The Freedom Star Part 24

The Yankee line disappeared in a cloud of smoke.

"Reload. Fire at will."

Henry grinned at Townsend as he fumbled for another round in his cartridge box. "Looks like those blue bellies got more than they bargained for."

Townsend tore the end of a paper cartridge with his teeth. He nodded and smiled, his face smeared with black powder. "We seen the elephant, Henry McConnell, we sure enough did, and now we's whupping them Yankees. We's whupping *em good." He turned to load, then spun back toward Henry, the smile still pasted on his face. A wet, dark hole appeared above his right eye.

Henry dropped his musket, catching Townsend as he crumpled.

"Forward, men. Push them." The captain entreated the company to move.

Gently, Henry lowered his ashen friend to the ground. Townsend stared into the forest canopy above, his smile locked in death. Henry placed his fingers over Townsend's eyes and pulled them closed. "Goodbye, friend . . ."

"Let him go, McConnell, there's a war a-waiting." The sergeant prodded Henry with the b.u.t.t of his musket.

A final glance, then Henry hefted his musket and ran to catch up with the company, now halted fifty yards ahead. The sulfurous stench of gunpowder hung in the air. The company formed on line again, firing at movement to their left front.

"Reload. Fire at will."

The staccato popping of muskets filled the woods.

A figure broke through the brush to their front waving frantically. He pointed behind him as he hollered, "Cease fire! Cease fire-53rd Virginia . . ." The rebel soldier collapsed, his gray frock soaked in blood.

"Cease fire!" The captain yelled. He jumped in front of the line waving his sword, a horrified look on his face. The muskets went silent. Captain Claiborne stared at the fallen soldier, then faced his own men, his eyes seeming to plead for forgiveness.

Henry gritted his teeth and nodded to the captain. Smoke. Confusion. How was he to know?

A blast of musketry from their right flank tore into the Fourteenth. Soldiers cried out as they dropped. Henry spun around. A line of Union troops, their muskets at charge bayonet, pushed straight at them through the undergrowth. A soldier to Henry's right turned and ran, then another dropped his musket and took flight. Behind him, the company was breaking ranks and racing to the rear.

"Wait . . . hold the line . . ." Henry glanced at the Yankee charge. "d.a.m.n!" He turned and joined the rout.

Hurdling deadfalls and tearing through briar tangles, Henry raced past other soldiers, slowing only when the forest finally thinned and the ground rose to form a low ridge. "We . . . we can hold here," He hollered. "Form a line. Defend."

Henry grabbed a soldier running past. "Make a stand. Turn and fight. We can hold." He spun the soldier around to face the retreating company and then grabbed another. Some kept running, but many stopped and reloaded.

Captain Claiborne broke through the tangles, sword in hand, and climbed the rise. "Good work, McConnell. Set them on line. We'll hold here."

The troops gathered in the semblance of a formation. "There, to the right front. Hold your fire until they break clear," the captain called. He paced nervously, then glanced at Henry, nodding in silent acknowledgement, and commanded, "Fire!"

The long blue line wavered, but kept coming.

"We can't hold," Captain Claiborne yelled. "Fall back, fall back." He waved his sword. The small band of b.u.t.ternut and gray again raced to the rear.

Henry fired his musket at the on-rus.h.i.+ng Yankees, then joined the retreat. Racing through the forest, his foot caught on a fallen limb. He stumbled forward, gas.h.i.+ng his forearm on a broken branch, and scrambled back to his feet. He had to keep running.

Briars ripped at his legs.

Ahead, through the underbrush, the reserves formed in double ranks on a slight rise. There they guarded the Fourteenth Virginia's withdrawal. The soldiers manning the reserve position waved and shouted encouragement to Henry and the others who were racing for the safety of the rear. Henry reached the small embankment and grabbed the hand held out to him. A bearded, weather-beaten face grinned down at him from under a floppy slouch hat. Suddenly, his forehead seemed to explode in pain. A high-pitched ringing filled his ears, blocking the sounds of battle. The friendly rebel disappeared, replaced by swirling, unfocused shapes of green and gray . . . then darkness.

Chapter Thirty-three.

June 1862 "You holding up, boy?" Banjo pulled a worm from the tobacco leaf and pinched in half.

Isaac straightened, s.h.i.+elding his eyes from the midday sun. From one end of the field to the other, slaves slowly walked the rows, picking juicy bugs from the leaves. "I seen worse," he said, biting the head off a worm.

"I reckon I don't hear much from your mama no more," Banjo said, "not since Abraham been sold away. Come suppertime, she sets a plate for ol' Banjo, but she ain't much on talking."

Isaac reached for another worm. "Mama's been aching right much for Pa-I ain't never seen her all broke up like that-and Tempie, she's having a troubling time too; she's been real quiet and Mama worries."

Banjo lowered his voice. "Is that why you's still here?"

"Lord knows, I ain't staying for long, but I can't be running right now, not with Mama needing a man around."

"You, get back to work," Patrick hollered as he spurred his mount and galloped to the edge of the field closest to Isaac. "d.a.m.n it, O'Farrell, do you job. Those lazy nigras are costing me money." He shook his whip at Sean O'Farrell, then slapped the horse's flank and took off at a gallop toward the big house.

Sean picked his way through the tobacco to the row Isaac was working. He smiled and shook his head. "Patrick, meaning Mr. McConnell now, he's been pus.h.i.+ng hard lately, so you boys best be saving your socializing for the evening campfire."

"Sorry, Mr. Sean. We didn't mean to get you in no trouble." Isaac lowered his head.

"Nah, *tis no trouble." Sean smiled and rested his hand on Isaac's shoulder. "Don't you be worrying yourself. I'll not be around much longer anyway."

"Is you leaving?" Isaac looked into the green eyes of their overseer.

"Things are changing, Isaac. It's not like before. I can't abide Mr. McConnell's new ways, and I'll not be taking the whip to any one of ye-and that's what he be asking."

"Boss," Banjo whistled through his teeth. "Don't you worry none, we'll have this here field cleared of worms by sundown."

_____.

A piercing scream jarred him awake. Henry bolted upright, instinctively reaching for his musket. Yankees? Sunlight streamed through an open window. He blinked and looked around. What was this place? He tried to stand, but the motion sent a throbbing pain through his forehead.

"You'd best lay back and rest." Strong hands lowered him to the bed. "You're one lucky young man."

He opened his eyes again. A woman close in age to his mother leaned over him, her dark hair pulled back and tucked inside a lace bonnet. She wore a starched white ap.r.o.n smeared with blood.

"I heard a scream . . ."

"Yes," she said, "'tis unfortunate that war brings so much pain." She straightened the small pillow beneath his head. "Many here suffer wounds far more serious than yours."

"Where am I?" Henry cautiously touched the bandage on his forehead.

"You're in Richmond. This is Chimborazo Hospital. A musket ball creased your skull. You bled quite freely and you were unconscious for a day or so, but the doctor says you should recover fully. You'll be back on your feet in about a week. As I said, you're one of the lucky ones."

"If you don't mind my asking, ma'am, who are you?"

"You may call me Mrs. Templeton. I've been nursing here since the hospital opened last October."

Henry surveyed the room. "It seems strange to see a woman working, a white woman, that is, and especially tending to the wounded."

"I do what I can to ease the suffering," she said.

"And that slave?" Henry pointed to a black woman at the far end of the room.

Mrs. Templeton turned her head. "Oh, that's Sally. She's a free woman. She works here for wages, just as I do."

"Wages?" Henry said. "Your husband lets you work for wages?"

"My husband, may G.o.d rest his soul, was killed at Mana.s.sas Junction last summer. I either work or I take charity. Now get some rest and stop worrying yourself about things that aren't your concern." She daubed his cheek with a damp cloth.

Henry studied the long, low clapboard room. Six open windows on each side let in what little breeze the humid day might offer, while daylight splashed off the whitewashed walls. Outside, a large yellow flag dangled limply from a pole. Thirty or forty beds, most occupied. Flies buzzed piles of bloodied rags that littered the floor.

"Well, did we whip *em?" Henry asked. "Did we push those blue bellies?"

She patted his hand and stood to leave. "General Joe Johnston's been wounded. General Lee commands the army now, and he's pus.h.i.+ng the Yankees down the peninsula. Now, get some rest."

The stench of festering wounds and bodily waste hung in the air. Henry fought an urge to gag. He eased onto his pillow and stared at the bare rafters. He'd only been wounded in battle, but Townsend . . . Henry closed his eyes, trying to push the image away. He'd fought a good fight, died a soldier's death. At least he hadn't suffered. And a free black woman . . . working for wages . . . ? Henry drifted.

A whimper from the next bed pulled him back to consciousness.

The soldier didn't look much older than Henry. Curled in a ball, he clutched his stomach. "Ma'am, you there? Help me. I's burning up. Help, please . . ."

With great effort, Henry raised on one elbow. Mrs. Templeton was tending to a patient on the far side of the room. "Ma'am? Mrs. Templeton?" Henry called. "This here soldier needs help. He's in terrible pain."

Mrs. Templeton tossed the bandage she was rolling onto an empty bed and crossed the room, placing her hand on the soldier's brow. "He has the fever. There's nothing we can do for him. I'll try to come back later and cool him, but there are other patients that need me more-some that might still live."

"Maybe one of the other nurses," Henry asked, "or that nigra woman, Sally?"

"We're all busy, young man. Look around. All these boys are in pain. Each gets tended to in his own time."

"Wait, ma'am . . . can I help? How . . . how do I cool him?"

She smiled. "See those rags?" She pointed at a pile on the floor. "Soak one in water and hold it to his forehead. It won't cure him, but it will help with his pain." She turned and resumed her rounds.

Henry sat up and swung his feet to the floor. The room seemed to spin. He tucked his head on his chest and waited for the motion to stop, then slowly picked up a rag and dipped it in the washbowl on the stand between their beds. Two wobbly steps and he eased himself onto the stranger's bed. He held the wet rag to man's forehead. Light hair, blue eyes, hands used to hard work-had the look of a farmer. The stranger's face softened as the cooling water seeped the pain from his burning head.

"The name's Henry . . . Henry McConnell. Fourteenth Virginia. I got shot over at Seven Pines."

The man raised a hand slowly and placed it on top of Henry's, holding the wet cloth. He licked his lips. Henry moved the rag over his mouth and squeezed. Drops fell to the soldier's tongue. The man swallowed, then whispered, "Coleman, James . . . James Coleman. Nineteenth Mississippi." He struggled to get out the words. "My . . . my boy, Tommy . . ."

"You'd best rest, mister. Don't be wasting your strength." Henry wet the cloth and returned it to Coleman's forehead.

"Bless you, Henry McConnell. Tell my Nancy I been thinking on her . . ." The soldier closed his eyes.

Henry changed the cloth again, then journeyed to his own bed and laid down. Seemed like a mess of suffering for a fellow that hadn't even been shot. Maybe, if his fever was to break, he'd get himself a furlough and visit his Nancy.

_____.

Stifling heat greeted the dawn. Henry slowly opened his eyes. Stagnant air clung to the rafters and blanketed the wounded in its foul stench. His bedclothes were soaked in sweat and his head still hurt, however, the throbbing had eased. It seemed like days since he'd eaten-three or four eggs and a slab of bacon would sure taste good. Would they have real coffee? That Coleman fella was probably hungry too-had he gotten any rest? Henry rolled over and faced his neighbor's bunk. Stripped of bed sheets, the straw mattress was rolled at the foot of the empty bed.

Chapter Thirty-four.

June 1862 Morgan lay face down while Florence rubbed oil on his back. Ella fanned herself in a rocking chair beside the bed. A breeze wafting through the open parlor windows brushed his bare skin, bringing merciful relief from the humid afternoon.

"Miss Ella," Florence said. "It ain't rightly none of my business, but last year when I was down to South Boston buying foodstuffs I seen a slave pus.h.i.+ng his mistress in a chair what had wheels."

"Yes," Ella replied, "I've read of them. Are you suggesting that my Morgan needs such a chair?"

"That he do, ma'am."

"No, it's out of the question," Ella said. "He's not ready for such a contraption. The poor dear's bedridden."

"Begging you pardon ma'am, but Ma.s.sa's all laid out *cause he got no place else to be, but even now he sits up some and he can move his hands, his arms too. Watch." Florence stopped ma.s.saging. "Ma.s.sa McConnell, Miss Ella's setting right here. She wants to see you move that hand."

Ella? Sure was nice of her to stop by. If she was home, that meant she'd already bought out all the shops in Richmond. Could he move his hand for her? Sure . . .

"Florence, look," Ella said. "It is moving! He's moving his hand. Can he hear me?"

"Miss Ella, I been telling you for months, ain't nothing wrong with that man's ears. He don't miss a thing."

d.a.m.ned right. And there'll be some explaining to do, once his faculties returned-and they would, thanks to Florence.

"But what could he do in a wheelchair? He needs constant watching."

"Miss Ella, you set him out on that porch in the evening or early morning, you brings him to the table when the family gathers, you might even push him down by the paddock. I reckon that dapple mare's been missing him something awful."

"But Patrick does not want his father doing anything that might cause a strain. Patrick says rest will do him best."

"Miss Ella, ain't meaning no disrespect, but I been healing folks nigh on thirty years, and I can tell you, rest only helps them what's tired. Ma.s.sa McConnell ain't tired, *cept he's tired of laying around this here bed all the day long."

d.a.m.n right! Morgan lifted his hand and thumped the mattress. Twice.

"Very well. I'll be in South Boston tomorrow. There's a new hat in the millinery that I wish to try on-it came all the way from New York. While I'm there, I will see about having one of those wheeled devices delivered, if one is available.