One Wore Blue

  Not a good sign for a bride of less than four hours, he thought. He sighed. Anthony Miller was a good man. And he’d be good to Kiernan. They’d get on well enough, which was what most people did anyway.

  But his heart went out to her as he stood outside her bedroom door. She was his only child, and he loved her with all his heart. He prayed for her happiness. When Anthony came for her, when they lived together, when there were little children at her feet, perhaps then she would find the happiness that seemed determined to elude her now.

  But Kiernan never had to lie in the bed she had made for herself. Manassas saw to that.

  In his hospital tent at Bull Run, Jesse was up to his elbows in blood.

  The wounded, the already dead, and the dying were arriving with frightening speed. He was probing a ball from an artillery man’s shoulder when suddenly a cry went out that they should evacuate quickly.

  The ball wasn’t quite out. Jesse gritted his teeth and stood his ground, even as shells exploded nearly overhead.

  “Captain Cameron! Did you hear me?” a young sergeant demanded.

  “I heard you! And I promise you, son, if there’s ever a ball in your shoulder, I’ll see that it’s out before I hightail it and run, all right?” He looked up, motioning to his orderlies. “Get the rest of these men out of here, and onto the wagons—fast!”

  He paused, then set back to his task. Another shell exploded, ripping along his nerves, but he held steady. He could hear the troops racing by him.

  They had taken the offensive here at Bull Run. Military leaders had advised Lincoln to use patience, but the northern populace had been clamoring for action. The attack had been sound enough. Under the command of Brigadier General Irvin McDowell, Lincoln had ordered that the troops advance.

  But the strategy had not gone smoothly from the start.

  Jesse’s corps had started out with the campaign on the sixteenth of July. McDowell’s army had been thirty-five thousand strong, marching out of Washington with colorful Zouaves in the front.

  But two days of confusion and straggling and an incredibly slow pace had followed. They had entered Centreville, Virginia, a town directly east and north of Bull Run, which was a lazy, sluggish stream.

  But behind that stream was Confederate General Beauregard and his army, with twenty-two thousand Confederates waiting to defend the vital railroad position at Manassas Junction.

  On the day of their arrival, McDowell ordered a reconnaissance probe. That resulted in a skirmish with two Confederate brigades at Blackburn’s Ford.

  The skirmish resulted in two more days of confusion, days in which McDowell resupplied his poorly disciplined troops and created his battle plan. Finally, at about 2:00 A.M. on the twenty-first, McDowell had his twelve-thousand-man flanking column marching down the Warrenton Pike from Centreville.

  McDowell’s plan had been sound enough, Jesse thought. But his troops were still not an army—they were an untrained, inexperienced mob. It seemed painfully clear now that Confederates had been warned of the plan. Beauregard had been reinforced by troops from the west under Confederate General Joseph E. Johnston.

  The battle had grown heated by midmorning, when a Confederate colonel led his troops against the Union attack force. Jesse heard from the wounded coming in that reinforcements for the Rebs as well as the Union forces had come piecemeal, as the Confederate and Union generals alike sent men scrambling from the Confederate right to bolster the sagging left flank.

  One of Jesse’s orderlies, a longtime army man and Virginian from Powhatan County by the name of Gordon Gray, told him dolefully that it had been their own statesmen who bolstered up the day for the Rebs. “Colonel Bartow and General Lee were up there, heading things up. But the Rebs are just as raw and green and scattered as most of these new recruits we got here ourselves. Then that eccentric college professor from the Virginia Military Institute stood up there with his troops—Jackson. Thomas Jackson, Brigadier General Jackson. And he held still up there on the hill. General Lee tried to rally his troops, and his cry went up—‘Look! There’s Jackson standing like a stone wall. Rally around the Virginians!’” Gordon shook his head sadly. “And by God, they did. Jackson’s men on the hill started our troops running, and they’ve been running every since.”

  The Federals had regrouped, and savage fighting had continued. Men had streamed into the field hospital. But now, it seemed, they were being beaten back at last.

  Shells were exploding one right after another.

  Jesse pulled the ball cleanly from the soldier’s shoulder and quickly set to bandaging the wound. The soldier opened pained and opiate-glazed eyes to Jesse. “Am I going to live?” he asked.

  “Maybe to the ripe old age of a hundred,” Jesse told him.

  The soldier grinned. Corporal Gordon Gray appeared to help him scramble over to the wagon where a score of wounded waited. The wagon started off. A shell that exploded overhead missed the wagon by inches.

  Gordon forgot his military etiquette. “Jesse, come on!”

  Jesse quickly and efficiently closed up his bag and gave orders to save what they could of the field hospital. His cots and bandages and surgical equipment were quickly packed and loaded unto another waiting wagon. Pegasus was tethered to the rear of it. A veteran of many confrontations in the West, the seasoned war horse awaited Jesse’s command.

  Jesse mounted Pegasus to follow the wagon.

  Soon he was part of the Union retreat.

  And it was a retreat. Soldiers ran pell-mell from the action. Haphazard shots were fired.

  In front of them, Jesse could see the carriages of the darn fool civilians who had ridden out from Washington to watch the rebellious little Confederates get their comeuppance.

  Those Confederates had proven themselves not so easy to beat.

  Jesse had never expected that it would be easy. He knew too many of the men who fought for the South.

  He gritted his teeth, seeing an overturned carriage. “Hold up!” he called to the wagon. He leaped off Pegasus and hurried to the carriage. A civilian man was caught beneath one of the broken wheels. “Gordon! Come quickly. Help me!”

  They extricated the man from the debris. Jesse was sure he had a broken leg, but there was nothing that he could do about it now. Thankfully, the man fell unconscious after he was pulled out. He wouldn’t feel the pain as the wagon jolted back to Washington.

  It was the last time the man would watch a battle for sport, Jesse reckoned.

  It had been a grim day all around. He closed his eyes and thought of all the wounded who had passed through his tent.

  He winced when he thought of all those who had died before he’d had a chance to touch them. Hundreds lay on the field today.

  Well, they had all wanted war.

  Pegasus stopped suddenly without a signal from Jesse. The wagon had stopped, and Pegasus, fine animal that he was, had stopped along with it.

  They had come across another hospital wagon, and the driver was calling out to him.

  “Captain Cameron! There’s another field tent up ahead. It’s out of artillery range for the moment. The doc there was killed by a shell. Think you can bandage up a few men who won’t make the march back without a little help?”

  Jesse nodded. “Corporal, bring my bag,” he called to his corporal.

  He walked into the tent and looked with dismay at the scared and filthy faces of the men who could sit or stand. He looked with deeper dismay at those unconscious on the ground and on the few cots. The uniforms hadn’t been standardized yet, so along with the regular army blue, there were any number of outfits upon the men.

  He walked to a cot where a sheet covered a man.

  “Oh,” said the soldier who had stopped him. “Those are Rebs. Someone brought them here by mistake. Seems they were cavalry and with the dust and powder on them, they looked a lot like the Union boys. Why don’t you see to them last?”

  Jesse felt his heart beating hard. Reb cavalry—the injured could be any number of
men he knew.

  Hell, there were hundreds of Reb cavalry men that he didn’t know.

  He looked across the field tent at the two orderlies who seemed to be doing their best to make order out of the chaos, to make the injured men as calm and comfortable as possible.

  “Take me around to whoever needs help first. Don’t go by their uniforms. Just take me to the men with the worst injuries.”

  “You’re going to mess with the Rebs—” the annoyed soldier began.

  “Damned right, Private. I’m here to save lives, and I’m not going to ask a pack of questions first. Understand?”

  He didn’t receive an answer. One of the orderlies stepped forward quickly. Jesse began to look at the men. He was appalled by the number that he found dead already. The tent was a nightmare. The men were gut-shot, they were blinded. Their limbs were so badly battered that Jesse knew amputation was the only way out. But for the moment, he did patch-up jobs. He had no time to do more. He bandaged the men up just enough to enable them to get back to Washington.

  He turned in time to see the second orderly pull a sheet over one of the Rebs. He felt his heart quicken. He’d tried hard to be impartial. He couldn’t do it anymore.

  A cavalry officer could be his brother.

  “He’s dead, Captain,” the orderly said. “Trust me. I’ve been weeding out the dead ones all day.”

  Jesse ignored the orderly.

  He walked over to the shrouded body. A hot feeling of sickness and apprehension swept through his body. Don’t let it be Daniel, God, help me. It can’t be Daniel.

  He snatched the cover back, and a deep, startled sound escaped him.

  The man was dead.

  It wasn’t Daniel.

  It was Anthony Miller.

  The Confederates were indisputably able to claim the victory at Bull Run. The Union troops had flown like the green recruits they were, leaving the field uncontested.

  But both sides had suffered badly. A Harper’s Weekly correspondent Jesse saw soon after he finished patching up what men he could told him he estimated the North had probably lost close to five hundred, with maybe twelve hundred wounded. It was hard to make a count and might be hard for some time in all the confusion. Close to twelve hundred men were missing, too, but who knew what “missing” men were lost and shell-shocked and what “missing” men were flat-out deserting now that they knew war wasn’t going to be a glorious triumph.

  The South had lost, too, the correspondent was convinced. Maybe close to four hundred had been killed, and fifteen hundred wounded—but not nearly so many were “missing.” Jesse got what information he could out of the men and learned what he could about the southern troops. He found out nothing about his own brother, but the correspondent knew someone who had said that Jeb Stuart had been leading cavalry damned admirably, and a parlay with him might still be possible.

  Jesse didn’t seek permission from a superior officer. In the confusion that reigned, he wasn’t about to go through military red tape to confer with Stuart, an enemy officer. He sent out Private Gibbs into the recent battle zone with a white flag and a message. It took Gibbs some time, but he managed to reach Stuart and arrange a meeting.

  Jesse met his old school chum on a ridge where the left flank had fought.

  Bodies littered the ground. Trees and grass had been mowed down from the hail of bullets and artillery. Stuart, an incredible horseman, came galloping upon the field with neither fear nor suspicion. Jesse didn’t gallop to meet him, for the body of Anthony Miller was on a litter affixed to his saddle by splints.

  The two soldiers—Confederate and Union—met.

  Jeb nodded to him gravely. “Jesse. It’s a damned sorry thing, but it’s good to see you alive.”

  “You, too,” Jesse agreed. “Daniel—”

  “Your brother’s company was under me. He’s fine. He didn’t receive so much as a nick.”

  “Thanks,” Jesse told him.

  “We can’t meet long,” Jeb warned him.

  “I know,” Jesse said. “But I found someone who was once an old friend among our dead and wounded, Jeb. I reckoned you could see him returned to his father for burial.”

  Jeb arched a brow and looked to the sheeted bundle in the litter. He leaped down from his mount and came around, lifting the sheet.

  He looked up at Jesse. “Jesu,” he murmured. “I can’t take him to his father. Andrew Miller was with Johnston’s army. He was killed, too, not far from here, in the early stages of the battle.”

  Jesse felt his throat tighten. Father and son together in one day? Two bodies would have to be received by the children. All that remained of the Miller family now were Anthony’s younger brother and sister, he thought.

  “By God,” Jeb muttered, “I’ll have to deliver both of these bodies to his wife.”

  “His wife?” Jesse tensed.

  Jeb looked up at him. “You didn’t know? Anthony married Kiernan Mackay.”

  “No,” Jesse said. “I didn’t know.” Hot arrows pierced him. She had finally married him. She hadn’t loved him, but she had married him.

  I’m actually jealous, Jesse thought in amazement. How the hell can I envy a dead man?

  Jeb was looking at him again. “It was good of you to come out here like this, Jesse. I’ll see to it that Anthony makes it home. I’ll see to it that Kiernan knows you got him back to me.”

  Jesse shook his head. “No, keep my name out of it, please. Give Daniel my best, though.”

  Jeb smiled with a slow, wry curve to his lip. He knew Jesse’s situation. Jeb’s own father-in-law was a colonel with the Union Army, and would certainly receive quick advancement now with the war under way.

  Jeb knew what it was like to have a family split. “I’ll see to it that he gets your regards.”

  Jesse dismounted from his horse and released the litter contraption. “Take care, Jeb.”

  “You, too, Jesse.”

  Jesse mounted and rode along the bloodstrewn trail. His heart had never felt quite so heavy. He hadn’t returned the body of a one-time friend.

  He had returned the body of a husband to a wife.

  To Kiernan.

  Fourteen

  A week later, Kiernan stood in the railway station at Harpers Ferry still numb. From head to toe, she was dressed in black. She was now a widow, and she was still in disbelief that Anthony was dead.

  Daniel had ridden down the peninsula and brought the news to her.

  She had been too shocked at first to truly understand what had happened to her. From the night Anthony had married her and left her, she had dreaded his coming back. She had dreaded lying in bed with him, she had been certain that she could never begin to give him what she had given to Jesse so freely.

  And now …

  Her father left her alone after they received the news. John was busy mourning himself for Anthony’s father. Andrew had been one of John best friends, as well as his business partner. Now that fine older gentleman was dead.

  “He was too old to go to war!” John said, shaking his head. But he realized that his daughter didn’t even hear him. She was silent, numb.

  It was summer. Something had to be done with the bodies, even if Daniel had taken it upon himself to see that they were put in fine mahogany coffins. Those coffins had to be interred soon.

  Within a day, the Millers’ lawyer appeared at the Mackays’ door. He explained the circumstances to John.

  John Mackay in turn sat Kiernan before him and tried to explain the situation to her.

  Andrew and Anthony were dead. Young Jacob Miller and his sister Patricia were the heirs to Montemarte. Anthony, always a gentleman in every manner, had adjusted his will before leaving home to ride to battle—and to try to acquire a wife. Kiernan had been left a sum of gold and a share of the rifle works, which now made her her father’s business partner.

  With the death of both Andrew and Anthony, she had also been left in charge of the children.

  With lost eyes she stared at h
er father. “Kiernan, do you understand? You must care for them. You must protect their home for them. Kiernan, their lives are in your hands.” She didn’t answer him, and he sighed. “We can have them brought down here. It will be rough on them to lose everyone and then to be uprooted so cruelly too. But if you can’t deal with the situation—”

  “No!” she protested, instantly standing. The guilt weighed on her terribly. She hadn’t loved Anthony, yet she had married him. She hadn’t wanted to sleep with him—and he was dead.

  The very least that she could do was to care for his family. That would be no difficulty. She knew the children well, she enjoyed them. She knew the Miller household well enough, and it was a fine one.

  It was just so far from her own home. But the next morning, dressed in black and with the coffins in tow, she was ready to travel to Harpers Ferry and Montemarte. John Mackay would have accompanied her, but she insisted that she could manage alone. Thomas and Lacey Donahue were wired to meet her at the station with the children. She would manage well enough.

  And so she came back to Harpers Ferry, a little more than a year and a half after John Brown had tried to seize the armory.

  As she stood in the railway station in her black, she looked around and found that the place had changed, pathetically changed. It was very empty. Quiet lay over the streets like a pall. The whisper of the breeze seemed the only sound.

  She heard the clip-clop of horses’ hooves and the wheels of a carriage. Thomas Donahue stepped down from the carriage and hurried across the platform to reach her.

  “Kiernan!”

  A big, kind gentleman, he took her into his arms and held her warmly.

  She hugged him fiercely in return, then looked at him with wide eyes. “Thomas, what happened here?”

  “I’ll get you to the house,” he told her. “We’ll talk there.” He lifted her baggage up onto the carriage.

  The Stationmaster had already been ordered to bring the coffins up to the Episcopal church. There would be a service first thing in the morning.

  Thomas clucked to the horses and the carriage was off, bringing them around to the house. Lacey was on the steps to meet her and hugged her warmly. She looked at Kiernan very sadly, then clucked like an old mother hen and brought her inside. “I was going to have the children brought here, but then I thought that we should wait. Have some tea, then Thomas can see you up to the house. The children are fine, of course. They are with dear Janey out at Montemarte, and she’s been supervising the dears for so long now—well, everyone is fine, of course, but anxious for you. Oh, Kiernan!” Tears welled up in her eyes. “It is so good that you have come!”