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.