by Gina Danna
The day lingered on, with tension building on both sides. Jack felt as though he was under constant watch. When Wright was called away, another seemed to take his place, eyes glued on Jack. His shoulders became tight because of all that scrutiny. He scanned the area but could not find a way out. Not yet. Stationed in the center of the line, he had little freedom of movement. He gritted his teeth, frustration and worry gnawing at his gut.
He found paper and pen. Quickly, he jotted down his will, giving everything to Nathan and for Nathan to be under Emma’s care. What he had in assets would see to their safety. Blowing the ink dry, he folded the paper and sealed it.
“Hackman,” he called to the first private he saw. The man responded quickly. “Give this to that butcher in the hospital tent. What’s his name? Worth?”
The private nodded. “Yes, sir.” He took the paper and bolted.
Jack sighed. At least before he left for hell, he’d make sure his son and the woman he loved were taken care of. Sleep, though, remained elusive.
The following morning, in the predawn light, gunfire exploded over Major General John McCown’s division. Confederate General William J. Hardee’s men rushed into McCown’s lines during breakfast, wreaking havoc and mayhem in the first wave of attack. Many of McCown’s left flank scattered behind Brigadier General Jefferson C. Davis’ brigade.
The attack triggered a chain of events down the line. Within hours, Hardee’s men drove Jack’s forces back three miles to the railroad. Rosecrans raced across the field, redirecting troops from attacking the Confederate right to defending his own right. Jack, along with many others, saw that the general was covered in the blood of his chief of staff and friend, Colonel Julius Garesche, who had been beheaded by a cannonball.
#
Emma hadn’t slept since a soldier had arrived two days previously with supplies from Jack. She’d feared he’d died, but the man claimed he hadn’t. At first, she was furious at Jack for deserting her, but soon, after a fit of hysteria over the idea of her “deserter” deserting her, she searched the bag. Relief flooded through her. Food.
Reaching in further, she found the soap with her name penciled on the wrapping. Rose-scented soap. She inhaled the smell, closing her eyes. It made her think of home and simpler times. Before the war. Before death and longing had become her constant companions.
The teething ring for Nathan was a godsend. The child had happily chewed on hardtack, but it wasn’t made to withstand his gnawing forever. The rounded metal ring worked well, once she’d warmed it in her hands. Typical of everything given him, Nathan promptly stuck it in his mouth. She smiled as he gurgled happily.
It was the last item in the bag that stopped her—a piece of paper with Jack’s father’s name and address scrawled on it. Her insides twisted. He didn’t think he’d return. She sank to the damp ground at the impact of yet another loss.
Although only a couple of days had passed, it seemed like an eternity to her. She couldn’t decide what to do. It was an eerie time. Often, she felt her father’s eyes on her. He never said a word to her, offering only short answers to whatever she asked. The man’s eyes were vacant except when Nathan was awake. She caught her father calling the boy Charles sometimes, but she didn’t correct him. It hadn’t worked when she had. He appeared to forget recent things easily, as though they had never happened. But if she asked him about his youth or his marriage to her mother or even about her own childhood, he became animated, telling tales she’d long forgotten.
He appeared to be happiest reminiscing about the past, and Emma wished she could join him there. It certainly had been more pleasant than the present.
She stirred the oatmeal in the pot over the flames. A chill wind swept past her, managing to blow up under her skirt and petticoats, surprising her and making her shiver. It was so quiet. A cloak of despair descended on her, causing her to gasp aloud.
“Miss Emma?” Tilly called softly.
“I’m okay, Tilly.” She must have been loud. The girl was nursing Nathan, whose periodic gurgles were the only sounds to be heard.
Suddenly, there was a loud clap like thunder. Emma frowned because a cloudless day was dawning. Then she realized the noise had come from far away. She heard it again and again. Cannons. Smoke began filling the air, darkening it. Cautiously, she stepped toward the trees, the copse blocking her view of the battle. She was away from the protection of the wagon, a few yards from the trees, when she saw movement among them. She squinted, ignoring her rising fear, curiosity and hope overshadowing it. Maybe Jack was there, returning to them. She took another step, and with it another crack came, this time close by. The trees shook and a gust of smoke billowed through them, along with the screams of the men hiding there. Her mouth fell agape as several men dressed in grey fell. Being only a short distance from them, she saw they were soaked in blood.
In shock, she fell to her knees and then saw a soldier in blue riding through the mayhem with two others, guns blazing. They shot the wounded grey before turning their horses around and riding back toward the slaughter.
Slaughter. The word caught in her mind. Jack. Fear gripped her. Jack was hurt, she knew it, felt it deep within her. He could be lying on the ground, bleeding, like the men now dead before her. She needed to go to him.
“Tilly,” she called.
The girl came with Nathan propped against her shoulder as she patted his back. He burped loudly, and Emma smiled and took the baby from Tilly. He gave Emma a big grin, his lips stained with milk. She kissed his forehead before handing him back to the slave.
“Tilly, I’ve got to go. Jack needs me.” She sounded like a lunatic, but she didn’t care. “Look after him and my father. I’ll be back soon.”
#
Jack reloaded his revolver. Looking down the row of his soldiers, he saw they stood ready. A few were trembling. The first time in battle and facing the enemy head on like they were, scared most men half to death. It was a normal reaction. To be casual about it or to welcome death would be insane. But Jack felt insane right now.
The first wave of the attack caused Union forces to retreat. The second wave by Generals Jones Withers and Benjamin Cheatham struck hard and fast. Jack’s men and the rest of Sheridan’s command were the only defensive forces. The general had gotten them up at four to prepare for the day. The Confederate onslaught was repulsed and repulsed by the Union. But the cost had been high. Sheridan’s three division leaders had been killed, and about a third of the men lay wounded or dead from the three-hour ordeal. As the Confederates pulled back from Sheridan’s forces, the carnage around Jack reminded him of Sharpsburg and that valley of death, with the moans of the injured and the stench of sulfur, gunpowder and rot.
“Ah, gloating over the dead, you bastard,” hissed the voice behind him. Wright. He’d wondered where the man had gone during the battle. Hoped he was one of the many lying on the ground.
“Missed your chance,” Jack stated flatly.
Wright’s eyes flared as he leveled his revolver at Jack. “Guns are still firing.” He cocked his. “You are a deserter, a secesh, and a traitor, and I’m going to send you straight to hell.”
A gun went off. Jack blinked, expecting to feel pain, but numbness remained. In front of him, Wright sank to the ground. There was a bullet hole between his bushy eyebrows, a look of shock frozen on his face.
Jack looked at the gun in his hand. His thumb was on the lever, but he hadn’t fired. How had the bastard gotten shot? He turned to look behind him when he felt a thud against his shoulder. A searing pain shot through him as he glanced down to the left side of his chest. His navy jacket still looked navy, but there was a hole in it, just below his shoulder. He tried to lift his left arm, but it wouldn’t move. Couldn’t move. His shirt was sticking to his body as blood poured from the wound. His ears rang.
Slowly, his knees buckled, and he sank onto the hard winter ground, unable to stop himself from crashing onto the blood-soaked land. As he slid into oblivion, he thought of only on
e thing. Emma.
You will keep constantly before the public view in Great Britain, the tyranny of the Lincoln Government, its utter disregard of the personal rights of its citizens, and its other notorious violations of law.
—Robert M.T. Hunter to Henry Hotze, November 11, 1861
Chapter Twenty-Six
Murfreesboro, December 31, 1862
Emma rode Petey toward the sound of battle, dread filling her each minute as she got closer. The air was thick with gunpowder and the sound of artillery, accented with the tattoo of rifle fire and voices, muddled but audible. She slowed the horse to a walk as they went through the trees on a hill and stopped at the top. Hell’s gates opened before her.
She’d never seen such destruction and chaos in her life. Men ran or galloped on horseback in all directions. Rifles cracked and cannons boomed. Bodies were strewn across the fields. And somewhere, in the midst of it all, was Jack. Was he alive? Wounded? Dead? She remained frozen in place, watching as the wrath of God descended below and not a thing she could do to stop it. Fear gripped her.
She slid off Petey’s back and dropped the reins, knowing he’d stay put until she returned. Purposely but slowly she walked forward, hugging the tree line, shrubs and rock outcroppings, clutching Jack’s greatcoat tightly around her.
Horsemen galloped past her, intent on robbing the foot soldiers running ahead of them, or worse. They wore gray coats and rode pellmell into the line of navy, guns blazing, heading toward the wagons. Wagons filled with boxes. One of the men noticed her and stopped, staring down at her from his tall mount. She glared up at him, unable to move. His lips twitched.
“You best be leavin’, missy,” he drawled.
She shook her head. “I can’t.” She couldn’t tell Jack’s enemy that she was there to find a Yankee, which would have put both of them at risk.
He cocked his head, looking at her quizzically. Her Virginia accent had caught his attention, and he added, “This ain’t no place for a lady.”
But she refused to move.
“Ain’t you got a gun?”
She patted the coat but didn’t expect to find anything, and she didn’t.
His lips thinned and he pulled a revolver out of his belt. He opened the cartridge cylinder and snapped it closed. Bending down, he offered her the gun. “Take it. You won’t leave, and I can’t leave ya’ here with nothin’.”
She grabbed the handle gingerly. “Thank you.”
He nodded, tipped his plumed hat and sped off to join his men.
Emma gripped the handle, feeling the weight of the weapon. She’d learned how to fire a rifle back at Rose Hill but hadn’t tried firing a revolver. Shoving the piece into her coat pocket, she prayed she wouldn’t have to use it.
Emma continued searching for Jack, her skirt rustling along the ground, stirring up dead grass and leaves and other litter. Her toe caught on something, tripping her, and she barely stopped herself from falling. Lifting her skirts, she looked down and froze, horrified. She had tripped over a hand and forearm torn from someone’s body. The mangled mess of blood, bone and tissue made her nauseous, and she covered her mouth to keep down the rising bile.
Shocked by the grisly discovery, Emma didn’t see the man coming toward her, nor did he see her. When he bumped into her, she lost her footing and began to fall into the mess at her feet, but the man uttered a curse, dropped what he had been carrying and grabbed her around the waist.
“What the hell?” He pulled her upright, his face red with anger. “You can’t just stand there, staring like a billy goat.”
She blinked rapidly. The young man, dressed like a Yankee, spewed numerous curses as he bent to pick up his stuff. It took her a moment to realize he hadn’t questioned her presence.
“Please, help me,” she started. “I need to find…”
“Honey, we all need to find them, but they ain’t here,” he interrupted, his voice laced with heavy sarcasm. “The wounded be out there. Now, be a good girl and leave. Ain’t got time to be messin’ with you.”
Her brows knitted as she watched him pick up small bottles, strips of cloth and metal objects and stick them back into his leather-wrapped box. She noticed the green diagonal stripe on his coat sleeve with a symbol stitched in the center. The insignia of the medical soldiers. Quickly she bent and picked up a long metal stick, its ends rounded with white porcelain caps.
“Doctor, I…”
He laughed absently. “Ain’t no doc, missy. Just as you ain’t no nurse. Who the hell are you?” He grabbed her wrist.
She clenched her jaw. His fingers dug into her wrist, hurting her as she thought about how to answer him. “I’m Mrs. Jack Fontaine. I came to find my husband.”
The man’s brows tipped upwards. “Fontaine? No, no, not familiar with that name, but then, I don’t know many. Look, we’ve got wounded all over the place here. Not safe for you.” He spat on the ground. “Since you’re still not movin’, get out of my way.” He let go of her wrist and wiped his right hand on his soiled jacket before extending it to her.
His rudeness only made her stubborn. “I’m not leaving, but to get ‘out of your way,’ where would you suggest I go?”
The man’s face contorted. “You are wasting my time.” He stood glaring at her. The silence between them grew, and he turned his head as though scanning the sea of bodies.
Emma gritted her teeth, planting her feet firmly on the ground. She wasn’t leaving, no matter how much he complained. But as he stood there, eyeing the bodies, she noticed a twitch in his cheek. He was pale, and she wondered what inner demons he was battling as he gripped the medical bag tighter. She looked past him at the dead and dying.
What if Jack was among them? She couldn’t leave until she knew.
“Ain’t goin’, then help me,” the medical man finally stated, as though he had read her mind. “Too damn many for me to get to on my own. Any aid I get will move me faster and maybe, just maybe, your man’ll turn up as we head on.”
She sighed with relief and nodded.
“Hospital Steward Brad Judd.”
Gingerly she placed her hand in his. “Emma Fontaine.”
He gave her a tight smile. “Not the best place to meet, but glad you’re here. We be needing all the help we can get.” With that, he was off. “Come on, then. And shove that hat low on your head. Watch where you step. God only knows what we’ll find out here.”
She pulled the brim lower and followed him. He led her through a rugged plain pocked by mini craters from artillery blasts and horses’ hooves. In the twilight hours, they heard gunfire less frequently, but the moans and screams of the wounded prevailed. Occasionally, Judd pushed her down, covering her body with his. Only seconds later, the ground shook violently with nearby explosions. When the debris settled, he jumped up, swore, yanked her upright and apologized for his language.
When she looked across the battlefield, the dead bodies didn’t seem real to her. But at the first body where Judd stopped, she once again thought she’d retch. It lay twisted, the soldier’s mouth agape, eyes wide with horror. The upper part of his head had been ripped apart, and remnants of blood vessels and brains were splattered on his face and coat. The next two also were dead–one by a bullet to the chest, its effect mercifully swift. The other man’s face was buried in the muck and one of his legs was hanging by a tendon, the bottom half twisted backwards.
Judd made a few notes over each body and searched their jackets for any papers identifying them. The three men all had papers showing name, rank and unit, but only two papers were legible. The third man’s blood had soaked through the wool, to the paper, covering the penciled information.
Like a trained dog, Emma followed Judd, not making a noise or complaining. She lifted her skirts to step over puddles of blood and various body parts. After the third victim they’d found, she had lost the contents of her belly, heaving till everything was gone. She turned numb and was losing hope of finding Jack alive.
Judd was looking at her and
saying something, but she couldn’t hear him. The buzzing in her ears was too loud. She was in shock.
“Mrs. Fontaine,” he tried harder and shook her shoulders.
She swallowed, blinking. Her eyes were red and her cheeks wet from tears she didn’t know she had cried. The ache in her heart grew.
“Ma’am,” Judd tried again as he sat her on a rock outcropping. Pulling out a flask, he yanked the cork free with his teeth and pressed the flask to her lips. Obediently, she opened her mouth and he poured the liquor into her.
It spilled down her throat, the fire reaching all the way to her stomach. Its burn stirred her senses. Sputtering, she stayed his hand and leaned away.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “It’s like you’re in a trance. Rest now. Where I’m going is rough. Sheridan’s men were stalled there. Command’s calling it a slaughter pen. Let me see how bad it is. I may need your help, but, right now, I’m ordering you to rest, you hear me?”
Her gaze never left his. If she looked away, she’d see the hell behind him again. She could smell it—sulfur, the coppery scent of blood, and excrement from horses and men. Slowly she nodded.
“Good,” he said. “I’ll be right back. If you need me before, holler.”
As though yelling would have done any good. All the men lying on the ground had hollered, but no one had heeded or helped them.
