Not much of a challenge. She knew he would stop.
He reined in his mount. Instantly, the soldiers were on him, dragging him from the horse. He struggled to free himself, but the Yanks were having none of it. One of the men swung at him with the butt of his rifle. A good, solid blow. Julian’s head clamored and rung. The whack had been strong enough to cause a fracture, pray God no ...
He started to fall, the world going black. But he saw her. Saw her beautiful green eyes upon his.
He reached out. She screamed, but he had caught her hand. And with what strength he had left, he pulled her to him.
And she came down with him. The world was fading. No matter. He smiled at her. Tried to mouth words. “I swear, dear wife, you will be sorry.”
Indeed. Brave, bold words, especially when the world was fading to a total black.
“He’s unconscious ma’am, if you’ll take my hand ...” one of the young horsemen offered.
Rhiannon nodded. Then she looked down at Julian again, eyes closed, a long lock of dark hair fallen over his forehead. She wanted to trace the lines of his face. Touch him, stay with him until he had come to, make sure that he was all right. She bit into her lip, dismayed by the admission she was making then, if only to herself.
“You’ll just never know, never believe, that I did this ... because I love you,” she whispered, knowing that neither he, nor anyone else, could hear her.
Cannon fire suddenly exploded, far too close to them. “Get the prisoner up and to the field hospital!” Magee commanded. “The day’s work has commenced, and gentlemen, may I remind you! The fate of the nation rests on your shoulders today!”
The fate of the nation. The fate of thousands of men who would die. She couldn’t stop the death and destruction, no one could stop it. Yet she wondered ...
Had she changed fate, did she have that power? She’d been willing to risk anything to change her dream. But just what had she done? She had deceived Julian, betrayed him. She’d wanted to save him, as he’d saved her, then run ...
She’d tricked him.
He’d tricked her. And now, if he’d told the truth, they were evermore entangled in a hopeless tempest.
Especially because there was one truth she had told.
Fate. Had it all been fated, from that first night when he had ridden through the foliage to the isolation of her house, and into her life?
Chapter 18
THERE WAS NOTHING AS awful as the sound of battle.
Kept with other prisoners, mostly infantry and artillery men taken during the fighting, Julian sat tensely on a log behind one of the Yankee field hospitals, listening to the thunder of cannon fire that seemed to boom forever, coming first from one direction, then the other.
The first day’s fighting had left the Confederates at an advantage, taking the town, forcing the Yanks back. The second day had brought savage fighting, leaving no clear victory. July the third, the armies battled again, despite the fact that the dead lay everywhere, that the number of wounded was staggering, that blood drenched the field.
He was tired, but more than tired, he was wretched. He couldn’t endure feeling so useless when he knew how many were being injured, how many would die for lack of attention. Listening to the sounds of gunfire, the screams of men and horses, he damned himself a thousand times over. Not so much for himself. But for what he had done to the men. Every surgeon was needed. And here he was ... listening.
The battlefield was enormous, stretching across hills, fields, orchards, roads, a cemetery. He didn’t know where his own troops were, and worse, he didn’t know where Rhiannon was. In the midst of the action somewhere. And he was powerless. He felt a certain victory in having tricked her in what might be a more binding way than she had him, but it was a hollow triumph. She was legally married. Little good it did him. He was a prisoner, under guard.
Screams, closer at hand, caught his attention. He rose, seeing that an ambulance was coming in. The conveyance stopped just outside the Yankee tents. The man at the driver’s side hopped down, shouting. “Help, we need help out here, Dr. McManus—”
A doctor, clad in a blood-soaked uniform, stepped from the canvas field hospital. “They’ll have to take their turns.”
The doctor disappeared. The soldier looked over the twenty or so Reb prisoners and the two men guarding them. “G’d Amighty, I’ve got fellows dying here ... some fellows may not make it for as much as a drop of water ... Sweet Jesus, someone help me!”
Prisoners and guards alike stared at the soldier for a moment.
“We’ve got the Rebs to watch,” one of the guards said awkwardly.
“Damn it!” Julian swore, striding over to the conveyance with impatience. “We may be Rebs, but by God, we’re all human beings! Someone give me a hand, let’s get these out of the ambulance, see what we can do ...”
“I’m with you, Doc!” one of the Rebs said, jumping down to join him.
A big fellow in a fraying infantry uniform stood up to block Julian’s way. “If they live, they’ll come back and kill us!”
“Maybe. And maybe not,” Julian said, hands on his hips, staring at the fellow. “Let me tell you the way things work. I’m a Reb, because I’m a Floridian first. And before that, soldier, I’m a God-fearing human being, not to mention the fact that I’m a doctor who swore an oath to preserve life! So you can either try to stop me or you can get out of my way!”
The fellow frowned, then stepped back. “Ah, hell!” he swore. “I can’t just sit here with them Yanks screamin’ either. Tell me what you want me to do, Doc.”
Julian looked at the Yankee soldier who had brought the wounded in. “May we, son?”
“Doc, please!”
Julian began giving orders, carefully pulling the men from the ambulance wagon. He found three dead men in with the wounded, along with three Rebs. He did his best to get the twenty odd men shaded from the merciless summer sun beneath a patch of oaks. The field hospital had been set up by a small creek, so there was no problem getting them water. Julian had nothing with which to operate, but with even the Yanks listening to directions, he managed several splints, stanched wounds that were hemorrhaging, and made comfortable those who were going to die.
He was involved in tying off a makeshift tourniquet when the Yankee doctor, McManus, came out of the tent. He viewed the scene before him with a moment’s surprise, then seemed to take it all in his stride.
“You’re a doctor—” he began, eyeing Julian. Then he broke off, frowning. “You’re a McKenzie. Damned if you don’t look like Colonel Ian. You his twin?”
“Younger brother,” Julian said.
“The surgeon ... yes.” He studied him for a moment. “Well, I can’t say as how we couldn’t use your help. Would you work a Yank field hospital, sir?”
Julian didn’t hesitate. “I would.” He looked around him at the Rebs who had helped him with the Yanks. “No man here is a monster. We’re just fighting opposite sides.”
Dr. McManus looked around at the Rebs. “Thank you, boys. I’m grateful for your help. Dr. McKenzie, follow me.”
Julian did so. In the tent there were five tables. Each held a man and awaited another. Three doctors were moving from table to table.
A man on the one nearest their point of entry began to stir. “Jesus, Doc, you’re bringing the Rebs in here on us?”
“Another surgeon, soldier—”
“Ain’t no enemy operating on me!” the man protested.
“He’d like to kill us all!” another man agreed.
“Yeah, Doc, get him out of here!” one of the orderlies protested.
“Julian!”
Startled to hear his name called, Julian walked to the far table. He frowned at first, then recognized a Yankee cavalryman who had been in St. Augustine at the time he’d been brought in to operate on Magee’s foot. He’d assisted, getting Julian from and back to the river.
“George Hill?”
“Julian ... it’s my leg. Shot through the ca
lf. Can’t feel anything, but I don’t think the bone is shattered. Can you ...”
“I don’t know. I’ve got to see the wound.”
“You letting him operate on you, Captain Hill?” Another man called.
“Damned right,” Hill said, leaning back with a subtle smile. “Hell, this man operated on General Magee!”
Julian lifted his hands. “I have no instruments.”
One of the orderlies came over to him with a black bag. “Belonged to Captain Naismith, Forty-fourth Maine. He died yesterday morning.”
Julian looked at the bag for a moment. “Dr. Naismith wouldn’t begrudge you using his things, sir. He never did cotton to this war. He said time and again, all we were doing was killing out a whole generation of Americans, the flower of our youth. You use these, sir. He’d be mighty proud you were saving men.”
Julian nodded and accepted the medical bag. The orderly’s name was Robert Roser. He appointed himself Julian’s assistant.
To his vast relief, Julian discovered that he could save Captain Hill’s leg. The bullet had gone clean through. Next, however, was a shattered elbow, and the arm had to come off. He removed a bullet from the next man’s lower abdomen, then it was a foot wound, a bayonet wound to a shoulder, a bullet in the back, shrapnel, broken jaw ...
The day began to pass.
He moved with all the speed that he could manage. Later, he began to discover that more and more Rebs were brought to his table. He was startled when he came across a lieutenant with Pickett’s troops; Pickett rode with Longstreet, and he had just treated the lieutenant recently for a case of chicken pox.
“Why, Captain McKenzie, sir. What are you doing here?”
“I was captured. But I’m still a doctor,” Julian said, frowning as he studied the man’s wounds. A bullet in the arm, one in the leg ...
No hope.
His intestines were slipping from his stomach, he’d been hit so many times at close range.
“Let’s just give you something for the pain—”
But the lieutenant grabbed his hand, smiling. A little trickle of blood came from his lips. “Sir, I’m no fool. You’re a mighty fine surgeon, but you ever hear that kid’s poem? All the kings horses and all the kings men couldn’t put me back together again. I don’t know what I’m doing on this table. Wasting time for some fellow with a chance. Can’t believe I can even talk, ’cause I can feel it going, sir, you know, I can feel it! Life slipped away, like a coldness coming. I ain’t afraid, sir. Weren’t no saint, but I always did what I knew to be right. It’s just a shame. I just heard my cousin Joe was fighting right where I went in, fighting with Hancock’s boys. They’re the ones that caught us when we came in ... yessir, we went charging right for the line in the middle of Hancock’s men. If you see him, sir, Joe O’Riley, Captain Joe O’Riley, you tell him that his cousin Adam says good-bye. Will you do that for me, sir?”
“Of course, Lieutenant, but—”
“Don’t bullshit me—whoa, sorry, sir!”
“It’s all right. No bullshit.”
“It’s cold as hell. Hold my hand.”
He curled his hand around O’Riley’s. Like O’Riley had said, you could feel death coming. A cold, cold stiffening ...
He inhaled on a deep breath. Unwound his fingers from the dead soldier’s. He hadn’t cried in a long, long time. He felt like sobbing.
“That one dead, Dr. Reb?” Robert Roser asked, then saw his face. “Sorry, sir, but there’s more men out here ... hundreds of them.” Julian stared at him blankly. “There was a charge against the Union line. One of those damned fool valiant charges ... but it went bad for the Rebs. They were just ...” He broke off.
“Go on,” Julian said.
“It was a slaughter, sir.”
Julian closed his eyes.
“Maybe you need some rest, sir. Even Dr. McManus has taken a break.”
“No, no, I’m fine. Bring them on in.”
News from the battle came with the injured men. As Roser had said, it had been a slaughter. Pickett’s men had sought the honor of charging against the Union line. Time and time again, pure Rebel bravado had taken the South to victory over far superior forces. The swell of a Rebel yell on a battlefield could be bone-chilling, and it was true that raw courage and gall had given the Confederates many an advantage.
But today Pickett’s men had charged the line. Cannon fire had spewed at them again and again. Men had dropped step by step.
They had kept coming.
Coming and coming ...
They had reached the line. The few who had made it through the hail of cannon fire and bullets. But at the Union line they had been stopped. Those who had not fallen were met by the waiting Yanks with their bayonets and close-range gun fire.
The Yanks were jubilant, with just cause. They had stopped the Rebs. Southern daring had failed.
Yet as night fell, there were few could feel the victory without a sense of pain. The dead lay everywhere. Both sides attempted to retrieve their wounded. Rain began to fall.
Somewhere around midnight, Julian began to waver. He could no longer work without endangering the wounded by his own exhaustion. As one man was moved, he leaned his head upon his arms. He closed his eyes and saw no more.
Bathed in blood, he slept where he stood.
By morning the Confederates had begun a slow, steady retreat south.
Julian was surprised that General Meade, who had stood firm against the Rebs and claimed the field here at Gettysburg, did not attempt to pursue. Not only had Pickett’s charge been stopped, but Julian had been hearing more and more about the events to follow. Lee, the great commander hailed by North and South alike, had openly wept. He had claimed to everyone that it had been “All my fault, all my fault.” For once the army had been utterly demoralized.
It was a great day of triumph for the Federals. They had won the field at Gettysburg. And word had come that Vicksburg, besieged by Grant for months, had finally fallen as well. It had come to a matter of surrender, or total starvation for those in the city—the last rat, one man said, had been eaten. Not a pigeon dared fly in the sky.
And it was the Fourth of July. Independence Day.
If only ...
There weren’t the problem of the dead and wounded.
Retreating, the Southerners hadn’t been able to find all their wounded among the dead; as it was, Lee was lucky that Meade, like so many of his predecessors, had neglected to come after him. His ambulance vehicles would slow him down; hundreds, perhaps thousands would die along the way, and be buried in unmarked graves. At least, since the Union army stalled, he would have a chance for some of his wounded.
Some Union soldiers grumbled. They could finish it! They could go after Lee, attack while his army was so crippled. They could end it, perhaps, oh, God, end it!
But Meade didn’t choose to follow.
Julian thought that he might have been glad himself if Meade had done so. It was a traitorous feeling but he had never felt such a sense of loss. Men had been dying for two full years. Too many lay dead.
Standing on the soaked earth, looking across the fields where bodies already began to rot, where carrion birds began to fly, where it was almost impossible to tell the quick from the dead.
July the Fourth ...
It was a strange day. High excitement, a sense of triumph that went beyond the battles won, but came with the fact that Lee’s troops could be bested, beaten, worn down, stopped. It combined with the date—surely an omen. And yet, as the gunshots fired represented celebration, death still surrounded them in a serious manner. The injured had to be found quickly. The dead had to be interred. The number of bodies could well cause a quick influx of deadly diseases.
Julian ignored the celebrations going on around him and concentrated on the injured that were still coming before him, one after another, almost as quickly as they had come during battle. There was a difference today; most of the men who had come before could be saved. Those with mortal
wounds had perished on the fields. He wondered how many had died who might have been saved if only they’d been found and brought from the scene of battle quickly enough.
That afternoon, while he paused between the wounded, McManus offered him coffee. He accepted it gladly. “Have you heard anything about General Magee’s troops?” he asked.
“Magee came through fine.”
“My brother?”
“He was circling around after Jeb Stuart’s troops through the first part of the battle. He’s been sent on to Washington.” McManus paused for a moment. “He was never told that you had been taken prisoner.”
Julian nodded, relieved. In the back of his mind, he’d been afraid that Ian had been killed or wounded. If not, his brother would have been to see him.
“You’re sure he’s alive and well?”
“Yes, he left early with dispatches.”
“My wife?” Julian asked.
McManus frowned. “Wife?”
Julian smiled dryly. “Yes. It was a shotgun wedding, sir, in a strange sense. Rhiannon Tremaine is a nurse. I understand that she is a godsend to the Union troops.”
“None of our nurses was injured, Dr. McKenzie, as far as I’ve heard.” He paused, studying Julian curiously. “She is a godsend to the troops. I asked to have her assigned to me, but I’m not on General Magee’s staff, and so she works with his surgeons.”
“Can you find out for me if she is really well? I’d be grateful, sir.”
McManus, watching him, nodded. “I am the one grateful, sir. You’ve proven yourself a true man of your oath. I’ll make sure that the lady is well. Did you wish to see her?”
Did he want to see her? No. He was unshaven, sweaty, wearing the grime of the muddied battlefield. “No, sir. I just want to make sure that she is well.”
McManus nodded. “It will be done. Is there anything else? It seems that you’re to be in my keeping for the next few days.”
“If we’ve got a river or a stream anywhere, I’d take most kindly to a bath.”
“I think we can arrange that as well.”
An hour later, McManus came by to tell him that a messenger had gone between the field hospitals, and Rhiannon was well. She had been kept far to the southeast of the action, bandaging men as they came from surgery to be sent back to the hospitals in Washington.