peters’ face. The young man let out a loud squeaky whoop, startling the animal, whose only reaction was to flick his ears.
“By God, it is you, Captain—with a beard no less! Where ya been?” The soldier moved up next to the horse, his broad, toothy grin visible in the moonlit night. A collection of shouts resounded, and a group of soldiers came running from all directions, carrying their rifles and pulling on clothing as they came, summoned by Caleb’s whoop of delight. In moments a dozen men, many from his own unit, surrounded David, all firing excited questions at him.
“We thought you passed to the great beyond back at Mine Run, Captain Reynolds!”
“What happened to you?”
“Were you captured by the Rebs?”
“Did you get shot?”
“Where you been all this time?”
The affection from these lads swept over him and filled him with special warmth. He had missed them all, he realized suddenly. He grinned at them. Their regard was a poor substitute for the true love of a woman, but it was all he had now, and he cherished them just the same.
Lieutenant Miller pushed his way through the throng. The big red-headed man reached up and shook David’s hand. “Welcome back, sir, good to see you again!”
“It’s good to be back, Thomas.” He held a hand up to the men. “I’ll answer all your questions later. Somebody point me to Colonel Kellogg.”
Minutes later, Lieutenant Jones, who was in charge of the cavalry’s horses, took charge of Napoleon. David and Miller headed to Colonel Kellogg’s cabin. A light in the window indicated that the colonel was still awake despite the late hour. David knocked.
“Come in.”
It was the colonel’s voice. David stepped in first, followed by Lieutenant Miller. Kellogg’s face registered such surprise and pleasure at his appearance that he almost laughed out loud. The colonel, in his shirtsleeves, was playing cards with several other officers of the company. Captain William Tice, Major Reuben Reinhold, Captain Luther Kurtz, and Lieutenant Joseph Schultz sat around the table with him. All wore stunned expressions.
David saluted the group.
The colonel returned the salute and closed his open mouth at the same time. He stood and moved over to David to clap him heartily on the back and pump his hand enthusiastically.
Kellogg pointed to his leg, apparently noticing David’s limp. “Looks like you got yourself wounded, Captain, sit down…get up Schultz…and tell us where you’ve been for so long. We gave you up for dead or captured, Reynolds!”
By now word of David’s return from the dead had circulated around the camp. Men crowded the open door of Colonel Kellogg’s quarters trying to see their missing captain and straining to hear what had happened to him. Perhaps they came because they expected to see an apparition rather than a live man, or maybe they came because they were simply bored. Whatever their motive, they gathered in force outside the door. As enlisted men, they would not cross the threshold of a commanding officer’s cabin. They called out to David with excitement in their voices. He acknowledged them all with a jaunty salute before sitting.
“Save me a spot around the campfire and a drop of whiskey, boys! I’ll join you fellows in a bit,” he called out. He couldn’t help but smile at the sound of scattered cheers from the rabble.
Major Reinhold studied him and his travel-stained, patched uniform in a long glance then pushed a glass of amber liquid across the table to him. “Have a stiff one now, my friend. It looks like you could use it. Then tell us all that happened to you at Mine Run. Miller saw you get hit and lost sight of you in all the confusion after that.”
Lieutenant Miller nodded. “Yes, sir, Captain. I saw you take a bullet in the leg, but by the time I fought my way over there, you were gone. Captain Montgomery was real worried about you and had me look for you, but you had just vanished.”
Hope sprang into David’s heart at the mention of Jack’s name. “Jack? Is he all right, then?”
Everyone sobered again. They all knew of the close bond between the two captains. Miller looked at Kellogg. The colonel reached out and put a hand on David’s shoulder.
“We don’t know, son. He disappeared that day, too. We think he went looking for you, but he never came back.”
David hung his head with despair. Jack must have truly died, and the Rebel, Zeke, had robbed him of his treasured college ring. The loss hit him hard. He was alone now—his father had no use for him, his best friend was gone, and Jenny…she wanted nothing to do with him. Self-pity and deep sorrow caught him solidly, and he was unaware and unprepared for its force.
After a moment he felt a warm hand on his shoulder. Looking up, he met the kindly brown eyes belonging to Colonel Kellogg. The officer pressed the glass of whiskey into his hand.
“Take a drink and tell us what happened.”
Lieutenant Miller went to the door. The big Irishman chased away the spectators. “Go on now, boys. Captain Reynolds is back now. You go on about your business. This is not your concern.”
“He’s a deserter!” someone yelled from the crowd. “A traitor! A spy!”
There was a collective gasp of surprise and a few muttered oaths in support of David before Miller closed the door on the men with a curse of his own. He turned back to the group of officers who sat in stunned silence at the accusation. They could hear shouting going on outside the cabin. Thomas Miller nodded to the colonel who was the highest-ranking officer in the room.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but I have known Captain Reynolds since he came to the Seventeenth. I have worked and fought beside him. I can tell you for certain he is none of that. The captain is an honorable man—straight and true.”
David took a big gulp of whiskey, stood, and faced them, trying to relax. He knew these men, and they knew him. But their faces reflected their doubt of him. It was their opinion, their judgment of him that could change his life tonight.
“You have a right to know why I have been away so long. I will tell you the truth about my time since Mine Run, and you gentlemen will have to decide my fate for yourselves.” He looked at the venerable colonel, who had settled himself back in his chair, crossing his hands behind his graying head. “If I may, sir?”
“Please begin, Captain Reynolds. You are not on trial here. You are among friends.”
David stood, moved away from the table, and turned to face the officers, his judge and jury. No matter what the colonel said, he was on trial right here, right now…and he could barely think straight. He was bone tired from two days of hard riding and covered with dust and dirt. His beard needed trimming, and he had lost his hat long ago, but he stiffened his spine, put aside his thoughts of Jack…and of Jenny, and began.
Doing his best to keep emotion from his voice, he told them of waking up wounded on his horse miles from the battle, being discovered and helped by a Southern woman, his capture by renegade Rebels when he attempted to return, and his subsequent escape from his torturers. Tonelessly he told them of his severe illness and recovery on the same woman’s estate before riding to this winter camp tonight.
When finished he stood and waited. The noise had died down outside. A clock ticked loudly on the table next to the bed behind him as the officers considered his story. The colonel broke the silence.
/>
“Hmmm, quite a story, captain. That limp of yours coincides with Miller witnessing you take a bullet, that much is a fact,” Colonel Kellogg said. “What I can’t figure out is why that legendary horse of yours ran away like that.”
David shook his head, as bewildered by Napoleon’s actions as the colonel. “I can’t understand it either, colonel. The animal is well trained to stand his ground. Perhaps the injury my horse sustained prompted him to run. I don’t suppose I will ever know for sure.”
Captain Tice spoke up. “I don’t suppose you have any proof that you were captured by these Rebels do you, Reynolds? How do we know you didn’t just take a little leave or maybe you passed information to them? You wouldn’t be the first one to give in to temptation like that.”
Anger ran through him, hot and fierce. Tice had just pushed him too far. He was in no mood for this intolerance. “I have proof, Captain Tice.” He tore off his jacket, threw it on the floor, and began to unbutton his shirt, his actions stiff and jerky with rage.
Tice threw up his hands, palms out in a gesture of surrender, “Hey! I don’t want to fight you, Reynolds!” He laughed, looking around at the others for support that didn’t come.
David ignored the comment, tore his shirt off, and abruptly turned his back to the men. The room fell silent once more. He could only imagine the spectacle that the still painful welts from the whip had left across his back.
“This is your proof that I told the Rebs nothing,” he said through clenched teeth. “Nothing…and they did not like it.” Slowly turning, he faced the group again. Their expressions ranged from pity to anger to shock.
David saluted again. “Request permission to join my men, sir.”
Colonel Kellogg rose to his feet and returned the salute. “Permission granted, Captain Reynolds…and… welcome back, son. I believe your story has been adequately corroborated. Stop by the physician’s cabin in the morning, David. I would appreciate it if you would allow him to examine your injuries. I need you fully healed before the next conflict.”
Nodding, he turned crisply on his heel and walked from the cabin into the cold winter night, not bothering to retrieve the discarded clothing.
Thomas Miller found him twenty minutes later sitting alone, staring into the flames of a campfire. Miller dropped the forgotten shirt and uniform jacket over his exposed back, sank down beside him, and wordlessly offered him a full whiskey bottle and a tin cup. Taking it with a nod of thanks, David filled the cup, downed the contents in a few gulps, and repeated the action once more before filling the cup and passing the bottle back to the Lieutenant.
The whiskey burned a comforting hot path to his stomach. He hoped the mind-numbing effects would set in quickly. He was getting damned tired of being the bad guy. In the eyes of his beloved Jenny he was responsible for the plight of a war-torn South. Now, to be held up for ridicule as a slacker or turncoat by one of his fellow officers…it was just too much to bear.
The two men sat in silence for a few minutes longer, both staring at the flames dancing in the December night. Finally Lieutenant Miller broke the silence. “So was she pretty, Captain? Your Southern lady, I mean.”
David sighed. “More than pretty, Miller. She could capture a man’s very soul, and he would give it up without a second thought just to be with her.”
Lieutenant Miller gazed him for a long time before speaking, as if deciding whether he should. “I reckon I know what you mean, sir. My Rebecca was like that. I fell for her so hard that I never did come back up again…and probably never will. She passed on some ten years ago, but she still fills up my heart, and there ain’t no room for no other woman.”
It took him by surprise to hear Miller reveal this aspect of his life and the depth of feeling behind his words. Miller had never spoken openly about his personal life in the months they had served together, living day and night in each other’s company.
“You must miss her.”
“That I do, sir. But I’ll tell you something, I don’t regret one minute that I spent with her. If I could do it all over again, knowing that she would only be with me for those five short years, I wouldn’t change a thing. Our time together was just that good.”
They fell silent again, each man haunted by his own demons. The level of whiskey in the bottle dropped.
“What do you know about Jack Montgomery, Tom?”
The lieutenant winced. He looked up to meet David’s gaze. The sorrow revealed on the ruddy face of his trusted companion almost made David regret the question, but he had to know. There was too much suffering brought about as a result of this damnable war. Having Jack with him was the only thing that made this horrible time bearable. The loss of his best friend was going to haunt him for a long, long time…perhaps the rest of his natural born days. He brought up a hand to try and rub the tightness out of his chest.
“Captain Reynolds, me and the men—some of his unit and some of yours—we got permission to look for both of you for exactly two hours, no more. I guess Forrester was the last to see you after you were hit. He said your horse took off into the trees, heading south, and that was that.” Miller removed his hat and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand as he continued to speak in a low voice.
“Forrester told Captain Montgomery what he saw, and the captain went off straight away to find you, while the battle was just winding down. Major Rheinhold let him go. When he didn’t come back, the major sent eight of us to look for you both when the fighting was finally over. We didn’t find anything but your hat, Captain Reynolds, and no sign at all of Captain Montgomery. Sorry, sir.”
Miller’s sad eyes slid away as if he were personally responsible for Jack’s disappearance.
David stared down at his cup of amber whiskey and the glittering ring on his hand. The scarlet stone caught the firelight and burned dark red as blood. “Miller, there is nothing else you could have done. I figured it had gone something like that. Those Rebs that got me…one bragged as how he took this ring off a dead Union cavalry officer.”
He twisted the ring on his finger watching, the gold glow in the flickering light. “It’s Jack Montgomery’s college ring, I’d recognize it anywhere. That Reb paid the ultimate price for what he did. If he was right, Jack is dead.”
The camp around them was settling down again for the remainder of the night. The excitement of having a soldier return from the dead had worn off. Little did they know that this type of thing would happen again and again throughout the long, hard months to come.
Gradually the voices faded until only the occasional murmur could be heard. A man out on picket duty played a low, sweet tune on his harmonica. David wondered if it was Caleb Peters playing his little mouth organ. That boy had a gift with that little instrument. He could make a person conjure sweet images of home, hearth, and bygone childhood.
Nature’s nighttime sounds reasserted themselves in the howl of the wolves and the winter wind. Because the winter quarters consisted primarily of crude log cabins rather than tents, little could be heard outside from any talking or snoring men.
David stood, put his shirt and jacket back on, and gathered a few more logs to throw on the fire. At the edge of the firelight, he heard the sound of boots hitting the frozen ground, along with the deep mumbling of voices. Three men emerged from the darkness.
Caleb, fresh from picket duty, sauntered into the circle of light, laid his gun at his feet, and dropped onto a log with his feet stretched out to the fire. Close on his heels were George and Frank, two other cavalrymen who were under David’s command once more. George carried two full bottles of whiskey while Frank’s hands were full of cups and beef jerky.
Caleb grinned up at David and adjusted the wire-rimmed glasses on his freckled nose. “Me and the boys thought your return called for a little celebration, Captain Reynolds. Not that it was so bad under Captain Kurtz for these past weeks, but when it comes time to fight again, I’d prefer to be under your command.”
“Well, thank you, Caleb. I cert
ainly appreciate the kind words. There is no other bunch of boys that I would rather have under me than those of the Seventeenth.”
Chapter Fourteen
Phillip Winston stood at the window and watched his daughter ride away from the stables. A cold wind blew across the open fields, making her dark cloak billow around her and the hood fall down her back. Even from a distance he could see the shining mass of honey-gold hair held tightly in its long braid down her back, just as her mother used to wear her own hair.
Phillip rubbed his temples to ease the headache that had started to grow. Jennifer was so like her mother in looks and personality. That contributed to his concerns about her. Almost a month had passed since the Yankee soldier had left, and his daughter had not recovered the spark and vitality she had possessed before the man left.
Lovely Patience. Phillip sighed. Every time he looked at his daughter he could see Patience there, not only in her looks, but in many of her mannerisms as well. Jennifer’s mother had loved him with a passion that had left him humbled through their years together and prostrate with grief when she died. Jennifer showed every sign of having the capacity to love as passionately and as strongly as her mother had…and that had him in a quandary.
He did not let on to his daughter that he knew about the soldier. Without meaning to, Luther had let it slip about the “sick Yankee in Kizzie’s cabin.” To keep from upsetting the big man, he had pretended that he had not heard. Rather, he had visited the cabin in the wee hours of the morning and looked in the tiny window hidden by trees in the back of the cabin.
What he had seen would haunt him forever. It had been a quick look to see what was going on, but it was enough to keep his mouth clamped shut or risk alienating his only daughter.
A single oil lamp lit the dismal cabin, its light shining on Jennifer’s tear-streaked face. She knelt on the dirt floor at the head of the small bed. A tall, well-built man lay stretched out on his stomach with his bare feet hanging over the end. Phillip could see the back of the man’s dark head turned towards Jenny. He watched Isaac take a steaming kettle from the fire and set it on the table next to the bed. Kizzie came into view, the small dark woman saying something he couldn’t hear. Jenny nodded and bent close to the man’s head to speak to him. Slowly the man’s hands moved to grip the edges of the straw mattress.