Chapter Fourteen


Their only hope lay in stealth. The sun was sinking behind the woods as Lucian and Clay drew near Richmond. The rebels would have to stop for the night, and the moon would not rise until midnight. Darkness was their only ally.

Clay prevailed on Lucian to stop until full dark – his friend was too pale and nearly stumbling on the road. They drew back a little way into the woods and sat on a log while Clay pressed food and whiskey, mixed with water from the nearby bayou, on his captain.

They were surprised by a young rebel fleeing through the woods who nearly stumbled on them in the gloom. The soldier, hardly more than a boy, flung himself down at their feet. “I surrender!”

Lucian would have laughed if he had not been so weary. “The battle’s over, soldier. Go home – we’re taking no prisoners tonight.”

“I can’t,” the boy said, trembling. “I’ve deserted.” He shuddered. “I never seen anything like that before.”

“Your first battle?” Clay said, offering the boy his flask.

The soldier sat on the log next to Clay and drank thirstily. He wiped his lips on his sleeve. “Yeah, but it ain’t that. A man’s killed in battle, it’s kinda honorable, right? But stringing up prisoners ain’t no kinda honorable. It ain’t what I signed up for.”

Lucian and Clay both froze. “The rebs strung up the prisoners?” Lucian asked icily.

The boy nodded. “Coupla white officers, some of the niggers. It ain’t right. Even if they was niggers, they fought like men. It don’t do for them to die like dogs.”

“Where? When?” Lucian demanded.

The boy pointed over his shoulder. “There, about a mile back – not more’n twenty minutes ago. There was a powerful long argument about it. I didn’t think they’d do it, but they did.”

Lucian leapt to his feet. He took the boy’s shoulders. Shook him. “Where exactly? Take us there!”

The boy yanked himself away and shook his head. “Why? It’s done too late, don’t you see?”

“One of them is his brother,” Clay explained. “It’s why we’re out here. Won’t you help us?”

The boy’s eyes grew grave. “I’m sorry about that – it shouldn’t ought’ve been done. All right, I’ll take you close, but if we see any Confederates, I can’t go no further.”

“We understand,” Clay said. “Thank you.”

The young soldier led them through the woods, skirting the bayou until they came to the spot. There were, fortunately, no rebels in sight, the brigade having withdrawn to Richmond for the night. Six or seven bodies hung only inches off the ground, the executions done in haste. Clay and Lucian began the grim task of cutting the bodies down, only two good arms between them. The young rebel held back at first, but then grimaced and pitched in.

“It’s Captain Heath, all right,” Clay said sadly, lowering the carcase of the brave and gallant captain to the ground.

“This one’s Lieutenant Conn, of the Eleventh,” Lucian said, gently laying down his burden. “I didn’t think he was in camp.”

“He wasn’t,” Clay said. “He was out recruiting. He must have gotten swept up on the way.”

“This one’s still breathing!” the young rebel exclaimed.

Clay and Lucian both gasped and ran over to the tree where the soldier had cut down one of the colored soldiers. “Saints preserve us!” Lucian cried. “It’s Jacob!” He knelt down by his brother’s side, loosened the crudely tied rope, and poured whiskey from his flask into the unconscious man’s mouth.

The liquid spilled from Jacob’s mouth. Lucian raised his head and tried again. This time Jacob sputtered, coughing up the dark liquid. He opened his eyes. “Lucian?” he said hoarsely, squinting into the darkness.

“Don’t talk, Jacob,” Lucian cautioned. “Everything’s all right now.” He looked up at Clay. “Hurry, there might be more still alive.”

Clay nodded and went back to cutting down the soldiers. The young rebel assisted him, but all were dead. “That’s his brother?” the rebel nodded over his shoulder.

Clay nodded.

“Who’d’ve thought?” the soldier said, disgusted. “I thought you were out here after the white men.”

“Does it matter?” Clay asked. “We all fought together. Many of us died together.”

“No offense meant,” the soldier said. “We thought you all were gonna be easy pickings, and we got our hats handed to us. But you both are taking a mighty big risk.”

“It’s worth it,” Clay said. He walked back to where Lucian attended to his brother. “Can he walk? We need to get out of here, Lucian.”

Lucian nodded and helped Jacob to his feet. Jacob swayed. Clay swung Jacob’s arm around his shoulder, steadying him.

Lucian turned to the young rebel. “What’s your name, soldier?”

“Bickers, sir. Lemuel Bickers. My friends call me Lem.”

“I owe you many thanks, Lem,” Lucian said. “I’d like you to go ahead of us to Milliken's Bend. Be careful, and if you run into any of our pickets, tell them that Captain Carr sends you to speak to Colonel Lieb. He’s a good man, you can trust him.”

“All right, sir.” Lem hesitated. “Will the Yankees retaliate?”

“Hang prisoners?” Lucian asked. “No fear of that, Lem. But I doubt we’ll be exchanging any if this goes unanswered.”

“Don’t want to be exchanged,” Lem said. “They’d shoot me for a deserter, and a traitor, too, I guess.” He saluted. “You be careful, too, sir.”

“We will,” Lucian said. “Now go.”

Clay nearly carried Jacob through the woods, not daring to risk the much easier road back to the Bend. Lucian followed, but lagged behind as the night wore on, causing Clay to pause frequently in order for him to catch up. Finally, he set Jacob down on a log and turned to his captain. “Are you all right, Lucian?” he asked worriedly.

“I feel rather light-headed,” Lucian admitted. He sat down on the log beside his brother. “Give me some of that whiskey – I’ll be all right in a minute.”

But he had no more swallowed than he turned his head and vomited. “Lucian?” Jacob croaked. “What’s wrong?”

“My head,” Lucian said, clasping it with both hands. “It hurts.” He slumped to the ground, unconscious.

“Lucian!” Clay and Jacob cried together. They gathered around him, Jacob chafing his hands. Clay was afraid to give him more whiskey, so he merely slapped his cheeks until he regained consciousness.

“Jacob?” Lucian said groggily. “I think I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying,” Jacob said, struggling with tears, with the pain in his throat. “You’ve worn yourself out is all. You’ll be fine with a good rest.”

Lucian shook his head, wincing. “I want you to do something for me, brother.”

“Anything,” Jacob said, “only don’t worry.”

“Two things,” Lucian said. “Take care of my daughter, and take the name, Jacob. Take the name of Carr.”

“I will, Lucian. Rest. Don’t worry, you’ll be all right.”

“Thank you, brother,” Lucian said. He closed his eyes and died.

“Lucian?” Jacob whispered. He shook his brother. “Lucian?”

“Stop, Jacob,” Clay said gently. “He’s gone.”

“He can’t be,” Jacob said. “He was all right a few minutes ago. How can he be dead?”

“He is,” Clay said. “If it matters why, we’ll ask a doctor when we get back.”

“He shouldn’t have come,” Jacob said.

“Don’t say that!” Clay said harshly. “Don’t make his death worthless.” He sighed. “Rest a moment, then we’d better make tracks.”

The gibbous moon was rising as they made their way into camp – they gave the countersign to the pickets, who were expecting them, and carried Lucian’s body into his tent, laying it out upon the cot. Jacob knelt down beside it as Clay went to find Colonel Lieb.

He returned with the colonel after giving his report, Lieb limping on a cane. “I’m sorry, Sergeant,” Lieb told Jacob. “He was a good man.”

“He was more than that,” Jacob said.

“I know,” Lieb said. “He told me.”

“Then you’ll understand why I wish to change my name on the army rolls, if it’s possible, sir.”

“I’ll see to it,” Lieb said. “Can I do anything for you?”

“Send word to his daughter,” Jacob said. “She’s at the hospital in Memphis.”

“I’ll go,” Clay volunteered. “She shouldn’t hear of this from a stranger.”

“Thank you,” Jacob said. “Now, if I could be alone with him for awhile?”

“Of course,” Lieb said. He withdrew and Clay went to his tent to prepare for his journey. He tossed his belongings into his pack, but before he could leave, found himself overwhelmed. He sat down on his cot, burying his face in his hands. Tears leaked out between his fingers, but in a few minutes he stood, dried his eyes, and walked down to the dock to catch a riverboat for Memphis.



The hospital was in a large house in the middle of the town. Clay announced himself to the hospital steward, who sent for Pamela. She came rushing down the stairs, smiling. “Clay!” She pulled up when she saw his face, blanching. “Oh, no. It’s Daddy, isn’t it?”

Clay nodded. “I’m sorry, Pamela.”

“What happened? We’ve been receiving soldiers from the Bend all day – they all said he’d been wounded, but not seriously.”

“Is there somewhere we can go to talk?” Clay asked. “Privately?”

“I’ll get my shawl,” she said. “There’s a pavilion in the park – we can walk there.”

Clay was surprised that she seemed to be taking it so calmly, but he escorted her to the park and they sat in the shady pavilion while he told her his tale. Pamela frowned. “Was he hit on the head?” she asked.

“I don’t believe. . .” He paused. “Why, yes, now that I think of it, he was. He was only unconscious a few seconds. I thought his bullet wound far more serious.”

“We had a boy here last week die that way. He seemed all right right up until a few minutes before he died. Bleeding into the brain, the doctors said.”

“Why so calm and dispassionate, Pamela?” Clay asked. “It doesn’t seem like you.”

She leaned forward, resting her chin in her hands. “I’m all wept out, Clay. I’ve seen so much death – blood and disease and some unexplained. I cried over the first dozen or so. I have nothing left for myself.”

He took her hand. “I’m sorry – you should have stayed home.”

“No.” She took her hand back. “I wanted to be here. I had no home to stay at, anyway.”

“What will you do?” Clay asked. “Where will you go when this is all over?”

“Does it matter?” she asked wearily.

“It matters to me,” he said.

She smiled up at him. “You’re a good friend, Clay. I’m glad we met you, glad you could be with Daddy when he died.” She stood then. “I’ll go get my things – we should be able to catch a boat to the Bend and be there by morning.”

Clay escorted her to her lodgings, waited for her to pack, then walked her down to the dock. They caught a boat going south, and as they leaned against the rail, the dark water scent of the Mississippi wafted up to them. “Come home with me,” Clay said. “After the war, come to California.”

“Why, Clay,” she said, “I had no idea you felt that way.”

Clay blushed. “I’m sorry, I said that wrong. I’m engaged, Pamela, but I hate to think of you and Jacob with nowhere to go. My family will welcome you, I promise.”

Pamela blushed, too. “No, I’m sorry for misunderstanding.” She wrapped her shawl around her. “I never intend to marry, anyway.” She was silent a long moment. “What’s your family like?”

Clay was glad to tell her. “My mother’s one of those strong pioneer women you read about, very stoic, yet very caring at the same time. My father’s a big man with a big laugh and a hearty appetite for living. I have a brother a couple of years younger than me, and I hope to God this war is over before he’s old enough to fight. And a little sister five, no, six years old. She looks like you, all blonde curls and big eyes.”

“They sound lovely,” Pamela said, her eyes darkening. “I had a sister – I lost her, too, a few years ago.”

Maybe she could not cry, Clay thought, but her grief was an arrow that pierced his heart.



They spent the night on the deck of the riverboat, neither sleeping, speaking little. The boat glided into the dock at Milliken's Bend, and Clay carried Pamela’s bag as he escorted her to her father’s tent. Jacob was there, sitting, watching. Pamela went to him and put her arms around him, and Clay saw that she could cry, after all.

He went to report to Colonel Lieb. Lieb looked at him, frowning. “Have you seen a doctor, Lieutenant?”

“No, why?” Clay asked, dumbfounded.

Lieb pointed. “Your eye. You’ve bled through the bandage. Report to the regimental surgeon at once. That’s an order.”

Clay made his way to the surgeon’s tent, alarmed. He had not even noticed his eye before, but now it began to pain him. The surgeon removed the bandage and examined him.

“Hm,” the surgeon said. “This happen during the battle?”

“Yes,” Clay said. “A rifle went off too close to my face. It’s only a powder burn.”

“Your eye is suppurating, Lieutenant.” He began to rebandage it. “I’m sending you to the hospital in Memphis on the next boat.”

“We’re burying Captain Carr and Captain Heath today,” Clay protested. “Can’t it wait?”

The surgeon frowned. “I suppose, but only until after the funeral. And not Captain Heath – the detail sent to recover the bodies found nothing. If not for the damage to Sergeant Butler’s throat, I’d have thought you made it all up.”

“Nothing?” Clay said. “How can that be?”

“I don’t know,” the surgeon said. “Maybe the rebs decided not to leave any evidence behind. Any road, I’m sending both you and Sergeant Butler to Memphis. Complications from strangulation can be deadly.”

“Sergeant Carr,” Clay corrected him.

“Ah, yes, I forgot,” the surgeon said. “Odd, that.”

“No, it’s not,” Clay said. “Not odd at all.”



Captain Lucian Carr was laid to rest with full military honors, or as full as his devastated regiment could supply. There was no bugler to play, but the men managed a seven gun salute, and Lucian Carr was lowered into the grave and covered over, far from his Kentucky home.

Clay offered to take Pamela to find lodgings in the town, but she refused. “I need to get back to Memphis.”

“You should take a few days off,” Clay protested.

She shook her head. “I’d rather work. Besides, Jacob’s being sent to the hospital there.”

“So am I,” Clay admitted. “For my eye.”

“Well, then,” Pamela said, “we’ll all go together.”

And so they did. Pamela developed a cough on the boat – too much fresh air, she explained, but Clay thought she looked feverish as well. He determined to see to it that she saw a doctor in Memphis along with the rest of them. The three of them were hustled off the moment they arrived, and Clay found himself in a ward with Lieutenant Cornwell while he awaited the doctor’s examination.

“That’s too bad,” Cornwell said when Clay apprised him of his activities since the battle. “We knew what the Johnnies had promised to do to white officers – too bad Heath bore the brunt of it. We’ll miss him and Captain Carr, both.”

Clay looked him up and down. “You’re still in one piece, I see.” He observed Cornwell’s limp right arm.

“They wanted to cut it off, but I wouldn’t let them,” Cornwell said proudly. “The ball’s still in there, too.”

“Maybe you should. . .” Clay began.

“No,” Cornwell said firmly. “I’m not going home a cripple.”

“If you say so,” Clay said. Just then the doctor sent for him, and he went to the examination with some trepidation.

The doctor looked grave as he examined Clay’s infected eye. “You have two choices, Lieutenant,” he said. “Either I cut it out, under anesthesia, or it rots out, taking you with it. I might have saved it if you’d come in when it happened.”

“I had more important things to do,” Clay said.

“More important than your eye?” the doctor asked sternly.

“Yes, sir,” Clay said. “Infinitely more important.”

“Well, whatever you were up to, it’s cost you an eye. I hope it was worth the sacrifice.”

“It was,” Clay asserted. “You’re sure there’s no other way?”

“I’m sure,” the doctor said. “I’ve seen men die from better cases than yours.”

Clay considered a moment. A one-eyed lawyer was still a lawyer, and he was sure his family would rather have him come home than not, no matter how many pieces he might be in. Cornwell might be ready to risk death over dismemberment, but Clay found he was not. “If your eye offends thee, pluck it out,” he murmured. “All right, doctor. When?”

“Now,” the doctor said, reaching for a bottle of chloroform. He looked up as Clay started in surprise. “There’s no time to waste, soldier.”

“All right,” Clay said, quavering. The doctor pushed him back on the table, placed an odd-looking contraption over his nose and mouth and began dripping chloroform into it. In a few moments, Clay knew nothing more.

He awakened in the ward, with Pamela and Jacob looking down on him. He touched his eye, but all he could feel was bandage. “If you have pain, we have laudanum,” Pamela said.

She still looked feverish. “I’m all right,” Clay said. “It’s no more than I can stand. You should be in bed.”

“It’s a cold,” Pamela said. “I’ll be fine.”

“A cold in June?” Clay asked.

“I’m fine,” Pamela said testily. “You’re the one who’s lost an eye.”

Clay gave up for the time being and turned to Jacob. “And you?”

“He wants to keep me for observation, but he found nothing significantly wrong,” Jacob said huskily. “He thinks I’ll recover, in time.”

“We all will,” Pamela said, her voice almost as husky as Jacob’s.

Clay sat up, too suddenly, for he felt suddenly light-headed. “Jacob, make her see a doctor,” he said. “Don’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

“You don’t get to order me around,” Pamela said.

“Please, Pamela,” Clay pleaded, taking another tack, “for my peace of mind. If there’s nothing wrong, you’ll be back at work in a trice.”

Pamela pressed her lips together stubbornly. “All right,” she said at last. “But only because you’re injured. Don’t think you get to do this all the time.”

“I won’t,” Clay said, lying back down. “Thank you.”

Jacob and Pamela were gone for some time – it was more than an hour before Jacob returned, and Clay feared his worst premonitions were coming true. Even so, he was alarmed when Jacob returned alone. “It’s as bad as you feared, Clay,” Jacob said. “It’s scarlet fever.”

Clay turned his face to the wall, and in his exhausted state, found he could not stop crying.