“Ella!” Aaron snapped to his wife. “You take the boy’s legs now. Cass, his shoulder … no, his arms. Don’t worry about hurtin’ him none, y’hear? He’s gonna buck, and hard. Don’t want the knife to take out more than the ball.”
“But he’s already unconscious, Aaron,” Ella protested. Bowsmith’s grin was crooked as he stepped up to the table, looked gently down at the fallen soldier, and suddenly slammed a fist across his jaw. The head rocked violently and a dollop of blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth. Cass cried out in anger, but did not move. “It’s quicker than whiskey,” her father explained, “and good insurance to be sure he stays the way he is.” He bent low over the shoulder, holding the knife high and away from him as he examined the wound.
Cass felt the tension settling over the room, heard the flames crackling in the fireplace and the water bubbling furiously in its pot. It was one thing, she thought, to treat one of her brothers for an injury as bloody as this, but she wanted no part of the carving of Geoff Hawkins. I won’t do it, she told herself suddenly, turned to flee the room, and was stopped by her father’s command.
“All right,” he said grimly. “Now!”
Cass moved instinctively, and pressed down on his arms while her mother gripped his ankles so tightly her knuckles grew white. A log snapped, and Cass looked at Geoff’s closed eyes, wishing she could somehow break through this darkness with her mind to give him some comfort.
The knife descended. Cass looked away, her chin tucked into her shoulder until she felt a sharp jerk under her hands. Ella grunted as the captain tried to kick, a low, long moan escaping from his throat. Cass pressed down even harder, and thought that if it didn’t end soon she would shove him clear through the table to the floor below.
Fortunately, it was over in a few brief seconds. One moment she winced at the sickening grind of the blade scraping against bone, the next she jumped at the dull thunk of the ball being dropped into a nearby bowl. Quickly, then, before she had to be told, she washed the blood off the cold flesh and stood aside while her mother expertly applied the poultice and dressing. Aaron then carried him up to Gregory’s room at the back of the house, gently placed him on the bed, and stripped off his boots and trousers, covering him to the waist with a light quilt Ella carried in from the cedar chest in her closet.
Cass, after hovering uncertainly for a moment, grabbed a stool and sat by the mattress, her hand reaching out fearfully to touch at his chest, his arm, the curve of his jaw. His face was suddenly hot, but she was pleased to see there was color there at last. She knew it was a good sign, that the fever marked the body’s fight against the loss of blood and possible infection. Ella left, to return a moment later with a bowl and a spoon. Cass tried to give him some broth to aid him in his struggle, but he only choked on it and she set it aside on the floor. For later, she promised him silently; you’ll soon be well enough to eat a dozen such bowls of broth.
The light dimmed and she was only vaguely aware that her mother had brought a lantern into the room.
She found that a piece of bread had been shoved into her hand, and she nibbled at it absently.
Geoff groaned several times in his sleep, but not once did he open his eyes. Yet still she sat by his side, holding his hand, folding a moist cloth over his forehead, and bathing the perspiration and dust from his face and chest. She was grateful that neither of her parents told her she was behaving foolishly, that Geoff would be up and gone, back to his regiment, as soon as he was able. She was eighteen years old, and working harder to survive these impossible times than any three men she could think of. That this had detracted from whatever had been feminine about her (as her mother claimed) did not bother her, as long as Geoff saw through the person she had become to the woman she now wanted to be.
Finally, when it was evident that his sleep had become peacefully deep, carrying him beyond pain, she allowed her mother to take her back to her own room. She stood with her back against the door and sighed deeply, stumbled across the floor, and fell fully clothed onto the bed. Emotionally drained, physically exhausted, she closed her eyes and waited for sleep to take her, to pass the night quickly so she could return to Geoff at dawn. But she waited in vain, and frowned until she realized that something was different.
The guns.
The guns were silent.
For three nightmarish days they had grumbled beyond the horizon like primeval behemoths uprooting and dismembering their prey. Every so often, in the dead of night, a team of horses would swoop down the road, lugging a great cannon behind them as though it were a mere feather. None went the other way. All vanished madly in the direction of Gettysburg.
Tonight, however, there was nothing; and it was the silence that kept her awake.
She rolled over and moved apprehensively to the single window overlooking the fields, holding the stiff muslin curtains aside with one hand. Lee had indeed come, and the might of the Union army had been there to greet him. Panic had sprung up full-blown in the nearby villages, and many families had taken to the high roads, fleeing the conflict with little more than the clothes on their backs. Washington, some had supposed, would be the next to fall—unless, in fact, it had already been taken—and there were already rumors that Lee and Jackson had set up shop on Mr. Lincoln’s front lawn. Her father had scoffed at it all, and Cass had agreed with him, though she had never been able to shake off the hints of fear that thing tenaciously to the edge of her reason.
But now the guns were silent.
She put a finger to her mouth, chewed the nail, and brushed her hand nervously through her hair. Had Geoffrey’s return meant that the Union army was in full retreat? Or had he been wounded in victory, now seeking solace from the one family he knew would care for him as if he were their own? Perhaps, during the fighting, he had had some word of her brothers; he had promised her several times to search them out, but until now his efforts had been totally unsuccessful.
Maybe, she thought with a hesitant hope, the war was finally over. Maybe now she was a citizen of the Confederacy.
A pair of bats darted past the window, and an owl questioned the darkness.
Her mind was weary from so many unanswered questions. She felt slightly dizzy and gripped the windowsill tightly until the sensation passed. Then she stripped off her clothes and stood in front of the mirror beside the bureau. She brushed back a few wisps of hair from her temples and stared critically at her full young breasts, her flat stomach and trim waist, the slight and provocative flare of her hips. With a sly grin of delighted malice, she realized a lot of city women would give a fortune to be as trim as the farm had made her. But, she thought, I’m certainly not boyish, no matter how Father treats me. She checked herself from all angles, and wondered if Geoff would approve if he could see her. She laughed, then, at the sudden blush that colored her cheeks, pirouetted and flung herself still naked under the sheets.
Geoff had seen her naked before, she thought with a giggle, and one hand ran absently over her breasts as she remembered his touch, his lips, the thrusting of his loins.
The thought came to her that Geoff might only be using her. A lonely farm girl needing a man, a lonely captain needing a woman; it was possible, something warned her, but she shrugged off the betraying feeling instantly.
And the only fear she still had concerned the guns—was their silence a good omen, or bad? Had it all finally ended, or would the horror continue to bring her family anguish?
Chapter Two
C
ass did not realize that she had fallen asleep until the sun broke over the hills and warmed her face into wakefulness. Disoriented and confused, she blinked rapidly until the events of the previous day snapped sharply back into focus, and she remembered Geoffrey lying in the next room. Hurriedly she sprang from the bed and dressed, then stood in front of the mirror and pinned up her hair with fingers that fought her mind’s every command. She splashed a quick dash of water from the pitcher into her face and raced down the short hall into the sickroom, only to be stopped just over the threshold by her mother.
“Turn right around, girl,” she admonished as she grabbed Cass’s shoulders and suited action to words. “You’ll do no one any good at all, least of all him, if you keep hangin’ around here like some poor starvin’ hawk. Go downstairs and eat! Your father needs you outside, in case you’ve forgotten. Work goes on, you know, girl.”
Cass tried to look over her shoulder, but Ella was adamant and finally, reluctantly, she submitted. “When he wakes up, you’ll call me?”
Ella nodded sternly, but Cass caught the smile breaking through the finely chiseled wrinkles in her face. She grinned back, kissed her mother quickly on the cheek, and dashed down into the kitchen. She’s right, Cass thought as she ate a hasty breakfast, she’s always right. If I do nothing but sit the day’ll drag by slower than August heat.
With a prayerful glance toward the ceiling, she left the house and hurried into the barn to care for the three horses and scattering of chickens the army had left them. After that was done, she looked for her father and saw his dark figure wandering at the back of the cornfield. Shaking her head and wondering how he could stand the suspense, she kept herself hovering about the vegetables, knowing they needed little work, but knowing that staying at that part of the farm would keep her close enough to the house to hear her mother’s yell.
In spite of her working, her daydreams kept intruding, of ballroom dances with a handsomely bemedaled captain, of moonlight strolls along the lanes, along the road. The hours dragged maddeningly, through the rest of the morning, through a lunch that tasted of sawdust, and on into the afternoon. For the hundredth time, she walked slowly to the well in the middle of the back yard and drew a bucket of cool water. The dipper moved slowly to her lips while her eyes stared at the window directly over the kitchen door. Suddenly Aaron’s head appeared and he called for her impatiently. She dropped the dipper, and broke into a headlong run. Twice she nearly tripped over her skirts until she grabbed them angrily into a fist to free her slender legs. Then she fairly kicked open the kitchen door and flew past Ella, who laughed shrilly at her eagerness. Up the stairs two at a time, just as her brothers had done seemingly centuries ago, as her heart pounded heavily against her chest and the warm air burst in and out of her lungs. There had been no announcement in Aaron’s call, no hint of Geoff’s recovery or … she shook her head vigorously to dispel the morbid thought and skidded into the bedroom.
She would have thrown herself unashamedly into Geoff’s arms the moment she realized he had regained consciousness, but something of a shadow had cast itself into the room and she stopped, gripping the doorframe tightly, her hand to her breast, as she tried to calm both heart and lungs.
Geoff was sitting up in the bed, his arm in a makeshift sling, the dressing a clean, unstained white. Several pillows had been propped behind his back to give him support, and though someone had attempted to comb his hair into a semblance of neatness, it still hung in an unruly fashion down over his brow. Aaron was standing silently by the window with his back to the light, and his hands were clasped behind him. His face was bleak; Geoff’s was grim. Neither of them smiled as Cass tried to break through the puzzling tension by fluttering her hand over her chest to prove how out of breath she was.
“What is it?” she demanded. “Geoff, what’s the matter?”
“Cass,” he said, his voice strained and weak. “Cass, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” She looked to her father, who only stiffened and gazed fixedly at the low ceiling. A moment later his eyes began to blink rapidly. “Sorry?” she repeated. “Sorry for what? What’s going on?”
“The fighting …” Geoff swallowed at the air and wiped a barely trembling hand over his face. He licked at his lips and settled his uninjured hand lightly over his sling. “I never saw anything like it in my life, Cass. And I never want to see it again! There were thousands of them, tens of thousands, coming on at us like there were a million more ready to take their places. Like dogs they were, at Little Round Top and Seminary Ridge, dogs snapping at a bear, worrying at him, Cass, until he would fall from his bleeding and they could tear him apart. It was like an ocean of men swarming out of the wood. Damn, but they were madmen!
“They’d come marching behind their flags, drummer boys no more than ten or eleven years old walking right alongside them like they were men themselves. I saw them fall, their little bodies torn to shreds. But they kept on coming! Marching. Drumming. And those Stars and Bars waving, the bugles so damned loud we wanted to tear our ears off so’s not to hear them anymore.
“And then we started firing. Just firing! We didn’t have to aim at all, there were so many of them we knew we would hit something just by letting go. The Napoleon cannon shook the ground like an earthquake, and the cavalry charging … there was so much smoke you could hardly see if your fire was doing any good. It was like a wind blowing across a wheat field, Cass. They would fall down in waves, and there they were again, over and over and over again.”
He stopped and licked at his lips again, swallowing hard, as though his lungs could not get their fill. Cass was hypnotized by his quiet words, seeing as if in a dream the battle he was describing, tinted a flowing crimson; hearing, shaking her head as if to clear it of the screams of men and horses. A tightness gripped her throat and she swayed against the jamb, moved sideways to prop herself against the wall.
Aaron cleared his throat, and Geoff continued, a bright light in his eyes, and Cass held a hand to her mouth. Geoff was not the same man. Something had happened to him out there at Gettysburg, something that plotted to steal full reason from him. She could hear it now in the way he spoke, the slightly hysterical pitch of his voice, and see it in the way his eyes darted from one corner of the room to the other. He was different, and she did not know but that the change meant madness.