Nathan had been flung from his horse, which had then rolled over him, smashing his leg. The horse had gotten up while Nathan's body slid down into a ravine, where he passed out.
Now he was conscious and it was broad daylight. He must have been out the entire night. What had happened to his men? He'd heard screams when the bullets hit, so someone must have been hit. But had they gotten away? And where were the Apaches? Were they waiting and watching him, grinning and laughing, as he crawled around like a crippled insect?
Nathan climbed with agonizing slowness over the edge of the ravine and onto flatter ground. A dead and bloated horse stared at him. Its wide nostrils were full of flies. Behind the horse lay something pink and horrible. It was Bellows, the corporal who^: d accompanied them. He'd been shot several times and scalped. He was naked. Boots and uniforms were valuable to the Apaches.
He crawled past Bellows's cadaver and found the body of Private Cullen. He, too, had died in the ambush, and had been stripped and scalped. Perhaps they all had? Maybe Nathan was the only one alive, and he wouldn't last much longer. The pain in his leg surged through his brain and he couldn't stifle a moan. At least it looked like the Apaches weren't around to hear it.
Nathan caught the scent of something burned. He gagged as he realized what it was. A few yards away lay the body of Private Fulk. He was naked and spread-eagled face up on the ground. He had not been killed in the ambush. Fulk had been captured and had taken a long time to die. His eyes had been gouged out, but what had killed him was a campfire that had been lit on his stomach. It had slowly burned through to his spine and still smoldered. His feet and fingers were also charred ruins. The Apaches liked to use fire.
“I did this,” Nathan groaned. “It's my fault.”
He crawled farther. There was a head laying on the ground. How strange. No, it was sticking out of it. It was Downes, the last member of the patrol. The Apaches had buried him up to his neck and facing the dawn. They had cut off his eyelids so the sun had blinded him and reduced his eyes to lumps of charcoal. Nathan couldn't tell if he was dead; he could only hope so.
Nathan crawled on. He sensed something behind him and turned. An Apache stood a few feet away. Nathan tried to scream but nothing would come out. Then he tried to move, but his wounded leg wouldn't let him. The Indian was laughing and he had a large bowie knife in his hand.
And then Nathan was awake and lying in a pool of his own sweat. Nathan breathed heavily and checked his surroundings. He was in his own room and not under an Apache knife. He swore. The damned dream had returned.
Of course, the events hadn't occurred quite like the dream, which was a small source of comfort to him. For one thing, no one with a shattered leg could have crawled around like he did. He hadn't actually seen the bodies until after a patrol had rescued him from the ravine. But the horrors that the Apaches had inflicted on the soldiers were accurate. Poor, blinded Downes had lived for a couple of hours before finally, mercifully, dying. He sometimes wondered if one of the other soldiers had helped him along. God bless him if he had. Downes had been castrated as well as blinded, and his tongue had been ripped out.
Nathan had later been exonerated by a board of inquiry. It wasn't his fault, they said. The Apaches had been stalking the main column for days and his little patrol's search for a couple of lost horses had simply been a target of opportunity for an enemy that had been patient skilled, and greater in numbers.
For Nathan, however, it wasn't quite that simple. He had led four men to horrible deaths, and he himself had been maimed. He could never erase the ghastly sight of their remains and the way that two of them had died. It had led to a crisis of doubt: Could he ever lead men into harm's way again?
It had been almost a year before he was able to walk, and only then with the help of a cane. His body was much better now, but he still wondered if there was something- anything-that he could have done to save his men.
Nathan rose and peeled off his sodden clothing. He sponged his body with cold water left overnight in a pitcher, and then dressed. It was very early, but there would be no more sleep for him this night. It had been awhile since he'd last had the dream, and he'd hoped it had gone forever. It hadn't and it remained a presence, albeit a receding one, that he'd have to deal with.
Nathan dressed and walked quietly down the hallway to the kitchen. Perhaps he could manage to make himself some coffee. As he walked, he noticed motion outside, in the wing where the servants lived. A disheveled and partially dressed Attila Flynn clambered out a first-floor window and looked around cautiously. He then reached into the window and pulled a plump and very naked Bridget Conlin halfway out to him. They kissed and embraced tenderly.
“I think I should fire her,” said General Scott. He'd come up on Nathan quietly. Fromm was beside him and the former sergeant's eyes were black with anger. It occurred to Nathan that Attila Flynn wasn't the only person the comely young Bridget had been sleeping with.
“How long have you known about this?” Nathan asked.
“A bit,” Scott answered. “Obviously she's telling that Flynn person everything she hears us say. Who knows, maybe she's even reading our correspondence.”
In which case, she would know that Rebecca Devon and he were having lunch this day, and would she care? Nathan made a quick decision.
“Then don't let on that we know,” Nathan said. “That will shift the advantage back to us. We'll just be more circumspect in what we do, although we might think of planting some information that we want Flynn to have. Flynn's just using Bridget and will drop her when she's no longer of any use to him.” He noted a softening in Fromm's expression. He'd just given the man some hope. “Besides,” Nathan grinned, “she's a damned fine cook, and those are hard to find.”
As he spoke, he felt the dream receding further into the background of his consciousness. Perhaps he had been inactive for too long. Captain John Knollys and former British consul at Charleston James Bunch were physically unalike and vastly different in temperament.
Bunch was short, plump, in his mid-forties, and of great and unfeigned geniality. He had served England in Charleston for a number of years and considered himself an expert in matters regarding the American South and the new Confederacy. As a result of the time spent in the South, he was also an ardent supporter of the Confederate cause, and was delighted at the turn of events that had resulted in a de facto alliance between Great Britain and the Confederacy.
Captain John Knollys, on the other hand, was a tall, slight, balding man in his mid-thirties who looked more like an underfed scholar than a professional soldier who had seen combat in the Crimea and in India. Quiet and thoughtful, he had the healthy skepticism of a man who had spent almost twenty years in the British army as a junior officer and who had very little hope of further advancement. His family, although ancient and honorable, was not wealthy, and his branch of it had little influence. It was frustrating. He'd seen utter fools promoted because they were going to grow up to be Lord Something or Other, while he languished as a captain.
Despite their differences, Bunch and Knollys had formed a quick and easy friendship. That it was born of the reality that they could serve and help each other didn't matter.
Knollys, Lord Richard Lyons, and a couple of others of the ambassador's staff had recently arrived in Richmond by British steamer after a tedious journey through the northern part of New York State, a crossing near Buffalo, and a subsequent train journey to Ottawa. Lyons had elected to come to Richmond as expeditiously as possible and without waiting for the rest of his official family.