Glory (24 page)

“Yes, of course.”

Anderson raised his voice. “Miss Sydney, I declare, you do bring us the finest, tastiest creations I do remember. Bless you, child.”

“Bless you, Miss Sydney!” the group around her chorused.

It was a good feeling.

“My pleasure, Lieutenant Anderson, fellows. How are you all doing now?”

“Foot’s a bit bad, Miss Sydney,” Private Lawton said. Sydney frowned, looking downward. Lawton’s foot was bandaged. The bandaging was filthy—bloodied and blackened. He had been thumping around on rough wood crutches far too short for his lanky height.

“Let me see that foot,” Sydney told him.

“Why, no, ma’am,” he said, blushing. “I ain’t having no lady look at this foot!”

“This lady has worked the hospitals in Richmond, Private. Let me see that foot.”

“I was just complaining, Miss Sydney, hearing myself talk,” Lawton said, offering a shy, boyish smile. “I’m going to be all right. I promise that if it ain’t better when I see you again, I’ll let you take a look.”

Sydney gazed unhappily at Lieutenant Anderson.

Anderson shrugged. “I’m hoping to see you tomorrow, Miss McKenzie. We’ll take a good hard look at Lawton’s foot then.”

“All right then, that’s a promise you’re making me, Private,” Sydney said sternly.

He smiled. “Right, I am duly honored,” he said, bowing. “I have not ever had a lady make me promise to show her my bare foot before.”

Soft laughter rose. Sydney smiled a little unhappily. She didn’t like the way Lawton looked.

“Well, boys, I will be going.” She kept her voice high and light, her eyes on Anderson’s. “And I will be back tomorrow.”

Granger himself came to escort her from the common room. Sydney looked at him. “Sergeant Granger, if I were to need a surgeon hereabouts, would you know where I might find one?”

“The army is full of surgeons, Miss Sydney.”

She shook her head. “I mean a good surgeon.”

He hesitated. “Interesting, I heard tell ...”

“What?”

“Well, there’s a widow in town ...”

“I don’t need a widow, sir. The man isn’t dying for feminine companionship, he needs a surgeon!”

Granger looked at her, shocked, thinking that Sydney had assumed that he was offering the widow as a prostitute. “Miss Sydney! Why this war is doing things to men and women alike, I swear it! I’m telling you about this woman because she’s the buzz of Washington at the moment. She’s known to have a magic touch.” He frowned suddenly “Come to think of it, there’s a McKenzie connection in her being here.”

“Pardon? What do you mean?”

“She’s to be riding out to join the surgeons with General Magee’s boys. She’s a Florida Yank.”

“Imagine that!” Sydney murmured with only a trace of sarcasm. She really did like Granger.

“Why, come to think of it, Miss Sydney, it isn’t just a McKenzie connection, it was your sister-in-law who sent her up there. I can send for Mrs. Tremaine if you like. If you want to tell me what’s wrong with which soldier in there.”

Sydney still hesitated. She needed to see the man’s foot herself. If the poor private was in bad shape, he was going to need surgery, not just magic. And often, soldiers would rather die than face the surgeons from the enemy camp.

“If I need help, Sergeant, I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

“Fair enough. We’re not all monsters, though. You know that, Miss Sydney.”

“Yes, of course, I know that, Sergeant Granger.”

“We’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“Yes, Sergeant, you will. I try to keep the boys here in good spirits.”

“That’s why you don’t go back to Richmond and help out in the hospital there?”

“Of course,” Sydney said. “Why else?”

“You wouldn’t be spying would you, sending messages back and forth?”

“From imprisoned men? What could they know of any worth, Sergeant?”

“Take care, Miss Sydney.”

“Oh, I shall, Sergeant.”

Sweat dripped into Julian’s eyes.

Inside the tent the heat seemed to shimmer around him with a brutality that intensified that of the wounds inflicted during battle. He’d been told that Florida was a hot, mosquito-infested state, but he’d never been as hot in his native land as he was here in Virginia.

Not a full week ago, he’d been at his base camp, and God help him, but he’d liked it when he’d been the ranking militia officer, giving the orders. Now he was a captain in the Army of Northern Virginia. He was respected, given command of his field hospital. The officers around him were willing to oblige him, but there were so many areas in which he was now out of control.

He’d joined the regular army by way of the railroads, arriving at this camp outside Brandy Station. Just two days ago, the great Confederate General Jeb Stuart—dubbed “Beauty” by his West Point classmates for his homely face now made more dashing by a full, thick beard—had held a review of his troops to the entertainment and pleasure of the local ladies. But Stuart had been caught by surprise by Federal cavalry looking for Lee’s troop movements, and what was ensuing was a battle with twenty thousand horsemen, almost evenly divided.

Brent had been with these troops until just before the battle, and Julian had arrived only in time to be told his cousin had anxiously waited to see him, but then been sent on to take control of the hospital facility outside Richmond.

Sweat dripped into his eyes again. His orderly saw that he was nearly blinded and wiped his brow. He was a good solid fellow, but not one of his own men. They were busy trying to pull more wounded from the field, bring them in, give them a chance ...

He could have wept. There was no time, no time ...

“Sir, look, the bullet,” Thomas, his young orderly, commented.

A broken leg, but the bullet had gone almost cleanly through. “I see, Thomas. Give me the bullet extractor.”

“Do you have time?”

“Yes, give me the extractor.”

Time ...

Was he risking another man’s life while he took the precious time to operate so this man could walk again? God, he had to work so fast.

He felt a strange tremor seize him. In the midst of this madness, an irritating sense of longing crept into his soul.

If only she were here with him. Strange, she said she despised him, but when her eyes touched his, he never doubted himself. Perhaps he saw in her the same. Maybe it was all belief. She believed that he could work miracles. He believed that she could heal.

If only she could believe in the truth ...

“Sir, it’s clear. We’ll get him off the table and get him splinted.”

“You’re a good man, Thomas.”

“No, sir. You’re a good doctor.”

Thomas shouted for help, and the man was moved from Julian’s operating table. As soon as he was gone, another was brought.

“Gut shot, sir!” the assistant surgeon cried.

So why bring him to me?
He almost shouted aloud. Gut-shot. The man on his table was clutching organs that were destroyed, tossing and moaning in agony.

“I’m going to die, I’m going to go, God-a-mercy, I’m going to die!” the boy on the table cried. He was young, maybe eighteen. And he was right.

“Just hold on, lad, and we’ll see what we—”

“Doctor, don’t—”

He had sandy hair, both pimples and whiskers on his chin, and maple brown eyes. Those eyes widened suddenly on Julian. The boy fell back to the table. Dead.

“Sorry, sir, we didn’t see how bad—”

“Bring them even if they’re bad!” he cried hoarsely. “Maybe I can’t do anything, but I won’t know if I don’t see them.”

The day went on and on. He saved a few lives—for the time being, at least. He lost a few. He never knew their names. He could barely remember their faces. And when he fell exhausted into his cot that night, all he could really remember was the feel of the sweat dripping into his eyes ...

He knew his business, but, strangely, he felt different. She’d been with him, and now she was gone. He could remember her eyes, silently sharing his knowledge. Remember her fingers, helping, her touch, delicate; she had anticipated his needs.

She had somehow ... entered his blood. His soul. He wished that she were with him. She was a witch, a beautiful witch of the earth or sea, and she infuriated him, and ...

He wanted her with him, even in the midst of the tense, agonizing tumult of the battlefield surgery.

“Perhaps I should go,” Marla mused, watching Sydney change to a skirt and shirt to ride down to the mercantile by the river. She seemed uneasy. She was a very pretty girl, petite with ebony dark hair and brilliant blue eyes. She could flutter her lashes in a way that had gotten her past many a confused young sentry.

Sydney looked at her. “Why on earth should you?”

“You’ve had a long day—”

“No, no, I’ve got to go. I told Anderson that I would, and I’m ready to go.”

“I’m a widow. It’s more proper for me to be riding out this late.”

“It isn’t proper for either of us.” Sydney said, then hesitated. It wasn’t proper. “I won’t ride alone. I’ll take Sissy with me.”

Sissy was their young black maid. She had come looking for work soon after Sydney and Marla had taken the rooms together. She was quiet and efficient and managed to be discreet in all that she did. She was so quiet and efficient, as a matter of fact, that both Sydney and Marla forgot she was around at times. Even as Sydney decided that she had best take Sissy with her on the ride, she made a mental note to be more careful of what she said and did around the girl.

Marla nodded, but she still looked unhappy.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” Marla said. Then she shrugged. “I don’t know. Irish intuition. My grandmother used to tell me that such a feeling meant the banshees were flying about, looking. Meant a man or woman had best take care.”

Sydney smiled. She had Irish in her blood, and she even felt a little unnerved by Marla’s uneasiness, but there was nothing she could do. She had to get her message delivered.

“I’ve got to go,” she said simply. “I may fail ... but if I don’t try, well, then, we haven’t got a chance at all, right?”

Marla shrugged.

“Sissy!” Sydney called.

The young black woman appeared in the doorway. She was of medium height and had a tendency to keep her eyes downcast. But she looked straight at Sydney now, and Sydney realized that the girl was very beautiful. Her flesh was as black and velvety as the night sky; her eyes were very large, as ebony as her flesh. She was slim and quick, and had a wonderful smile. She was a free woman living in Washington, but Sydney thought she might have been a slave at one time, the way she was so quick to look down.

She wondered if she’d had a vicious master, or one who had used and abused her. Neither she nor anyone in her family had ever owned slaves; her grandfather had not believed in slavery, and he had instilled his beliefs in both his sons.

“Sissy, I need to ride out to a mercantile on the river. I know it’s late, but I’ve this desire to see some stock ... and quite frankly I’m bored and restless.”

“Yes, ma’am?” Sissy looked surprised. Sydney remembered that she didn’t need to give a servant an explanation for what she was doing.

“You’ll accompany me.”

“Yes, ma’am, of course.”

“We have to ride there.” She hesitated, realizing the matter had never come up before. “You do ride?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You may change if you wish. I’ll see you outside in ten minutes.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Be careful out there,” Marla warned when Sissy had gone. “Give me a hug.”

Sydney did so.

“I wish you wouldn’t go tonight.”

“I have to go tonight,” she said.

She turned and went outside, calling to Tim, the lad who cared for the horses, to bring them out. She waited at the white picket fence that surrounded the small yard of the town house where she and Marla had taken their rooms. It was a beautiful night; the temperature had cooled. It was a good night for a ride.

Thankfully, she had good animals for her journeys. The South had been known for breeding horses, but the war had brought their beautiful stock low. She had been able to buy better horses in Washington, D.C., than she’d been able to get in Virginia.

Her father, Confederate that he was, sent her the money that she needed. But then, of course, her father thought that she wrote letters, read books, baked pies, and tended to the needy. James respected his children and expected them to be opinionated individuals. But he was also a strict parent, more so with his daughters than his sons, as fathers tended to be. So if he knew what she was really about ... especially after what had happened to Jennifer, he would be up here himself, brandishing a sword at her to get her home.

She paused for a moment with a smile on her face. She wondered what would be worse if she was caught, facing her father—or the Yanks.

She couldn’t dwell on such worries. Tim brought the horses around, two healthy bays, a good sixteen hands each, sleek and fast. Sissy would be with her. They would be just fine.

She was simply riding to a Watts Mercantile to make a few purchases and nothing more. She carried nothing written whatsoever.

What could possibly happen? What could go wrong?

Nothing, nothing, nothing!
She told herself.

Marla had unnerved her with her superstitious talk. And yet ...

She should have been forewarned.

I
T WAS DARK, AND
Corporal Rugby lit the way with an oil lamp as they came to the last of the rooms. The existence of the special hospital outside of Richmond wasn’t a military secret, and he’d heard mention of what the soldiers termed the “All Saints Place.” Now he was here—put in charge. Throughout the day he had seen dozens of patients. Often, it was better to see a man maimed and bleeding than one entering the final stages of syphilis. The wounded man had the chance. The man dying of syphilis did not.

“He’s the worst of them, sir. A Captain Henderson, artillery, old fellow, shouldn’t have been in the service, you know, but ... well, he was a good, loyal Southerner and so he upped into the army.”

The man lying on the bed had obviously suffered from the disease for many years. In the first stages, ulcers appeared; they might then go dormant, and a man might think himself cured. But the disease didn’t go away; it just waited. Then it ate at the body and the mind, and eventually ...