Tomorrow the Glory

by Heather Graham

  When she awoke, the sun was still blazing . . . but Brent was gone. Kendall stared about the room, searching for some sign of him. But there wasn’t a trace. No sword, no plumed hat. Nothing to indicate that Brent McClain was near.

  She started to leap from the bed, only to emit a soft moan as she realized how sore and bruised she was. She winced, then moved more carefully as she rose and hurriedly washed and dressed.

  Kendall found Amy in the garden cutting roses. She hesitated before approaching the gentle matron, smoothing her hair, and praying that she showed no sign of the intimate moments just past.

  “Amy,” she murmured, keeping her eyes downcast, “where’s Brent?”

  She at last raised her lashes as Amy paused long before making a reply.

  Amy appeared confused and upset. “Why, he’s gone on, dear. He spoke with Harry and Red Fox before taking the ship, then came to you. We . . . uh . . . all understood. You two young people have so little time. And he’s had a rough time of it, you know. What with his father missing and his brother so bad off and in the hands of the Yankees.”

  “Amy, what are you talking about?”

  “Well, if I understand it right, his ship was laid up for repairs in Richmond before he could come here. He went off to see his pa and brother who are with Lee’s army. He was with them for that dreadful battle at Sharpsburg, and his brother was badly wounded—and taken by the Yanks. His father was simply among the missing.”

  “Oh, God,” Kendall groaned.

  “Harry was upset that I spoke to you before Brent did, but . . . well, I didn’t know about everything then, and I thought you had a right to know about the ship,” Amy continued. “I still don’t understand why Brent left without telling you!”

  “Maybe I do,” Kendall whispered bleakly, turning to leave the garden before Amy could see the tears form in her eyes.

  “Kendall—”

  “I’m all right, Amy. I just . . . want to be alone.”

  She raced down the trail to the stables and then to the cove blindly, finding her way by instinct alone. When she reached the shore, she sank down to her knees and cried.

  Brent himself was wounded. In the heart, and in the soul. She should have been able to help. Instead . . .

  He must have been angrier than she had realized. Furious enough to wash his hands of her. She hadn’t tried to understand what was driving him, and she had taunted and cornered him. And she had truly lost . . .

  Kendall stayed at the cove until the sun set. At last she ran out of tears and wearily returned to the cabin.

  Chapter Seventeen

  June 1863

  Vicksburg, Mississippi

  The shattering sound of a shell explosion close by startled Kendall. She jerked her hand away from the paper and held her breath for a moment. The oil lamp on her rough wood desk rattled. The walls about her seemed to groan and shiver.

  But then there was nothing more. She exhaled a long and shaky sigh. Vicksburg had been under siege for over two months now, and she was still trying to accustom herself to the sounds of the shells that continually poured into the city. The hospital, situated far from the river, was generally safe, although several shells had shattered two wards, killing the men who rested in them.

  Kendall paused a moment and listened, but no more fire whistled through the air. The Yanks had called it quits for the night. She looked at the letter she had been writing, and then slowly ripped it to shreds.

  She was insane to be writing about Brent. Insane to be thinking about Brent. She hadn’t seen or heard from him in nine months. Not since he had left her without so much as a whispered goodbye.

  She had heard of him, of course. Captain Brent McClain was still a Confederate hero. The southern papers claimed that he alone kept a fifth of the Rebel armies eating, and said that he was responsible for taking or destroying fifty Federal ships.

  Where was he now? Kendall idly tapped her quill on the desk. Had he ever returned to the bay? Had he ever cared enough to wonder if she was all right? She hadn’t heard from Amy since February, not long after she had made the move to Vicksburg.

  It had simply been impossible to stay by the bay after Brent left that last time. The Rebel’s Pride had been taken from her. And she had been certain that Brent would never return.

  Not to her.

  She hadn’t dared return to Charleston; as long as there was breath in his body, she would never trust her stepfather. And although it made her a bit nervous to know that John Moore was serving under Farragut somewhere along the Mississippi, no one had believed that the Yanks could beat back the Rebel armies opposing them on the western front. Vicksburg was impregnable, surrounded by mountains and facing the river. In February, when Kendall had made her decision to assist David Armstrong at the hospital, no one had even imagined that Vicksburg could come under a siege such as this.

  No one in the South, at least. The Confederates, from the very beginning, had little to fight with except courage and bravado. But no matter how courageous the men, their willpower alone could not withstand the strength and number of Yankee guns concentrated on them.

  Kendall stood and stretched, placing her hands low on her sore back as she did so. She was so tired. Yet no matter how she pushed herself, she couldn’t forget Brent. Somehow it had been bearable—hard but bearable—to be away from him when she could believe he would come to her again. When she could allow herself to dream of sharing a future with him.

  But the dream was as dead as the eloquent grace that had once been Vicksburg. Memory did not dim, but plagued her daily. Even after all this time, she would see his face when she tried to grab a restless hour’s sleep. And it was the laughter that she remembered. The cavalier smile that rakishly cut across his rugged features, gray eyes that could smolder to a summer heat with more power to warm than the sun.

  Kendall winced and bit firmly into her lower lip. If she was going to remember Brent at all, she would be wise to remember that his temper had a bite like a pronged whip, that he could be insolent, arrogant, and irritatingly superior. He was the fool who was determined to get himself killed.

  Why wasn’t it possible, she wondered bitterly, to run away from love? Red Fox had told her she could never do so . . . and time and distance were proving him right. He had tried so hard to dissuade her from leaving. She was acting like a child, he had said impatiently—just as Brent had told her. Brent would be back; he would expect to find her.

  But she couldn’t believe that Brent wanted to find her . . .

  She missed Red Fox. He was the closest friend she’d ever had. She missed his quiet words, his presence, the calm and stoic beauty of his spirit.

  And she missed him because he was a tangible link to Brent...

  She had to forget Brent, bury herself in work until exhaustion overwhelmed her and cleared her mind of the dreams.

  She worked from dawn to dusk. The siege was flooding the hospital with so many wounded soldiers that it was sometimes difficult to maneuver between the stretchers.

  The Confederate General John Pemberton was trying desperately and valiantly to hold the city, but the Union’s General Grant was a determined man. And the people of the old southern city had been strong and resolute, adapting stalwartly to hardship.

  But as the weary weeks wore on, courage and gallantry were fading to obscurity along with the food supply. Horses, dogs, and cats found their way to dinner tables. And as the supply of those beasts dwindled, roast rat sometimes became the evening meal.

  There was a tap on the door of her tiny room. “Yes?” Kendall called out quickly, glad to be jolted from her morose state.

  “I need you, Kendall. That last shell caught several men. They’re bringing them in now.”

  “Coming, Dr. Armstrong!” Kendall called quickly. She smoothed her hands over the skirt of her dress and mechanically glanced in the tarnished mirror above the simple washstand. Something in her own reflection caught her attention, and she paused with a wince, running a finger over
the hollows under her cheekbones.

  She looked terrible. Purple shadows lurked beneath her eyes and she thought she resembled a skeleton—all eyes and bone. Sighing, she tucked a straying lock of hair back into her chignon and resolutely turned away from the mirror.

  Dying men probably didn’t care too much what she looked like, as long as she had a gentle touch and offered water for their parched throats.

  David Armstrong was much like his brother—a strong and gentle man, an indefatigable worker. Kendall had grown as attached to him as she had to Amy and Harry. She met him in the hallway where he was rolling up his sleeves and strolling toward a washstand.

  “Down the hall, Kendall, we’ve three amputations.”

  Kendall paled visibly, but nodded. She hated this part of her work more than any other. The men screamed and fought. They cried and pleaded and begged for mercy.

  But gangrene was one of the worst enemies of the war for either side. The rotting infection could kill where shots left off.

  “Have we any anesthetic?”

  Dr. Armstrong leveled his eyes to hers unhappily. “No.”

  Again Kendall nodded, fighting nausea.

  “Come along,” Dr. Armstrong said crisply.

  Kendall followed.

  She could not save the poor young soldier from losing his leg, but she knew she was invaluable to Dr. Armstrong. Most of the South’s able-bodied men were on the front line in the defense of the city and could not be spared for hospital work. She knew Dr. Armstrong well now; she had his saws and other instruments ready before he could ask for them. And she was there with the dressings for the stumps, and with soothing words for the patients and a gentle touch. Yet still she feared she would be sick each time she attended in surgery, causing further distress for the already agonized patient.

  Dr. Armstrong worked quickly, expertly, and methodically. At last the third man was taken away; the echoes of his screams faded from the hallways. A male orderly wrapped the human refuse of torn and severed flesh and took it away. Kendall stared numbly after him.

  Dr. Armstrong slipped an arm around her shoulder. “Do you know,” he murmured softly, “the hardest thing for me is the birds. All this carnage goes on, yet the birds see only that spring is changing to summer. And the flowers . . . they continue to grow. Ah, well. Life will always go on, Kendall. A time to sow, a time to reap.”

  Kendall glanced at him, startled by his fancy. He was always so busy—kind, but direct.

  He smiled at her. “Kendall, you should be dressed in beautiful silks and muslins and flirting with all the fine youths at a ball. I can just imagine you, child, as you should be. So lovely. Carefree again, with no anxieties. This is not, I’m afraid, much of a place for a fine young lady.”

  Kendall grimaced. “Dr. Armstrong, I’m not terribly sure that I ever was a fine young lady.”

  He shook his gray head sagely. “My girl, you will always be the finest of ladies. And you’re strong. You will survive all of this suffering. Many, I’m afraid, will not.”

  Kendall felt a tug at her heart. “Do you believe that we . . . that we will lose Vicksburg?”

  “Kendall, it’s not a matter of belief. Look about you. We’re all starving to death. Vicksburg is already a shell. Its citizens scurry to seek shelters in caves and in the basements of haunted remnants of homes. And every day there are more and more Federals. General Pemberton is making a valiant stand, but how long can a tattered, barefoot, and starving army hold off men who are well fed and well supplied and twice their number? Yes, unless a miracle occurs, Vicksburg will fall. Just as the South—”

  He cut off his words hurriedly, seeing her stricken expression. “Don’t pay any attention to me, Kendall. I’m just a tired old workhorse, worn out before my time!” She still appeared stricken, and vulnerable. Again Dr. David Armstrong sought to undo the pain he had so obviously caused her. “We should receive some morphine tomorrow,” he said cheerfully. “We’ve sent a man across the river to steal through the Union lines to a contact. We’ll meet him together, tomorrow night.”

  Kendall smiled vaguely. “Morphine,” she murmured. “That will be wonderful.” Tomorrow they could chop up men who wouldn’t scream quite so loud. What a pathetic blessing.

  “Go on to bed now, Kendall. Get some sleep.”

  She went to bed, and she slept. But her sleep was plagued with horrible nightmares. A man in gray screamed on the operating table. And when she turned to see him, it was Brent.

  She woke up shaking, then forced herself to seek sleep again. But she saw the operating table again. And there was another man lying on it. His flesh was copper-bronze, and he bled from numerous wounds. He turned to her and whispered, “Revenge!”

  It was Red Fox.

  Then he bolted from the table, and she saw that he was chasing her. She ran, but before her loomed Brent, covered in blood, his handsome gray frock coat tattered and ripped, his feet bare. His eyes accused her.

  She was trapped between them. And she covered her face with her hands and sank to her knees, screaming. They were the men who had once loved her, had once cared for her. And she had brought them to the greatest agony . . . and in her dream, she was afraid.

  She awoke again—her scream drowned out by the sound of a bursting shell. It was morning. Kendall struggled up and washed her face. She raised her eyes to the mirror and noticed that the dark circles beneath her eyes seemed to have darkened overnight.

  She reminded herself again that the wounded men would hardly care what she looked like as long as she tended to their needs.

  * * *

  The day seemed to stretch on forever. Grant was bombarding them from land; Admiral Porter bombarded them from the river. Along with the wounded soldiers came injured civilians—old men, women, and children—caught in the line of fire. Seeing the children hurt Kendall the most. Gaunt, ragged little scarecrows, they didn’t understand anything about the war. They only knew that they hurt.

  At last the shelling ceased for the day. Doctors who slept during the day awoke to work through the night. Kendall retreated to her cubicle of a room in the hospital and studiously tried to wash the stench of death and decay from her body.

  “Kendall!”

  She heard Dr. Armstrong’s voice along with his tap on the door. “Yes?”

  “Are you coming with me?”

  “Oh!” The morphine, yes! He had asked her to come along. “Yes, yes, I’m coming, right now!”

  Hurriedly she donned pantalettes and a simple cotton gown and threw open the door. Dr. Armstrong offered her his arm gallantly. “Come, my dear,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “I’ll escort you through the streets!”

  It should have been depressing to walk through the haunted streets. To view the burnt-out shells of once grand homes. But as they walked through the darkness and the silence, David Armstrong talked, pointing out the various homes and telling her amusing anecdotes about the people who had once resided in them.

  And summer was in the air. The freshness of the river breeze was a vast improvement over the stench of death that clung to the hospital.

  They turned left, away from the city and the Rebel batteries. A soft whistle sounded on the air, and Dr. Armstrong halted, holding her arm tensely. But a young boy scampered from a clump of bushes to meet them.

  “Doc Armstrong, I don’t know what’s gone wrong. I can see the boat, but she’s not coming in. Look out yonder. You can see her driftin’ on the water? When the moon comes out from the clouds—see? There. Why isn’t he bringing her in? Billy should be through the lines!”

  Dr. Armstrong was silent as he stared out at the river. “I don’t know,” he murmured at last. “But the current is going to take that little rowboat away real soon. I wonder if he got the morphine?”

  Kendall looked from the boy, who couldn’t have been more than thirteen, to the aging doctor. As if reading her thoughts, the boy started speaking again, a little catch hoarsening his voice. “I’d try to get her, but I can’t s
wim, Dr. Armstrong. Ma was always sayin’ she’d tan our hides if she ever caught us in the river or the creek.”

  “I can go get her,” Kendall volunteered.

  Dr. Armstrong stared at her as if she had gone insane.

  “No, Kendall, I can’t send a woman out—”

  “Certainly you can!” Kendall insisted with annoyance. “This boy can’t swim, and—sorry, Dr. Armstrong, but you’re too old. Besides, the wounded in that hospital simply couldn’t afford to lose you.”

  As she spoke, Kendall began to rip at the seam of her dress. She was going to have to get rid of the bulk of the material, or she would drown herself. She didn’t dare tell Dr. Armstrong that she was scared silly. She still wasn’t a strong swimmer. And she tried to convince herself that as long as she didn’t panic, she would be fine. The boat wasn’t far away, but it was drifting farther.

  “Kendall, we’ll go for someone else.”

  “There isn’t time. The morphine will drift out to the Yanks, and I’m quite certain they won’t gift wrap it and send it back!”

  She tossed off her shoes, then noticed that the young boy was staring at her. She laughed to ease the tension. “Listen,” she murmured, looking down at her pantalettes and her short, ripped bodice, “I do realize this can’t be the latest from Godey’s, but we can consider it the costume for lady swimmers.”

  “Kendall,” Dr. Armstrong began to protest uneasily. But she didn’t wait to be stopped. She plunged through the weeds at the river’s edge. The water was cool at night, and she gritted her teeth as she mentally braced herself against it—and the worry over what creatures might be lurking there. She quickly stretched out her arms to swim, loath to keep her feet on the muddy bottom any longer than necessary. For several strokes she cut through the water, then paused, kicking furiously, to search for the small, drifting rowboat. Dismay chilled her heart as she saw that it was still several hundred feet away. She should turn back . . .