She backed into the cave wall, sliding downward. It couldn’t be real. If she allowed herself to believe it was true and not a horrible illusion, she would lose all sanity. She knew she would.
Time passed slowly. She crouched there in the dark, damp cave for perhaps two hours, vomiting now and then, swaying as she fought to remain conscious.
Suddenly she was aware that someone was walking in the cave, coming toward her. Lifting fearful eyes, she saw Luke, dressed in the dead Lieutenant’s uniform, hat and boots, his sword and scabbard now strapped to his side. “Look at you…” He snorted disgustedly. “Puke all down your shirt. Get down to that swamp and wash and clean yourself up. Then get busy and help my men bury those soldiers.”
She obeyed, walking to the slimy swamp waters before taking off the vomit-soaked clothing. Waist-deep in the water, cringing as unseen creatures bumped against her flesh, she hurriedly splashed her body, then emerged to the muddy bank. Reaching for the fresh clothing Luke was holding out to her, he snatched them away just as her fingers touched the garments. He laughed, and his men joined in to watch the taunting as Kitty begged.
And then Luke stopped laughing, his eyes becoming glassy as mounting desire moved through him at the sight of her naked, supple body kneeling before him. As easily as though she were nothing more than a bag of flour, he reached down and scooped her up, hoisting her over his shoulder. Turning toward the cave, he stepped across the mutilated bodies, moving between the men digging the trench for a mass grave. They laughed, tossing obscene remarks which Luke answered jovially.
Inside the cave he carried Kitty to the pallet where he had ravished her only a few hours before. Laying her down, he began to remove his clothing, eyes raking over her.
“I’m gonna teach you some new tricks, you little spitfire,” he said hoarsely, falling to his knees beside her. He placed his hand on the back of her neck, slowly pulling her face toward his loins as he whispered huskily, “I’m gonna teach you how to make it real good for a man.”
Closing her eyes, she obediently parted trembling lips. It did not matter. She would not let it matter. None of it was real. The nightmare would continue until the day when she awakened to find Nathan and the comfort of his arms—the sweet solace of his love. Until then…let the horror and unreality continue.
She would not let the nightmare become a reality.
Chapter Fourteen
Kitty turned in her sleep, awaking suddenly as a pine needle prickled her skin. Even after six months she had not become accustomed to the pine-needle bed.
Wearily, she opened her eyes to the gray morning light that filtered through the cracks of the crude log cabin. The fire had long ago burned itself out. She could make out the lines of the sparse furniture—a table made from boards laid across upright barrels, the sawed logs they used for stools. On the far side, where Luke had made them sleep, the pallets of his men were empty.
Then she remembered. Early sounds. It had been dark outside when she heard, them moving about, getting ready to go on another trip to raid and kill and loot. Thinking about it made her stomach lurch. Always they returned, triumphant over their success, boasting of the food and gold or money they wore able to steal. And likely as not, they would have a fresh supply of whiskey, and Luke would get drunk and take her savagely to satiate his lust. But she had been lucky, she reminded herself. Luke was one to fall asleep easily, and she had been spared many nights when he fell across her snoring drunkenly before he was able to plunge into her.
Winter! Could any winter be as cold as the one they had spent along the border between the western mountain region of North Carolina and the southern line of West Virginia? It had begun to snow the early part of December, and for months the ground had been covered in the hollow where the cabin was built. The wind never stopped howling, and Kitty could not remember being warm for even a moment. The chill was constant.
Luke had moved his men into the region because he felt it was safer to plunder along the border, after Orville Shaw went out scouting and returned to report that the western counties of Virginia were against the war, and when Virginia left the Union, the westerners began to talk about seceding from Virginia. Luke felt they were safe as long as they knew when to disguise themselves as Confederates—and when to become Yankees.
Orville also brought back the news that the summer battle at Bull Run had awakened the North to the realization that the South was not going to be easily defeated. Word spread that President Lincoln had plucked the victorious George B. McClellan out of the western Virginia mountains to place him in command of the Army of the Potomac to build a real army with focus on organization, training, and discipline.
On the other side, Orville reported, the Confederate army was supposed to be building extensive lines of entrenchments around Manassas Junction, some twenty-five miles from Washington and the capital. Patrols were said to be heavy in the area, particularly along the Potomac River to blockade the water approach to Washington.
“This war’s going to last forever,” Luke had cried jubilantly when he heard the news. “And when it’s over, we’ll be the rich ones, no matter who wins.”
Kitty hated him. She never knew she could hate and despise a human being as much as she did Luke Tate. Within weeks after her capture she had found it impossible to withdraw any longer and had been forced to admit that the nightmare was reality. If only she could get her hands on a knife or a gun, she knew she would kill him and every one of his men. But Luke sensed this and knew she was waiting for just such a chance. He made sure one did not come. Seldom was she left with her hands free—only when someone was around to make sure she did not seize an opportunity to grab a weapon. The rope-burned scars on her wrists were evidence of her restraint.
But one day, she promised herself with gritted teeth, she would have her chance. All she had to do was wait for it to come.
She was always glad to see Luke begin drinking with the others after supper, for usually he would wind up passed out, unable to assault her. It became increasingly difficult to lie still as his fingers probed and prodded, his slobbering, hungry lips devouring her breasts, sometimes moving down her stomach and below. Only his threat to turn her over to his men, should she resist, kept her from fighting back.
The winter was endless. Kitty did not speak unless spoken to. She cooked for them, stirring the flour and bacon into stew, wrapping meat, from the game they killed, around long sticks to roast in the fireplace. And when there was no more work to be done…when the wind and snow whipped about outside as the men drank and gambled in front of the fire…she would crawl into her corner bed of pine straw and turn her back to them—and close her eyes—and dream of Nathan.
Where was he? Had he gone home late in the summer as he had planned, expecting to find her waiting there to become his wife? Did he go in search of her when told she and Doc never returned from a mission to aid the wounded Confederates at the Outer Banks? Was he still alive?
And what about Poppa? And her mother? Were any of them alive? Was there any point, even, for her to go on living? Perhaps it would be best to rile Luke to the point of murdering her, ending this hellish existence.
But no—there was always the chance that they would all come out of this dive. Maybe Nathan was even now searching. She had to hang on—she had to.
Shivering, she knew she had to get up and start the fire. If Luke returned and the cabin was not warm, he would beat her. That was the only reason he had left her untied—so she could gather wood and start food cooking. Of course, he had made sure no weapons had been left lying around. He was so certain of what she would do should her hands wrap around a knife, that he would not even allow her to use a blade to cut up game. If the men were not in a good mood and didn’t offer to cut it for her, she had to dig her nails into the flesh and rip it from the carcass in order to cook. The first time she had been forced to do so, they had stood around to watch and taunt, hoping, she knew, to see her gag or maybe even faint. But she had managed, even t
hough it was an unpleasant experience.
There was no wood in the cabin. Struggling into worn Confederate trousers, she pulled on a jacket and headed outside for the woodpile. There were Yankee clothes in better condition, but somehow her flesh crawled when she wore the hated blue. The tales Luke and the others brought back about the war, the realization that it was war that got her into her present situation—all combined to make her despise the North for ever butting into her countrymen’s business to start with, and her loathing included anything to do with the Yankees.
She wore an old pair of boots Luke had stripped off one of the Yankees he’d killed in the swamps last summer. For a long time, she wouldn’t wear them, and he hadn’t cared enough about her feet to order her to. But then when the cold came, and the snow, she had no choice if she didn’t want her feet frostbitten. The shoes she’d worn when she and Doc left Goldsboro had long ago worn themselves thin and useless.
The sky was gray and thickly overcast, which meant more snow might come soon. In every direction, the whiteness of the ground cover was spread. Staring upward, she marveled at the height of the pine trees—some of them were maybe a hundred feet high. At the base of a few, there were green plumes struggling to burst upward through the snow. Here and there were a few sparse patches of dead brown grass and sassafras bushes and blackberry vines, which Nature first sends to hide the nakedness of the impoverished earth. Spring would soon come, but dear God, when? Once they were not so bogged down by the weather, perhaps Luke would want to start moving once again. The men seemed restless. If they were on the move, she would have a chance to escape…
A grunting sound made her drop the logs she had lifted in her arms. Whipping about, she saw a wild hog—long, lanky, with a head shaped like a snake, his bony body covered with porcupine spriggles of hair. He dashed across her path, giving short, hasty grunts as he galloped, not looking either to the right or left. If only she had a gun, she thought desperately, there would be roast meat on the table tonight.
Suddenly the furious, awkward clopping of horses fighting their way through the frozen snow made her strain hopefully to see into the woodlands. Dear God, she prayed, let it be someone other than Luke and his men. Let a miracle happen…let there be Confederate soldiers, or Virginians, or Indians…anyone that might free her!
The hopeful pounding of her heart subsided with a sickening lurch as she recognized Luke’s horse. There were others behind them, but she saw someone slumped in his saddle—coat splotched with blood, arm hanging limp. Someone sat behind him, holding him about the waist. And the others—where were they? She counted…three were missing…but before there was time to wonder further, Luke was upon her, sliding down off his horse to grab her arm and give her a shove toward the cabin.
“Get inside. Orville’s shot. You’ve got to help him.” His eyes were wide, angry. “Three of my men are dead, and goddamn it, I’m not losing another.”
He shoved her along to the cabin while someone helped carry Orville inside. “Get him on a table,” Luke ordered, then he saw the cold, blackened fireplace. “You lazy bitch!” He slapped her, sending her spinning against the wall. “You want him to die from the cold? Silas, get a fire going. Paul, get that bag from the Doc’s wagon.”
A pang of sorrow went up Kitty’s spine as she saw Paul Gray bring in the familiar worn bag that had belonged to Doc Musgrave. She had not known they had taken it. He sat the bag down, and Luke cried, “Okay, get him on that table, and let’s get busy.”
Orville cried out in agony, and Paul Gray moved to lift a cup of whiskey to his lips. He gulped, coughed, then dropped his head back, eyes closing. For the moment, he was out of his misery.
Kitty stood there nervously chewing her lower lip, willing him to go on and die right then and there. She could feel Luke’s eyes upon her, watching her, and finally, he exploded and reached to clutch her shoulders and shake her so hard she felt her teeth rattling in her mouth.
“Goddamn you, I know you can save him! I heard the talk around home…how you’re as good a doctor as the Doc was himself, Now you do something for this man, or so help me, I’ll kill you with my bare hands, Kitty Wright!”
Her eyes met his defiantly, and she choked out the words, not caring any longer whether she angered him or not. Let him kill her—she would not let him think she could perform miracles. “He’s lost a lot of blood, and I’m no surgeon. The only way he’s even got the slightest chance at all is to take that arm off!”
There were four other men in the room besides Luke and the unconscious Orville. No one moved or made a sound, each frozen where he stood, all eyes upon her,
After a strained moment, Luke ground out the words, “You saying you’ve got to cut his arm off?”
She felt sick. “I can’t promise you that even amputation will save his life. Like I said, he’s lost a lot of blood.”
He stared at Orville thoughtfully, and Kitty took a chance and said in a rush, “Look, how much good will he be to you with just one arm? Or himself, for that matter? Why don’t you just let him go on and die? Maybe he wouldn’t want to live if he had the choice to make.”
“That ain’t your decision to make. Or mine. What we got to do is save him if we can. Now you get busy and do what you got to do!” He gave her a shove toward the table where Orville lay, the worn bag of Doc Musgrave’s at his feet.
Kitty opened the bag and looked inside. It contained few instruments except a razor-sharp bowie knife, a half-broken probe, and a forceps for removing bullets, stained red by rust. There had been no war in Wayne County, and Doc seldom had to remove bullets or amputate limbs. He had delivered babies…did what he could for the fever and other ailments…treated some knife wounds now and then. The Surgeon General in Raleigh was to have sent new instruments to the hospital in Goldsboro, but when they had left for the Outer Banks, they had packed only what medicine and bandages they had. Doc had no shiny new instruments to take with him.
“Cut his shirt off,” she said to no one in particular. There was a sound of cloth ripping and Orville stirring at the movement and moaning painfully.
Kitty stepped forward to explore the exposed wound. She had seen Doc treat this kind of injury before—the result of a drunken brawl that had ended in tragedy. Probing with her fingertips, she found that the bullet had entered the arm almost in the center of the elbow joint, smashing through. The bones of the elbow had splintered, and when she touched the drum-tight skin, it felt hot and lumpy. Doc had taught her how to feel along the muscles for a sign that inflammation was spreading, but she found no evidence of tell-tale swollen nodules in the armpit, which would mean a pus seepage from the wound into the body itself.
“Well, damnit, say something!” Luke cried angrily. “Can you fix him up without taking off his arm?”
“No,” she answered quietly. She searched for the right words to tell them what it was going to be like to remove that arm, and how he might die anyway. What if they believed it was her way of taking out her revenge? If he died, they might blame her, think she purposely let him die. God, why did she have to be in a mess like this? Why couldn’t Orville Shaw have just died with the others?
Luke reached over and picked up a nearby jug and lifted it to his lips, whiskey dribbling down his chest. “Get busy.” He swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Do what has to be done.”
“It isn’t going to be pleasant. You’re going to have to tie him down, and he’s going to scream, because it’s going to hurt terribly. We don’t have anything to give him but the whiskey, and I can’t have him moving around.”
“We’ll hold him down. Don’t you worry. You just get busy.”
“Are you sure you can stand it?” She looked at each of them in turn. “Have any of you ever seen a man’s arm cut off?”
“Have you ever cut a man’s arm off?” Paul Gray snapped then, looking a bit pale.
She shook her head. “No. I helped Doc a couple of times, and I read the books he told me to. I think I can do it, but
I’ll need help. I don’t want anyone fainting on me.”
“Us…faint?” Luke snorted, took another swig from the jug. “You just do your part, and we’ll do ours. Paul—get some rope, and let’s tie him down.”
“Are you sure you’ve got to take that arm off?” Silas Canby looked at her as he threw a log into the crackling fire.
She shrugged helplessly. “I can do an excision—remove the bone fragments and try to save the limb. It might take him months to get over it, though, and there’s a chance the fever will set in. It’s too soon to know, but I feel some pus forming around the wound.”
“Luke, you said we’d move out when the spring thaw comes,” Silas looked at the leader. “And we see signs the thaw might come soon. We can’t stay behind because of Orville. Remember what we heard in that saloon before the fightin’ started? The Yankees are close by—and I believe those were Yankees that fired on us at that house we was raidin’…couldn’t see that good from where they were. We’ve got to be moving on. What if they track us? What if…”
“Shut up! Would you want someone to go off and leave you to die? Hell, no, you’d be screaming like a baby.” Luke turned to Kitty. “Now you tell us what you want us to do, and we’ll do it. And you do what you have to do. Just get on with it.”
“I’ll need some light. It’s too dark in here. And I need plenty of bandages and lint. There were several boxes in Doc’s wagon. Get them for me, please.” She stared down at the sleeping man. The pain would be excruciating. He would never sleep through it at the start. Perhaps blessed oblivion would take over when it became unbearable. Doc had been using chloroform when necessary, but there was never much of it, and they’d had none when they set out for the Outer Banks.
Placing her hand on Orville’s forehead, she noted that it was extremely hot. She hated him along with the others, having seen him plunder and kill innocent people. But now, at this moment, he was a human being, and there was something inborn, something she instinctively felt, that made her want to save him—enemy or not. If given the chance, she knew she could kill him herself. What, then, made the difference at this hour when she did have the opportunity to kill him and rid the earth of a useless creature? Doc would call it challenge—challenge, and desire to do battle with the clutching hands of death.
Love and War: The Coltrane Saga, Book 1 Page 16
