He flinched as the surgeon threw what remained of Logan’s arm in a pile at the edge of the tent, and closed his eyes as they started in on the leg. How many of these amputations had he seen, heard, smelled while keeping watch over her? He let out a silent scream: Get out of my head, Starla!
The surgeon’s voice. “Good, he stayed under. Are you still awake, lieutenant?”
Travis opened his eyes and looked down the table. Waving over an orderly, the surgeon sent them away to another long, open tent, where the air nonetheless hung thick with unwashed flesh, blood, and death. Travis secured a space near an open side.
“Water,” was Logan’s first word. Travis scurried to find some, then had to support him while he drank. Water dribbled from either side of a mouth still numb.
“Sir…?” He stopped, at a loss for words. What does one say at a time like this?
Logan, however, seemed very talkative, if not terribly coherent at first. “Hey, kid. Did I ever tell you I served out west with Jeb Stuart? And Will Lewis. Good ol’ Will. Always good for a laugh. And we needed a laugh or two, between fightin’ the Injuns and the blasted weather. It’s a wonder any of us survived. Stuart almost didn’t. Went home with a Cheyenne ball stuck in him. But you know, we did have some times out there, singing and dancing. Those señoritas have the blackest eyes you ever did see. Bet you wouldn’t believe I was quite the dancer, would you? Maybe I’ll write Will, tell him to come on over again, talk about old times. Would invite Jeb, but I don’t think he’d come. Not too safe for him up here. But Will. He’ll definitely come, especially if there’s to be dancing.”
Travis said nothing. He was making sense, until he threw those last few thoughts. Surely he remembers that Will Lewis is dead.
The captain shook his head dizzily, and seemed to regain his senses. “Oh. Will is dead, ain’t he. Forgot where I was there for a moment. You still here?”
“Yes, sir, I’m still here,” Travis answered, feeling slightly lightheaded himself. He cracked a lopsided smile, barely visible in the dark. “And so are you. Or at least most of you. The rest of you decided to desert.”
Logan laughed—weakly, but a real laugh all the same. “Too true.” He sobered. “You know, you’re a good soldier, Lieutenant Black. Despite what you think of yourself, you’ve done well. Thought you should know that.”
“Thank you, sir,” Travis said quietly. It’s nice to know I’m not a complete failure.
Logan continued, “But there’s something else I’ve still got to tell you. Thought about it while lying out there, listening and thinking.”
He seized Travis’ hand, gripped it painfully hard, forcing him to listen. “I loved a girl once. Married her too. Not such a long time ago. Beautiful, wonderful girl, my Rosalind. And smart. Ever wonder where a guy like me learns to quote Shakespeare? It wasn’t the academy, that’s for certain. No, I married a teacher, a scholar’s daughter. Real spitfire, Rosie was. Life with her was never dull—not perfect, but then again, what is?”
“One day we fought. I said a lot of things I shouldn’t have said. So did she. I went away mad. And she was dead when I returned,” he said softly, caught up in the memory.
He held Travis motionless with his gaze, green eyes glowing catlike in the dim light. “I’ve lived with those angry words far too long. Don’t let that happen to you, Travis Black. Nothing is worth that kind of pain and regret. Nothing. What I’m saying is, you shouldn’t care if the girl’s Jeff Davis’ little sister. ‘Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds.’ If you really care for her, find her, talk to her. This war won’t last forever, you know.”
He fell silent. Travis stood there stunned, the captain’s hand still clutching his. Then Logan roused himself one more time. “What are you still doing here, mister? Aren’t you the senior ranking officer in the company? Who’s watching my men? And please don’t tell me Carlson, because that man does not have the wits God gave a goose.”
Travis snickered as he saluted. Ducking under the tent awning, he paused, then swung back around. “Captain…?”
“Don’t worry about me, kid. I’ll be just fine.”
As he walked away, back towards Wolf Hill, Travis looked up at the stars. Well, Lord, I’ll make You a deal. You bring her back into my life, and I’ll do my best to forgive and forget.
13. Third Day
July 3, 1863
Gettysburg, PA
Star huddled against the side of an old maple, hands over her ears. The cannonade to the west throbbed painfully against her eardrums. And it’s not yet been a quarter of an hour since they started. I wonder how long they will wait before they send in the brigades. Iris stood in the shade beside her and twitched nervously with every shot, muttering equine imprecations under her breath. Even a horse as used to fire fights as she, Iris informed her rider, would still react to that destructive thunder.
Gazing towards Gettysburg, Star could see a haze of dust and smoke hanging listlessly over the city and the fields surrounding it. It would be a thick, sickly sweet haze, the suffocating odor of rotting flesh. She didn’t have to smell it to know it would be there, especially after yesterday’s bloodfest, in places with innocuous names like the Wheatfield or the Peach Orchard. Devil’s Den, though—now that was, from what she had heard, appropriately named.
They had been attacking Carlisle, farther north, when the news that the rest of the army was in battle finally found them. It was almost midnight and she was drowsing in her saddle, her cloak a warm, dark cave around her, as she attempted to make up for the many hours of lost sleep this march had brought her. It was difficult to sleep, though, with the sounds of artillery too near.
Unexpected, but not unfamiliar voices in front of her. “Miss Anderson? Where is General Stuart? We’ve got orders from General Lee.”
“This way, sirs,” she said groggily. She kept the cloak tight around her, and kneed Iris into motion.
The general was where she had last seen him, sitting slumped over in his saddle. He must be even more tired than I.
“Sir, Major Venable and Captain Lee are back,” she said softly.
He started. “What? Oh yes. Thank you, Miss Anderson. What news do you have?” he asked, turning from her to his officers. He took the note Venable handed him, scanned it quickly by the light of a lantern an aide held up. His face grew darker by the second. Stuart held a quick, whispered conference with his staff, who scattered to put his orders into action, then he looked over at Star.
“Well, Miss Anderson, it seems we are to have no sleep tonight either.”
“I gathered as much, sir. But what has happened?”
“Our army’s run into a spot of trouble south of here. The entire Yankee army’s there. A little town called Gettysburg.”
Gettysburg? The name flashed through her like a spark of electricity. Travis! If the entire Yankee army was there … maybe, when the battle was over … perhaps then she could find him and…. And what? What could she say that could repair the damage she had done? Sighing, she pushed any such hopes firmly from her mind.
That had been Wednesday night. They had arrived in Gettysburg the next day. “Well, General Stuart, you are here at last,” had been Lee’s only greeting. But there had been other whispers, that Stuart had disobeyed direct orders, or was off joy riding and should be court martialed, or at least held to blame for the army stumbling blindly into Gettysburg.
Not true! Star thought angrily. Jeb would never disobey orders. We were supposed to be exactly where we were. And he did leave cavalry with General Lee! Any blindness wasn’t his fault.
But no one asked her opinion on the matter, and Stuart had taken the talk to heart—it was a blot on his honor. He had been in a dark, determined mood ever since.
The grim faced general strode by, not seeing her half hidden in the shadows. There was no laughter in him today, no laughter anywhere, only the tightness of a storm about to break.
“I’ve got to get away from here,” she muttered, grabbing Iris’ reins and slipping un
noticed from the camp. She rode out south along the ridgeline, following no particular path. A winding little creek appeared out of the brush; she had the sudden urge to soak her feet, to rest by its comforting babble. Loosening the straps on Iris’ saddle, she let the mare wander and crop the thick summer grass. Star pulled off her boots and stockings, then reconsidered. Anything living in this stream was likely to be in an extremely bad mood, and she didn’t want to annoy it more. Instead she lay back in the cool grass, stared at the clouds, and tried to ignore the thunder of cannon in the distance. Before she knew it, she was asleep.
A nearby blast brought her awake and on her feet in an instant.
“What in blazes?” That was from our lines. Who is the general shooting at? I see no one.
Another shot wailed past her, this time from the north.
That was far too near for comfort, she decided, yanking on her stockings and boots and tightening straps. “Let’s get out of here, sweetheart.”
They started back the way they had come. A third shot arced over them. Iris nickered and lengthened her stride. There came the roaring of artillery, this time from right behind them. The mare squealed and broke into a run. Star let her, insides squealing too. That had to be Yankee fire, and she was trapped between her side and theirs.
A shrill scream, an explosion right before them: Iris reared in a desperate attempt to miss it. Starla felt herself falling, falling, then hit a wall of scarlet pain.
Something soft and warm nuzzled at her neck. Spitting out a mouthful of dirt and grass, Star tried to roll over, only to collapse as a wave of searing pain ripped up her arm and side. The nuzzling stopped at her cry.
Other side, was her next coherent thought.
Good. That worked. She was lying on her back, eyes still closed tight, stomach heaving like one of Uncle Peter’s big boats at sea. Very slowly, she opened them and tried to focus on what could only be Iris. But for some reason her eyes would not focus properly. The white blur came closer, nudged her again.
“I’m awake,” she muttered, attempting to push the head away. At least, that’s what she tried to do, though the words didn’t sound quite right, nor would her right arm respond.
“Concussion?” Iris asked, bending low over her.
“Pos’bly.” Taking a shuddering pain laced breath, she latched onto the mare’s thick mane, clutching it like a rope to a drowning man. Somehow she managed to pull herself to her feet, and stay conscious in the process. She stood there wobbling uncertainly, face buried in Iris’ side. A warm trickle down the side of her neck—she was bleeding.
Oh Lord, she prayed, words skipping about her mind. Help.
She squinted up. Brown blur. Saddle.
By feel, she got a foot in the stirrup, by sheer will and desperation hauled herself into the saddle. The world went dim again. When she came to, it was to a limping Iris stumbling as she picked her way slowly across broken ground. A whiff of blood and sulfur, the stench of battle, assailed her. Her stomach rebelled against it, and she retched dryly from her unstable seat. Still hunched over in the saddle, she lifted her head carefully, so as to not bring on another wave of nausea. There were shadows ahead. A darkness that became distinguishable as many separate objects.
Tents? Camp!
“Bleshoo,” she mumbled, running a grateful hand through the mare’s mane. Someone rushed to grab her reins; she let them drop willingly. Voices all around her, dark blurs of movement. Something blue reached up to her.
Blue? Yankees? It had not occurred to her whose camp Iris had headed for. The soldier caught her as she fell from the saddle, the pain and shock too much to handle.
“Travis?” she asked, mind focusing on the only thing it could right then.
The trooper sounded puzzled. “No, ma’am. Edwards. First Michigan Cavalry.”
Focus. Please.
Very slowly and distinctly, she said, “Find Travis. Officer. Fourth Penn.”
The rise and fall of more voices. Then, “Would that be cavalry, ma’am?”
She nodded, head spinning angrily at the motion. Travis would help her. Despite what she’d done, he would help her. She clung to that thought, but hard on its heels came another: if he was still alive.
She bolted upright in Edwards’ arms, horror cutting through the dizziness. “No! Not dead!”
He shifted his grasp to steady her, and accidentally jostled her arm. She gave a strangled cry and fainted.
“Captain Logan died this morning.”
Sergeant Rees had brought back the news after they had made camp for the evening. Travis stared at him, not believing the words.
“Dead? He was fine when I left him last night.”
Rees shrugged, face very still as if to mask his true feelings. “Doc said the shock of a double amputation was too much even for a stubborn cuss like him. Just didn’t wake up.” He started away, then stopped. “I nearly forgot, sir. The captain had this on him. For you.”
Travis took it, hand shaking. A pass. A six hour pass, signed by Colonel John Irvin Gregg, and Captain Stuart Parker Logan. “If you really care for her, find her, talk to her,” he’d said.
So here he was, sorting through the captain’s personal effects and feeling rather like a grave robber. He sat heavily on the captain’s bedroll, staring at a small tintype he had found. A couple on their wedding day: Captain Logan and his Rosalind.
“I wonder what happened to her?” he murmured, placing the picture gently inside a thick, dog eared copy of Shakespeare. Logan had no family that anyone knew of, so his belongings were to be parceled out among the men. Travis intended on keeping those two items.
The tent flap lifted without warning, letting in the setting sun. Travis blinked at the figure silhouetted by the glare.
“Hullo there, little brother.”
“Rob?” He jumped to his feet and found himself wrapped in a bear hug. “What the blazes are you doing here?”
“Good to see you too, Trav.” Rob held him at arms’ length, looked him up and down. “And to see you still on both legs. Heard about your close call with the butchers’ knives. Were you trying to follow in Da’s … um … footstep?”
Travis’ mouth twisted. “Not exactly. Though it was entirely too close a thing.” He sobered momentarily. Sometimes it seemed that everything brought back memories of her. “But never mind that,” he said with a brisk shake of his head. He pointed at his brother’s shoulder. “What brings you here? Showing off your promotion? By the way, congratulations.”
“Thanks. What brings me here? Well, you need a captain, and I need a command—Rogers didn’t want to give up his. So here am I, Captain Robert G. Black, at your service.” He swept Travis a low bow.
Travis looked at him, stunned.
“Really?”
“Really. Wish it wasn’t because Logan is gone—”
Part of Travis wanted to scream. Was he never going to be free of Rob’s shadow? But at the same time he felt as if a great weight had been lifted. Rob always knew exactly what to do, never let his feelings get in the way of his duty…. It would be better for the company this way.
He interrupted his brother before his emotions could show through. “I’m glad you came just now. Here, sign this, would you?”
Rob signed without protest. “What did I just sign?” he asked, looking down at the paper.
Snatching it back, Travis grinned. “Thanks. Now as soon as I can get you all settled in, I’m leaving for a bit.”
“And where do you think you are going?”
Travis waggled the paper under Rob’s thick moustache. “I have a pass, authorized by Colonel Gregg. And my new captain.” He ducked his brother’s good natured punch, and paused. “Granted, I have to be back in six hours, but I’m not going far.”
“Checking in on Mum and Da?”
Travis nodded. Among other things, he thought, though he had no clue how to go about initiating contact with the enemy.
“Lucky dog.” There was no real jealousy in Rob’s voice,
just a hint of wistfulness. “Give them my love.”
“I will,” Travis said, heading out the flap. “Come along. I’ll introduce you to the other officers. Your other lieutenant, Carlson, is at sick call … as usual. But Sergeant Rees is around, and he knows better than anyone else how to run this troop.”
There was a dull thud as he collided with a soldier sticking his head in.
“Oh! Beg pardon, sir,” the man said, saluting dazedly.
Travis backed away, holding his head. “At ease.”
“Courier from the First Michigan, sir.”
“Courier? Send him in, I guess. Oh, and Bingham? Gather up the men in about half an hour. Captain Black has just taken command and he’ll want to speak with them.”
Rob overlooked the mouthed “Black?” and acknowledged the corporal’s salute as he ducked back out of the tent. Then he turned to his brother and began to laugh.
“Good thing you have a hard head.”
Travis ignored him. “What would Michigan want with us? They’re under Custer, aren’t they? The one with the curls and the attitude?”
“Maybe he wants to borrow you as a battering ram.”
Travis swallowed his retort as the courier entered the tent and saluted them both.
“Private Larson, First Michigan.”
“And what can we do for you, private?” Rob asked.
“Well, sir, I’m looking for an officer named Travis.”
Rob looked at Travis sharply. His brother just shook his head. I’ve done nothing.
“Was that his surname or given name, private?”
The trooper shifted uneasily at Rob’s suddenly cool tone. “I’m not rightly sure, sir. You see, this young lady rode into our camp. She’s in a bad way, but she did manage to ask for an officer of the Fourth Penn named Travis. About the only coherent thing we got out of her.”
Travis was gathering up Logan’s book and picture, but stopped, stunned. Oh no. Please, Lord.... He straightened slowly. “Blue eyes, long dark hair, rides a superb pale gray mare?” His insides twisted into tight little knots. Oh, Starla, don’t do this to me.
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