March Toward the Thunder Part 12

I'm a target now for every Rebel sharpshooter.

Louis started to lift the flag higher.

Captain Blake was too quick for him. "I'll take that, soldier," Blake said with a smile.

Grasping the pole of the flag with both hands, Blake climbed to the highest point on the work and waved it back and forth.

"Come on, boys, and I will show you how to fight!" he called out in a clear voice that carried like a song.

Another sergeant, not Flynn, but a noncom from B Company, stepped forward to take the flag from the captain's hands as Blake made his way to the front, leading them toward the ma.s.s of gray-clad soldiers gathering before the entrenchments for a counterattack.

It seems as if the bullet's not been made that can strike him. His bravery's a suit of armor.

But as Louis thought those words, Captain Blake dropped down to one knee. Or rather he fell to the place where a knee had once been. A minie ball had struck, leaving a great wound that showed splintered bone for a heartbeat before it was covered by the gush of blood. A lieutenant leaped to Blake's side, tried to stop the bleeding with a tourniquet. A carrying party formed, but as they lifted the wounded captain onto a stretcher, one and then another of the bearers were struck down by the fire from the oncoming counterattack.

Blake propped himself up on the stretcher to wave one arm. "Save yourselves," he shouted, teeth gritted against the pain, face pale from loss of blood. "The enemy's upon us!"

As so often happens in battle, the rush of men, the sound of guns, and the clouds of smoke washed over Louis then. Time pa.s.sed. Whether minutes or hours, no one could say. They drove back not just one counterattack, but too many to count. A field of fallen men lay between them and the Confederate ranks gathered behind the next line of trees, showing no sign of another a.s.sault.

Somehow, the sun had leaped across the sky. It was well past midday. A hand rose up in the no-man's-land between the two armies.

"Water," a voice called out from among the dead and wounded.

"I know that voice," someone who was standing next to Louis said.

He turned to look. It was Merry. He and Devlin, Kirk, and Belaney had all found their way to this same spot in the line where their sergeant stood, solid as an oak. Somehow, Flynn had gathered them the way a mother hen does her chicks.

"Water," the man called again in a voice weakened by wounds. "Will no one bring me a drink of water before I die?" The man lifted himself up on one elbow. His uniform showed him to be a Union captain.

"Tom O'Shea," Merry called, his voice more high and shrill than Louis had heard before. "Tom! Is it you?"

Merry grabbed the canteen that hung by Louis's side and pulled it free. Then, before anyone else could move or speak, Merry was over the embankment, down into the rifle pit, and then up and out of it as quickly as a young deer bounding through the forest. Rebel shots were being fired as Merry ran, but the little private paid them no mind and none struck home.

Louis tried to follow. Devlin and Kirk held him back.

"It's a fine heroic thing the lad is doing," Devlin said, not letting go of Louis's arm, "and it's worthy of a song. But there's no place for you in this ballad, Chief."

"Tom," Merry called. "Tom."

"Whose voice is that?" the injured man answered.

Somehow, though their words were not loud, a trick of the way the land lay or the clarity of the air made the two voices carry to all ears. There was pride on the one side for the bravery the young soldier was showing and respect on the other side for that same courage. Rebel marksmen were grounding their weapons and standing up to watch.

"Who are you?" the wounded captain said as Merry reached him. "Am I dreaming?"

Merry dropped down on one knee, placing one hand behind the wounded captain's shoulders and holding the canteen to his lips with the other.

"It's me, Tom, drink this."

The man drank and then jerked back. "You?" he said, his voice startled. "How can it be? In a uniform? And your hair? Where's your beautiful long hair?"

"Tom O'Shea." The little private was weeping now in a most unmanly way. "I did it to be close to you. Can you forgive me?"

"Mary," Captain O'Shea said, his hand caressing her face. "My Mary."

Louis was not sure how many realized what they were seeing, but he knew.

How is it all of us was fooled for so long?

He looked over at Sergeant Flynn.

"Hold your fire!" the sergeant suddenly bellowed in a voice that echoed off the hills. "That wee lad is a la.s.s. Put up your guns."

Flynn was at the top of the parapet now, waving one arm in the air and pointing the other toward the stunned men in gray.

"D' ye not see 'tis the man's own wife?"

On the field before them Mary O'Shea had taken off her private's coat and unwound the roll of cloth she'd bound around her chest to hide the curve of her bosom. She began tearing the cloth into bandages.

By the time she'd bound her husband's wound, a party of stretcher bearers had reached her, Louis and Flynn among them. Not a shot came from either side as men stood and watched, guns by their sides. And who among them was not thinking of the dear ones they'd left behind? For one blessed moment, all thoughts of fighting left that field.

In the surgeon's tent, no one seemed to be able to say a word until Surgeon O'Meagher had finished his examination of the weak but still conscious man.

"No need for amputation of any limbs," O'Meagher said to Captain O'Shea. "Clean flesh wounds in both arms and legs. You would have, of course, exsanguinated had you been left to lie for another hour. With proper care you'll live a long life-though your career as a soldier is over."

"I'll care for him," Mary said.

How could I have ever thought her anything but a woman? Louis thought. Now that he knew she was a woman, she no longer looked so young. Much older than me, probably as old as twenty-four.

"Private Merry," a deep Irish voice said. It was, of course, Flynn. "I'm afraid ye'll no longer be able to be part of this man's army. Ye'll have to turn in yer weapon and kit and uniform, and forfeit what pay ye have comin', I'm sorry to say. Ye were a fine soldier."

"Yes, sir," Mary O'Shea said, coming to attention and snapping a salute as she did so and then breaking into a grin. "I'll gladly give up this wool uniform, sir. But I shall miss my musket."

Flynn turned to Captain O'Shea, who hardly seemed to have heard the sergeant's speech. His eyes were on his wife, a look on his face that combined love and awe.

"Sir," Flynn said, "I know it's out of place for me to speak this way to a superior officer and all, but I need to say it. Ye take care of yer wife and cherish her and ne'er say a hard word for what she's done or ye'll be hearing from Liam Flynn."

"Sergeant," Captain O'Shea said, "it's less I'd be thinking of you had you not said that." He weakly lifted one hand to shake Flynn's. "You have my word as surely as my dear wife has my everlasting love."

Mary O'Shea grasped Louis by the elbow and pulled him over. "Tom, this is Louis. He's a fine lad. He has been my best friend these weeks and as good a friend as any soldier could have wanted."

Captain O'Shea turned his eyes toward Louis. "So you watched over my Mary in battle, boy?"

Louis nodded.

More like she watched over me, he thought, but words weren't coming to his lips.

Tom O'Shea let go of Flynn's hand and reached toward Louis to grasp the same arm that Mary held. For the first time there was a hint of a smile on the wounded captain's face. "So, my wife's best friend, would you do me the honor of repeating your name?"

"Louis, Private Louis Nolette, sir."

"Louis? That's a good name, isn't it, Mary? A good name to give a son if the Lord should so bless us in the years to come?"

"Yes, my dear Tom," Mary said. Her face was bright with happiness, one hand on her husband's shoulder and the other on Louis's arm. "Yes."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

IN THE RIVER.

Friday, May 20, 1864

"So," Flynn said, "there's a use for cavalry after all."

The sergeant carefully folded the newspaper and put it down gently on the log bench.

As if it's a b.u.t.terfly whose wings might be damaged by rough handling.

Louis hadn't really taken notice of it before. But, come to think of it, Flynn was always like that with anything with words on it. It didn't matter if it was a Bible, a magazine, a newspaper, or even a leaflet. The printed word seemed to be a sacred thing to their sergeant "And what would that be?" Corporal Hayes asked, limping over to grab the newspaper from the bench.

"Gently, Corporal," Flynn said. "You'll tear the dear thing. Just look there near the middle of the first page."

Hayes sat down as if his legs were made of wood.

Still stiff from being clubbed by rifle b.u.t.ts.

The corporal rubbed his equally bruised chin gingerly with one hand before opening the paper.

Those Rebs who captured Hayes were none too gentle. But our corporal himself returned the favor.

Because the corporal's captors had neglected to have him give his word that he would not try an escape, he had waited till his captors were distracted by a sh.e.l.l bursting near them. The thought of being shot while trying to get away appealed to him more than being sent to Andersonville. Grabbing a gun from one man, the corporal had kicked another in the belly and slugged a third in the chin with the musket barrel. Then Hayes hightailed it through the trees.

It had been near dark, but even then he might not have made it had he not been near a small rapid-flowing stream. Without hesitating, Hayes had jumped in and been carried around the bend. It had taken him two days to find his way back to what was left of E Company.

Louis smiled at the memory of the return of their formerly lost noncom. Corporal Hayes had thought to surprise them, but had ended more surprised himself. That their numbers were so diminished was sad but not shocking. That one of their men had been a woman shook him more than his own capture and bangs and bruises.

"The wee lad was a la.s.s?" Hayes said in a voice that brought a grin to Sergeant Flynn's face. "The wee lad was a la.s.s?"

In the day and a half the corporal had been back with them he'd repeated his bemused question innumerable times. One minute he'd be pounding a piece of hardtack with a stone to break it into pieces that his sore jaw could handle and the next he would pause and look up.

"The wee lad was a la.s.s?"

Even last night, settled into his tent, other men snoring about him, his voice had broken the still of the night every two or three hours with those same six words.

"The wee lad was a la.s.s?"

Louis wondered if the sergeant's calling Hayes's attention to the newspaper was not just a way to turn the corporal's mind toward something else.

Hayes's brow furrowed as he studied the paper, leaning his head close to the page. Unlike Flynn, the corporal was a deliberate reader whose lips moved as he sounded out each word. He finished a sentence and looked up.

"General Jeb Stuart is dead?" Hayes asked.

"Aye," Flynn replied. "Shot and killed dead by one of Sheridan's men in a clash between their cavalry units. I heard word of it two days ago, but seein' it in this copy of the Richmond Enquirer so generously given to me by one of our prisoners-ye can trust that it's gospel truth. They are mournin' his loss in Richmond. 'Tis the heaviest blow they've took since Stonewall Jackson."

Flynn slapped his thighs with his broad palm and stood up.

"So, as I said, there seems to be a bit of use for cavalry after all. And that is t' lessen the number of cavalrymen on the other side. For an enemy cavalryman is worse-though only by a hairsbreadth-than one of our own."

Flynn carefully extricated the newspaper from Hayes's grasp, folded it again, and stowed it in his pack. Then the sergeant stared off into the distance, one broad hand on his chest, his fingers tapping against the b.u.t.tons of his coat. The Virginia sun was beating down from a cloudless sky and Flynn reached up to wipe the sweat from his brow. It was so quiet in this lull between the fighting that had lasted for over a day now, you could hear the trickling voice of the North Ana River as it rippled over the stones down into a little pool a hundred yards from them.

As the sun reflected off its surface, that pool caught Louis's eye. Almost the same as the one Artis led me and Kirk and Belaney and Devlin to before the battle.

All five of them frolicking like little boys in the water. He smiled at the thought that all five of them were still among those who could breathe and walk on their own feet. Not among the lost. True, he'd lost Merry-Mary O'Shea. He was going to miss Merry dreadfully. But the thought of the happiness she'd found made him feel warm inside. He thought of his mother's words: "We never know what each day will bring us. Be thankful for every small blessing from Bon Dieu."

The boy he'd been only weeks ago hadn't understood those words at all. Now, though, they were easier to understand.

He'd seen Artis just last evening. Both of them on picket duty-Artis to the left of his company's line and Louis to E Company's right. They'd been able to exchange a few quick words.

But none about the fight they'd survived.

"You bark-eating Abernakis ever play marbles?" Artis asked.

"A sight better than most Mohawks," Louis answered. "But I don't have a marble with me."

Artis jiggled the leather sack that hung at his side. "Plenty here to loan you some till I win 'em back. You know us Mohawks always win when we come up against you Abernakis."

"In a pig's eye," Louis replied, keeping his face straight for another moment before breaking into a grin as wide as the one Artis wore. They'd made plans to get together after mess the next day if things stayed quiet.

It would be good to do something so far removed from the grim business of war. He was looking forward also to surprising Artis with the news that one of the soldiers he'd introduced his new friend to had actually been a woman in disguise. Although Artis might already have heard. The tale of Mary O'Shea, the warrior la.s.s, was making its way from one regiment to the next.

"Hmm," Sergeant Flynn said loudly to himself, his fingers drumming again on his b.u.t.tons.

It drew Louis out of his reverie. The other men of E Company p.r.i.c.ked up their ears as well. Something was on their sergeant's mind when he made a sound like that. Clasping his chin in one hand and grasping his elbow with the other, the big Irishman lapsed back into momentary silence.

The men of E Company held their breath. Flynn getting quiet like that meant for sure that something was being planned.