The fighting soon came so close to the ford that bullets from both sides whizzed by Andrea’s head.
Still, she continued riding back and forth across the swollen river, pulling, prodding and poking to keep both injured man and beast from stopping or falling. Once across, the wounded handed her their extra weapons and ammunition to take back to their comrades on the other side. Time after time she crossed, loaded down with carbines, pistols, and powder to be distributed among Pierce’s men, who were facing the brunt of the attack.
Andrea had no time to think, no time to process the passage of time. Only once, when sitting on her knees helping reload fresh weapons, did she catch a glimpse of Alex shouting words of encouragement to Pierce’s men.
Through the smoke he appeared more spectral than real, raging through the storm of lead like a lion, the lust of battle flashing from his eyes. He did not stop other than to reload or confer with Pierce, then he rode back into battle, appearing to rejoice in the storm.
After losing sight of him, Andrea continued her duties, her body numb with exhaustion and her head aching from the incessant gunfire. The crescendo of war reached a feverish pitch, the lead hurling toward the ford seeming never ending.
She was halfway back across the river when a man within an arm’s length of her blinked with a look of surprise and fell backward into the muddy water. Andrea dove off her mount, pulling him out of the way and onto the bank to keep him from being trampled by a score of frenzied horses.
Standing ankle deep in mud and knee deep in water, she saw the man had been hit in the upper leg, and was bleeding profusely from the gaping wound. Springing to his assistance, she took off her coat and bound his injury, speaking words of encouragement to rally him.
When she was all but through, Andrea felt a tingling sensation on the back of her neck. She turned, hoping to catch a glimpse of Alex through the smoke and confusion on the other side of the river.
It did not take her long to find him sitting on his frothing steed, silently watching her with a resolute stare. Enshrouded by the light from above and backlit with the smoke of battle, he appeared to be something other than mortal.
The world stopped for Andrea. Slowly, deliberately he raised his hand in a poignant, heartfelt salute. Andrea rose to her feet and returned the gesture, her eyes searching his from across the wide expanse as something tangible spanned the distance between them.
She was afraid to blink, afraid he would disappear—and all too soon he did, wheeling his horse back toward the field and the fury, vanishing like a dream upon awakening.
Andrea felt a strange, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She knew he had sought her out and that the salute was meant as a sign. And she feared to the very depths of her soul she had just witnessed a final goodbye.
Chapter 22
We may be annihilated, but we cannot be conquered.
– Confederate General Albert Sidney Johnston
Within a few moments, the firing on the other side of the river diminished in its intensity, indicating the enemy was maneuvering for some new assault.
The men around her began maneuvering as well, most preparing to make a stand at the ford while others, like Pierce’s company, rushed forward to check the advancing forces before a new attack could be made. Andrea glanced around at the picture of vigorous martial splendor surrounding her. She knew she would remember those grimy faces lit with battle fire for the rest of her life.
On both sides of the river, exhausted and desperate men summoned all their strength for a final convulsive effort to repel the enemy long enough to get the remainder of the battalion across to safety.
It appeared to Andrea that the hazardous situation only rendered the men more fearless. Their commander had apparently instilled in them the idea that they were unconquerable, and they therefore did not know they were not.
All too soon the onslaught began again as the guns of the enemy poured death and destruction upon the ford. The barrage was of a character more desperate and determined than Andrea had ever seen, but the ranks held, and the stream of gray kept moving to safety, despite the shelling that seemed to come from every direction.
“What’s your name?” Andrea kneeled by an older man she knew was one of Hunter’s officers.
“Boz,” he said grumpily. “Got me in my darn shooting arm.”
Andrea began tying a large handkerchief around his arm to help stem the flow of blood, when he struggled to his feet, almost pushing her down.
“Captain!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “To your right!”
Captain Pierce, sitting on his horse on the opposite bank, wheeled his mount around and shot a man in blue who had apparently crawled to the riverbank to pick off those who were crossing.
The Yankee, shot in the stomach or lower chest, went down, but Andrea and the man beside her watched in horror when the gun rose again.
What only took a few seconds seemed to play in slow motion to Andrea. The sharpshooter, struggling for his life, propped his back against a tree for support. Slowly and deliberately he lifted the gun to his eye and again took aim at Pierce, who by now was too far away to hear any shouts of warning from Andrea or Boz.
They both looked around wildly to see who could help, but everything was in a state of chaos with horses whinnying, water splashing, and guns firing in rapid succession.
Andrea did not remember thinking or reacting or planning a response. Without warning there appeared on the side of the Yankee’s head a horrid red fountain, and at the same instant, he fell a corpse. She looked at Boz in relief—the danger, it seemed, had been averted.
Boz’s eyes were not on the fallen Yankee. They were on her.
Andrea followed the line of his gaze to her outstretched hand, to the barrel of the still-smoking gun pointed toward the opposite bank.
She blinked, as if by doing so the gun would vanish. Then she glanced behind her, thinking surely someone else had taken the shot. But as for the former, the gun did not disappear, and as for the latter, there was no one in sight to assume the blame or accept the honor.
The cold reality of the situation rushed over her. With a shiver of revulsion that shook her, Andrea threw the dreadful instrument of death into the river.
“It was just a Yankee,” Boz said, watching a perfectly good weapon disappear. “And he was dead before you shot him. You just hurried him up a little.”
Andrea took no comfort in his words. She continued to stare at her hand as though it belonged to someone else, then turned away, unable to endure the sight of the opposite bank.
Stumbling into some bushes, she bent over, and with her hands on her knees, gagged and heaved. She turned back toward Boz, but took only a few steps before sinking to the ground at the thought she had sent a human soul, fighting for his country, into eternity.
“Don’t see why you’re so upset, but look at it this way, kid,” Boz said, walking to her and patting her on her shoulder. “You saved a life today. One man was already on his way out. If you hadn’t shot, there woulda been two.”
Andrea nodded, but it was plain to see his words did not ease her anguish nor console her mental torture. Boz had no way of knowing that she had not just killed a Yank, she had killed a former comrade—in order to save a Rebel, no less.
Andrea’s mind whirled with pain and confusion, but she had little time to lament. Hearing heavier gunfire, she caught a horse and rode to a small eminence a short distance away to see what was happening.
What she saw filled her with dismay and horror. Union troops attacking the rearguard with furious determination had almost surrounded those remaining, cutting them off from the river and safety. Although holding their ground tenaciously, there was only a small force to meet the shock of the advancing hosts.
And Alex was likely among them.
Andrea watched the two forces move closer and closer to hand-to-hand combat. Her soul froze at the sight of the Confederate banner waving defiantly
within the chaos—tattered yet grand flaunting its noble heritage for all to witness.
This was not war, it was slaughter. A useless sacrifice! Her eyes dashed around in bewildered panic and at last landed on Carter.
Chapter 23
If this Cause that is so dear to my heart is doomed to fail, I pray heaven may let me fall with it, while my face is toward the enemy and my arm battling for that which I know to be right.
– Major General Patrick Cleburne, CSA, Killed in the Battle of Franklin
Last recorded words: “If we are going to die, then let us die like men.”
(Susan Tarleton was walking in the garden where she and General Cleburne had become engaged and heard a newspaper boy shout out the days headline: ‘Reports from Tennessee! Cleburne and other Generals killed.’ She promptly fainted)
Andrea spurred her horse toward Carter, a combination of fear and anger knotted in her stomach.
“Major, you must do something,” Andrea yelled above the din. “They are almost surrounded!”
“My orders are to move forward, not to look back.” He continued to wave on the men.
“But they will all perish!” Andrea tried to remain calm, but it was useless. Pure and complete panic prevailed, to the extent that she was unable to think rationally.
She looked Carter dead in the eye when he refused to budge or respond.
“I have no such orders,” she yelled.
Whirling her horse around, Andrea headed back to the river, though she had no idea what she could do. But she had a feeling Carter would follow to stop her—and he did. And she had a feeling the rest of the men would follow him—and they did.
Dozens of those from the main body, apparently thinking there was to be a renewed fight, advanced at a full charge toward the river where their companions stood firm against the enemy’s fire. Some of Carter’s men charged undaunted back across without orders, willing to sacrifice all in defense of comrades they knew were in serious trouble.
Carter joined forces with Pierce, who split the command to attack the flanking parties, hoping to keep them back long enough to get the final seventy-five across.
More heavy firing a half-mile to the east, and a lessening of fire where the rearguard had been fighting, caused Andrea to cast her eyes in that direction. Seeing Carter again, she rode up beside him. “What could that be?” she yelled. “Have some of the men gotten separated?”
“Probably the Colonel creating a diversion,” Carter said with forced calmness, continuing to wave his men forward.
Andrea felt her heart do a summersault as she stared at him in horrified astonishment. “A diversion?” She grabbed him by the arm when he started to ride away. “He told me he was serving in the rearguard.”
“Me too…but if I know him, he’s engaging the enemy to the east.” He nodded toward the sound of gunfire. “Giving time for more men to cross. Then he’ll cross over with…er-r, after…the rearguard.” Carter took a deep breath, and then added, “If all goes as planned.”
“But the diversion—” Andrea shook her head, trying to allow her brain to catch up with what her heart already knew. “How many men does he have with him?”
She suddenly found it hard to concentrate with the whooshing in her ears that had nothing to do with the lead flying around her.
Carter shrugged. “The object is to draw their attention away from the ford—”
“I know what a bloody diversion is,” she screamed, standing in her stirrups. “How many men does he have?
Carter gazed at her with a brilliant intensity, but his voice was soft. “There is only one man popular enough to distract the Yanks.”
He did not finish. He did not need to. A thunderous explosion of gunfire in that direction caused Andrea’s jaw to drop. Hunter was facing the enemy alone. She remained motionless, watching the scene play in slow motion before her eyes.
“Is it a diversion?” she cried out like a terrified child. “Or a sacrifice?”
“It’s his duty,” Carter said more brusquely now, apparently afraid he was going to have a bawling woman on his hands. “And he is not one to evade it—not at any cost.”
Andrea looked back toward the sound of gunfire. It grew quiet for a moment, the enemy apparently checking to see if the target still stood. Then it began again with renewed and more violent intensity.
Confound him!
His words came back to her. He never said he was going to retreat. He had said he would allow the officers to decide what the Command would do. He knew all along he was going to stand and fight while securing his men’s safe passage.
Men of his kind fostered greatness or tragedy—there was no middle ground. Alex’s instinct to protect his country’s honor was stronger than his instinct for personal safety, despite the desperate and unequal a struggle. His own personal gallantry would not allow him to quit the field and retreat, even when solid military prudence made it clearly advisable
Andrea blinked hard, fighting back tears that were stinging her eyes. She looked at Carter with brimming lashes as she remembered the scarlet coat Hunter had put on right before they’d ridden out. He’d worn it to be conspicuous. He’d wanted to be noticed. He didn’t want there to be any question.
“He’ll come out all right, darlin’,” Carter said in a reassuring tone. “He always does.” Then he turned his horse and galloped back into the fray.
It seemed like only minutes later, but was certainly much more, when Carter and a dozen other riders splashed through the river now red with blood. “Move out!” he ordered to all those who remained on the bank. The firing behind them continued and the water around them gurgled with gunfire as his remaining men galloped through.
The rearguard, cut and slashed and war beaten, followed across beneath a hail of suppressing fire from some reinforcements Gus had brought up to cover their passage.
Andrea, who had been helping load men into wagons that had come with the reinforcements, caught a horse, and with great difficulty in the excitement, mounted. She tried to find Carter again, but could not in the rush. All around her were battered, yet living, men. Almost all suffered a wound of one kind or another, but she knew few had been killed outright.
Glancing back at the far riverbank, which was now filled with blue, Andrea watched the fresh troops move forward, ready to shell anyone who ventured any closer than the northern bank. She swept her eyes over the faces of those around her, searching desperately for Alex or any sign of his fate, as a vague uneasiness began to gnaw at her spine.
Dripping wet and stiff with cold, Andrea blew on her fingers to keep them warm in the cool evening air. The only sounds now were that of distant and sporadic gunfire to the rear, the men being either too exhausted or too injured to speak. Someone apparently noticed her shivering and dropped a coat over her shoulders. Too exhausted to turn and see who it was, Andrea slipped her arms into the garment, thankful for the warmth.
Dozing in her saddle as the horses walked single file down a narrow path, Andrea awoke when the rider in front of her struck a match. For just a moment in that flash of light, she saw the color of the coat she now wore.
Odd, it was lined in scarlet, just like the one Alex had worn. Trying to suppress the strange feeling in the pit of her stomach, Andrea reached up and ran her fingers across the collar. Three stars. She pulled the coat more tightly around her, reveling in the comfort it provided both to her body and her soul.
But when she did, her hand passed over a damp spot, and then a large hole in the fabric. She stifled a scream. The sickening realization hit her with such force that she unknowingly spurred her horse forward, causing it to run into the next horse, creating a general bunch-up and swearing match ahead.
Andrea looked frantically around for Carter just as the road opened up on both sides. The men fanned out into a field to rest their mounts as Andrea rode up the line, searching the faces for someone she knew. She spotted Carter in a circle of men, but when he saw h
er approaching, he put his hand in the air to stop the conversation.
“I’ll talk to you men, later,” he said as she approached, and then with a nod, he gestured for her to follow him into the woods.
“He’s still alive,” Carter said, seeming to know by her expression why she’d sought him out. “Or he was when I saw him.”
Andrea stared at him in stunned silence, her trembling lips the only sign she had heard him. “But where is he? I need to see him.”
“It’s too dangerous.” Carter shifted his gaze away from her. “We got Yanks crawling everywhere. They know he’s been wounded. They’re looking for him.”
Andrea kicked her horse and moved him to within inches of Carter’s mount. She leaned over and looked straight into his eyes. “Where is he?”
He shrugged and looked down. “It’s the Colonel’s orders. No one is to know where he is, or go there, in case…you know, they’re being followed.”
Andrea tried to suppress her tongue, but her emotions got the best of her. She unleashed a cavalcade of curses, pointing out that Major Carter was no judge of whether or not she could successfully evade the enemy, followed by the general proclamation that he had no right, jurisdiction, or authority to stop her.
“He’d have me court-martialed if I told you.”
“He’d do no such thing,” Andrea shot back.
Carter squinted and rubbed his chin, but still hesitated.
“Have it your way, Major Carter.” Andrea picked up her reins. “It would be easier to dodge the enemy if I knew where I was going. But I will find him with or without you.”
A low rumble of angry thunder growled in the distance just then, sounding heavy and threatening. Andrea glanced toward the sky where lightening stabbed the horizon to the west.
Carter followed her gaze, then looked at her long and hard. “They took him to a farm about a mile due south. Whether he’s been moved since—”
Glory Bound (Shades of Gray Serial Civil War Trilogy Book 3) Page 11
