Wilhelmina was undecided on the matter, but she had a duty to perform. Duty came before everything else.
The sunken road next to a cotton field had been claimed by the Rebs during yesterday’s battle, resulting in the capture of thousands of men and the deaths of many thousands more. Its road cover and open fields of fire made the position a valuable commodity. Both sides wanted to claim it. The Rebs had it and the Yanks wanted it back.
“No drum today, Billy?” she asked as they prepared to part ways.
“Doc Gibson asked me to be a stretcher bearer instead. When yesterday’s fighting ended, there were so many wounded men lying on the battlefield, we couldn’t get to them all. Some might have been saved if we’d gotten to them fast enough. Today, the doc wants men picked up and brought to him as soon as they fall. Good luck today, sirs.”
“The same to you,” Erwin said, “though you might need more of it than we will. At least Wil and I will have rifles in our hands. The only thing you’re going to be carrying is a wounded man.”
“Don’t worry about me, sir. I’m too fast for the Rebels to catch me.”
Billy grabbed his hat and ran toward the medical tent, his short legs churning as if he were running across a playground rather than toward a battlefield.
Wilhelmina quickly downed the rest of her coffee and reached for her rifle when the order came to move out. Her regiment ran into a group of Confederate skirmishers almost as soon as they left camp.
Straining to see through the haze of gun smoke, she fought her way toward the sunken road. Each time she thought her unit had gained the upper hand, the Confederate troops under Brigadier General John Breckinridge’s command pushed them back.
“We’ve got to keep fighting,” Erwin yelled from his position behind a fence post pockmarked with bullet holes. “Wallace and Sherman have Bragg and Polk on the run. If we can take this position and the Corinth Road, victory will be ours.”
Wilhelmina poked her head up long enough to fire a shot and take a quick look at the opposition.
“They’re getting desperate,” she said as she ripped into a cartridge packet with her teeth. “I think we’ve got them outnumbered. Part of their line looks ready to fall.”
“Then let’s finish knocking it down.”
Wilhelmina fired and reloaded. Fired and reloaded. Fired and reloaded. She increased her pace with each shot as she and the men around her slowly pushed the Rebs defending the sunken road to the brink of submission. She cheered when Brigadier General Breckinridge’s men began to retreat, but she knew the overall battle still had not been won.
Breckinridge’s men headed south toward Shiloh Church. A portion of Wilhelmina’s unit, Erwin included, stayed behind to hold the sunken road. Wilhelmina fell in with the men pursuing the retreating Rebs.
She ran with her rifle held high. The attached bayonet sliced leaves and small branches from the trees, leaving a trail of debris behind her.
“Careful, Private,” someone said. “You’re going to poke someone’s eye out with that thing.”
“Just make sure you don’t poke me in the ass while you’re at it,” the man in front of her said.
Wilhelmina enjoyed the men’s sense of camaraderie and their ability to make jokes even during a time of strife. She felt a sense of loss when the man she was trailing had his left leg blown off by cannon fire and the one running behind her lost part of an arm.
She called out for stretcher-bearers, but the fighting was too intense and the woods too thick for them to get through to the wounded men. The soldiers’ only hope of survival rested in her hands.
Abandoning her pursuit of the Confederate troops, she dropped to her knees, tossed her rifle aside, and tried to help her wounded comrades.
The ground was covered with gore and both men were screaming in agony. Wilhelmina’s fingers grew slick with blood as she fashioned tourniquets out of the first man’s pants leg and the second man’s sleeve.
The second man clutched at her with his remaining hand.
“Help me,” he pleaded.
“I’ve done everything I know to do. Now you’ve got to help yourself. I’ll take you to the medical tent. Can you walk?”
“I think so.” He groaned as he pushed himself to his feet, but he managed to stay upright somehow. “What are you going to do about him?”
She had intended to provide support while the second man used his rifle as a crutch, but he had passed out from loss of blood or the pain of his wound.
“Carry him, I guess.”
Getting him into a sitting position was easy. Getting him onto her shoulders and off the ground was a great deal more difficult.
“You’re stronger than you look, Private. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Neither did I,” Wilhelmina said as she staggered under the first man’s weight. “Neither did I.”
They laboriously made their way through the woods and back to camp.
“You look like hell, Wil,” Dr. Gibson said after they finally made it to the hospital tent.
“Speak for yourself.”
Dr. Gibson was operating on a man who had been bayoneted in the stomach. The white apron covering his clothes was matted with blood and gore. A growing pile of amputated limbs, some still sporting their former owners’ wedding bands, sat in a corner.
“Where do you want them?” Wilhelmina asked, indicating the men with her.
Dr. Gibson absently waved one of the surgical instruments he was holding.
“Wherever you can find room.”
Wounded men lay on every available surface. Some had already been treated. Others were still waiting to be seen. The man who had lost an arm sat on the ground. Wilhelmina deposited the one who had lost a leg next to him.
“Doc Gibson will take care of you from here. I’m going back for my rifle. I can’t fight without it.”
“There are plenty of others lying around,” Dr. Gibson said. “Most of these men won’t be using them again. Take your pick.”
“No offense, but I would rather have mine, sir. It’s my good luck charm. It’s helped me get through this war without getting so much as a scratch on me.”
Dr. Gibson shook his head.
“Soldiers and their superstitions. I’ll never understand either one.”
“What’s your name, Private?” the armless man asked.
“Wil Fredericks.”
“You’re a good man, Wil Fredericks.” He stuck out his remaining hand. His grip was firm despite the trauma his body had endured. “Thanks for your help. When you get back out there, give those Rebs hell, you hear?”
“I’ll do my best.”
*
Clara looked up at the arched sign hanging over the entrance to Thomas Ogletree’s farm. Treetop Farms, the sign read, the black letters carefully burned into the faded wood.
The spread was enormous. Acres and acres lined the winding road that led to the house. The fields were laden with plants. Some seedlings, others more fully grown. The dozen or so slaves Thomas owned tended to the fledgling crops under the watchful eye of Raymond Stuart, their overseer. Clara didn’t know Raymond well, but she had heard tell he was one of the meanest men in Hardin County. Second only to the man who paid his salary.
Clara flinched when Raymond cracked his long black bullwhip in the air to coerce the slaves into working faster.
“There’s no call for that,” Abram said.
He, Moses, and Mary rode in the back of the wagon. Percy, Clara, and Enid were jammed up front.
“Sometimes I wish I could give men like that a taste of their own medicine,” Enid said. “See how they like being on the receiving end for a change.”
“Careful, Percy,” Clara said, drawing his attention back to the road.
Percy steered the wagon around a small band of soldiers slowly and painfully making their way to the large two-story house at the top of the hill. Though the soldiers could walk on their own, each was wounded in some way. One in the neck, another in the st
omach, and yet another in the leg.
Clara looked toward the house. How many more injured men were waiting inside?
“Stop the wagon.”
After Percy did as Clara asked, Abram and Mary helped the injured men climb into the back of the wagon.
“Much obliged,” one of the soldiers said as Percy drove them the rest of the way.
Clara turned to look at them. They weren’t much older than boys. Boys Wil’s age. Had Wil come across them in battle? Was he, by chance, the reason they were in such sorry shape?
She didn’t want to think of Wil in that way. She knew he was a soldier and it was his job to kill any enemy combatant he came across, but she didn’t like imagining him with a gun in his hands. She supposed she should be grateful Wil had a gun and knew how to use it, however. If he didn’t, she, Percy, and Abram might not be alive right now.
She, Abram, and Mary helped the men down after Percy tied the wagon to a hitching post mounted near the front of the house.
“Where do you want them?” Enid asked the weary-looking surgeon smoking a cigarette as he sat on the porch steps.
“Anywhere you can find room.”
Clara helped the man with the stomach wound climb the stairs. Injured men lined the porch, foyer, and front room. Some had already been tended to. Others were waiting to be seen.
The formal dining room that had hosted its fair share of dinner parties over the years now served as an operating theater. A surgeon held a bloody saw in one hand and a man’s arm in the other. He tossed the amputated limb out the window, used a long needle to close the wound, and called for his next patient.
The injured soldier on the operating table was carried away, and another was deposited in his place. The soldier’s foot was black and swollen. The discoloration had spread halfway up his calf. Clara watched as the surgeon took a few tentative pokes at the man’s leg.
“Gangrene,” he said with a shake of his head. “That leg’s got to come off.”
He placed the saw just below the soldier’s knee. Clara turned away before the serrated blade bit into the skin.
“I don’t want to be a soldier no more,” Percy said, clapping his hands over his ears to block out the sounds of the wounded man’s screams.
“Me, neither,” Abram said.
“That’s the best news I’ve heard all day,” Clara said.
“Who’s in charge?” Enid asked no one in particular. “Where’s the lady of the house?”
“She left as soon as we started showing up yesterday,” a soldier with his arm in a sling said. “She said she didn’t want to see her house covered in blood like the Plagues of Egypt. She’s been camped out at her sister’s house ever since. Mr. Ogletree and his son went riding off after her a little while ago, but they didn’t seem real confident they would be able to talk her into coming back.”
“When Jedediah said he was running short on women,” Enid said under her breath, “did he mention his mama was one of them?”
If Mrs. Ogletree decided not to return from Corinth, Jedediah would be even more desperate to find a wife. He and his father could run the farm, but who would take care of the household?
“Who knows?” Enid said. “I might be visiting you here one day.”
Clara looked around at the expensive objects lining the shelves and walls. The spacious house was magnificent, but, unlike her humble abode, it didn’t feel like a home.
“I wouldn’t go counting my chickens before they were hatched if I was you,” the wounded soldier said. “If our boys don’t finish what we started yesterday, the Federals will claim this house and take every man in it as their prisoner.”
“They can do that?” Clara asked incredulously.
“This is war, ma’am. When you’re on the winning side, you can do whatever you want.”
Clara couldn’t imagine the Ogletrees without their land, money, or power. If the war didn’t go their way, however, they might lose all three.
Clara had been partial to the Confederates because of Papa’s and Solomon’s participation, but now she found herself rooting for a Yankee victory.
*
As Wilhelmina retraced her steps in search of her lost weapon, the sounds of battle had drastically diminished. Morale on the Union side was high. A passing scout said Confederate troops were concentrated at Shiloh Church and on Corinth Road, but they were beginning to withdraw with Lew Wallace and his men hot on their heels. The victory Erwin had predicted earlier that day seemed close to coming to pass.
Wilhelmina felt tired but exhilarated. She had set out to make a difference in this war, and she was actually achieving her goal. The Union’s march through Tennessee had resulted in the bloodiest battle yet. Would Mississippi bring more of the same, or would the Rebs concede defeat? She was excited to see what the future might hold—and for a chance to see Clara again.
“Yes,” she said to herself as she planned another foray to Clara’s farm, “she’s definitely worth the risk.”
She entered the woods and started looking for her rifle. The task was more difficult than she had thought it would be. The landscape appeared to have changed since she’d seen it last. Probably because she was no longer running at breakneck speed with bullets and cannon balls flying past her head.
She walked in circles for a while before she reached a patch of land that seemed familiar. There on the ground were three discarded rifles. One belonged to her, the other two to the men she had stopped to aid. As she bent to pick up her gun, she heard footsteps crunching behind her.
“Hey, Fredericks.”
She turned at the sound of her name. The voice hailing her had a Southern accent instead of a Northern one.
“Solomon?” she said when she saw who had called out to her. “What are you doing here?”
“Hunting. Same as you.”
Wearing overalls and a floppy hat rather than a uniform and kepi, Solomon was dressed like a farmer instead of a soldier.
“You all alone out here, Fredericks? Where are your friends?”
“Which ones?” she asked, thinking he meant the rest of her regiment.
Now that he mentioned it, the woods did seem strangely deserted all of a sudden. Had the Rebs surrendered? Had the war ended without her knowing? It was so quiet, it seemed like she and Solomon were the last two people in the world.
“Maynard and Weekley,” Solomon said. “Wasn’t that their names?”
“Mr. Weekley’s around somewhere. Maynard got shot last night for desertion.”
“I’m not surprised to hear that about your buddy Maynard. Considering the way he treated me and Papa, I wish I’d been there to put a bullet in him myself. Where’s Papa buried?”
“At the military prison in Louisville. We had a service for him and two other prisoners who died before we got there.”
“You couldn’t see fit to bury him in Tennessee where he belongs?” Solomon asked, taking a step forward.
“You can always move his body after the war ends. I’d be happy to show you where it is, if you like.”
Solomon had a rifle draped across his arm, but Wilhelmina didn’t sense any danger from him. A wad of tobacco was wedged in his cheek, making him look like a chipmunk gathering nuts for the winter.
“I hate to do this, Solomon, but it’s my duty to take you in.”
“What for?” Solomon asked after he spit a stream of tobacco juice on the ground.
“You were in my custody when you escaped. You’re supposed to be in jail, not out here running free. Drop your rifle and come back to camp with me. I’ll put in a good word for you, I promise.”
“That’s right nice of you, Fredericks, but I’m not done hunting yet.”
Before Wilhelmina could react, Solomon raised his rifle and fired. She felt something hot and hard slam into her chest. The blow knocked her off her feet. The searing pain stole her breath. She stared at the sky as the world grew dark around her.
Before her view faded to black, she heard Solomon say, “Two dow
n, one to go.”
*
Clara closed the door to the chicken coop after the rooster and hens settled onto their perches for the night. After she made sure the horse and mules had enough fresh water to last until morning, she slowly made her way back to the house. She was tired from ministering to the dozens of wounded men temporarily taking up residence at Treetop Farms, but that wasn’t the reason she was moving at a snail’s pace. She was waiting for Wil. She repeatedly glanced toward the woods, hoping he would appear.
Wil hadn’t said he would come back tonight—or ever again, for that matter—but she couldn’t stop thinking he might show up. That he would smile at her, say her name in that funny accent of his, and she would feel that strange sensation in her stomach again. The one that scared her a little but thrilled her, too.
Being with Wil made her feel alive inside. What would she do when he was gone?
A ball of light appeared in the woods, its movement erratic as it moved through the trees. Clara thought it might be a lightning bug flying around, but the glow was too bright. Someone with a lantern was headed her way fast. She wanted to run, but her feet remained rooted in place.
“Clara!”
She sighed, relieved to hear Percy’s voice, but disappointed not to hear Wil’s.
“You and Abram have been wandering around the battlefield again, haven’t you? Didn’t you get enough of a taste of the war this afternoon? Get in the house. It’s dangerous for you to be wandering around out here at night. Where’s Abram?” she asked after Percy came out of the woods alone.
“He sent me to fetch you while he stayed with the body. You got to come quick.”
Percy took her hand and tried to pull her toward the woods.
“Body? What body?”
She took him by his shoulders and turned him to face her. Her heart nearly stopped beating when she saw the tears rolling down his cheeks.
“Catch your breath and tell me what you’re trying to say. Where’s Abram?”
“He’s with Wil. He’s been shot.”
Clara felt her hands begin to shake, along with her resolve.
Divided Nation, United Hearts Page 14
