“Julian, Julian ... Doc!”
It was Robert Roser. He was by him, helping him to his feet—and then pulling him back.
The photographer rose slowly, shouting at the Yanks. “What the hell is the matter with you boys? You a bunch of sissy cowards, you let this barbarian Reb attack me like that?”
“There’s no cowards here,” Jim Brandt told the man. “We fought here. We died here. And you leave the dead the hell alone, do you hear?”
“I wasn’t messing with the Yanks—”
“Don’t mess with the Rebels, either!” Brandt said. “They weren’t vultures, like you.”
The photographer turned around to his assistant, who was dusting the dirt from his clothing. “Let’s go, we’ll find a better picture.” He spun on Brandt, wagging a finger at him. “I’ll report this. You can mark my word!”
As he stamped away, Brandt swore—and spat in the dirt again. “Bastard. Still, there’s going to be hell to pay for this one.”
Julian looked at him, and at Roser and the other Yanks lined up behind the two. The death detail. Maybe they’d all seen too much. “Thanks,” Julian said quietly.
Brandt grinned. “I sure as hell would have loved to have gotten one of those punches in!”
“There will be hell to pay, you know. He’ll go to the officers, he’ll write up the way we cotton to our Reb prisoners,” Roser said.
“McKenzie, honest to God, we’re not all like that,” Brandt told him.
“I know that. Hey, there are Southern monsters, too,” Julian said wearily.
“He needed to be hit,” Roser declared angrily.
Julian heard another groan. “Roser. Brandt ... here. Come on, help me.”
Julian walked back to the arranged pile of men. Their uniforms were covered in mud. He found the man, found him breathing, found a pulse.
“He’s still alive, I don’t know how!” Julian said.
Roser, Brandt, and some of the other men were at his side. “We’ll get the stretcher,” two privates, Lem Grady and Ash Yeagher, offered. It was hard moving across the fields. Although burial details were out, there were still bodies everywhere. The Feds wanted to know the identities of the men they were burying. Some of the fallen, if important enough in the military, might make it home to be buried among their own kin.
Some would lie in the earth, their names forever unknown.
So few remained alive. ...
Like this poor fellow.
Julian tried to ascertain the injuries.
Unless he were missing something, the soldier wasn’t so badly injured—a blow from a rifle butt when the enemy had run out of bullets had apparently been the cause of the wound. The wretched conditions on the field had brought on a fever. The soldier was barely conscious.
Roser stood next to him. “What is it, sir? Why, he ain’t a Reb, is he?”
Julian looked up at him. “No, not a Reb. Not what he seems at all.”
“What do you mean? We should get that Harpers fellow back.”
“Yes, we should. He missed the real story here.”
“What—”
“He’s not a Reb, and he’s not a ‘he.’ It’s a woman.”
Chapter 19
SHE HAD TAKEN FIVE bullets.
Amazingly, not one of them had punctured a vital organ, and although she was unconscious when they brought her into the hospital, she awoke soon after he had fished the last bullet out of her lower leg. She hadn’t even broken a bone. Icy compresses had brought down her fever; he’d dosed her with quinine. After surgery, one of the plump, kindly women who followed along as a nurse had bathed her, dressed her in a clean white gown, and washed her hair. She was very young and very pretty, and when Julian came to see her, she was very grateful.
“They left me! Everybody just left me. But you ... you’re a Rebel, aren’t you?” she asked.
He smiled, feeling her forehead for fever. She was so much cooler. Sometimes youth and a will to live were more important than any other factor.
“I’m a Rebel,” he told her. “And you’re a lucky young lady. Lucky to be alive. What were you doing in uniform?”
“Fighting.”
“You hate the Rebels so much?” he asked her.
She shook her head. Her eyes were big and blue, and her smile was sweet. “I had nothing left, that’s all. My mother died when I was about three. My father was killed in the war, my brother was with the army ... we couldn’t pay our bills. Lost the farm. I came with Hank—that’s my brother—into the army. Hank got killed in Virginia. I don’t even remember what they called the battle. By then the men had accepted me ... some knew, but they watched out for me ’cause I had been Hank’s sister, and he was a right fine fellow.”
“No more fighting,” he told her.
“So what do I do?” she asked, her eyes round. “Want a nurse? I’d work with you, sir.”
“I’m a prisoner here, like you said, a Rebel. But you can work as a nurse. I’ll tell Dr. McManus to put you to work when you’re well enough.”
“Where will you be?”
“In prison.”
She grinned. “My name is Sam Miller. Samantha, that is. I suppose I might as well be Samantha now.”
“And I’m—”
“Dr. Julian McKenzie. I know. I asked. And you’re all that anyone is talking about now.”
“I have to go, Samantha.”
“I know. They don’t want that Harpers fellow getting any civilian authorities on you. They’re afraid you’ll wind up hanging yourself in some jail cell. But, sir, you saved my life. I will find you.”
“Sam, it’s not necessary—”
“I think it is.” Her eyes were wide and very grave. “I love you, you see.”
He hesitated. “Sam, that’s wonderful. If any soldier was going to fall in love with me, I’m awfully glad it was you,” he teased. “But ... I have a wife.”
Sam sniffed. “So I heard! She tricked you. She doesn’t deserve you. I would do anything for you!”
“If you would do anything for me,” he said sternly, “survive. Just survive the war, all right? And when you do, look us all up. We have a big plantation down outside of Tampa, in Florida.”
She smiled. “I’ll find you, sir.”
“Take care of yourself.”
He squeezed her hand and left her bedside. He passed by some of his other patients, amazed to feel a certain sorrow that he was leaving.
Robert Roser came up to him. “Sir, you’re welcome to wash up a bit by the creek. Brandt and I will be escorting you to another facility soon.”
“Thank you, Roser.”
“We’re sorry to see you go, sir.”
“Believe it or not, I’m sorry to be going.”
“Well, hell, who in God’s name was going to stop him? They say that the fellow was arranging the dead, trying to make the battlefield look more gruesome. As if it weren’t bloody enough! They say the Reb doctor nearly broke his jaw.”
“Yeah, and what happened to the Reb doctor?”
At the mention of “Reb doctor,” Rhiannon straightened from her task of checking the bandage on the arm of a soldier with a saber wound. The soldier looked up at her, aware that the gossip had caught her interest. “Don’t pay no mind, ma’am, there was nothing bad happened.”
The soldier’s name was Axel Smith. He was young, with the 20th Maine. “What did happen?” Rhiannon asked him.
“Well, I don’t know for certain.” He grinned. “I’ve been here, you know.”
“Corporal Smith—”
“Seems they were out hunting for wounded among the dead. Some photographers were on the field, and they were moving bodies around.” He paused, watching for her reaction. Stories traveled like lightning in the aftermath of battle. The men she had treated knew who she was, and knew that she had lured the Rebel doctor into captivity, and that she had married him in the process. That they had known one another before, that they were both from Florida, enhanced the story.
&
nbsp; “Please, go on.”
“McKenzie stepped between the man and his business, so they say. I heard tell that the photographer started swinging first. But they say that your husband flattened him, ma’am, and that there wasn’t a Yank soldier out there who was sorry to see it happen. One of the bodies they were trying to move around for their picture turned out to be a live Yank. Young girl at that.”
“Girl!” Rhiannon said.
“Won’t be the first time, ma’am, a woman’s been found out to dress up to be in this war. Wives have put on uniforms to be with their husbands, sisters have come with their brothers, even sweethearts, and just a tart miss here or there who wanted to whip the opposing side. Just like, sometimes you see young fellows you know couldn’t be over eighteen, like they say they have to be when they’re enlisting forces. Fellows just write the number eighteen on a little piece of paper, stick it in their shoe, and say they’re ‘over’ eighteen. Lots of folks have gone through great lengths to be in this war, ma’am. They just want to help in some way. Why ... look at yourself.”
“I just couldn’t—” Rhiannon began, then broke off.
“You couldn’t shoot a Southerner. ’Cause you are one,” Axel Smith told her with simple logic.
“Maybe.”
“They’ll be taking Dr. McKenzie out of here, you know. There’s going to be a big stink about a Rebel prisoner belting a fellow from Harpers.”
“What do you mean? What will they do to him?”
“He can’t stay here anymore, that’s for sure.”
Leave it to Julian, Rhiannon thought. She busied herself for a moment, pretending to adjust the bandaging, which was just fine. But tremors of fear were shooting through her. Just what had he done, how bad was it, what would they do to him? Why should she care? Whether he had gone through great extremes to marry her or not, his rejection of her had been blunt, determined—and painful. He’d wanted no part of her. He’d wanted to get away from her as fast as humanly possible.
But he claimed that they were legally married. And it was still true that ...
“Mrs. McKenzie,” Axel Smith said to her, studying her eyes with a kind light in his own, “if you want to see him before he’s taken out of here, you’d best hurry up.”
She nodded, straightening. She hurried down the hallway and down the stairs. At the door, she slipped out of the hospital smock she’d been wearing, smoothed back her hair, and hurried outside. As always, the trampled lawn outside the house was littered with soldiers, those who had been injured, awaiting transportation, or further orders. Cooking fires burned; soldiers played instruments. Orderlies and nurses brought water, coffee, and moved among the multitude of men. She was glad to see that Captain Jesse Halston was among the men outside. His arm bandaged and in a sling, he leaned against a tall oak.
“Jesse!”
She hurried out to him. “Jesse, I heard that—”
“Julian leveled that bastard from Harpers.”
She paused. His hazel eyes were alight with amusement. “Jesse—”
“Don’t worry so much, Rhiannon,” he said, smiling with reassurance. “Our own men wanted to rip into the fellow. Don’t you think the generals feel the same way? They’re not going to let Julian be hanged or shot—”
“Hanged! Shot!”
“They’ll be getting him out of harm’s way,” Jesse said softly.
“Where?”
“Where else? They’ll take him back to Old Capitol. If you want to see him, you’d better hurry. You ride, right? Take Talisman over there. The bay. He’s my own mount, a fine fellow. He’ll take you to Julian—if he’s not gone already.”
“Thank you.”
She spun around and tried to walk with dignity to the horse, yet she was running long before she reached him.
“You had to hit him. You just had to hit him!” an amused, deeply masculine voice accused.
Julian stood by a tall oak that grew by the little creek outside the field hospital. He’d stripped down completely to rinse in the shallow water, and now, in his breeches alone, he felt the coolness of the night coming to sweep away some of the summer’s heat.
He knew the voice well, and turning, he grinned.
Ian had come.
He strode to his brother and embraced him. They held together for a long moment, then Ian drew away.
“It’s pretty damned good if we’re both here, still alive,” Ian said.
“You were in the fighting.”
“Tail end of it. We’d been routed around to find Jeb Stuart.”
Julian looked out over the water. “I’m hearing bits and pieces of things. They say that Jeb failed Lee.”
“Well, he didn’t get his communications the way he usually did. And this was Lee’s first major encounter without Stonewall Jackson.”
“But Meade didn’t pursue Lee,” Julian said.
“I know.” Ian sounded disgusted. And standing there, Julian knew that they all just wanted it over. Ian touched his face. “Nice bruise.”
“You should see the other guy.”
“I heard.” Ian exhaled on a long breath. “We can arrange an exchange, since you are medical, but it will take a little time.”
“Ian, you don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do. We share a father and mother, remember? They’ll come north and whomp the daylights out of me—”
“Ian, they never whomped the daylights out of us.”
“Yes, but they’ll start now if they find out I didn’t do my best to get my little brother freed—even if your new wife did get you here.”
“So you heard.”
“Yeah.”
“Tricked ... by a woman. Pretty humiliating, huh?”
“Julian—” Ian said, then paused. He shrugged. “She probably really did save your life. Magee told me about a couple of instances on the way here that were uncanny. It’s not like she can read the future, but sometimes she has a flash of insight. If she was that determined ...”
“Doesn’t matter. It happened.”
Ian nodded after a moment. “McManus is sorry to be losing you.”
“He was a good man with whom to work.”
“They’re taking you to a farmhouse tonight. Tomorrow, on to Washington. They want the Harpers fellow to think you’re already gone.”
“I know.”
Ian grinned. “Brought you a new shirt.”
“Ian, I’m a Reb prisoner. You’re not supposed—”
“Julian, swallow some pride. It’s a plain white cotton shirt from home. You can wear your worn gray frock coat over it.”
Julian nodded and reached for the shirt, slipping it over his head. “Thanks,” he told Ian huskily. “I kept trying to wash that one, but some of the blood just wouldn’t come out. So much blood, so many dead men. Sweet Jesus, Ian, I wish it would have ended here.”
“Yeah,” Ian said. “So do we all.”
They heard a clip-clop of horses’ hooves. Robert Roser and Jim Brandt had come for him. “Colonel, sir!” they said, saluting Ian.
He saluted in return, then told Julian, “I’ll see you again in the morning, right before you head out for D.C. Get some sleep. Apparently, the politicians may be outraged, but the soldiers on the field think you’re a hero. You’re getting a nice soft bed for the night.”
“Good then, brother. In the morning,” Julian said, heading for the horse Jim Brandt led for him to take. But he turned back. Hell, he might be seeing Ian in the morning, but the damned war just went on and on. He embraced his brother once again, then mounted at last. It was time to ride out.
Rhiannon reached McManus’s field hospital quickly, dismounted, and hurried into the tented enclosure. Weaving her way through the injured, she tried to find Julian. She felt dismay curl around her heart as she failed to spot him. To the far side was a curtained enclosure. She lifted the canvas to slip inside.
There was a single bed there, a real camp cot, and not just a makeshift table, the type on which so many of the soldiers rec
eived surgery.
The occupant was female. A pretty girl, such a contrast to all around her! She was virginal in a white gown, with fresh-scrubbed cheeks, cropped rich sable hair, and blue eyes that seemed the color of the sky. To Rhiannon’s surprise, she stared at her as if she were a loathsome enemy, and she was quite certain that they had never met before. She knew, of course, though, that this was the “soldier” Julian had found on the field.
“Hello, you seem to be doing well. Have you seen Dr. McKenzie?”
“You’re his wife?”
“I—yes. Do you know where he is?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Oh?”
“You tried to get him killed.”
“What?”
“When I’m well enough, I’m going to find him. He should be with someone who cares about him.” The girl smoothed back her hair. “I’ll live with him, and I won’t care if you never give him a divorce. He hates you. He said so.”
Rhiannon stared at the girl, amazed. She was a child and acting childishly. Julian would never share such information with a stranger. She didn’t think. And yet she felt a strange fear in her heart, because whether Julian had said these things or not, they were true.
“Excuse me,” she told the girl.
She closed the canvas curtain and hurried along the rows of wounded until she found Dr. McManus.
“Rhiannon, ah, child! I’m afraid he’s gone—except that he might still be by the creek. He was bathing before the boys took him out.”
“He’s all right—” she began worriedly.
“Yes, Rhiannon. He’s fine. They’ll let no harm come to him.”
She nodded, hurried outside, and looked anxiously around for the creek. One of the men—a bandaged stump for an arm—pointed the way for her. She ran down the trampled trail that led toward the water. Then she paused, inhaling, grateful. He stood there, alone. Someone had given him a new frock coat and plumed hat, and his head was bowed. He was watching the water.
Her heart slammed up to her throat. “Julian!”
She raced toward him. He could push her away, but ...
“Julian!”
She threw her arms around him as he turned. Then she gasped, deeply embarrassed, her fingers curling into the material of his frock coat.