Rally Cry Read online

  He stole a sidelong glance at Hinsen, who was still cursing beneath his breath. He shut out the curses, and silently thanked God that at least the twenty-mile march was over, and he had survived it without the shame of collapsing from the exhaustion that in the last mile he thought would come near to killing him.

  "Some of them don't sound too happy."

  Andrew nodded as Emil Weiss, the regimental surgeon, came to stand by Andrew's side. Andrew looked down at the bald pate of the doctor, barely able to see the ruddy face, wreathed in a flowing white beard, that was usually lit up from a little too much medicinal brandy.

  Andrew swung down off his mount. He handed the horse over to a staff orderly, who took Mercury off for loading.

  "If they weren't complaining I'd start to worry," Andrew said philosophically. "I'm just glad Hans didn't hear that bttle exchange Barry got into or there would have been hell lo pay."

  "Mother Hans, clucking over his killer chicks," Weiss chuckled.

  "All your medical supplies in order?" Andrew asked.

  "Never enough," Weiss grumbled. "Dammit, son, never enough bandages, and that tincture of lime, can never seem to get an adequate supply."

  Weiss had joined the regiment shortly before Gettysburg, a fact which Andrew was forever thankful for. In spite of what the other surgeons said about the 35th's "crazy Jew doctor," Andrew and the men swore by him, a rare thing in an army served more often than not by half-trained country physicians and butchers.

  Weiss had studied in Budapest and talked incessantly about an unknown doctor named Simmelweiss who had figured out something called antisepsis back in the late '40s. Andrew had listened to some of the debates Emil had, his fellow surgeons calling laudable pus a good thing, and saying infection was simply a fact of wounds. Emil would always wind up roaring that they were medieval butchers, and infection could be stopped by boiling the instruments and bandages along with hand-washing between operations with tincture of lime.

  Whatever it was the doctor knew and used, the men of the 35th were found to have nearly twice the chance of surviving a wound as men from the other regiments.

  Andrew again touched the stump of his arm and felt he could claim loyalty to Weiss from very personal experience. Since Gettysburg he didn't even bother to correct Weiss for calling him "son." After all, the man was twice his age, and for that matter every man in the regiment, including the much-feared Hans, was addressed that way by Weiss, even when the old doctor was in one of his typical bad tempers.

  "The last of the men are aboard, sir," Hans reported, strolling up to join the two officers who stood by the edge of the dock.

  "How are the piles, sergeant major?" Weiss asked, as if inquiring about the gravest of injuries.

  Hans deftly shot a stream of tobacco juice that barely missed the old surgeon.

  "Perhaps our good colonel here should order you in for surgery—I could clear them up for you in a jiffy."

  "With all due respect—like hell, sir," Hans grumbled.

  For the first time in days Andrew threw back his head and laughed at the embarrassed discomfort of his sergeant and friend.

  "Well, gentlemen, shall we get aboard? I think it'd be best not to keep our good captain waiting."

  Not looking forward to what he knew would be life with an unpleasant ship's captain, Andrew strode up the plank, following the last of his men. Besides that, there was the other problem as well, for like Hans he suffered violently from seasickness, and the thought of it made him shudder.

  "Colonel Keane?"

  A young naval officer stood upon the deck of the steamer waiting for him.

  Andrew nodded in reply as the sailor saluted.

  "I'm Mr. Bullfinch, sir. Captain Cromwell awaits you and his officers in the ship's wardroom. I believe, sir, the rest of your officers are already there."

  "Well, gentlemen, we must not keep the captain waiting," Andrew said evenly, and they followed the young ensign aft.

  "Ah, so the good colonel has at last deigned to join us," Cromwell growled as Bullfinch led the three into the narrow confines of the officers' mess.

  Andrew looked about the room. His company officers were all present, but his second in command, the regimental quartermaster, and the rest of his headquarters staff were not there.

  "Your staff have already left with General Terry."

  Andrew recognized the remaining men of the 44th New York Light Artillery and nodded a greeting to Major O'Donald, their burly red-bearded commander, who with mock severity raised a glass of wine in his direction.

  "Into their cups already," Weiss whispered.

  The reputation of the 44th was well known. Recruited from the Five Points district of New York, they were considered some of the hardest drinkers and brawlers in the army. Their only saving grace was that no matter how hard they brawled among themselves and with anyone who wandered near them, they were ten times harder on the rebs.

  "I'm going to make this short. I still have to see to the rest of our delayed loading," Cromwell said, looking

  accusingly at Andrew, who stared back evenly at this man who seemed to be going out of his way to make an enemy.

  "Aboard this ship, I rule and you follow. Your men are to stay out of our way. Any problems between your men and mine, I handle it."

  "The 35th takes care of their own," Andrew said softly.

  "Aye, lad, and the same for the 44th," said O'Donald.

  Tobias looked from one commander to the other.

  "Regulations state—"

  "I know the regulations, captain," Andrew said, his voice pitched so low that those in the far corner of the room could barely hear him. "But I will not surrender authority of my command over to you. I acknowledge your right to run this ship. I would not consider interfering, but likewise I shall not accept your interfering in my command. If there is a problem between your people and mine we shall both look into it according to military law."

  "Like I already said," O'Donald retorted, coming around the table to stand by Andrew's side.

  Tobias looked from one to the other, aware of the barely suppressed grins from the other infantry and artillery officers, who, unlike Tobias, knew what could happen if their respective commanders were aroused.

  Tobias started to speak and then fell silent.

  "If there is a problem," he finally replied, "then it'll be your responsibility, for I plan to put your statements into my report."

  "By all means do so," Andrew stated. "We must, of course, follow the proper procedures. As I likewise shall do."

  There was an icy silence that held for what seemed like hours but in fact was only a matter of seconds.

  "Well, we understand each other then," Tobias replied, suddenly changing to a display of bluff comradely spirit.

  "Before sailing, General Terry left you written orders which I believe you are already aware of."

  Andrew merely nodded.

  "There's a nurse from the Christian Sanitation Commission aboard this ship. She missed her transport, which left earlier," and as he spoke he gave an obvious grimace of disdain. "I don't like women aboard this ship—it's nothing but trouble. I've quartered her in my cabin, where a guard has been posted. I think we're in agreement that her quarters are strictly off-limits to both enlisted and commissioned personnel."

  "I am sure we can trust that all here will observe the necessary proprieties," Andrew replied sharply, "as I am sure your men will as well."

  Tobias stared at Andrew coldly.

  "We sail within the hour then," Tobias continued. "Weather being good, we should make the passage down the James River and into the Chesapeake before tomorrow evening. Out into the Atlantic it'll be another twenty-four hours to our rendezvous point off Beaufort, North Carolina, and from there we proceed to our station off Fort Fisher.

  "As you know, the men of the 24th Corps are already trained in amphibious operations and will take the beach and piers where your people will be unloaded. From there on you're no more concern of mine
."

  "A situation I'm sure we are all looking forward to," O'Donald replied.

  "Yes, I am sure of that," Tobias replied icily.

  Without another word Tobias turned and left the wardroom, his officers falling in behind him.

  "Well, lads," O'Donald laughed as the door slammed shut, "I'd say it's time for another round," and with a roar of approval his officers and some of Andrew's people gathered around the towering red-headed artilleryman.

  Going to the far corner of the room, Andrew pulled off his rubber poncho and stretched out on a narrow sofa. Leaning back, he was soon lost to sleep, in spite of the uproar around him.

  There was a blinding flash of light, another, and then yet another. But strangely there was no report as the white puffs of bursting rounds exploded around him.

  Clouds of smoke swirled past, obscuring everything, blanketing him like a fog rolling in from sea. There was a shadow in the fog which gradually took form.

  "Johnnie!" he cried, rushing through the white mist.

  "Andrew, I'm afraid," and his brother came up to him, his eyes wide with fear, arms outstretched like a small boy looking for comfort.

  Andrew couldn't reply. Reaching out, he took his brother's hand and started walking back in the direction John had come from. Through his hand (strange, it was his left hand) be could feel John trembling.

  The sulfurous smoke parted, and there before him was a blood-covered field, filled with a carpet of dead that stretched to the far horizon, blue- and butternut-clad bodies mingled together for as far as the eye could see.

  "Andrew, I'm afraid," his brother whispered.

  "I know, boy. I know."

  "Make me go home to Ma," and now the voice was that of a little boy.

  He could feel himself shaking, the field strangely out of focus as he came around behind his brother, placing both hands on John's shoulders.

  He pushed the boy forward.

  As if he were sliding down an icy slope, Johnnie slipped into the bloody field, even as he desperately tried to kick back away.

  "Andrew!"

  The blue uniform started to peel off his body, and as it did the flesh melted away, like ice disappearing beneath a July sun.

  And then he turned to look back, but now it was only a skeleton, and, merciful God, it was a skeleton that still had eyes.

  "Andrew, I want to go home!" the fleshless skull screamed, and then he fell away, his bones falling apart to mingle with the thousands of bloated bodies that now as one turned, and with ten thousand eyes gazed upon him.

  "Johnnie!"

  It's all right, it's all right."

  "Johnnie, for God's sake! Johnnie!" Andrew sat bolt ■ plight, the room now coming back into focus.

  "John," he whispered, as gentle hands reached about him, rocking him slowly.

  "It's all right, colonel."

  Colonel. Someone was with him, a woman. In an instant he felt the rigid control return, and looking straight ahead he stood up and the arms about him drew away.

  "Just a bad dream, that's all," she whispered.

  He turned and looked back down at the woman. Her eyes, dark-green eyes, were locked on him. She seemed to be about his age, in her late twenties or early thirties, with pale skin and high cheekbones. Her hair was drawn up under the bonnet of a Sanitation Commission nurse, but a thin strand hung down over her forehead, revealing a pleasing reddish-blond tint.

  She stood up beside him, coming just to his shoulder.

  "I was walking the deck and I thought I heard someone in here, so I came in and found you," she whispered, almost apologetically.

  "It was nothing," Andrew said in a quiet, distant voice.

  "Of course," and she reached out and patted his hand in a friendly fashion. "Don't be embarrassed, colonel. I've been a nurse since the beginning of this war. I understand."

  There was a moment of awkward silence.

  For the first time he noticed the room was empty, except for the two of them.

  "Where is everybody?"

  "Oh, things ended here several hours ago. I heard your doctor telling everyone to leave you alone, that you needed your sleep. It's just another hour to dawn."

  Andrew rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and with his right hand tugged his jacket to try to get out some of the wrinkles.

  "I'd better get to work," Andrew said woodenly. "I shouldn't have slept like that without checking my men first. Anyhow, it's time for morning roll."

  "Let the men sleep a bit longer, Colonel Keane. This is their first night out of the trenches in months."

  Andrew looked again at her and smiled. She had made her comment gently enough, but there was a slight note of command to it as well.

  He wanted to say something back as a retort, but her smile completely disarmed him.

  "All right, then, for your sake, Miss ..."

  "Kathleen O'Reilly," and she extended her hand, "and I already know that I have the honor of addressing Colonel Andrew Keane of the 35th."

  Rather at a loss, Andrew awkwardly took her hand and then quickly let go.

  "Well, now that we've been introduced," she continued, "shall we take a walk upon the deck? I know if my old supervisor were here, she would not consider this proper for us to be unchaperoned and alone in a room."

  "I think, Miss O'Reilly, you can take care of yourself quite well."

  "I most certainly can, colonel," and he noticed a slight edge to her voice.

  Picking up his poncho and helping Kathleen with her wrap, Andrew led the way out onto the main deck. The sky was dark and threatening, with intermittent spits of rain and sleet lashing across the deck. Andrew took a deep breath, the chilled air clearing his head.

  "Actually, it's kind of lovely," he said softly. "Reminds me of home back in Brunswick, Maine."

  She was silent, leaning over the railing and watching the dark edge of the riverbank slip past.

  "And where are you from, Miss O'Reilly?"

  "Boston. I can remember a night like this—walking home from church ..." With Jason, she continued to herself.

  Suddenly curious, Andrew leaned against the railing beside her.

  "A happy memory, I take it."

  "Once," she replied softly. She dropped her head to hide her eyes.

  "Care to talk about it?"

  "No more than you do about John."

  There was no rebuke in her voice, only an infinite sadness.

  For long silent minutes they stood together, watching the lights along the shore drift by.

  "We were engaged," she said softly. "He was killed at First Bull Run."

  "I'm so sorry."

  "Yes, and so am I," she replied evenly. "So that's how I became a nurse instead of a wife, my good colonel. And your John?"

  "My younger brother," and he fell silent again and finally broke it with a single word.

  "Gettysburg."

  "So we both have our sorrow from this war," she stated in nearly a whisper. "Any other brothers?"

  "No."

  "So at least you will not have that pain again. And believe me, colonel, I shall never bear the pain of losing a loved one again, at least that much I have learned."

  She looked up at him, and in the first faint light of dawn he could see the hard set to her features.

  "I'd best be going now, colonel. I do have my duties to attend to. Good morning to you, sir."

  "And to you," Andrew replied softly, extending his hand to hers.

  Barely touching his hand in response, she nodded primly and, turning, walked back toward the stern of the ship.

  Alone, Andrew continued to lean against the rail, watching the white wake of the ship plowing out as it slowly made its way down the river, cautiously running between the channel markers.

  The rain started to lash down harder, cutting into him with icy needles. Having lived along the coast of Maine his entire life, he felt he knew something of the weather, and a chilly feeling inside told him that before the day was out there'd most likely be a real
blow rolling up from the south. He could only hope their damn headstrong captain would be smart enough to anchor in the shelter of Norfolk and wait it out, schedule or no schedule.

  Chapter 2

  January 6, 1865

  Four hundred miles southwest of Bermuda

  For the first time in three days, Andrew realized, the seasickness had left him. He paused for a moment in wonder; was there nothing left in him to get sick with, or was it the simple stark terror of what was happening?

  Tobias, insisting that the growing storm would not interfere with his schedule, had passed out of the Chesapeake and on into the Atlantic, even as the wind gust picked up to thirty knots. From there it had simply gotten worse, and by the end of the day they were racing before a southwesterly gale of near-hurricane proportions. The boilers had long since been damped down, and now they were running bare-poled before the wind.

  Hanging on to a railing next to the wheel, Andrew watched as Tobias struggled to keep them afloat.

  "Here comes another!" came the cry from the stern lookout.

  Wide-eyed, Tobias turned to look aft.

  "Merciful God!" he cried.

  Andrew followed his gaze. It seemed as if a mountain of water was rushing toward them. A wave towered thirty or more feet above the deck.

  "A couple of points to starboard!" Tobias roared.

  Mesmerized, Andrew watched as the mountain rushed down upon them and the stern rose up at a terrifying angle. Looking forward, he felt that somehow the ship could never recover, that it would simply be driven like an arrow straight to the bottom.

  The wall of water crashed over them, and desperately he clung to the rope which kept him lashed to the mizzenmast. The ship yawed violently, broaching into the wind. As the wave passed over them, he saw both wheelmen had been swept off their feet, one of them lying unconscious with an ugly gash to the head, the wheel spinning madly above them.

  Tobias and several sailors leaped to the wheel, desperate to bring the ship back around.

  "Here comes another!"