She rose to her feet, ignoring the cramp in her legs, wiping blood from her hands on a napkin that had once been the softest white cotton, but which was now so stained and ingrained with filth and ordure that it had the texture and feel of thick card.
The man she had bandaged had not made a sound all the while she had treated him. He lay still, hands flat on the ground by his sides, fingers digging frantically into the dirt. Now he looked up at her, his blue eyes crazed with pain, his body giving a great shudder of agony from the brutal wound that would surely kill him.
There was nothing more she could do for him. She turned, looking for the next person to help. The wounded were coming back in ever-increasing numbers. The first ones to reach the hillside had been lavished with care. Men with light wounds had been treated like kings as those left on the hillside plied them with the finest provisions and bound their wounds with tablecloths and cotton napkins.
Such luxuries had not lasted for long. After the first hours of the battle, the men coming back had been more grievously wounded. Now they lay in long lines, most of their wounds left open to the elements as the handful of civilians who had stayed to help ran out of cloth to bind them.
An officer wearing the grey uniform of the New York militia galloped up the slope on a bay mare lathered in sweat. Rose saw the way the horse laboured up the hillside, its strength long since spent.
‘What’s happening?’ she shouted across.
‘We are pursued by cavalry; they have cut us all to pieces!’ The officer reined his horse in, holding it back for a couple of seconds before ramming his spurs in and forcing it back into motion.
It was the last confirmation Rose needed.
She glanced across to her mistress. Elizabeth was squatting on the ground next to a sergeant, pouring the contents of a bottle of fine Bordeaux wine into his mouth. Her face was dirty and one cheek bore a single streak of blood the width of a finger. Only the path cut through the grime by her tears was clean.
Rose strode over. ‘Ma’am, we must leave.’
Elizabeth looked up and scowled. ‘We cannot. We’re needed here.’
Rose shook her head. ‘It’s too late now. We have done all we can.’
As if to emphasise her words, a salvo of shells landed on the far northern edge of the hillside. They were too far away to hurt, but both women flinched as they tore great crevices in the hillside.
‘Come on, missy.’ Rose grabbed Elizabeth by the arm and hauled her to her feet. She prised the bottle from her mistress’s hand and passed it to the wounded sergeant before frogmarching Elizabeth towards one of the few coaches still parked near the trees where they had picnicked earlier that day.
‘Is it over?’ Elizabeth took one look at Rose’s face and hissed the question.
‘The battle is lost.’ Rose turned to look anxiously over her shoulder, as if expecting to see the rebel host come storming into view. All she saw were hundreds of men streaming back through the fields below the hillside. There was little order to the retreat, and men were dumping their equipment as they
fled from the battlefield. The fields were littered with clothing, rifles, musical instruments, edibles and water, the troops stripping away anything that would slow them down.
Elizabeth paused, looking around her, taking stock. ‘We’ll give our carriage to the wounded; Senator Ashby’s too, seeing as he is not back to use it for himself. We can travel together in the servants’ carriage.’ Her assessment was swift. She took Rose’s arm in a tight grip. ‘Will you find my father?’
The maid nodded. There was no need to say anything further.
As she moved away from the trees, Rose was nearly knocked from her feet by Senator Ashby, who was heading for his carriage, one of the last left on the hillside.
‘Stop!’ She could only shout after the senator, who was moving briskly.
Ashby paid her no heed whatsoever. His legs pumped furiously as he bolted for the carriage.
Rose moved quickly. She was much younger than the aged senator and it took her a few short seconds to run past him and block his way. ‘You will not take that carriage.’
Ashby strode towards her, his hand raised as if about to cuff her across the face. ‘Damn you. Do not dare to speak to me in that tone, you damn N—’
‘Ashby! What the devil is going on?’
Rose had not shied away as Ashby raised his hand to her. She had held her ground, glaring at the man in defiance. Now her master intervened, shouting at the senator as he limped towards them across the hillside.
‘Control this confounded woman.’ Ashby jabbed his walking stick in Kearney’s direction. ‘Get her out of my way before I take my stick to her.’
Rose snapped her arm forward and held the stick in a firm grip. ‘You beat me with this, master, and so help me I’ll beat you back.’
Ashby pulled hard, trying to free the stick. He failed.
‘Ashby!’ Kearney arrived breathless and flushed.
‘Father!’ Elizabeth had caught up, and spoke before Ashby could reply. ‘The worst of the wounded must go in the carriages. Ours and Senator Ashby’s.’
Kearney looked at his daughter. ‘Very well, have them loaded this instant.’
‘Now look here, Kearney.’ Ashby was still trying to free his stick from Rose’s grip.
‘No, you listen to me.’ Kearney shouted the senator down. ‘My daughter has this situation under control. I suggest we leave it to her.’
‘Damn you and damn your precious trollop of a daughter.’ Ashby finally freed his stick. He took no more than a single step.
‘Stay where you are, Senator.’ Kearney had pulled the pistol from his waistcoat. It was a single-shot derringer, the kind a gentleman or a lady would keep about their person as protection against some unforeseen villain. It might have held only the single bullet, but it was aimed directly at Ashby’s heart.
Kearney held the gun still as he looked at Elizabeth. ‘Tell Henson your plan. Have him load Ashby’s carriage first, but leave a single seat for the senator.’ He glanced at the maid. ‘Well done, Rose. That was bravely done.’
But Rose was not looking at either her master or Ashby. Her gaze was fixed on a man wearing a dark blue uniform who was staggering up the hillside carrying the bloodied body of a man wrapped in the bright red, white and blue of the Stars and Stripes.
‘My God.’ It was Kearney who spoke first. ‘Robert!’
Robert staggered to a halt as he heard someone shout his name. He stared at his father in shock.
Rose moved first. She ran to Robert’s side, her arms reaching out to try to help him carry Rowell’s body. Kearney had not taken a single step. He was staring at his son as if unable to believe his eyes.
‘Father!’ Robert struggled up the slope. Whatever astonishment he felt at finding his family was quickly forgotten.
‘Is that Ethan?’ Kearney was struggling to make sense of what he was seeing.
‘He’s hurt bad.’ Robert had kept moving. He staggered past his father, his gaze fixed ahead.
‘Take him to the carriage.’ It was Rose who gave the instruction. She had slipped her arm under Rowell’s head, supporting it as best she could. ‘Ma’am! Get Henson.’ She snapped the order at Elizabeth, who had neither moved nor spoken since Rose had first spotted her brother.
‘Elizabeth!’ Robert shouted. There was the snap of authority in his voice and it awoke Elizabeth from her shock.
‘This way.’ She moved quickly, ushering him up the slope. She looked down at her fiancé’s bloodied and unconscious body. ‘Is he dead?’
‘How the hell should I know?’ Robert hissed the words. He had no breath for more.
The three of them struggled up the slope as best they could. Rose was the first to spot the Kearneys’ driver. ‘Henson! Over here.’
Henso
n needed no urging. He rushed over and hauled Rowell’s body from Robert’s arms.
‘Put him in the servants’ carriage, then tell the servants to load up our carriage with as many wounded as they can.’ Elizabeth fired off the instructions before turning her attention to her brother, who had collapsed to his hands and knees the moment Henson had removed his burden. ‘Where’s Jack?’ she asked him urgently.
‘He’s back with the regiment.’ Robert managed to force the words out in between gasps for breath. His head hung down as he dragged air into his lungs.
‘You left him?’
‘He made me.’ Robert took one last lungful of air, then forced himself to his feet. ‘Now come on.’
‘What’s happening?’ Elizabeth stared at her brother as if she no longer recognised him.
‘We’re running, that’s what’s damn well happening.’ Robert turned to his father, who had limped up the slope behind them. ‘Father, all hell is breaking loose.’
Kearney reached out to clasp a hand to his son’s shoulder. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. Jack saved me. Just like you damn well ordered.’ Robert wiped a hand across his sweat-streaked face. ‘Now we need to get away whilst we still can. The whole damn rebel army is coming this way.’
Kearney looked around him. ‘There is not room in the carriage for us all.’ He glanced once at Elizabeth, then reached out and took hold of his son’s forearms. ‘You must get her away from here. I entrust her to your care. You are better able to steer her safely through this chaos than I.’
‘What about you, Father?’
Kearney looked across to the carriages that were being loaded with wounded. ‘I shall claim a place in Ashby’s carriage. Then at least I can ensure that he does not abandon the charges in his care.’
‘You are sure?’
‘I am.’ Kearney looked his son in the eye. ‘You are changed.’
‘No man can come alive through that and not be.’ Robert snapped the reply. ‘I shall not let you down, Father.’
‘No. I see that now.’ Kearney held his son’s arms for a moment longer, then he let them go and headed towards the senator’s carriage.
It would be down to his son to get Elizabeth safely away from the rebel army.
The turnpike was blocked by a long line of carriages and wagons.
Robert sat alongside Henson and tried to spy a way through. He saw none. He could just make out the wooden bridge that spanned the Cub Run Stream. He was not certain, but it looked like a heavy wagon had taken a direct hit from a Southern shell and had slewed around to block the road. Men were swarming around it, but he had no idea if they stood a chance of dragging it clear.
‘You see any way through?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Fuck it.’ Robert swore under his breath. He saw Henson’s eyes widen at the pithy oath. The driver’s expression was nearly enough to make him laugh. He had clearly spent too much time around Jack.
He looked around, trying to spot Senator Ashby’s carriage amidst the chaos. There was no sign of it, and he could only presume they had tried another route. It would be typical of his father to somehow avoid such a disaster. He would likely be waiting for them in Washington with a sly smile on his face and a dry remark as to what had taken them so long.
Ahead, he saw a family abandon their carriage, the father deciding to try to find a way through on foot with his wife, small son and two servants trailing in his wake. Robert turned to look behind him. Elizabeth and Rose were trying to bind the wound to Rowell’s stomach with the 1st Boston’s colour. Blood had stained the white stripes so that the flag appeared to have been made from a sheet of red silk.
It made his decision easier. He could not hope to try to mimic the family in front of them. They would not stand a chance on foot. They would have to find another way.
A file of Union soldiers rushed past the line of stalled carriages. Not one carried a rifle. None was wounded. He opened his mouth to shout at the men, his first thought to try to get them to clear the broken wagon from the bridge.
Before he could utter a single sound, a salvo of shells smashed into a wood to the left of the turnpike. The noise of their impact was dreadful, the crack of trees being torn apart loud enough to drown out the terrified shouts and cries of the men and women stranded on the road.
‘We need to get moving.’ Elizabeth was cradling Rowell’s head in her hands, but now she turned to look up at her brother.
‘There’s no way through. We need to get off this damn road.’
Elizabeth bent forward and kissed Rowell on the forehead, then stood up to survey the scene. Her dress was covered in dirt and blood, and her hair was wild where it had been bared to the ravages of the wind. ‘There, to the west. Henson, get us off the road. It’s the only way.’ She gave her instructions quickly.
‘You heard her, Henson.’ Robert clapped his hand on the driver’s shoulder. It was as good a plan as any, and they could not stay where they were.
Henson nodded, then stood up to study the ground to the west of the road. As he did so, a pair of hands grabbed hold of the side of his seat.
‘What the devil!’ Robert saw the soldier haul himself up. He was wearing the twin stripes of a corporal. His uniform was nearly pristine and his face was clean and free of the stain of powder. ‘Get down this instant!’
The man ignored Robert’s command. He was wrestling with Henson for control of the reins. Another soldier was trying to climb up the rear of the vehicle. Still more swarmed around the wheels. It would only be moments before the carriage was overwhelmed.
‘Get down!’ Robert gave the order as he levelled his revolver. He had not fired it that day and every chamber was loaded. ‘Get down, or so help me, I will shoot you down.’
The corporal stopped his struggle with Henson and looked at Robert nervously. ‘You going to shoot one of your own men, Lieutenant?’ He licked his lips, the gaping maw of the Colt revolver no more than six inches from his face.
‘If I have to.’ Robert saw the fear flash in the corporal’s eyes. He lifted the gun a fraction of an inch, then snapped out his left fist. It was not a great punch, but it landed squarely on the corporal’s jaw, knocking the man’s head back with enough force to snap his teeth together. He released his grip on the reins long enough for Henson to shove him over the side of the carriage.
‘Get away.’ Robert changed his point of aim, directing the gun at the soldier halfway up the rear of the carriage. The man let go, falling away to join his mates by the wheels. It gave them an opening.
‘Go! Go! Go!’ Robert grabbed hold of his seat and urged Henson to get them moving.
The carriage bucked as it scrabbled over the edge of the turnpike and onto the grassy field by its side. The ground was soft this close to the river, and the carriage’s wheels dug great grooves in the soil, but Henson knew his job and he worked the horses hard, flicking the reins and geeing them up so that they hauled the heavy carriage away from the turnpike, the wheels showering the fleeing soldiers with great clods of earth.
Jack peered through the powder smoke. He could see a regiment moving along in good order, but he had no idea whose side they were on.
‘Ours?’ James Thatcher appeared at his shoulder and joined him staring into the smoke. Behind them, a few hundred men stood in a rough column. They looked nothing like the soldiers who had formed up that morning. The companies were hopelessly mixed and just three of the captains were still on their feet. None contested Jack’s right to command.
‘I have no idea.’ Jack turned his head and looked hard at the young man at his side. It was odd hearing James Thatcher speak, but they had all been altered by that bitter day and he did not have the strength of mind to dwell on the change. ‘West. We go west.’
He turned and waved at the regiment, then signalled the direct
ion he wanted them to take. It took them away from the Bull Run, but also away from the unknown regiment, and that was good enough for the moment.
The men followed his instructions, moving obliquely across a slope, their tired legs hauling them on. They were surrounded by rifle fire. At one point they heard the ordered sound of a regiment firing volleys, but most shots came singly, or in short flurries, the fighting breaking down into a disordered scramble.
Jack looked at the men as they trudged across the slope. They had been on their feet for more than fourteen hours and they were done in. If the Confederate army pursued hard, the disordered and exhausted Union soldiers could be broken beyond repair. With few other troops between Manassas and Washington, the Southern army had the chance to win the war within their grasp.
Yet as far as he could tell, the Confederate army was as fatigued as the men they had beaten, and he had seen little indication of further reinforcements reaching the battle, nor any sign of rebel cavalry sent in pursuit of the beaten Union troops.
‘Lieutenant!’ Captain Sanders of D company called across to Jack. ‘You see them?’ He was pointing ahead. Another body of men was standing in line around two hundred yards away behind a split-rail fence. They were the first formed troops Jack had seen for some time.
‘They ours?’ Jack shouted back. He could not see them well enough to be sure.
‘Look like regulars to me,’ Sanders answered confidently enough.
Whoever the men were, it was clear that they were still formed and fighting. Even as Jack watched, they poured out a volley, his glimpse of them immediately hidden by a rush of smoke.
‘Keep moving!’ He had no intention of re-forming the remains of the 1st Boston into a battle line. They had done enough.
They pressed on, step by weary step. The walked past great swathes of corpses, the dead lying in groups that marked out where individual fights had taken place. The men barely looked at the twisted, broken bodies. The day had hardened them to such horror.
The True Soldier: Jack Lark 6 Page 40
