His thoughts were interrupted by shouted orders, and finally the attack was on. Thousands of Federal infantry charged, bayonets flashing in the sun, the air filled with their shouts as they surged into a cornfield beyond which the Confederates lay waiting. At the same time Will gave the command to begin firing the cannon into the cornfield. Cannon shot ripped through the stalks, cutting them down as though one great scythe had whacked away at them, opening up the field so that the Confederates had no place to hide.
Infantry under Major General Joseph Hooker, called Fighting Joe by his men, stormed forward, slaying Rebels like rabbits. It was a pitiful sight, but Will had learned to close his heart to such things. He dared not care, not even about his own men. In this war, it was dangerous to make a friend, for any moment he might be lying next to you with a bloody hole in his head, or a leg or an arm blown off. He ordered the cannon forward as the Federals drew closer to their first target, a small Lutheran church that the Rebels used as a signaling point, waving flags from the church’s tower.
Suddenly the Confederates began firing back with vehemence, and now it was Union men who were falling, by the score, by the hundreds, until suddenly the battered cornfield was thick with blood and bodies. Finally the Rebels began backing away, running for the woods beyond the church. Will noticed that the whitewashed outer walls of the church were filled with holes. His head ached from the ring of gunfire and the boom of cannon. It seemed they would reach the church, but another force of Confederates stormed toward them. He could hear men shouting “All for Texas!” and the Southern troops released a volley of shots, apparently fired by Texan sharpshooters. Again Union men fell by the hundreds, and Will and his battery were forced to head back up the hill.
From then on Will could only watch in horror, astounded at how ugly and disastrous this war had become. For four hours the battle surged first one way, then another, until thousands of bodies peppered the cornfield that lay between the two factions. The firing never ceased on either side, and the air reeked of gunpowder and blood. Mingled with the sound of gunfire were the moans and cries of men lying wounded in the cornfield. Finally the Federals reached the church, and their next target was a narrow, sunken road beyond which the Confederates had formed a line, using the road like a rifle pit. For hours the Federals tried to overrun the road, only to be driven back by furious volleys of gunfire.
Will directed his cannon at the road, but the Rebels were burrowed deep and were a difficult target. Even worse, he and his battery were targets themselves, forced to brave return cannon fire. Will lost several men and cannon when Confederate cannon balls and shrapnel exploded too close.
“They found a spot where they can shoot down the men in the road!” someone shouted at last. Federal troops charged forward, shouting victoriously. Will mounted his horse and ordered the cannon forward. A Confederate cannon shot exploded nearby, and his horse reared. Will felt a sharp pain in his right leg as he managed to leap from his horse as it fell. The animal rolled onto its right side, a bloody hole in its chest. Again Will shut off his emotions. He drew his revolver and shot the horse in the forehead to end its misery, then grabbed his gear and canteen and ran on with his men. The pain in his leg caused him to look down; a piece of shrapnel was sticking out of his calf. There was no time to think about the pain or wonder how bad the wound was. He reached down and yanked out the shrapnel, and one of his men ran up to him.
“I’ll tie my neckerchief around it, sir,” he offered.
Will let him tie it, then the man offered Will his horse. Will thanked him and rode forward, reaching a ridge where he ordered his battery to halt. From there the infantry was firing down on the Confederates, slaughtering them like sheep. They stormed the road then, running across dead bodies to chase more Rebels who were fleeing. It was a sickening sight, bodies piled upon bodies.
It seemed the battle was being won, but to Will’s amazement McClellan again did not take advantage of the situation. He halted his forces, allowing the remaining Confederates to flee over Antietam Creek, using a stone bridge that led to Sharpsburg. It seemed to Will they should keep up the charge, but McClellan stopped the troops, saying they needed time to estimate their losses, to regroup and plan their next move.
Again the Rebels would have time to plan their own strategy, Will thought in frustration. And General Lee knew how to instill in his men a fighting spirit that made them charge into battles they knew they could not win, doing unbelievable damage in spite of being far outnumbered. They should not be allowed time to regroup.
During the lull, Will refused to let anyone tend to his wounds. Too many other men with far more serious injuries needed the doctors’ care. Bodies were carried on makeshift stretchers to the little church, which was now a temporary hospital. The air was filled with cries of pain, so many that it was almost as noisy as when all the shooting was going on. It would be impossible to help them all, and many of the wounded would die where they had fallen, die from loss of blood or infection before they could get help. Will limped back and forth in front of his battery, ordering his men to reconnoiter and be prepared for another charge.
By late afternoon the orders came to take the stone bridge over the creek. Because of McClellan’s hesitancy, the bridge was now strongly defended, and Will could see it would not be an easy task for Federal troops to storm across it. Orders were shouted and the assault began, and for three more hours the Confederates, in much smaller numbers, held off thousands of Federals until it simply was no longer possible. Finally the Federals surged across the bridge and pressed their way toward Sharpsburg. Victory seemed at hand, until three thousand more Confederates arrived unexpectedly, the Confederate Light Division from Virginia. Everything became confusion then, as the new arrivals were wearing blue jackets taken from captured Union troops. The Federals could not bring themselves to fire on them, not sure if they were friend or foe. Too late it became apparent that they were foe, and the Federals found their flank being smashed by fresh Confederate gunfire coming from the south. McClellan, who had earlier promised reinforcements of his own once they took Sharpsburg, decided it would not be prudent to send them in. Again a battle that should have been won was lost, and the Federals were forced to retreat over the same bridge they had fought so hard to take.
By nightfall the Federals had retreated even farther, and Will fought an urge to shoot McClellan himself. As badly as Lee’s Confederates had been slashed that day, the reinforcements McClellan could have sent would have finished the job. They would have taken Sharpsburg and General Lee. It was as though McClellan had orders not to win the war, but to keep it alive instead. It was estimated that more than twelve thousand Federals were dead, wounded, or missing. Their own troops had outnumbered Lee’s by more than four to one, yet they had been defeated out of pure stupidity on the part of their leaders.
Horribly wounded men were carried into every house and barn and building with four walls and a roof for miles around. Will rode for help himself, and he felt like vomiting at the sights he saw. At one house doctors’ aids carried severed arms and legs outside and threw them into a pile. “So, here is your silly war, Santana,” he muttered. “How I wish I was back in California with you.”
He decided his wound could wait, and he found a sturdy oak tree, where he dismounted and took some paper from his gear, intending to use the light of a campfire to write Santana a letter. Minutes after leaning against the tree he fell into an exhausted sleep, dreaming of a beautiful Spanish woman with a bright smile. They sat together under a skinny lodgepole pine, enjoying the quiet of the forest.
Santana and Agatha descended the red-carpeted stairway of the theater, where they had come to watch a play. Santana clung to her father’s arm, glad she had talked Dominic into coming with them to the city. Dominic did not often attend such things as the theater, and he had enjoyed the performance. In spite of the fact that Will was gone, Santana was glad to be able to spend more time with her father, who seemed to have aged faster than he should th
ese last few years, and now appeared too frail. He had always been robust and vital, but this past year he had lost weight, although he claimed he felt just fine.
“Did you like the play, Padre?” she asked.
Dominic patted her hand. “It was lovely. But I had better go and call for our coach. It is past time for you to get back to the house. Little Juan will be squalling for his next feeding any time now.”
Santana smiled at the pride in his eyes. Hernando and Teresa had had three more children—a daughter, Inez, and two more sons, Eduardo and Miguel. That brought the number of grandchildren for Dominic to nine, six boys and three girls. He was a proud grandfather, who doted on the children and often had the older ones come and stay with him.
“Si, I must get home,” she answered. “I am so glad we came here. It feels good to get away and shop and dress in fine clothes and do something different.”
Dominic smiled, slipping an arm around Agatha also. “And I am proud to be the escort of two such beautiful senoras. You are the loveliest women here this evening.”
Agatha blushed, and Santana thought she truly did look radiant that night, dressed in pink silk, her light hair pulled up into curls, her blue eyes showing more happiness than had been there the last several months. Santana had enjoyed donning an elegant gown of her own, a melon-colored taffeta dress designed by her new servant, the surprisingly talented Won Lee. The low-cut bodice revealed her full breasts, and it was bordered with tiers of hand-embroidered ivory-colored lace.
She wished Will could see her, for she did feel beautiful, happy with the birth of Juan two months earlier. She was proud that her new gown had the same size waist as the dresses she had worn before the pregnancy. She had managed to maintain her shape, wanting to look the same for Will when he returned. Surely that would be soon, perhaps within six months. The war couldn’t last any longer than that.
Dominic left them to hail their coach, and Agatha and Santana waited in the ornate lobby of the elegant theater. A huge chandelier provided light for San Francisco’s elite mingling there, most of them talking about the war and how it affected California. There were not many Confederate sympathizers. Most of California’s sympathy and support lay with the Union.
Santana scanned the crowd, and it was then she noticed him, Hugo Bolivar, talking with two other men. Just the sight of him brought back memories she had tried to get rid of, but could not. She looked away, but too late. Hugo had caught her eye, and she knew he would not let her leave the theater without talking to her, especially when he realized Will was not with her. He probably knew Will had gone east to join the war. The daily papers printed names of prominent citizens who had joined the cause, and last year Will’s had been among them. She did not doubt that a man like Hugo, who had many acquaintances among American businessmen, kept an eye on those names.
“Let’s wait outside,” she told Agatha, taking her arm. Without looking she could feel Hugo approaching, like a dark cloud. She tried to make it to the double entrance-doors, but she felt a cold hand touch her arm before she reached them. She did not care to make a scene, so she forced a gracious smile as she turned to face the man she hated with passion, the man who had tried to murder her precious Will.
“Hugo,” she said, acting surprised. “It has been a long time.”
“Yes, hasn’t it?” He glanced at Agatha. “Ah, the wife of your husband’s brother, I believe. I remember you, Senora Lassater, from the day I met your husband at the docks. I had my lovely wife with me that day, if you will remember.”
Agatha glanced at Santana and back to Hugo. “Yes, I remember. It is good to see you again. Don Hugo Martinez Bolivar, I believe?”
Hugo flashed a smile, showing teeth that looked almost too white. “You remembered.” His dark gaze returned to Santana, raking over her, lingering on her full bosom. “How good to see you again, Santana. Married life apparently agrees with you. You are more beautiful than ever.” He looked around. “And where is your husband tonight?”
Santana did not flinch, and the ugly white scar above his mutilated left ear, where no hair would ever grow again, reminded her just how much she hated this man. She was glad Will had left a permanent mark on him, and she deliberately stared at his left ear, wanting Hugo to see her pleasure at noticing it again. “Will has gone to fight for the Union, as I am sure you already know.”
Hugo frowned as though concerned. “I see. The stories of that war are quite terrible, you know, thousands dead and wounded. You must be very worried. Have you heard from him?”
“Yes,” Santana lied. “Will is fine, not that you truly care.”
Hugo pulled at his mustache. “Oh, but I do care. I am glad to hear he is all right. But of course if you had not married a gringo, you would not be in such a dreadful situation, alone and abandoned by your husband.”
“Will has not abandoned me. He will come home soon. His mill is still in operation, and we have four children now. He has much to come home to.” She watched a look of deep envy come over Hugo’s face.
“Four, is it? So, marriage agrees with you even more than I thought. I knew that you had the build for many children. Will has taken full advantage of his wife’s fertility.”
The remark embarrassed her, but Santana refused to let him know it. “We have a good marriage,” she answered. “And where is your own wife, Hugo? Have you any children yet?”
His smile faded, and Santana knew she had struck a nerve. “My wife is home. I am only here because I brought two new business acquaintances out on the town tonight, a little entertainment to thank them for their accounts.” He folded his arms. “And no, there are no children. So far my darling Carmelita has had a difficult time conceiving.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” Santana told him. “I know you would like sons.”
“Yes, but full-blooded Spanish children, not half-breeds. But then with California filling up so with gringos, I suppose it cannot be helped, can it?”
Santana knew he’d made the remark only because he was jealous that she and Will had four children. “My children are beautiful, happy, and healthy, a proud mixture of high Spanish blood and a handsome, successful American man. California is now a part of the United States. My children represent the best of both races.”
“But of course. I was only commenting on how things might have been, if you and I…but then that is in the past, is it not? Marriage to your gringo apparently suits you well, and my Carmelita appreciates the honor it is to be the wife of Hugo Bolivar. She has grown even more beautiful, and we hope that she will eventually be able to bear me sons.”
Santana felt a sudden, keen pity for Carmelita as she caught the familiar evil, frightening flash in Hugo’s eyes. She could just imagine how he treated his poor wife for not having given him a child yet, and she did not doubt that he insisted on bedding her every night, perhaps more often than that, in order to make it happen. If eventually it became apparent she could have no children, how much worse would he treat her then? Perhaps she was not with him that night because she had bruises that he would not want others to see.
“I will light a candle for Carmelita,” she said, “and pray that she becomes with child.”
Hugo’s eyebrows arched. “How kind of you.” He looked her over again, and Santana felt as though he’d stripped her naked. “Just think what a grand family you and I would have had, Santana, many beautiful children of high Spanish blood. If only—”
“Do not speak of it,” she interrupted. “It is senseless to keep talking about what might have been, Hugo. Even if Will had not come along to claim my hand, I would have found another way to avoid marrying you, even if it had meant running away.” She glanced sidelong at people standing nearby. “Now, if you do not wish for me to speak louder and embarrass you in front of these others, I would like you to go back to your business friends. I do not wish for people to see us speaking when I do not have the escort of my husband.”
Hugo snickered. “You are afraid people will talk?” He rub
bed his chin, looking surprised, as though Santana had given him an idea he had not considered before. She regretted the remark.
“I only meant,” she answered boldly, “that I do not care to be seen in the company of someone whom so many dislike. The very man who tried to murder my husband.” She wanted her words to hurt and shame him, but he only grinned.
“Oh, but your own reputation is unstained, my beautiful Santana. Perhaps you are afraid that because you and I were once intended to be married, and with your husband off to war for months now, people will talk.” He leaned closer. “After all, you have been a long time without a man.”
Santana could not control her anger. Without thinking, she slapped Hugo, drawing the stares of others, many of whom knew who she was and certainly knew who Hugo was. Instantly she wished she had checked the urge, for the slap could be interpreted a number of ways, and people loved to gossip.
She turned to face some of the people who were staring openly. “This man insulted me,” she said. “And he is a coward, who once shot my husband in the back. I will not allow him to speak rudely to me!” She grabbed Agatha’s arm and whisked her outside, tears stinging her eyes, her mind whirling over whether she had done the right thing. She should have just quietly left after Hugo’s remark. Now she had drawn attention to both of them. Suddenly she just wanted to go home to La Estancia de Alcala and never come back to San Francisco until Will could come with her.
“Don’t let him do this to you, Santana,” Agatha said. “He is the one in the wrong, and he approached you. You only spoke to him so as not to make a scene.”
“And then I did make a scene after all,” Santana answered, her tears coming then. She took a handkerchief from her handbag and dabbed at her eyes. “I hate him so much! I should have controlled myself and just left. Now people will talk.”
The Forever Tree Page 25
