He was about to enter the shack when he heard the pounding of hooves, the creaking of leather, and the jingle of spurs. Cavalry was coming his way. He strode to the end of the porch. Through the trees he caught a glimpse of horsemen approaching from the west along the creek-side road. At last, he thought, someone’s bringing supplies.
But as they drew nearer he saw the guidons and blue coats. Yankees.
We’re done for.
Chapter THREE
A rider left the vanguard and trotted up to the shack. Pink-faced, mutton-chopped, and wearing sergeant’s stripes—an Irishman for sure—he dismounted with casual grace, snapped to attention, and saluted Buck.
“General Williams’s compliments, sir. He wishes to know your unit and strength.”
Buck returned the salute. “I’m Major Thomson, Surgeon, General Kershaw’s division. There’re only wounded, sick, and medical personnel here. Is it true? The war’s ended?”
“Sir, General Lee and his armies surrendered three days ago. General Johnston is still about, but should be cornered soon.” With a sweep of his head he took in the sights around him. The man stiffened, steeled himself against revulsion and asked in an arched voice, “Would you be needing anything here, Major?”
“God, yes, sergeant. Food, tents, medical supplies, everything. My people are starving. The wounded are out in the open, and we have no medicine to speak of. Perhaps if I could talk with General Williams . . .” It’s come to this, Buck thought, begging Yankees for help. But if it means these men will live, at least some of them, I’ll swallow my pride. “Please convey to the general that I’ll be much obliged for any assistance he can lend—”
The sergeant didn’t wait for him to finish. “I’ll deliver your message immediately, sir.”
Clearly eager to be on his way, he swung up into the saddle and galloped toward the column, splashing through the creek, not leaping it as Clay had.
Buck returned to the cabin, smoothed his hair, ran his fingers through his beard, and fastened the few buttons on his uniform. When he reappeared on the porch a group of horsemen was riding toward the shack. In the lead an officer wearing an immaculate blue uniform with gold braid and epaulets rode a beautifully groomed dun mare. Every button and buckle was burnished to a gleaming shine.
Buck snapped to attention and saluted as the general dismounted. “Major Elijah Thomson, Surgeon, Kershaw’s division, at your service, sir.”
His salute was returned. “At ease, doctor. I’m Major General Seth Williams on the staff of General Grant. How can I help you?” He extended his hand, his sharp eyes firmly locked on Buck’s and waited.
The war’s over. This Yankee’s no longer my enemy, yet he still has the power to kill us, to let us live, or to help us. What was it he’d heard Lincoln had said? With malice toward none, with charity for all . . . let us strive on to . . . bind up the nation’s wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan. . . . Or something like that.
After a moment’s hesitation, Buck accepted his hand with a firm, manly grip.
“Sir, if you have time, I can show you better than I can tell you.”
“Lead on.” He turned to his staff. “Gentlemen, dismount and rest yourselves. Doctor Thomson and I will rejoin you presently.”
Buck escorted him through the rows of wounded and diseased. His guest peppered him with questions. How many wounded were here? For how long? When were they last re-supplied? By whom?
They reached the cooking pots. Williams accepted a tin-plate sample of the gruel, tasted and instantly spat it out.
“I’ve seen enough,” he declared angrily and strode to the shack while Buck hurried to keep pace.
Before they’d reached his staff the general began barking orders.
“Captain Kirby, mount up and hasten back to the supply wagons. Bring them here on the double. Captain Teague, after the rations are unloaded and these men fed, you and your troopers will load all, I mean all, of the sick and wounded into the wagons, make sure they’re well covered, then leave for the railhead at Rice or on to Burkeville if necessary. Sergeant O’Doyle, get our medical teams up here with blankets, bandages, medicines, and whatever else is needed for the trip. Have men heat water and clean these people. Burn their rags and wrap them in blankets if there aren’t any clothes available. And hear me, I want them on the trains before dark. Dismissed!”
The troopers galloped off.
He turned now to Buck. “Doctor Thomson, you have my word that we’ll get these men to the nearest hospital, Blue or Gray, and make sure they’re properly cared for.” He spoke the words formally, almost ritually, but Buck could hear compassion in them as well. The fighting might be in the past, but the horror of war remained in the present.
“General, sir, these men and I will be forever in your debt.” Buck snapped to attention and saluted.
Within minutes General Williams had remounted and started his cavalry column moving eastward once more.
Kentucky walked quietly up to Buck, stood at his side and watched the vigorous Yankee soldiers withdraw.
“Beg pardon, sir. I expect there’s no need for me to take a mule ride now.”
“No, Kentucky, I think General Williams just saved us all.”
#
Four hours later Buck sat on the porch steps observing a supply convoy ford the creek and sway into the field near the wounded. While some Union troops unloaded the drays, others stoked fires and opened tins of meat.
Coffee urns now contained clean water drawn from wooden casks lashed to the sides of wagons. Soon the aroma of brewing coffee and the tantalizing bouquet of beef stewing floated over the camp. Hard cheese and crusty bread served as appetizers for those who could chew them. None of the famished men stopped gnawing even during Preacher Tate’s mercifully brief offering of thanks.
Clean blankets were as welcome as food, for most of the men wore only rags in the damp morning air. As soon as they’d finished their feast, the wounded were loaded into conveyances of every description. A cloud of smoke still lingered across the creek, marking the burning of Feeney’s house. The Hewitt family had left hours before. May their miserable lives be blessed in the future.
Buck watched a one-armed man approach, carrying a tin cup of steaming coffee.
“Ready for a wagon ride, Preacher?” Buck asked.
“Yes, doctor. Thanks be to God.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “May I speak to you privately a moment?”
“Of course. Are you in pain? Do you need me to—”
“I believe it’s you who requires succor.”
“I beg your pardon?” Was the man tetched? After watching so many men die and losing an arm, it would be understandable.
“In these last days you’ve been sorely tested, doctor, and I sense you’re deeply troubled. Who wouldn’t be after the horrors you’ve seen. But have faith, my friend, and be consoled with the knowledge that you saved my life and the lives of many others. Remember too that God doesn’t expect us to conquer all the evil in the world, just the evil in us. For your future travels, I give you my blessing and my prayers. If I may offer words from the Psalms: Cease from anger, and forsake wrath; fret not thyself in any wise to do evil. For evildoers shall be cut off; but those that would wait upon the Lord, they shall inherit the earth.”