Laura Abbot

by Into the Wilderness

  Inside the command tent, the officers huddled around a field map. Studying the terrain, they ultimately decided on a three-prong approach. Lieutenant Smythe would march on ahead to outflank the enemy from the west, Will Creekmore would lead his men on the east flank and Caleb, the most experienced of the officers, would direct the frontal charge from the south. The plan was to force the enemy back against a line of sand hills. While many of the Indians would be armed with lances and bows and arrows, a significant number also possessed rifles. The cavalry would set out at 3:00 a.m. to be in place for a sunrise attack.

  Caleb spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening speaking with his men, checking their preparations and offering encouragement. After the sun set, he retreated to his tent, lit a lantern and pulled out the small, leather-bound volume of Tennyson’s poems he always carried with him. However, between his nerves and the discomfort of his scratchy uniform, he couldn’t concentrate. His thoughts were elsewhere. Could he acquit himself with honor one last time on the battlefield, even though he had come to believe that his tolerance for warfare had run its course?

  Sitting there, watching darkness blot out light, he closed his eyes and tried to picture the lush green grass of spring in the Flint Hills where the Montgomery Ranch’s healthy herd grazed. There under vast blue skies, he could build something permanent and productive. Tomorrow, by contrast, would be characterized by bloodshed. He closed his eyes, formulating a prayer. Dear God, deliver us from danger, protect us from our own worst selves and make us always aware of Your ultimate goodness. The words seemed inadequate, but he knew that somehow God understood the yearnings of his heart.

  One battle. One day. Then they would return to Fort Larned. He would return to Lily. Until then he would hold her in his heart in the full and surprising knowledge of his love for her. He drew in a sharp breath with the realization that not for a long time had he personally had so much cause to desire his own deliverance in armed conflict.

  * * *

  Lily awoke with a start, her damp gown wrapped around her legs, her heart racing. Not one breeze filtered through the open window to cool her feverish skin. Beside her Rose gently snored. Lily tried to get her bearings. What had so abruptly awakened her? She heard nothing unusual. Creeping to the window, she scanned the quiet, nearly deserted fort. All appeared normal. Stars twinkled in the sky and the sliver of a moon rested on the horizon.

  Yet she was in a panic. Something was terribly wrong. Had a nightmare thus upset her? Snippets of a dream slowly came to her. Screams. Tortured screams. Suffocating dust. Then she remembered being part of a long line of mounted soldiers galloping off a cliff. “Into the valley of death.” Tennyson’s lines swirled alongside chaotic visions. No matter how she tried to orient herself to reality— to her bedroom and the quiet army post outside the house—she felt only the presence of doom.

  How long had the cavalrymen been gone? She counted the days. Nearly two weeks. A long time. A sense of dread came over her. Were the men of Fort Larned in danger?

  * * *

  Under the cover of darkness, the mounted troops slowly advanced toward their attack position. Caleb could only imagine their thoughts. Anticipation was almost the worst part of battle. As they waited with drawn breaths astride quivering horses, each moment seeming at once an eternity and a flash, and they longed for action even as they prayed never to hear the order to advance.

  Unbidden memories washed over Caleb—the adrenaline rush of the first charge, the cacophony of gunfire mingled with the screams of the wounded and dying, and the slippery earth, sodden with sweat and blood. He hated it. That realization took him by surprise. Never before had he so openly admitted his reservations about being a soldier. He squared himself in the saddle and stroked Bucephalus’s neck. Pray God, he would use that hatred to fuel his courage.

  Then came the strident bugle summons. Following Caleb’s lead, his troop raced toward the Indian encampment, flags flying and weapons drawn. Then all rational thought was overwhelmed by a rain of gunfire and a long line of mounted braves charging toward them with frenzied battle cries. Caleb found himself surrounded in a sea of clashing forces, lances and arrows too often finding victims among his men. An Indian with startling war paint raced toward him, shrieking like a banshee. Only at the last minute did Caleb succeed in shooting him through the chest. The man fell from his horse as if in slow motion. Behind Caleb, another brave raised his rifle, and he avoided that shot only by ducking low over his mount’s head. Wheeling around, he dropped his assailant. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed several soldiers whose horses had gone down, leaving them relatively defenseless. He spurred to their side, handed his pistol to one and then rallied others to form a defensive position behind the horseless soldiers.

  All up and down the line pandemonium raged. Several of his men lay on their backs, arrows still quivering from their chests. In the thick of it, Caleb could not tell whether Smythe and Creekmore had yet attacked from the flanks. He devoutly hoped so, or his men would become victims rather than victors.

  The sun crested over the battlefield, illuminating downed bodies and soldiers locked in hand-to-hand combat with their nearly naked foe. Caleb could hardly take in the shattering violence of it all. What in God’s name were they doing? With angry tears, he turned away from the sight, bent on going to the rear to urge his men forward to reinforce their fellows.

  Kicking Bucephalus, he bellowed into the din. “Rally, boys, rally!” Reaching the reinforcements, he had just turned to urge them forward when the sky exploded in a blinding flash of color. His vision blurred and nausea clogged his throat. Sounds, as if wrapped in cotton batting, echoed far, far away. Why couldn’t he hold on to the reins? Caleb’s last conscious thought was how awkward and unsoldierly it was to slip from a horse and end up facedown in buffalo grass.

  Chapter Nine

  After supper a few nights following her nightmare, Lily sat on the porch with Rose, both of them fanning themselves. A pall had fallen over the fort. Even the usual racket of the cicadas sounded listless. No lively harmonica music issued from the barracks, and dogs lay motionless on doorsteps, panting. The sinking sun was a molten stone and nary a wisp of cloud adorned the sky.

  Lily rested her head against the back of her rocker. In a strange way, her body felt as if she were constantly holding her breath. Indeed, the entire fort seemed to be suspended in time, waiting for something, anything, to happen.

  “Remember last March when we talked about dreading summer?” Rose fanned herself more vigorously. “This is what we meant.”

  “Memory can’t compare with the real thing.” Given the heat, Lily was grateful that because of the cavalry’s absence, they had few patients in the hospital. She had perfunctorily gone through the motions of reviewing the inventory, changing sheets and linens, and restocking the medicine chest. Yet even those duties failed to fill the time dragging by interminably.

  “Do you suppose it’s this hot in St. Louis?” Rose asked.

  “Lavinia’s letters suggest that summer is even worse there with the humidity from the river.”

  “Malaria.” Rose sniffed in disapproval. “The newspapers are full of stories of how widespread the disease is in low-lying places.”

  “Are you trying to tell me something?”

  Rose’s expression softened. “I don’t intend to borrow trouble, but I want you to be safe when you leave us.”

  “If I leave you.” Lily gestured with an arm at the expanse of the fort. “Besides, there are plenty of dangers and diseases right here, and working in the hospital, I’ve already encountered most.” She went through a mental catalog: typhus, diphtheria, snake bite, influenza and, even here, the occasional case of malaria. She winced against the memory of the ordeal of the woman who died in childbirth.

  Rose grudgingly agreed. “I suppose.”

  Lily sensed that Rose had something she wanted to say. “You’re a good sister to worry about me.”

  “I try not to, but I do. With
our dear brother gone, I worry even more about you. How you will make the trip to St. Louis, what ruffians you might encounter and even how you’ll be received by the elegant people you will meet there. It seems such a strange world to me.”

  Lily wouldn’t admit that her sister had just voiced some of her own concerns. “A different society, assuredly, but one I long to experience.”

  The two sat rocking, praying for the hint of a breeze to relieve the oven of the porch. Lily finally spoke. “We talk a great deal about my dreams, but, Rose, what about yours? What is it you want in life?”

  “Oh, Lily, I’m a simple soul. For now, I’m content keeping house for Papa. I confess I’ve thought about marriage and a family someday, but I’m no beauty and most fellows look for that.”

  Lily interrupted. “But you have so much to offer.”

  “Even if that were true, most men don’t view me as a potential mate.”

  “It will be a very special one, indeed, who recognizes your inner beauty as I do.”

  “I try not to dwell on the future,” Rose said with a sad smile. “What will be, will be, according to God’s plan.”

  Lily sat forward with a sense of urgency. “Promise me you won’t compromise. You deserve a good man who will cherish you as Papa and I do.”

  “Just as you deserve such a one, sister.” Rose rocked for a few moments before adding, “One like Captain Montgomery.”

  Lily sank back in her chair. First Effie, then her father and now Rose. Was the entire fort conspiring to engage in matchmaking? And was this pressure coming from a genuine sense that Caleb was right for her or a desire to keep her from going to St. Louis?

  “You, too? Why is everyone pushing Caleb at me?”

  “Now don’t get touchy. Maybe we see something you don’t want to acknowledge.”

  Lily felt suddenly suffocated, not just by the heat but by others’ expectations. She couldn’t deny the attraction she felt to the handsome captain who shared her love of literature or the sense of safety and comfort she felt in his arms, but she had advanced too far with her dream of the city to jeopardize it for a summer fling.

  Hearing footsteps, the two women simultaneously looked up. Their father, his shoulders drooping, approached from the direction of the cemetery. Lily knew he sometimes went there to seek peace just as she did.

  Lily stood. “Papa, come rest a spell with us.”

  He raised his hand in greeting as he approached. “Gladly.” He mounted the porch, pulled a vacant rocker nearer to them and sat down. “It’s the calm before the storm,” he said.

  Rose examined the horizon. “I don’t see any clouds.”

  “Not that kind of storm, child. The kind humans make.” He folded his hands in his lap, but his thumbs circled each other in a nervous dance. “This is the period of inertia followed by the loosening of hell.”

  “What do you mean?” Lily asked.

  “The war. Field hospitals. We would experience an unearthly calm before an attack followed immediately by the chaos of bodies upon bodies piling up around us.” He seemed to choke back both his words and his memories. “I have that same sense tonight.”

  Despite the heat, Lily shivered. “About our troops?”

  “Maybe it’s just an old man’s premonition.”

  Rose leaned toward him. “About what exactly?”

  Ezra sighed forlornly. His words fell like stones into a deep well. “About the fact that Lily and I are soon to get very busy.” He clutched Lily’s hand. “My dear, I fear you have not yet seen battle wounds on the scale I am anticipating.”

  Early the next morning Lily was awakened by the bugle’s alarm followed by the sound of a galloping horse. Hurrying to the bedroom window, she saw one of the scouts dismount and run toward the house. Her father must’ve heard him, too, for he stepped out on the porch before the soldier could knock. Through the open window she heard the man’s breathless words.

  “Prepare the hospital, Doctor. I regret to report that we have several casualties.” He paused to catch his breath and then added with awful finality, “And deaths.”

  * * *

  During the next few hours while the ambulance wagons were en route to the fort, Ezra Kellogg corralled the enlisted hospital aides, reviewed procedures, and exhorted them to stay calm and follow his orders. Meanwhile, Lily rounded up some of the women to serve as a soothing presence and assist with follow-up care. Rose busied herself at the stove preparing tisanes and broths. Lily prayed she could remain professional and bring her experience to bear for the benefit of the wounded. About the dying...she couldn’t even contemplate. Nor could she let her mind assume the worst about those she knew. About Caleb. Sadly, there was no mistaking the cause of the hammer blows emanating from the carpentry shop. Coffins.

  Just as the first wagon rolled into the fort, Ezra took Lily aside. Putting his arm around her as if to steady her, he said in a low voice, “Daughter, you are going to see things I had always hoped to spare you, but I need you today. The wounded need you. No one else has your skills.” He pulled her closer and uttered a brief prayer that they might be instruments of God’s healing. Then the first wagon arrived at the hospital, and from that point on, the groans of the wounded and Ezra’s barked orders filled the room along with the odors of alcohol, sweat and blood.

  After the litters were unloaded from the wagon, Ezra moved swiftly from man to man assessing injuries. One he immediately sent to the operating table; another, already feverish, was taken by Effie and a stunned private to be stripped and bathed in cool water. A terrified-looking Carrie Smythe administered chloroform just before Ezra amputated the first soldier’s left leg. Out of the corner of her eye, Lily watched Carrie nearly swoon before collecting herself, but Lily had no time to intervene. She was too busy cleansing the dirty head wound of a dazed sergeant. From him, she moved on to a lad whose makeshift bandage was coming loose.

  Time lost all meaning as the hospital crew worked frantically to patch up those with minor wounds and deal with the pressing needs of the more grievously wounded. Lily wiped perspiration from her moist brow, willing perseverance in these difficult conditions. Two more ambulance wagons discharged soldiers in all stages of distress. Some had suffered arrow wounds; others, gunshot wounds. A few, as a result of losing their mounts in the thick of the conflict, had broken bones, including Lieutenant Creekmore. Aside from the calm orders of the surgeon, the grinding of his saw and the swish of skirts as the women moved from cot to cot, the only sounds were piteous groans and cries of “Mother” or “Help me.”

  Dear God, yes, help them and grant them relief from pain. Lily hoped her prayers and those of others would suffice, since unfortunately the fort had been without an assigned chaplain for some months.

  Although she recognized several of the wounded, Lily was relieved that so far Caleb appeared to have been spared. That comfort deserted her when patients were unloaded from a late-arriving fourth wagon. She saw him immediately, his eyes closed, his face ashen, his breath coming in faint wheezes. Her legs started to go out from under her, and she had to grab the arm of a nearby soldier to keep from falling. The man shook his head regretfully. “We tried to get Cap out first, but he came to just long enough to order us to remove the others first.”

  Recovering herself, Lily ran to her father, who had just finished a second amputation. “Papa, come quickly. I fear Captain Montgomery is mortally wounded.”

  As her father examined the field-dressed shoulder wound which had stained Caleb’s jacket a deep red, Lily steeled herself by concentrating her anger at an enemy who had inflicted harm on so fine a man and by praying, Save him. Save him.

  Ezra beckoned both Lily and Caleb’s litter bearers to follow him to the operating table, recently vacated by the amputee. “Lily, I need you to be strong. His only chance depends upon whether I can extract the bullet lodged so close to his heart. If I am successful, I will need you to bathe the wound and suture it closed.”

  Once more, Lily fought off light-headedn
ess. “Yes, Papa.” Her hands shook so that she could hardly imagine how she would be able to thread the needle, much less close the wound. Caleb lay so still, his arms resting at his sides. She picked up his nearer hand, cold to the touch, and held it in her own. She felt the calluses on his palm, saw embedded dirt beneath his fingernails and, to her relief, felt a pulse under her index finger. Her thoughts and emotions whirled. Focus, she reminded herself. You’ve done this before. An orderly bared Caleb’s shoulder, revealing an ugly-looking open wound. Carrie, her eyes the size of small pancakes, poured chloroform onto a cloth, and Ezra reached for his instrument.

  In that moment, a miraculous calm enveloped Lily, and her whole world reduced to the supine body on the table and the function she was to perform. Ezra’s face screwed up with concentration. When his initial efforts to probe for the bullet were unsuccessful, his eyes met Lily’s from across the table. “I don’t know, daughter.”

  “Please, Papa. Try once more.”

  Ezra bent to his task and then, by changing his angle, found the bullet. “Aah,” he breathed, pulling it from the wound.

  Without conscious thought, Lily cleansed the wound and then carefully sutured it shut, thanking God that sewing was her talent. Throughout the procedure, Caleb’s respiration remained shallow. She dared not ask her father about his chances. It was enough that Caleb had survived thus far.

  The orderlies moved him to a cot near the window where several of his men already lay. Lily was shocked to see that night had fallen. Yet with that realization, she began to feel the wretched ache in the small of her back, the crick in her neck and the fog of exhaustion threatening her. The hospital was quieter now, and she saw the figures of men and women sitting beside the patients, cooling their faces with damp cloths or murmuring encouragement.