Two men thudded into the dip, one of them bleeding profusely from a shoulder wound. Tears of pain and fear coursed down his cheeks.
"Jesus, all the others are dead, sir," he cried.
"How many?" Seward demanded.
"Five," the man answered with a tremor as a spasm of shivering shook his body, causing more blood to flow.
Seward glanced around at the dead rebels and giggled. "We evened the score and some." He rubbed his injured head ruefully. "Unfriendly bastards, ain't they?"
"Any other man surrenders, you capture him," Hedges snapped, and looked into the face of each trooper, not moving on until he had received a nod of acknowledgement. "Now, let's move out."
He led the way up out of the dip, keeping low, but although there was still a great deal of shooting, none of it was in their direction and a glance down the hill showed that the Confederates were concentrating their fire on the final thrust of the Union assault. Captain Jordan had reached the trench and its litter of sprawled bodies. He had dismounted and was stooping down, examining the right foreleg of his horse.
"Christ, will you look at that line-shooter," Bell muttered. "He must be the biggest load of crap West Point ever turned out."
"He'll get his one of these days," Forrest answered with low-key venom.
Hedges glanced at him and saw the hatred shining in the cruel eyes.
"Be a real pleasure to blast that crud."
"He's got the wrong color uniform, Frank," Seward said. "And there ain't no bounty on his head."
Forrest's grin was as hard as granite and as mirthless as a widow's tears. "Some things a man's got to do, Billy," he said softly. "Ain't a question of money."
"Forrest?" Hedges called.
"Yeah, lieutenant?"
"I ever hear Jordan bought it, I'll be sure to take a look at the body. If he's hit in the back, you'll be in front of a firing squad."
"That ain't fair," Rhett put in, recovering his courage now that he was not being fired upon. "Jordan ever, gets shot, it'll be in the back 'cause he'll be running away."
Seward giggled.
"Right," Douglas agreed.
Hedges' expression showed no sign of softening as he crept forward, eyes raking the trees and undergrowth for movement.
"He'll never get close enough to the enemy to have to run away."
Forrest grunted. "You don't like him much; either?"
Hedges shot a glance over his shoulder. "Lot of men I don't like. But there's a war on."
"Wondered what all the shooting was about," Rhett said lightly. "Isn't he a funny man, lieutenant?" Forrest asked with a grin.
"Yeah," Hedges answered. "I saw him shaking with laughter back there."
"Yellow, but funny," Forrest agreed as Rhett's face became flushed. "Jordan ain't funny."
"Neither is a firing squad," Hedges returned as he spun at great speed and knocked the Colt from Seward's hand.
The man's finger had been curled around the trigger and the revolver exploded into sound, sending a bullet thudding into the ground as Captain Leaman and a group of troopers burst through the trees ahead.
Color blind?" Hedges snapped.
A giggle burst from the trembling mouth. "How'd I know?"
Forrest lashed out a fist which smashed into Seward's jaw and knocked him sideways. "Idiot!" he spat out.
"I couldn't see," Seward protested as he scrambled to his feet.
"That could have been me coming out there," Forrest hissed.
"We've got them on the run," Leaman called, brandishing a saber, his excited eyes flashing almost as brightly as the blade caught in the sunlight shining through the trees. "Take these men and any more you can find and keep on this side. I'm going up the center and Jordan will lead the attack on the left flank."
Leaman ducked back into the trees as the men he had brought with him crossed the open ground towards where Hedges and his group waited.
"He's got a lot of faith, that feller," Forrest muttered. "If Jordan's leading it, we ain't got a left flank."
"He's your troop commander," Hedges pointed out. "You want to go over there and tell him how to fight this war?"
Forrest grinned. "All the same to you, lieutenant, I'll stick with what I've got and take my chances."
Hedges looked around him as the other men formed up and he saw he had close to forty troopers under his command. Most of them had just experienced their first taste of war without glory and the horror they felt was reflected in haunted eyes and trembling hands. Notable exceptions were Forrest and the five men who seemed to regard his as their leader. Excluding Rhett, whose weak features were set in a mere facade of grim resolution, they seemed to be the most determined of all the troopers to see the battle through. As a distant command from Leaman signaled the advance further up the mountain and Hedges moved his troop forward, he tried to conceal a flicker of admiration for Forrest and the others. For although he respected their proven ability in battle, he knew they were little better than dangerous animals. A few short weeks ago he would have regarded such men with distrust and, probably, a little fear. But history was in the process of changing the world and men had to change with it. Hedges had changed, his new character wrought by the traumatic baptism of fire at Philippi. And the man he was now recognized in other men only those qualities useful in killing.
Thus, as the next line in the Confederate defenses of Rich Mountain opened up with artillery pieces, Hedges was glad that Forrest and his group were backing him.
"That weren't no six-shooter," Seward yelled when a mortar shell whistled through the trees and decapitated a young trooper.
"So let's go see what those rebs are using," Forrest came back, and looked at Hedges.
Hedges nodded and broke into a run. The others lumbered after him up the sharply inclining slope, as another man went down, taking a mortar shell full in his middle. His entrails spilled put on to the mossy ground beneath a tree and two men vomited violently as they trotted through the squelchy pulp.
"Some fellers got no stomach for fighting," Forrest shouted.
Seward giggled.
Hedges retched, but fought down the bile. His hip was hurting again but his mind was able to overcome the pain as he saw a severed arm fly in front of his face and looked into the surprised eyes of the man who had been maimed. The scream of agony rang in his ears as he continued up the slope at a run, struggling to rid himself of the frightening image of Jamie with a bloodied stump where his arm had been.
*****
JAMIE!"
It was morning and still raining. Margaret Hope was in the barn milking the two cows after having changed the dressing on the stranger's neck wound. He had been quiet and unmoving when she left to do the chores while Grace washed the breakfast dishes and swept the living room floor.
He had been like that since dawn had changed the rain's backdrop from black to grey and the women had considered it safe to leave him alone and wise not to try to force food into his unresponsive mouth. Margaret suspected that he was nearing the crisis point of his fever and knew that when that came there would be little time to spare for the farm. So she and Grace hurried through what needed to be done and allowed wishful thoughts to conjure signs that the rain was letting up.
As Edge shouted the name of his brother, Grace ran into the bedroom, wiping wet hands on her apron and calling for her mother. She found he had rolled onto his side and was in danger of falling out of the bed and on to the floor as his legs and arms continued to thrash at the restricting covers.
"Christ. Your arm. Jamie, your arm."
"Hush," Grace whispered, placing a cool hand on the man's burning forehead, feeling the sweat warm and sticky under her fingers.
"Get that mortar, Forrest."
"Shush, you're safe, mister." As she spoke Grace placed her free hand on the man's hip and urged him gently on to his back in the center of the bed.
"What's wrong, Grace?" her mother demanded as she entered the house, quickly set down the pails and rush
ed into the bedroom.
"Gotta stop them getting Jamie," Edge yelled, thrashing his head from side to side on the sweat-soaked pillow, breaking free of the girl's tender caress.
"He's having a nightmare," Grace said, a helpless look in her beautiful eyes. "He won't be quiet."
"Delirious," her mother diagnosed. "Let him tire himself. He has little enough strength. It won't last long."
Grace drew back and both women watched anxiously as his body continued to writhe and fresh beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead with each new flood of words, which grew gradually less comprehensible until they were little more than rasping, disjointed phrases with no meaning. And as this inane rambling diminished into mere movements of the almost colorless lips, tired muscles gave up their struggle and his body became limp again.
"Was that the crisis?" Grace asked, not taking her eyes from the wan face of the stranger.
Margaret shook her head. "No, girl. Seems this feller has some bad memories. He was just fighting them. Reckon he won."
"Could we try him with some broth, now?"
The elder woman nodded. "Reckon so. Man like him is bound to have a lot in the past he'd rather forget. He'll have to be strong to keep winning."
Her daughter nodded and went into the other room, where a pot was already steaming on the fire. "Mother," she called as she ladled the thin soup into a bowl.
"Yes?"
"He kept calling out the name Jamie," Grace answered pensively.
"So what?"
"Maybe that's why he came here, him being so sick."
"Now it's you who are rambling, child," her mother accused. Grace carried the bowl of steaming broth into the bedroom.
"The name on the grave marker in the yard, mother," she said softly. "Its Jamie."
Margaret Hope caught her breath and stared hard into the lean face of the man on the bed. She swallowed hard. "It could be a different Jamie," she said without conviction.
"Perhaps," her daughter answered in a similar tone.
The eider woman continued to stare at the stranger for another few seconds, then shrugged and took the bowl from her daughter. "Well, even if this is Josiah Hedges and he's wanted for murder, that don't make him any less of a sick man. We gotta keep helping him, child."
"But I'll be glad when father and Allen get back," Grace said, shuddering as she recalled her shameless, night-time thoughts about the man.
"Amen to that," her mother replied.
CHAPTER FIVE
FOUR thousand five hundred men of the Confederate army had been routed at Rich Mountain and western Virginia seemed to be secure for the Union. Hedges did not know the tally, nor was he concerned with the political ramifications of the victory. To him it had been another lesson and if he derived any satisfaction at all from the bloody affray it arose from the fact that for some of the time he had been the teacher. He had gone on to the mountain as part of a rabble and when he came down from it he headed a group of men who, under his instruction, had learned to kill not merely with skill—many were already adept at the art—but with a purpose. And if he had any regrets they arose from the regrouping of these men into their own troops as the push to the Shenandoah Valley continued. Rich Mountain had proved that an officer was only at his best when he trusted the men under his command and Hedges had seen enough during the battle to realize that there were a great many troopers in Union blue too scared or too obstinate to accept the discipline of organized fighting. Inevitably Leaman's troop bad its fair share of these and Hedges did not relish the prospect of superintending further practical instruction in the heat of conflict. But, as the two sections of McClellan's army joined up and made camp in the valley, Hedges did not voice his opinion or his reservations. His parents better teachers than any army—had instilled in him the futility of complaint.
Not so Frank Forrest and his five compadres. Unwilling to accept the situation as it was, they gathered in their bell-tent close to the perimeter of the camp and soon the air was as blue as their uniforms as they vented their dissatisfaction with Captain Jordan's leadership. They were the type of men who resented authority of any kind, but they could recognize and respect fearlessness and strength in another and to such qualities there was due an allegiance which no mere insignia of rank could command. Thus it was that the power of Forrest's personality over-ruled Douglas's" chevrons and the big man with the cruel smile outlined the plan with which the others unhesitatingly concurred.
Forrest ran through it twice more, looking in turn at each man clustered around the flickering flame of the candle, drawing from every gaunt and grizzled face a look of excited anticipation.
"All right, Bob," he said at length. "Do your stuff and do it good." He leaned close to Rhett and grinned evilly. "Ain't no danger in this part, so you ought to be good."
Rhett drew back and stood up. "Why must you always malign me so, Frank?" he asked.
Forrest made a sound of disgust. "Go and use your Princeton words on the Captain."
Rhett could smile now, but made sure Forrest could not see and take exception to the expression as he went out through the tent flap. He was a shallowly handsome man with clean-cut features and bright eyes, the latter emphasizing his good looks and reflecting his natural intelligence. But it was easy for the more than simply casual observer to penetrate the thin facade and recognize the character defect that made him a cheat, liar and coward. But many who saw this found themselves charmed into disregarding it by the wit and charm of the man. This was a fact that had saved Rhett's life on more than one occasion.
He had a foppish, almost mincing gait and as he meandered among the tents, heading down to the bank of the river a number of ribald remarks were slung in his direction. He smiled lightly in reply to some and tossed back a verbal rebuttal to others. Rhett had long ago learned to accept such slights without taking offense and the men, drained by the fighting on Rich Mountain, welcomed the injection of humor and laughed too loudly at the New England dandy. Hedges, sitting on a tree stump outside his tent and smoking a cigarette as he cleaned his Spencer and Colt, watched Rhett come into view. He wondered idly whether Rhett was seeking a partner and found himself surprised that the idea did not disgust him. It seemed incredible that only a few short weeks ago the merest suggestion of an unnatural association would have generated a deep sense of shock. Hedges sighed and continued with the cleaning chore, resigned to the fact that when a man's character was changed, it altered in more than one aspect.
Jordan was inside his tent, stretched out on his blankets.
But it was a warm night and the flap was pulled back.
"Sir?" Rhett called softly.
The captain had been dozing, lulled to the edge of sleep by the gentle sounds of the flowing river.
"Captain Jordan?" Louder.
He came awake abruptly, his body jerking into a sitting position, his arrogant features showing alarm. Rhett knew precisely how the officer felt, but experienced no sympathy for him. Cowards, when they are in a position of strength, bear the most malice. He smiled into the mouth of the tent, enjoying the sight of the trembling Jordan trying to regain his composure.
"You want me, soldier?"
Rhett executed a limp-handed salute and forced himself to appear humble under the steady scrutiny of his superior. "Begging your pardon, sir. My buddies have captured a Confederate infantry officer. We feel it would be..."
"You've done what?" Jordan snapped, getting to his feet.
"A rebel officer, sir. Up the river in some trees. He's wounded and we think he must have been left behind in the retreat from Beverly or Rich Mountain."
For his rest Jordan had removed only his boots and tunic and now he began to put them back on. Rhett continued with his bogus report. "Since you are our troop commander, we felt it incumbent upon us to report the incident to you, sir."
"What were you doing outside the picket line?" Jordan demanded as he buttoned his tunic with one hand while he reached for his cap.
Rhett he
sitated.
"Well, soldier?" It was a bellow in low key.
Rhett stammered. "We heard there were some women up river, sir. And a man with whiskey for sale."
Jordan sneered at the trooper. "What kind of man?"
"My private life is my own, sir," Rhett answered with a touch of resentment. Then he smiled ingratiatingly. "Anyway, I like whiskey as much as the next man."
"You shouldn't ever compare yourself with a man," Jordan came back, as he emerged from the tent, resetting his belt so that the sheathed saber swung more comfortably at his hip. "Consider yourself under open arrest. Rhett, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Give me the names of every other trooper who went with you."
"We captured an enemy officer, sir;" Rhett pretested.
"You arguing with me, trooper?"
Rhett shook his head sadly and began to intone the names of Forrest's group as Jordan led the way through the encampment.
"Will you look at that?" a voice called from out of the warm darkness of the early July night.
"Yeah," came another. "Rhett ain't so fussy no more, is he?"
Jordan's head snapped this way and that, his eyes boring into the night but finding in the men closest to him nothing upon which he could vent his rage.
"He's run out of the real McCoy," the first voice answered. "Now he's goin' to lay it on a horse's ass!"
"Dirty bugger!"
Purple in the face, Jordan gave Rhett a vicious shove in the back to speed him onwards, along an overgrown turnpike that followed the course of the river out of the camp.
"Who goes there?" a voice demanded sharply.
"Nobody but us chickens," Rhett answered softly.
"Captain Jordan," the officer snapped.
The sentry lowered his musket and threw up a salute, then formed the raised hand into a sign of abuse when the two men had passed. The moon was high and large and refracted light from the calm waters of the river added its own illumination, making progress easy mover the open ground. But then the road turned sharply away from the bank to enter the edge of a small wood and the tall timber crowded in around the men and seemed to spring to life with a thousand moving shadows. Both Rhett and Jordan, although they would have been loath to admit it, welcomed the presence of the other.
Killer's Breed Page 7
