Clouds of smoke rolled over her, making her cough, but thankfully hiding her from all the action below. Men’s cries before death made her shudder. She must escape.
With her hands on the large post, now above her, she scanned her surroundings for options. The giant sycamore that reached skyward and stood just a few feet away seemed the obvious choice. If she could leap to the closest branch, she could hide in the tree and climb down once the battle was over.
Above her, the bridge shook violently from the weight of men galloping their mounts across its planks. The wooden beams creaked as though they might give way.
Bending at the knees, Carrie pushed off and sailed across the short expanse between bridge and tree. Smoke stung her eyes. She blinked. In that second, she missed her intended target. An odd sense of weightlessness engulfed her before she landed hard in the middle of two thick branches. Her heart hammered as realization dawned. She’d nearly fallen onto the fighting men!
As the world righted, it became apparent that she’d landed in the crux of the sycamore. She wiggled her toes. She appeared unhurt for the most part, although the throbbing in her left wrist indicated an injury. Had she cracked a bone? Perhaps just a sprain. Either way, it would have to be bound somehow. Her wrist was swelling by the moment. She shrugged her haversack’s strap off her right shoulder and tried to grab it with her right hand, but the sack dislodged and fell between the branches before she could catch it.
“No! Oh, no!”
The clashing armies below paid no mind to Carrie’s cry or the fallen haversack. Helplessly she watched her belongings float away on the swift current of the Shenandoah.
With his senses on high alert after today’s surprise meeting with enemy forces, Peyton combed the north fork of the Shenandoah, searching for injured men, fugitives, and Confederate soldiers. The majority of the Rebel army had moved up the pike a ways and now Peyton rode with a few select troops. But every so often a remnant of the enemy lobbed a shell in their direction.
“Let’s go, men. Time is of the essence.” Peyton’s orders called for his brigade to retreat to Nineveh, but he wasn’t about to leave any of his troops behind if he could help it. If he knew where the injured lay, he’d send for ambulances to collect them under a white flag of truce.
A strange sound came from somewhere over his head. Peyton reined in Brogan and lifted a hand, slowing the men behind him. He sat, listening. Sure enough. Coughing. And it came from … from the treetop?
Peyton lifted his gaze and glimpsed a patch of blue uniform. “What in the world are you doing up there, soldier?” A coward? The man hid in the tree to avoid the fight?
“I—” Cough. Cough. “I fell.”
“You fell into a tree?”
“Off the bridge.” The fellow’s voice was raspy, no doubt from choking on the incessant smoke.
Peyton’s gaze wandered to the covered bridge on the Front Royal Pike. It was possible, he supposed, but what had the fellow been doing up there in the first place? Running?
“Come down from there at once.” If he’d run during a battle, the soldier would be immediately shot. Either way, he’d have to face Peyton. “Do you hear me? Climb down now!”
“I can’t.” More coughing. “I’m stuck.”
Swiveling in his saddle, Peyton motioned for his sergeant to dismount. “Get that man down from the tree.”
“Yes, sir.” Sergeant Donahue climbed the bank and over the gnarled tree roots. He glanced upward and then walked back toward Peyton. “Sir, I’m afraid I can’t get the man. You see …”
“Get to the point, man.” Peyton’s temples began to throb.
“I’m timid of heights, sir.”
“For crying out loud!” He swung down from his saddle and walked to the base of the tree. Upon closer inspection, he noted that the barking soldier sat between two thick branches that were fairly high up indeed.
“I can get him down, Colonel.” Corporal Bob Tompkins approached with a confident swagger and a coil of thick rope over one broad shoulder.
“Good—and be quick about it.”
Peyton visually scoured the area. He and his men were easy targets here for enemy sharpshooters. The last thing he wanted was to go on the defensive again. They were all weary from today’s fight, but it’d be worse to wind up in Confederate hands.
Tompkins climbed the tree and Peyton ordered the other men to continue their scouting along the riverbank. A shell whistled in the air and exploded too close for Peyton’s comfort. A pity his orders were to retreat, not fight. “Hurry up, Corporal.”
“Um … Colonel?”
Peyton stared up into the tree. “What is it?”
“This here ain’t no man. It’s a boy. No more than fifteen, I s’pect.”
Thank God. Then he’s not a fugitive.
“And he’s wearing sergeants’ stripes. No way he outranks me.”
Peyton groaned. The corporal was forever complaining about the unfairness of his lowly rank. “Bring him down. We’ll discuss the details later.”
An intense rustling ensued. “Ow!”
“What’s going on, Corporal?”
“The ingrate bit me!” Tompkins climbed down. After jumping from the lowest hanging branch, he faced Peyton and extended his bare palm where bite marks were evident. “That boy can stay up there forever as far as I’m concerned.”
“No, he has to come down.”
Cough. Cough. Cough. The tree-bound lad’s hacking persisted. If it continued, he might cough his way out of the tree and fall to his death. Peyton had seen enough of that today.
“Lend me your rope, will you?” He’d get that kid down if it killed him. And it just might at that.
The corporal complied and Peyton began his ascent. Smaller branches snapped beneath his boots and a barrage of twigs fell as he climbed. When at last he reached the boy, he could smell the fog of war, lingering in the sticky vegetation. And sure enough. The lad sat with his back against the trunk while his lower body was pinned between two thick branches. He’d certainly got himself wedged in tightly.
Peyton found sure footing. “What’s your name, son?” He arched a brow. “And don’t say Zacchaeus because I’m in no mood for fun and games.”
“My name’s …” It came out wheezy. “’ary.”
“Harry? Is that what you said?” Hard to hear the name clearly with the boy’s hoarseness. Peyton tried to get a good look at him, but the kid’s features were concealed beneath a layer of soot. Amazingly, though, he hadn’t lost his blue forage cap in the fall. “What’s your last name?”
“Bell.”
“Well, all right, Harry Bell, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Colonel Collier. I mean you no harm. No need to bite, scratch, or claw, understand?”
A slight nod.
Peyton noted the sergeants’ stripes that his corporal had been quick to point out. The coat obviously didn’t belong to this boy. It appeared four sizes too big, although its sleeves along with the trousers had undoubtedly been hemmed.
So where’d he get it?
“I’m here to get you out of this predicament. Do I have your full cooperation?”
The boy regarded him with a glassy-eyed stare that suggested shock but returned another slight nod.
“Good. We understand each other.” Peyton tugged off his gauntlets and tucked them into his belt before securing one end of the rope around the boy’s waist. “Where’s your weapon?” he asked, finding none as he tightened the knot.
No reply.
Definitely shock. Peyton had seen it before, especially on soldiers who had just fought their first battle. The sight of rolling heads and severed limbs wasn’t soon forgotten. “Where’s your gear?”
“River.” The boy began coughing hard again. Branches shook beneath them.
“Easy now.” Peyton considered the kid’s slim form and decided the best way to get him down—them down—safely was to tie the other end of the rope around his own waist. If the boy fell, Peyton could support his
slight weight and likely prevent his demise.
“What are you doing? Are you going to hang me?” Cough. Cough.
Peyton waited for the fit to subside. “On the contrary, Sergeant Bell”—he couldn’t help the sarcasm—“I’m trying to save your life and get you out of this tree.”
Bracing himself first, Peyton cupped the boy’s upper right arm. His hand nearly fit around its circumference. A weakling? Except he felt some muscle beneath his palm. Something didn’t add up, but there was no time to figure it out now.
He gave the boy a hard yank and freed him from the sycamore’s grip.
“Don’t let me fall!”
“I won’t. Just don’t look down. We’ll work together, one branch at a time. Got it?”
“My wrist …”
“Injured?”
The boy nodded.
“Let’s have a quick look.” With his own arm slung around a branch, Peyton reached for Bell’s injured one. Pushing up the coat’s sleeve, he spied black stains on the boy’s rather delicate-looking hands.
“What’s that?”
“Ink.”
“Ink?” What on earth?
Something hauntingly familiar passed through Peyton, but before he could give it more thought or force the boy to explain, another round of hacking ensued. Peyton’s own lungs were becoming irritated by another onslaught of dark plumes moving into the treetop.
“You all right up there, Colonel?”
Peyton knew the voice. “I’m fine, Major Johnston.” He regarded the boy once again. “It doesn’t appear broken, but I’ll examine it again once we’re on the ground. For now, do the best you can. The main thing is we get down safely.”
Peyton descended one branch at a time, gaining a sure footing before the boy followed after. When he reached the lower crux of the tree, Peyton jumped easily to the ground. A second later, a weight crashed into him. He lost his balance and slid on his back over bumpy tree roots and into the Shenandoah. He opened his mouth to yell, but got a mouthful of murky river water instead.
A brief tussle ensued, but he managed to toss the ballast off his chest. Sitting, Peyton gulped his next breath. The imitation sergeant stared back at him with wide eyes.
“Boy, are you trying to drown me?”
“No, sir.”
Major Vernon Johnston, Peyton’s most trusted friend and aide-de-camp, had the audacity to smile from atop his horse. “The rope between you two was short, Colonel. You jumped, the lad didn’t, and—”
“I get it.” Obviously the mishap hadn’t been intentional. “Corporal,” he said to the trooper standing nearby, “help this boy to his feet. Watch his left arm. It may be broken.”
“At least he’s got two arms, sir. Some ain’t been so lucky today.” Tompkins jerked the boy upright before giving Peyton a hand up.
Dripping with river water, Peyton pushed his hair off his forehead and glared at the kid. At least he had the good sense to appear frightened—well, maybe not frightened exactly.
“Have we met before?”
Bell lifted his slender shoulders.
“Hmm …” Peyton could swear their paths had crossed at some point. “If we have, it means you’re a persistent troublemaker for the Union army.”
“No, sir.” Cough. Cough. “I’m no troublemaker, especially where you’re concerned.”
Peyton drew his chin back. What was that supposed to mean?
“What do you want me to do with him, sir?” Tompkins gave the boy a shake.
“I’ll think of an appropriate punishment while we ride back to camp.”
“Colonel, he’s obviously impersonating an officer,” Tompkins insisted.
“I’m aware of that and I’ll deal with it accordingly once we’re out of the line of fire.”
Tompkins puffed out his chest. “I’ll tie his hands. He can walk behind the horses.”
“No.” Peyton regarded him and their fellow cavalrymen. Hardened expressions said they wouldn’t be pleased to share their saddles with a younger man who illegitimately outranked half of them. Peyton wasn’t exactly thrilled to be encumbered on his mount either, for that matter, but Harry Bell was just a lad, perhaps Tommy’s age. “He can ride with me.”
“No! Let me go!” The boy squirmed, coughed, and squirmed some more. “I’m looking for my sister. She ran off yesterday morning with a no-account peddler.” He croaked out each word. “All I wanted to do was get past …” Wheeze. “… past Union lines.” Bell coughed again.
“You’d best learn right now—” Tompkins gave the boy a cuff upside his head. Bell fell to the ground. “No one talks to the colonel like that.”
“That’ll be enough.” Peyton stepped between the two.
Bell cradled his left arm. That dazed look had reentered his eyes—deep blue eyes that Peyton knew he’d seen somewhere else.
He’d have time to mull it over as they rode toward White Post.
“Don’t bother with the boy, Corporal.” Peyton helped the lad to his feet. “I’ll deal with this one—personally.”
CHAPTER 4
His voice certainly sounded like Captain Collier’s. Carrie had heard it plenty of times in her dreams. It was the same bass timbre with that perfect blend of silk and steel. And this man looked like the same captain to whom Carrie gave aid nearly a year and a half ago, although from her place behind him, she couldn’t be absolutely sure.
She didn’t dare try to catch a glimpse lest she slide off the saddle and get trampled. Instead, she clung to him a little tighter, trying desperately not to gag from the stench of wet wool and raw humanity.
She busied her thoughts and continued pondering her captor’s identity. True, last fall she learned the captain had fallen at Gettysburg. An inexplicable sorrow filled her—sorrow for a man she’d met only once. How foolish. Yet, that dashing, charming officer had occupied a lot of room in her mind until she learned of his tragic demise. On the other hand, the soldier who passed the information to her might have been mistaken.
So then, did she only imagine this Union cavalryman, a colonel, resembled the captain whose forearm she’d sutured? Perhaps. But, if it were him, she felt fairly confident she could trust him.
Then again, if this wasn’t the same man, God only knew what fate awaited her. Would these Yankees torture her as Joshua implied?
Maybe for once she should have listened to him.
One fact remained, whether or not this was Captain Collier, holding onto a dirty, wet, and smelly man on a torrid August day was punishment enough!
The colonel urged his mount up a small hill. Carrie held on even tighter for fear she’d fall backward off the horse.
“Ease up, boy. You’re liable to crack one of my ribs.”
“Sorry.” Her voice was returning, although her throat felt raw and parched. She adjusted her tone to mimic a male’s. “Sorry.” She loosened her hold around him and forced herself to lean back an inch or so. She eyed the man’s thick, tawny hair and the way it curled slightly over the collar of his dark blue coat.
He turned slightly in his saddle. Despite the fact they could use a trim, his mustache and beard weren’t at all scraggy like some whiskers she’d seen on soldiers. Instead, the colonel looked fairly well groomed, sooty face and all. However, his brow puckered and an unmistakable curiosity sparked in his golden-brown gaze. “Does your wrist hurt?”
“Yes, sir.” She used the deepest pitch possible, praying she wouldn’t give away her gender. “My jaw hurts more, thanks to your corporal.”
“You shouldn’t have sassed him.” The colonel turned frontward again.
Outrage struck her nearly as hard as the corporal had. “So you think it’s all right for a man to hit a—” She quickly swallowed the word female and lowered her voice again. “Never mind.” Of course a soldier would feel justified striking a juvenile boy. The pity was that the corporal rendered Carrie senseless for a time so she couldn’t fight back. Next thing she knew, she’d been stuffed onto the back of the colonel’s saddle.
“You also bit him,” he stated over his shoulder.
“I did?” Carrie didn’t recall.
The Yankee horsemen steered their horses across a stream then along the water’s gently sloping bank. The powerful muscles in the colonel’s legs seemed to match his charger’s sinew, working beneath them.
At last they reached a clump of trees, and Carrie yanked on his coat.
“What is it now?”
“May I have some water? I read somewhere that even Rebel prisoners at Camp Chase are given water.”
With a low growl, the colonel halted his large steed and handed back his canteen. He ordered his men to move onward, indicating he’d catch up with them later.
Carrie fumbled with the canteen then dropped it. “Sorry, sir.”
He swiveled half around and took hold of Carrie’s upper arm. With his support she swung out of the saddle. Then he lowered her to the ground with nary a grunt. She felt unsteady on her feet for a moment, but managed to retrieve the canteen from the grass. After removing its cork, she drank from it. The water, though warm, tasted sweet. She couldn’t get enough.
“Easy, boy.” The colonel dismounted and loosely tethered his horse to a low tree branch nearby. Facing Carrie again, he said, “No sense in drinking your fill only to have it come back up.” The colonel stepped toward her slowly and removed his gold gauntlets. No doubt he expected her to run—and she considered the idea. But she wouldn’t get far.
Carrie coughed. Her lungs felt clearer now that she’d gotten out of the smoky haze of war.
“Finished?” He tucked his leather gloves into one of the belts around his trim waist.
She took another long drink before handing back his canteen. “Thank you.” She considered him closely. A fine figure of a man to be sure.
She’d thought so more than a year ago. Yes, it was indeed Captain Collier … or, rather, Colonel Collier.
“Something on your mind?” He scrutinized her until she blushed.
“Nice to see you again, sir.” She looked down at her boots.
A Thousand Shall Fall Page 4
