Close to midnight, Lyon ordered an end to the singing and drumming, as the noise might alert the enemy.
A little after one in the morning, Lyon's advance scouts discovered the Missouri State Guard's campfires and called a halt. The men rested, but only a few of them could sleep on the hard bare ground. Mike, his drum close to his side, found Todd by the moonlight's gleam on his bugle and squatted down next to him under a scrub oak. "It won't be long now," Mike said. "Those Rebs won't stand a chance."
"What time do you think we'll move in?" Todd asked.
"Probably not until light. It's too dark right now to know friend from foe."
Harley stumbled over a tree root, plopping down beside Mike and Todd. "If that don't beat all," he said. "I heard from Sergeant Gridley that yesterday two Rebel women spies, bold as brass but wrong as can be, got a pass to leave Springfield and drove down to talk to McCuUoch at Wilson's Creek. Somehow they got the notion that General Lyon was packed up, ready to retreat from Springfield." He chuckled. "General Price, mad over the idea of the Federals gettin' away, told McCuUoch he'd order the attack himself, if McCuUoch wouldn't."
Todd asked, "The Rebs are going to attack us? When?"
Harley laughed again. "They were gonna start their
march about the same time we started om-s, only they had a light rain shower, and McCulloch was afraid the rain would ruin his men's ammunition, which I understand is in short supply.
"Lyon's scouts discovered that the Confederates have withdrawn their pickets, thinkin' we turned tail, so they're set up for a surprise. In a few hours those Rebs will find out they don't need to come to us. We've already come to them!"
"How far away are the Rebs?" Mike asked.
"Less than three and a half miles," Harley answered. Grunting, he struggled to his feet. "You boys get your rest. You'll need it come morning."
As Harley left, Todd murmured, "I can't sleep. Can you?"
Mike sighed. "With all that's going on, how could anyone sleep?"
But in a few minutes Mike heard Todd's gentle snoring, and he leaned back against the tree trunk, staring up through the leafy branches at the smattering of bright stars.
The camp was nearly silent, with only the sounds of sleep and an occasional rustle of the underbrush traveling on the light breeze. Tears burned Mike's eyes as he thought of his family and the father he missed more than ever. "Da," he whispered, "I need you. Be with me now."
There was no answer, but Mike's mind and heart filled with contentment. Knowing that his father had heard him, he drifted off to sleep.
Suddenly, Mike started. Someone was shaking his shoulder. It took him several seconds to recognize Sergeant Grid-ley bending over him in the darkness.
"No call to reveille this morning, boys," the sergeant said. "It's four o'clock. Wake the men as quietly as you can."
As Mike and Todd scrambled to their feet, Todd murmured, "Remember your promise."
Shocked by the ghostly pallor of Todd's face, Mike said, "Todd, you know I will. But by this time tomorrow, we'll all be celebrating a big victory over those Rebs."
Without a word Todd snatched up his bugle and disappeared into the darkness.
Mike had no time to worry about his friend. He had work to do, and quickly.
By the time the night blue of the sky faded into a pearly pink-tinged gray, Lyon's battle line had been formed across the way from the northern end of the Confederate line. With infantry in front and Totten's battery just behind, the Union opened fire, and the Battle of Wilson's Creek began.
Eager to join the fray, Mike hurried to his post at Captain Dawes's side, only to discover that the Second Kansas was to be held in reserve, out of sight of the skirmish.
"Another wait! And for what?" Mike grumbled.
"What makes you so set on gettin' into the fight?" Ben mumbled close to Mike's ear. "It would suit me just fine if we stayed far and away from it."
"Stay out of the battle?" Mike was indignant. "Just what are you here for?"
Ben gave a long sigh. "Danged if I know. Right now I surely wish I'd stayed to home."
Mike listened to the booms of the cannons, the sharp blasts of gunfire, and the cries and shouts. Through the hubbub he could hear drum calls, and he squirmed impatiently as he clutched his own drum.
Fm a drummer, Mike thought restlessly. Fm here, ready to serve. When am. I going to get the chance?
By the end of the first hour, the sounds of battle had grown to a head-pounding roar. The reserve army, most of whom were sprawled on the ground to get some rest, heard conflicting reports: The Rebs were putting up a vigorous battle. The Rebs were being beaten so badly, they'd never recover. The First Missouri and First Kansas had valiantly reached the site of what they were calling "Bloody Hill" and were winning the battle. If only that last report were true! No such luck. On the contrary, the shells from the Confederates' battery kept forcing back the Union troops.
* By eight o'clock, Mike thought he couldn't stand to wait another minute. Then orders came for the Second Kansas to go to the aid of the First Missouri, which was about to be overcome. Colonel Mitchell, Captain Dawes, and the other officers mounted their horses.
It was close to nine o'clock and the sun was glaring a bright silver-gold, before Mike, energetically beating out the call to advance, began to climb the hill at Captain Dawes's
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side. The men in Dawes's company eagerly sm*ged forward, so Mike was almost upon the bodies that lay sprawled on the ground before he saw them. He gagged as bile rose in his throat, and for an instant he was too sickened to beat his drum.
"Steady, Mr. Kelly." Captain Dawes's voice was firm.
Mike took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on the drumbeats, but he couldn't ignore the sight of the dead all around him, some with gaping wounds in their chests, some with parts of their heads blown away. The most terrifying sight was the wounded soldiers who were still alive, some writhing and screaming in agony. No one at that moment could respond to their cries.
In desperation Mike forced his gaze beyond the crest of the hill to the cornfields and oatfields below, where men in blue fought men in gray, thrashing their way through the broken stalks. He noticed a small white farmhouse close to the road, not too far from Wilson's Creek. Confederate soldiers positioned at the back of the house kept up a barrage of fire at Union soldiers who had reached the roadway. Where were the people in the farmhouse? Mike wondered. Had they been able to get out of the way of this raging fury?
A bullet bounced off the rim of Mike's drum. The force made him stagger, but he quickly straightened, keeping his drumbeats loud and true despite the fear that knotted his stomach and made his head throb.
A wave of Rebs pushed forward, unloading their muskets. Then with no time to reload, they jabbed and stabbed all about them with the bayonets attached to the muskets' barrels.
A southerner about Todd's age bellowed in agony. He clasped a Union soldier who had fallen, screaming, 'T shot my pa! Oh, God help me, I shot my pa!"
Horrified, Mike cried out, too, but what could his cries accomplish? A mass of Second Kansas volunteers rushed
forward. After they had passed, the Reb lay dead on the ground next to his father.
Tears streamed down Mike's cheeks. As he hunched his shoulder to wipe them away, a blow from the side sent him sprawling.
It took Mike a moment to understand that a heavy body had fallen on top of him. As strong hands helped Mike to his feet, he looked at the face of the dead man.
"Captain Dawes!" he shouted. "No! Not the captain!"
Someone began leading Captain Dawes's horse away, the captain's body slung over the saddle. In a daze Mike staggered after them.
Sergeant Gridley grabbed Mike's shoulder and shoved the drumsticks into his hands. "Keep up the call to advance, Mr. Kelly. That's your job. I'll tell you if you need to drum retreat, and I hope that may never be."
"Y-yes, sir," Mike stammered. Sick at heart, cold with terror at the destruction
all around him, Mike stood his post, his drumbeats steady.
Although Mike wouldn't have thought it possible, the fighting grew even more intense. The roar of the cannons, the musket fire, the screams and shouts ... It was a bad dream, a bloodred nightmare, a horror that wouldn't end.
During a blessed lull in the fight. General Lyon rode up astride his gray horse and regrouped the Federal line. Leading the Second Kansas himself, Lyon began the charge against the Confederates, but the Rebs had rallied in even greater numbers, and the fighting grew fierce along the entire line.
For an hour the battle roared with fury. Mike, finding a perch on a rock ledge near the brow of the hill, bravely kept drumming. Nearby he could hear Todd's bugle. Mike could only hope the call to battle spurred the soldiers of his company onward, helping them to fight even more aggressively.
Near Mike a man cursed and nearly dropped his musket.
"The damned barrel's too hot!" he yelled. "It burnt my hands!"
A soldier at Mike's left fell. With an angry yell, Ben charged into the breach, cutting in front of Mike. But before he could shoot, an enemy bullet struck Ben's head, splattering his blood and brains onto Mike's face and jacket.
More powerful even than the wave of nausea that enveloped Mike was one horrible thought: He was alive only because Ben, brutally killed, had blocked a bullet aimed in his direction. As the battle raged around him, Mike beat his drum numbly, as though he were no longer a part of his own body.
A sudden burst of fire brought down General Lyon's horse. Lyon pulled himself out from under the animal and limped forward, waving his sword and shouting. Mike saw blood streaming from the general's forehead and his leg.
Soldiers from the First Iowa straggled back. "We have no leader!" someone shouted. "Give us a leader!"
"You have a leader," Mike heard Lyon call to them. "Sweeny, lead those troops forward. We will make one more charge!"
On his orderly's horse Lyon rode into the fray, swinging his hat and calling out to the Second Kansas, "Come on, my brave boys! I will lead you! Forward!"
His horse had taken but a few steps before Lyon clutched his chest and fell. His orderly caught him and carried him gently to the ground. "Our general is dead!" he cried.
The fierce blast of musket fire killed Colonel Mitchell, too. Many of the Union soldiers, dazed and confused, turned to retreat.
Mike slammed the drumsticks into their rat-tat-a-tat with all his strength. "This is not a call to retreat!" he shouted. "Fight, men! Fight the Rebs!"
Harley's strong voice bellowed, "Does the boy have
more spirit than the rest of us?" Harley ran ahead. The soldiers who had hesitated now turned and followed him.
"Good work, Mr. Kelly!" Sergeant Gridley called out, and Mike's eyes filled with tears. That was what Captain Dawes would have said. Mike's arms were heavy and painful from the relentless pounding of his drum. But beneath the mercilessly shining sun, Mike beat on.
Hearing the loud blare of Todd's bugle, Mike glanced to his right and saw Todd standing near the front lines.
"We'll beat them, Todd!" Mike yelled.
But before Todd could respond, Confederates surged toward the Federals. Whooping with excitement, a Reb charged directly at Todd, plunging his bayonet through Todd's chest.
"Todd! No! No!" Mike screamed, but there was nothing he could do.
Clutching his chest with a cry, blood spurting through his fingers, Todd fell to the ground and lay still.
With a grin the Reb scooped up Todd's bugle, tucked his trophy into his shirt, and plowed forward, holding his bayonet before him.
Mike started after the Reb who had killed Todd. "I'll get you!" he sobbed over and over.
But just as Mike stooped to pick up a musket, a horse rode into Mike's path. "Drummer!" the rider shouted. "Keep to your business! Sound retreat, boy! Now!"
Fighting nausea, tears streaming from his eyes, Mike obeyed orders. He dropped the musket and stood his ground, beating out the call, as the Rebs advanced with eager shouts.
Suddenly, a gray-uniformed Reb slammed through the underbrush and came face-to-face with Mike, his musket and bayonet pointed at Mike's forehead. Mike closed his eyes. This was it. He winced as he waited to be shot.
But the soldier groaned. "I can't shoot a boy!" he muttered.
The Reb roughly brushed past him, but there was no time for relief. Other Confederates were pouring up the hill and through the gap in the underbrush. A shot ripped through Mike's drum, tearing it from the strap around his neck, and another shot struck his right leg.
Mike fell from the ledge where he'd stood. He rolled uncontrollably down the hill, sharp pebbles scratching his face and arms. His leg felt as if it were on fire. / have to get help or ril die, Mike thought. As he landed headfirst against a tree trunk, a sea of blackness curled around him, plunging him into a deep, pain-free unconsciousness.
Monster nightmares tortured Mike's dreams. He tried to cry out, but he couldn't. Through blinking eyes, he saw only darkness.
Don't fight the pain, Mike. Let go, he thought he heard Da say. With a sigh, Mike slipped into a blackness that soothed hira like a stroking hand.
He awoke in a puddle of blood and sweat and mottled sunlight as a shower of pebbles stung his face. The sounds of war had vanished, leaving behind a silence even more horrible.
A few more pebbles rattled down the slope, striking Mike's face, and he glanced up through the noonday brightness to see a Confederate soldier making his way down the hill toward where he lay. The Reb yelled to someone out of Mike's sight, "There's a dead Yank down here! Looks like he's got fairly good boots. Ought to fit somebody."
"I don't like this robbin' the dead. That shouldn't be part
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of a soldier's duty." The voice that had answered the Reb sounded familiar. Whose was it?
"We got their ammunition—what little was left—and you know the men in our company are in need of every pair of decent boots we can find."
"Long as we leave it at that," the familiar voice said. "But don't go through their pockets, Jiri. The bugle you been braggin' about should have been enough, but I saw you take that dead boy's pocket watch as well."
"It was mine by rights. I killed him."
Mike gasped and stiffened, remembering the grin on the Reb's face. Rage, stronger than his pain, poured like red-hot metal through Mike's mind and body, and he clenched his fists, biding his time.
"Besides, the watch won't do the Yank any good." The wiry blond Reb called Jiri laughed and slid farther down the bank until he stood next to Mike.
Mike's eyes narrowed to slits. As Jiri bent forward, Mike reached up and grabbed his neck, pulled Jiri off balance, and slammed his face into the dirt. Mike yelled, "Give me Todd's watch! Grave robber! Dirty Confederate grave robber!"
But Mike's wound had left him weak, and it took only a moment for Jiri to scramble free. He got to his feet and gave Mike a kick in the side. Mike cried out in pain.
Having reached the bottom of the slope, the other soldier grabbed Jiri and pulled him back just as he was aiming another kick.
"What's wrong with you, Jiri?" he shouted. "The man's wounded! For all we know, he's dyin'."
"He attacked me!" Jiri complained.
"He stole Todd's watch!" Yelling the words took all Mike's energy.
Grinning, Jiri pulled the watch from his pocket and dangled it out of Mike's reach. "It's mine now," he said. "I got it fair and square off a dead Yank."
The watch had baby tooth marks on it. There was no doubt about it—the watch was Todd's.
The other soldier shoved Jiri aside and stared down at Mike. "Well, I'll be!" he said. "It's you, Mike Kelly."
Mike looked into the eyes of the tall lean Reb with sun-bleached hair and gasped. "Corey Blair!" he cried out. Mike well remembered Corey, who had been so intent on courting and marrying Marta, the young woman who worked for Mike's first adoptive parents, Mr. and Mrs. Friedrich.
"If you can, get up and come w
ith us," Corey said.
"As a prisoner," Jiri sneered.
"I can't get up," Mike told Corey. "My leg . . ."
Corey tore Mike's pants leg free from the wound. He made a retching soimd. "Looks awful," he said, and turned back toward Mike, his face pale. He wiped at the sweat on his forehead. "Mike, you got hurt bad and lost a lot of blood. There's pus and dirt and maggots in the wound."
"I'm not going to die," Mike said firmly.
Corey managed a shaky grin. "I'll go along with that. A nearly dead man couldn't pull Jiri off his feet the way you done."
As if he'd just remembered Jiri, Corey stood and said to the other man, "Why don't you go see what else you can find? I'll take care of this one."
"He's a Yank. Why not just shoot him in the head?"
Corey flushed. "I'd as soon shoot you as him. The battle's over, and the Federals have been gone since yesterday."
"Leaving us to bury their dead," Jiri grumbled.
"It makes no nevermind," Corey told him. "This man is our prisoner, and we don't shoot prisoners."
Jiri glanced at Mike's leg. "He'll probably beg you to shoot him after he finds out the surgeon's gonna take off his leg."
Mike's heart raced. "Corey? Your surgeon wouldn't do that, would he?"
With a nasty laugh, Jiri began to climb the slope, and Corey bent to study Mike's leg. This time Mike could feel him pushing and probing around the wound. Mike bit his lip to keep from crying out. When Corey finished, Mike fell back, exhausted.
"The bone's not broke," Corey said. "As far as the wound goes, it's stopped bleedin', and it needs a good cleanin' out. 'Course, I'm no company surgeon, and hke Jiri said, the doctor we got is kinda inclined to handle bad leg wounds by taking off the leg."
Mike clutched at Corey's hand. "Don't let him cut off my leg! Please, Corey! Let me just stay here until I've got my strength back."
"You lie here much longer in this heat, with those maggots eatin' away at that wound, and there won't be anything left of you."
A Dangerous Promise Page 6
