Love and War: The Coltrane Saga, Book 1 (26 page)

And slowly, Kitty realized that Travis had to shoot the boy. His leader was in trouble somewhere, and they had to get to him as quickly as possible. It had to be done.

Travis had the courage to live, Kitty thought, watching him walk toward his horse. She only prayed that when the time came—she would have that same quality.

Chapter Seventeen

Travis had ordered Sam Bucher to ride ahead with all speed to try and, locate General Grant’s army. He didn’t have many men with him, but by God, he told himself, they were well-trained Cavalrymen with the finest guns and horses. They were also sharpshooters and seldom missed their target, while among the ordinary infantrymen, the prediction was that it took a man’s weight in lead to bring him down, due to the poor marksmanship of those shooting at him. Travis had to get to Grant before General Albert Sidney Johnston had a chance to regroup his forces and attack.

The President of the Confederacy, Jefferson Davis, had given Johnston over-all command in the West. Johnston was said to be perhaps the ablest of all the professional soldiers who had joined the South. He was a West Pointer of substantial reputation, and even after the beating he had taken at Fort Henry, Travis knew the man would lose no time in gathering new forces, They said he had retreated, but everyone said he would never give up completely.

It was a Sunday, April 6th, 1862, and even before Bucher came riding back with the news that Johnston apparently had mustered enough men and was attacking Grant at a place called Shiloh—the ground beneath them trembled with the distant sound of the cannons booming like the drums of hell.

Kitty tensed, her hands wrapping tighter around the reins. The sun was sinking—the end of another day. Would it also be the end of her life? She had only heard about the horrors of war, and now it looked as though with every step the horse took she came closer and closer to the actual horror. She lifted her eyes to Captain Coltrane, just ahead of her. He’d hardly spoken since shooting the young soldier. Was it possible that he actually cared that he had taken a human life? She doubted it. His kind—so arrogant and cocky—thought they could ride roughshod over everyone, even kill if anyone got in their way. No, he didn’t care. All that mattered to him now, she thought, was that he hurry and get into the thick of the battle and cause more bloodshed, snuff out more young lives.

She heard Bucher excitedly, worriedly, telling Coltrane what he had found out. “I hid inside a hollow tree log till some of our soldiers came by. God, the Rebs are crawling around like ants out there. Hell, they’re everywhere, Captain…”

“Did you find out where General Grant is located?” Travis snapped impatiently.

“Yessir.” He nodded. “He put his army on the western bank of that river they call the Tennessee at a place called Pittsburgh Landing, and from what those soldiers told me, most of the men in camp were near a country meetinghouse called Shiloh Church, about twenty miles from Corinth, and Johnston attacked at dawn this morning.”

Travis cursed and slammed his fist into his palm. “I knew Johnston would figure that more of our troops were on the way. He wasn’t taking any chances. He’s smart, that one!” He looked at Bucher, who looked frightened. “And did our men say that Grant is winning?”

He swallowed hard, face turning a bit pale. “No, sir, he ain’t winning. He’s been pushed into the Tennessee River. If General Buell, they said, doesn’t get here from Nashville with what they say is about 25,000 men, then the Rebs will kill every single one of our soldiers, including General Grant.”

“All right,” Travis cried, turning around to face the dozen or so men behind him, and Kitty, who stared wide- eyed and frightened. “We’re going to make our way to our lines. We can cross the river a little ways down. The Rebs are everywhere, and we may not make it. We’ll wait till it gets good and dark and move out, and I expect every single one of you to keep quiet and follow me and move as quickly as possible.”

His eyes fell on Kitty, who quickly said, “Why don’t you just let me go? I’ll only be in your way now.”

“You’re going to be needed if General Grant’s men are taking the beating we hear they are. You just keep your head down and keep quiet.”

“I might faint,” she taunted him. And he only laughed and shook his head, as though the thought of her being so feminine as to swoon was impossible to even consider. She felt herself bristling angrily, but there was no more time to ponder the situation. The men were reaching into their haversacks for hardtack, sipping water from their canteens—all of them silent, tense. The battle was not far away, and soon they would be in the thick of it. There was no need, or desire, to think of anything else at the moment.

As soon as Coltrane felt that it was dark enough, he gave the signal to move out. The ground was no longer trembling, but the air hung heavy with smoke, and as Coltrane signaled that the River was not far away, there was another odor that made their stomachs twitch with nausea. For some of them, the smell might be unfamiliar, but Kitty had stood with Doc in his office during amputations and operations too many times not to recognize the sweet, warm odor of
blood
.

The river looked like a giant black blob in the night, and it swirled around them like a huge cold fist as they moved their horses into the current. Travis rode beside Kitty, holding the reins of her horse, guiding him through the waters. She did not speak. To bring her countrymen’s guns down on them now could kill her as easily as the Yankees she despised—particularly Captain Coltrane.

Bucher had ridden ahead to the spot where the soldiers said they would station someone to lead them to where they hoped to find Grant regrouping. There was the sound of an owl, which even Kitty recognized was faked, and then an answering sound as they stepped onto the muddy banks of the Tennessee River on the western side.

Silently, they moved into the thick woods, and they hadn’t gone far when a man up front, leading them, could be heard telling someone that General Buell’s troops had been found marching this way by a scout. When the sun rose, the Rebels would have a surprise waiting for them.

She could hear the screams of agony from the wounded men, and Kitty tensed. Suddenly she realized she was right in the middle of Grant’s forces, and hundreds and hundreds of soldiers lay dying in agony. In the flickering light of campfires, she could see the field surgeons at work, bones shimmering in the light as they were sawed from gouging wounds.

Her eyes darting about, horror-stricken at the gory sight, Kitty nearly fell from her horse when Coltrane gave her a gentle tug to pull her down. His arms about her, he righted her on her feet, then led her toward a tent.

“God, lady, help me, please…” someone cried. “Oh, God, let me die… I ain’t got no legs… I’m dyin’…please, somebody kill me…”

“Do you think it will matter to you what uniform they wear?” Travis asked her sharply, steering her beside him. “When they scream like that, does it matter?”

“I…I guess not,” she shook her head quickly. “They’re human beings, and one of them could be my poppa…” Her voice cracked, and he squeezed her arm gently, as though he understood. But how could he, she thought? He wasn’t capable of understanding another human being!

They stepped inside the tent, and the dark-baked, bearded man with the piercing eyes stopped pacing to stare at them quizzically.

“General Grant, sir,” Coltrane saluted smartly. “I got here as fast as I could…”

“But not before I’ve lost thousands of men today,” the General snapped, then waved a hand in front of his face and said, shaking his head, “I’m sorry. I don’t blame you, Captain. Your dozen or so men could have done precious little to stop what has happened here today.” He walked over to a table where a bottle of whiskey sat, poured the amber liquid into two cups and handed one to Travis, and began sipping from the other himself.

“They didn’t kill any Federals in bed, but they took us by surprise. We were able to rally quickly, and we’ve re covered somewhat since darkness fell, and with General Buell almost here, we’ll be ready to counterattack first thing in the morning…” His eyes rested on Kitty, as though seeing her for the first time. He raised an eyebrow and looked to Travis for an explanation.

“We found the men you sent us after,” Travis explained quietly, respect in his voice. “Their leader, a man named Luke Tate, got away. We found this young woman in their company. She’s a Southerner…”

General Grant’s look was such that Kitty cried indignantly, “How dare you look at me like that? I didn’t go with them by choice! As I tried to tell this…this Captain of yours, I was kidnapped by Luke Tate and held prisoner. I asked him to let me return to my home in North Carolina, but he refused and dragged me into all of this!”

She stepped closer, and Travis moved forward, as though afraid she might attack the General. “You’re obviously someone important, whoever you are,” she said. “Will you let me go, or is it the way of Yankees to kidnap innocent women?”

“It would seem,” said General Grant, scratching his beard, “that it is the way of your Southern gentlemen, if your story is true. But why did you bring her here?” He looked at Travis once again.

“One of the men we killed had just had his arm amputated, and expertly so. This young lady did the amputation.”

“You?” The officer’s eyes widened. “Extraordinary! You will be of much use to us. Later, when the battle is over, you will have to dine with me and tell me how you came to be so well trained.”

He nodded to Travis. “Take her to the field hospital, and then report back here. I’m setting up heavy artillery near the river to stop the Confederates advance.”

Anxious to return to the leader he admired and respected and get on with the business of whipping the Confederates, Travis jerked Kitty roughly from the tent. It was not hard to find the way to the nearest hospital tent—all they had to do was follow the line of dead and dying along the path.

Kitty saw horrors she never knew existed—men with most of their faces shot away, some of them with gaping stomach wounds—intestines mingling with the blood and dirt on the ground beside them as they waited to die. One young soldier curled infantlike on a bloody blanket, his severed left leg held in his arms lovingly as he sobbed and slowly bled to death.

Inside a lantern-lit tent, Kitty swayed at the sight of the blood-slick table—the growing pile of arms and legs to one side. The surgeon, spattered with blood, looked up with annoyance. “Damnit, I don’t like women around me. What the hell is she doing here?”

“She can do the job as well as you, Doc,” Travis snapped. “Now give her a table and a knife and put her to work.”

“I…I don’t think I can…” Kitty felt bile rising in her throat. A single operation on a single patient was one thing—wholesale severing of human limbs was something she had never experienced. “I don’t think I can do it. Get me out of here, please…”

The surgeon waved a bloody saw at them. “See what I mean? I can’t have her around screaming and fainting. Now get her out of here.”

“Listen to me,” Travis gave her a shake so hard her head bobbed to and fro on her shoulders. “If it was your daddy lying out there dying, you’d want someone to help him, wouldn’t you? Think about that—all these men, whether they’re Federals or not—are loved by someone just like your daddy is loved by you—and the ones that love them would want you to help them.
Now are you going to help them?
”

She raised her head to look into those steely eyes. His nostrils flared angrily. She could not speak—could not move. The sound of another limb dropping to the bloody earth with a sickening thud made her shudder.

“I should have known,” he sneered, his hands dropping away from her shoulders. “I should’ve known that for all your pretended toughness and guts, when it comes down to it, you’re nothing but a simpering, helpless female like the rest of your kind. Get out of here. You make me sick…”

He gave her a shove toward the tent exit, but she whirled around to knock his hand away. “Don’t you dare touch me.” Her voice came out an ominous whisper. “And don’t you talk to me that way! I’m every bit as good as a man when it comes down to a challenge.”

“Then prove it!”

Their eyes met and held. The challenge had been made. Kitty, pushed by him, made her way to the surgeon. He heard her saying curtly, “I’m going to work with you. Now what do you want me to do?”

He stepped out of the tent, smiling to himself, as Kitty signaled to one of the soldiers to set up another table, bring in another patient.

Soon her arms were stained crimson to the elbow, her dress soaked with blood and perspiration as she worked over the wounded. As soon as one soldier was brought in and everything possible done to try and save him, he would be carried swiftly out and another brought in. There was one with his throat lacerated by a bullet that had crushed down the tissue that separated windpipe from esophagus, and Kitty worked swiftly to suture, praying the soldier would have the strength to somehow throw off the fever that was sure to come with such an injury.

There was another boy, perhaps only fifteen or sixteen, she guessed painfully, with a spurting artery—the hastily applied tourniquet on the battlefield had slipped during the trip to the hospital. He bled to death before Kitty could start to try and save his life.

God, she prayed silently, was this nightmare never going to end—this procession of mutilated, disfigured bodies, that came in one end of the tent and went out the other? A parade of the dying, she thought dizzily. God, let it end. Let it end before I go mad and run from this tent shrieking with insanity.
I don’t think I can go on
, she cried silently, hands trembling as another wounded soldier was brought in.

On and on it went. Someone handed Kitty a cup of coffee once that she gulped down so quickly it burned her throat. Then there was a gulp of popskull—contraband liquor—and it seemed to peel the skin from her throat, but at least she was able to keep on her feet.

Outside, the artillery General Grant had set up along the river began to retch and rumble and explode their fury as dawn streaked the sky. Here and there she heard snatches of conversation among the soldiers who carried the wounded in and out of the tent. General Grant
had his reinforcements. Buell had arrived. The Confederates were outnumbered. The Federals would win, they said. The Federals were using grapeshot—shells filled with balls the size of oranges, effective to seven hundred yards. And they were using Canister, a shell filled with lead balls about the size of plums, deadly for close action up to three hundred yards. And they had Napoleons—and they named another cannon—a Napoleon smoothbore howitzer, and it was powerful, they said. Rebels were dying by the hundreds!