The Callahans: The Complete Series

by Gordon Ryan

  As suddenly as it had begun, the battle was over. Crawling, walking, and aiding their fallen comrades along the way, the remaining gray-clad troops slowly retraced their steps, stumbling back toward the woods fronting Seminary Ridge. Further conflict ceased as the blue troops, out of respect for the valiant Confederate effort, allowed those retreating the honor of safe passage across the field.

  The three-day battle of Gettysburg, defined by the most heroic yet suicidal frontal assault of the Civil War, was over. Pickett’s charge would be lauded for decades to come as a moral victory, but in the aftermath of Gettysburg, although they would fight on for nearly two more years, the South would never again take the initiative.

  Sister Mary recalled how, on that dreadful day, she had risen from her knees, wiped her eyes, and started on a fast walk toward the overcrowded field hospital, now preparing to receive the overwhelming and ghastly influx of wounded and dismembered soldiers.

  Later that afternoon Sister Mary Theophane was summoned by the chief surgeon. An older man, his face drawn and haggard from hours of surgery, he steadied himself for a moment in the doorway as Sister Mary approached.

  “Ma’am, I have been informed that you are from the Catholic college some ten miles south in Maryland. Is that correct?”

  “I have been on assignment there for several weeks, Doctor.”

  “Would it be possible, ma’am, as we begin our march south, for us to leave some of our wounded in your care? We would, of course, provide additional surgeons to assist.”

  “Doctor,” Sister Mary replied hesitantly, “I am not in authority at the college, but I feel certain they will seek to do all they can to assist.”

  He nodded his head, rubbing his beard and digging at the corner of his eye with a finger. “I understand. These men will be in Confederate gray, Sister, and northern Maryland is ...”

  “Would there be any Irish among your troops?” she interrupted.

  The doctor hesitated momentarily, unsure of her meaning but nodding his head in response.

  “And Welsh, Scandinavian, German?” she continued.

  “I believe we have them all, ma’am,” he replied.

  “Then, sir, the color of their clothing will not matter to our Lord. They are all His children.”

  The tired, old man was silent for a moment, looking down at this very young, and very small, Catholic nursing Sister, her habit stained with three days accumulation of dirt and the dark red stains of Northern and Southern blood. “God bless you, Sister,” he said, his eyes moist and his voice soft.

  “Aye, Doctor. If folly such as we have witnessed today is to continue, God help us all.”

  The sound of Anders walking up the hill behind Sister Mary broke her thoughts of past trauma and she turned to smile at him as he approached. “Are you all right, Sister?”

  “We will all have to be all right, Mr. Hansen,” she said, dabbing at her eyes, a thirty-five-year-old tear rekindled. “Tomorrow will bring a test that some will not withstand.”

  “I’ve spoken with Stitch, Sister. He’s seeing to the ambulance wagon at the moment.”

  “Aye,” she said, taking one last look into the dark night, the faintest glimmer of light breaking to the east from the morning star. She turned her gaze back to Anders and offered a smile. “Are you ready, Mr. Hansen?”

  “No, Sister,” he shook his head. “In all honesty, I don’t believe I am. But I have asked the Lord to help make me so.”

  “Aye. We will all need Him this day.”

  Chapter 5

  Sister Mary rose from her morning prayers alongside the cot in her small tent and quickly went about her morning ablutions. As she dressed, she exhaled in frustration at the state of her habit. Unable to properly launder her clothing in the rough conditions of field duty, she felt her appearance was far beneath her personal standards. On her way to her duties, she bypassed the kitchen tent, determined to continue her fast as the day commenced.

  At first light, across the compound, Stitch busied himself hitching the team to the ambulance wagon, then drove to the front of the cluster of tents. Christened John Walkinghorse in 1862, the son of Ute Indian parents, Stitch grew up in the Uinta Mountains of Utah. When his mother died in his early teens, he rode with his father who served with the U.S. Seventh Cavalry on the western frontier. Stitch enlisted in the army, eventually mustering out in 1896 at Fort Douglas, Utah. When his friend, Anders Hansen, agreed to go to Cuba with the hospital contingent, Stitch had volunteered to come along, “to take care of them horses,” he had said.

  Anders exited the kitchen tent where he had taken breakfast and stepped to the wagon as Stitch climbed down. Sister Mary was close behind him.

  “All stocked and ready, Stitch?” Anders asked.

  “Yep. I done took a ride this morning just before light. Heard some shootin’ over toward Kettle Hill. Just some skirmishers, wouldn’t doubt.”

  “Stitch,” Sister Mary said, her voice reproving, “no more riding off alone until the military informs us the area is safe. I need all the help I can get here, and I can’t afford to let everyone who wants, to just go off sightseeing. Now, let’s get the area ready for patients. The hospital ward is prepared, and we’ve moved all the current patients out of the tent next to surgery to make room for newly wounded. Mr. Hansen, you and Stitch remain together today and operate the ambulance wagon. If you need additional stretcher bearers, try to get a couple of men from the security squad. Other than that, it’s just ...”

  Sister Mary’s attention was diverted as three riders came galloping over the hill and down the road Colonel Wood had used the previous evening. The lead rider pulled his horse to a stop, jumping down from his saddle and holding his reins. Dressed in buckskin colored trousers, dark blue shirt, and a campaign hat with the left brim pinned up above the ear, the trooper reflected the look of the Rough Riders, Colonel Roosevelt’s volunteer cavalry.

  “Sister, we got five wounded troopers comin’ behind on a food wagon. Two bad and two light. One ain’t got no hope.”

  “Has the fighting started for real, Trooper?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am. Just some skirmishers, but it were a roadside ambush what got these troopers. Colonel asked us to git some more medicine for the shakes casin’ we get bogged down out in them hills and can’t get back for a few days.”

  “Of course. Stitch, take care of these troopers, please. Mr. Hansen, take the saddled mare and see how far behind these wounded troopers are. Be careful, Mr. Hansen.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Before Anders reached the top of the road, a double-team army wagon crested the rise, two troopers on the front seat. When they drew closer, five more troopers could be seen lying in the back of the wagon. After escorting the wagon to the surgery, Anders dismounted, tied his horse, and began to help unload the wounded soldiers.

  “No use botherin’ him,” the driver said with a nod of his head. “He’s been dead over an hour.”

  The newly arrived soldiers were unloaded and quickly examined. One was immediately taken into surgery, and the other three were made as comfortable as possible in the recovery tent where several nursing Sisters went about cleansing and dressing their wounds. Stitch and Anders carried the dead soldier to a rear area designated as the morgue and located away from the view of arriving soldiers. The security detachment had also been assigned the responsibility of burying the dead before the heat could do its work.

  About two hours passed before the last wounded soldier completed surgery and was moved to the recovery tent with his mates. The sound of gunfire had increased considerably as the day progressed. Individual troopers came and went, retrieving medicine and equipment, and filling water containers. Just after noon, another wagonload of troopers came over the hill and stopped in front of the main tent area.

  “Colonel’s compliments, ma’am,” a young lieutenant with a New England accent said. Sitting astride a bay mare, he raised his fingers to the brim of his cap in a loose salute. “He asked if
you could send the ambulance wagon back, accompanied by two of my troopers, to retrieve additional wounded. I’ve brought several lightly wounded men with me,” he motioned toward the wagon, “but the more seriously wounded are waiting for the gut-wagon.” He looked briefly embarrassed by his use of the troop term for the ambulance. “Sorry, Sister,” he added.

  Sister Mary ignored the remark. “Certainly we can help, Lieutenant. Seems a bit less shooting. Is the battle over?”

  “I believe it nearly is, Sister. Colonel Roosevelt led the Rough Rider boys up Kettle Hill, drove the Spanish back, and secured the top. But our regiment is scattered all over three sides of the San Juan Heights, and some mopping up still needs to be done.”

  “How many wounded?”

  “Don’t know for certain, ma’am. They gave us an artillery pounding before we commenced the attack. More than fifty at last count, but that was over two hours ago.”

  Sister Mary faced Anders. “Mr. Hansen, you and Stitch take the ambulance wagon and two of the Lieutenant’s troopers and see if you can transport some of the wounded. We’ll have to hurry now or we’ll get caught by the dark.” Turning back to the Lieutenant, she added, “How far away are the wounded soldiers, Lieutenant?”

  “’Bout five or six miles down the road, ma’am. Troopers know where to go.”

  “Fine. Off with you then, Mr. Hansen,” she directed.

  “Right, Sister,” Anders said, climbing up next to Stitch who handled the reins. Made nervous by the labored breathing and skittishness of the horses that had just arrived, the four horses in the hitch pawed anxiously at the ground and tossed their heads.

  “Excuse me, Sister,” the lieutenant said. “Could you direct me to the telegraph? I have dispatches from Mr. Hearst and Mr. Crane.”

  “Last tent in the compound,” she pointed, before lifting the tent flap and entering the recovery area.

  On Anders’s third trip out, having carried ten or twelve wounded soldiers per trip in the ambulance wagon that was only outfitted for six, Anders and Stitch were stopped by four galloping troopers racing toward the field hospital. Stitch pulled on the reins, bringing the wagon to a halt. The riders also reined in.

  “Apparently the Spaniards have been watching your medical wagon,” one of the riders blurted out. “They ambushed some of the troopers trying to get the wounded ready for your next trip. Don’t be goin’ up there now. They’re all pinned down or scattered throughout the countryside. We got’s to get word to the Colonel, but it’ll be dark ’fore we can git back to ’em.”

  Anders looked at Stitch momentarily, an unspoken question in his eyes. Stitch just nodded and lightly slapped the reins to the back of the lead horse, who started to pull forward.

  Anders called over the side of the wagon as they drove past the four troopers. “Tell Sister Mary we’re going after another load, and tell her what’s happened.”

  “You ain’t got a hope,” one trooper hollered at Anders, as the men spurred their mounts and started again for the field hospital.

  “What we gonna do, Andy?” Stitch asked as the wagon continued down the road.

  “We’ve got to at least look, Stitch. He said they’re scattered, but maybe we can figure a way to help some of those men get out of there.”

  A half-mile short of where they had picked up the previous load of wounded soldiers, Stitch stopped the wagon and hobbled the lead horse. Not wanting to drive the team into a possible ambush, he and Anders proceeded cautiously on foot, slightly off the road, prepared to dive for cover into the light bush alongside the narrow dirt road that had been cut through the backwoods. About five hundred yards from where the last load of wounded troopers had waited on the road, they stopped to listen. Rifle fire was coming from off the road to the west.

  “What do you think, Andy?” Stitch asked.

  Anders moved off the road, stepping down into a shallow ditch running alongside, and looking up at the declining sun. “Got a couple of hours of light left, Stitch. Maybe we ought to split up and search for any remaining troopers.”

  “I dunno, Andy. That’s risky, bein’ alone in the bush and all.”

  “Yah, but we’re running out of time, Stitch.”

  “Okay, we’ll give it a try. Which way for you?” he asked, nodding his head in the direction he intended to go.

  “I’ll head east. You go off to the west, there,” he pointed, “and we’ll try to work our way through the brush to the point where we found those other troopers on the last trip. I think that’s about a quarter mile up this road to the north.” He looked at his watch. “Be back at the wagon in roughly an hour.”

  Stitch nodded and stepped off the road, heading toward the west. Anders moved a few feet into the brush, watching until Stitch disappeared in the overgrowth. Wending his way through the tangled low scrub brush and saw grass, Anders hadn’t gone a half-mile when he heard the sound of voices. He thought they were speaking English, but he cautiously got to his knees and then crawled the remaining forty yards to a small cluster of trees where he saw three troopers lying on the ground near a tree.

  “Comin’ in,” Anders announced loudly. Grabbing their rifles, two of the troopers jumped to their feet, as Anders stepped through the line of brush. “Come from the field hospital, Trooper. Easy on the trigger, if you please,” he smiled.

  Both troopers relaxed and the taller one got down on one knee to examine the unconscious man. “He’s bad hurt. Kin we git him to the hospital?”

  “That’s what I’m here for. Can you help carry him?”

  “Yeah, I reckon.”

  Anders gave a quick examination to the downed trooper and saw that he had a chest wound, his breathing was slow and his color was a light gray. “Gotta get this man back to the wagon,” he said. “Give me a hand.” They lifted the unconscious trooper, carrying him between Anders and the taller trooper while the third man carried the three rifles and gear. In twenty minutes, they were back at the ambulance wagon where they started to place the man in one of the lower bunks for the trip.

  Two shots rang out on the opposite side of the wagon. The trooper who had been carrying the rifles dropped to the ground and began to return fire. Anders fell flat in the bed of the wagon, and the trooper who had been assisting him in the carry jumped down and scrambled under the wagon, retrieving his rifle from his buddy.

  “How many ya make it, Jed?” the shorter trooper asked.

  “Heard three shots. Dunno how many more.”

  From somewhere out of the brush to the west, gunfire erupted and several rifle shots struck the wagon and the surrounding ground, pinning the two troopers beneath the wagon while Anders lay on the floor of the ambulance beside the injured man. Several shots were returned and then minutes went by as they assessed their situation. Suddenly, multiple rifle shots were heard from the direction of the enemy soldiers, and shouts in English were discernible. In a few moments, an American voice called out, “Hold your fire. We’re coming out.”

  The two troopers under the ambulance wagon kept aim in the direction of the voice, but held fire. First one, then five other American troopers came through the brush and approached the wagon.

  “Where’d you come from?” Jed asked, standing to his feet.

  An older man with three stripes on his uniform spat tobacco juice on the ground and grinned. “We seen the ambulance wagon and figured the Spanerds would try to ambush the hospital boys when they brought the wounded out—like they did earlier to them wounded troopers. At least that bunch won’t be ambushin’ nobody else,” he grinned, another spat erupting from his mouth.

  Anders stood and jumped down from the wagon, taking in the situation. “Did you see another medical orderly off to the west?”

  “Yep,” he said, brown juice dribbling off his lip. “He hauled a couple’a gut-shot troopers outta the bush. They’re over yonder in them trees,” he pointed. Turning to one of his troopers he jerked his head toward the woods. “Git them shot-up boys over here, and let’s get movin’ ’fore som
e of their spanny cousins come lookin’ for ’em,” he said, hiking his thumb toward the site of the recent encounter.

  “Where’s the other orderly?” Anders asked.

  “Back in the bush. He pulled a couple o’ them troopers out, but got hisself shot on the last trip in. We couldn’t see no way to get back in, and the lieutenant, he was gut-shot, so we left ’em.”

  Anders stared at the sergeant for a moment, startled by his callous attitude toward his fellow troopers. He turned and reached into the wagon, pulling out another aid kit and a fresh canteen of water and strapping them to his waist. “Let’s go get ’em.”

  The older sergeant shook his head and spat on the ground again. “No sense. The other two’s pinned down right proper under the guns of another bunch o’ them Spanerds.”

  “We’ve got to reach them,” Anders objected, his anger rising.

  “Nope. T’other two’s likely dead and that orderly’s jus’ an injun. Ain’t goin’ in no firefight for no injun, no sir.”

  Anders stepped toward the sergeant. “How far away are they?”

  “A few hunnert yards west,” he jerked his thumb. “No sense, I’m tellin’ ya.”

  “Sergeant, my name is Anders Hansen. At the direction of Colonel Roosevelt, I carry the rank of captain when I’m in the field. I’m ordering you to remain here with the wagon and to load the rest of the wounded troopers. I’ll return as quickly as I can, but you will wait until I return.”

  The sergeant’s face turned bitter. Anders stared at the older man, sensing he was contemplating Anders’s chances of returning alive.