The Freedom Star Part 31

Isaac brought up the rear, stepping into the front parlor as Fraley came around the corner with his mouth full of food.

"Biscuits. Still warm." Fraley motioned toward the back of the house. "Best get you some, boy. There's plenty."

Henry sat at a table in the small dining room with Akers to his left and Sean to his right. They busied themselves with a ham roast in the center of the table.

"Folks must of got scared off by the shooting." Henry waved his knife toward the din of battle echoing through the open window. "Cut some ham and have one of these here biscuits. Not as good as your mama's, but right tolerable for Yankee fare."

Isaac sliced off a thick piece of ham and placed it inside a biscuit. As he ate he studied a tapestry hanging on the wall. A large animal, not a deer, but similar, standing on a snowy mountain peak, his head tilted as if braying to all within earshot. Beneath the tapestry, a book set on a small table. Isaac flipped open the cover. The printed page was senseless gibberish. "Ma.s.sa Henry, can you read this?" He handed the book to Henry.

Henry opened the cover of the leather-bound volume and studied the t.i.tle page. "German. Looks to be a Bible." He handed it back to Isaac.

A thump sounded in the floor beneath them. Akers jumped from his seat, grabbing his musket. Henry studied the floor, then lifted a corner of the tattered blue rug under the table. "It's a trap door. Cover me." He drew back the carpet.

Akers and Fraley aimed their muskets at the opening in the floor.

"Out. Come on, we ain't going to hurt you." Henry motioned to someone below. In a moment, an old woman, her head wrapped in a scarf, appeared in the trap door. She climbed out, followed by a young girl, possibly nine or ten years old. The girl cowered behind the old woman, her wide eyes darting first to Henry, then Akers. Her gaze fell upon Isaac and her mouth dropped open.

"We won't hurt you, ma'am," Henry said. "We're just looking for food and water-we need to fill these." He pointed to the pile of canteens in the corner.

"Ya, ve have vater out back in da vell. Help yourself, just please, don't be hurting mien kleindochter." The woman placed a hand on the little girl's head. The child hugged her, hiding behind pleats in her plain black dress.

"We won't be hurting anyone, ma'am." Henry tipped his hat. "Fraley, take them canteens out back and fill *em."

Fraley looked at Isaac and pointed to the canteens. "Boy, fetch them up and follow me."

_____.

"Thank you, ma'am. Your gracious hospitality has been more than kind." Henry tipped his hat as he backed out the door clutching a leg of fried chicken. The old woman smiled and waved.

"Nice folks," Akers said as he wiped crumbs from his beard. "For Yankees, that is." The patrol turned west on the dirt road, heading toward the center of town.

"We shouldn't have stayed so long," Henry said. "The First Sergeant's going to have my hide."

"Quit your belly aching," Akers said. He slapped Henry on the shoulder. "We got the water. Besides, it ain't your fault the locals wanted to share their food with us. First Sergeant would agree, ain't that right, Fraley?"

Fraley nodded.

Isaac stumbled under the load of canteens. Akers reached back. "Here, boy, give me a few of them." He took two. Fraley turned and grabbed a couple as well.

Isaac followed the others, the straps of the filled canteens digging into his shoulders. Sounds of battle grew closer. A sh.e.l.l burst above the street, shattering a brick chimney. Debris rained on the road.

"Hold up." Henry raised a hand. The intersection ahead was filled with troops on the move. He called out, "What outfit?"

"Nineteenth Mississippi, Featherston's Brigade," one of the marching soldiers answered.

"They're Anderson's division. That's ours," Henry said. Henry turned back to the marching troops and hollered, "Where's Armistead? Where's the Fourteenth Virginia?"

The rebel cupped a hand to his mouth. "The whole division's moving. The Virginians must be somewhere up ahead. Hop on in here and join us. You'll catch up to your outfit soon enough."

"I knew a fella in the Nineteenth Mississippi once . . ." Henry motioned to Isaac and the others. "Step lively. Looks like we're marching with Mississippi this morning."

_____.

The long gray column snaked along narrow streets, then climbed a gentle rise toward smoke-filled fields north of town. The crackle of musketry punctuated the warm air. An artillery sh.e.l.l exploded overhead. Isaac ducked. Tarnation-bombs weren't bursting overhead back in Mana.s.sas when they'd marched up Henry House Hill, but they'd won that one. Must be the Yankees were doing the winning this day. Maybe they'd give him his chance to skedaddle on up to Pennsylvania . . .

Columns of soldiers peeled off to the left and took positions in an orchard. The Nineteenth Mississippi halted. Drums began the long roll and the column shifted into battle line. Ahead, harvested fields sloped toward a sunken lane lined on both sides with wooden fences and crowded with men in gray. Past the dirt road, the fields rose again, revealing row after row of soldiers in Union blue.

"Henry," Fraley called with a questioning look. "Shouldn't we find our own outfit now?"

Henry pointed to the troops in the orchard. "None of them appear to be ours. We'd best stick with Mississippi. Maybe we'll find the Fourteenth up yonder in that cut." He nodded toward the road.

Isaac fell in line with the file closers behind the formation and smiled to himself. Maybe he wouldn't close any ranks, but he'd sure enough be jumping fences and heading to Philadelphia-if the blue bellies out yonder gave him the chance.

"Forward . . ." An arm clad in gray lifted a sword in front of the formation. The sword swung down. "March!"

Drummers beat out a quick step. The regiment hurried down the slope, pulling Isaac along. The roar of musketry rolled across the fields. A man beside Isaac fell, then another. Someone ahead shouted a command. The line broke into a trot. Canteens banged against his side. Isaac shrugged. Canteens dropped. A soldier in front tossed his musket in the air as he stumbled, a dark stain spreading across the back of his sh.e.l.l jacket. Isaac stepped over the dying rebel. He dropped canteens from his other shoulder. Running became easier.

The formation halted on the near side of the lane while soldiers tore down the fence blocking their way. Once cleared, the regiment hurried into the narrow road and continued up the far side, knocking down another fence as they attacked. Rebels who had taken cover inside the sunken lane cheered as the Mississippians slammed into the exposed flank of a Yankee regiment.

"Look yonder," and officer called. "They's flying the traitor's flag of West Virginia. Drive them, men. Show no mercy."

Fraley screamed, then dropped to one knee and stared at Isaac, his face twisted in pain. "I's. .h.i.t, boy. Get me on back to that road."

Isaac eased him to the ground and examined the wound in his thigh. "Henry, he's bleeding something awful."

Henry glanced at Fraley and jerked a thumb toward the rear.

Back to the cover of that sunken road? Yes, thank you, Lord. Isaac took a bandana from his pocket and tied it tightly over the spurting wound, then hoisted the heavyset soldier to his feet. Fraley flung an arm over Isaac's shoulder, using his musket as a crutch. Together, they hobbled down the hill. Once within the sunken road, Isaac lowered Fraley to the ground and propped him against the embankment.

"Bless you, boy." Fraley placed his hand on Isaac's arm. "You done saved my life." He pointed to the canteen. "Got any left?"

Isaac handed him his last canteen.

Muskets roared from high ground to their right. A fresh Yankee formation came over the rise, bayonets gleaming in the midday sun. Green flags crested the hill alongside the familiar red, white, and blue banners. Isaac peered over the fence rail. The new unit crashed into the flank of the Mississippi brigade. Boys in gray fell by the dozens. Regimental formations crumbled as Confederates fled to the safety of the sunken road. The farmer's field, once plowed for winter wheat, was strewn with the human residue of battle.

Henry dove over the fence, landing face down in the sunken lane. Sean tumbled in close behind. Henry glanced at Isaac. "You okay?"

Isaac nodded.

Henry bit off the end of a paper cartridge. "Akers is dead. How's Fraley?" He spit out the paper and poured powder into the muzzle of his musket.

"Bleeding's mostly stopped." Isaac nodded toward the crumpled figure at the bottom of the lane.

"Good. Stay low." Henry shoved Isaac down. Bullets splattered against the fence rails and splashed dirt up from the forward embankment.

Isaac burrowed into the side of the swale. The Mississippians seemed confused. To their left, a regiment from North Carolina stood from behind the embankment and fired in unison. A second rank followed, their muskets barking out another volley. The first rank then stepped forward again and fired at the Union lines on the crest of the rise.

"Dearest mother in heaven, will ye look at that?" Sean O'Farrell stretched to his full height with his kepi shoved back on his head.

Isaac peeked over the fence. Yankees stood before them in a perfect line, not fifty yards away. Green flags snapped in the midday breeze. The Yankees held their ground as devastation rained upon them. With each new volley, dozens of Union soldiers dropped, but as quickly as one fell, another stepped in to take his place.

"Sons of Erin, they be. There boy, see that harp upon that green banner? They's Irish lads all, and may G.o.d bless *em." Sean removed his cap. "They's standing tall, like the boys of '98, spilling their blood upon Vinegar Hill . . ."

"Get down you d.a.m.ned fool." Henry yanked on Sean's shirt, jerking him into the protection of the sunken road. "Those Irish lads would just as soon splash that Gaelic blood of yours all over this d.a.m.ned road."

Confederates in the road to their left poured deadly fire into the exposed Union lines. Smoke filled the lane. Sean leaned forward again, staring over the fence. He turned to Henry with a tear in his eye. "Murder it be. Proud, n.o.ble murder. A thousand Irish mothers will be weeping tonight." Sean focused again on the battle, waving his cap above his head. "G.o.d bless ye, lads. G.o.d bless ye, every . . ."

The bullet slammed into his neck, cutting off his words as it threw him to the ground. Blood gurgled from a dark hole in his throat. Isaac knelt and lifted Sean's head, cradling it in his lap. Sean looked up and smiled, then stiffened. The light drained from his eyes.

Isaac lowered him gently to the ground. "You was a good man, Sean O'Farrell . . ."

"Here they come, boys." An officer waved his sword, pointing toward the rise to their right. A swarm of blue crested the hill, filling the void left by the dead and dying Irish. The front rank of Yankees knelt as one. Smoke and flame belched from a hundred muzzles, then from a hundred more.

"They have our flank!" Henry hollered. He pushed the soldiers closest to him toward the enemy on their right. "Fire at will. Load and fire at will." He reached beneath a fallen soldier and pulled out a musket, thrusting it at Isaac. "Now's your time. Load and shoot."

Isaac stared at the musket with its long bayonet, then looked at Henry, who was straddling a wounded rebel and taking aim at the advancing Yankees. Isaac shook his head. He'd already killed that Johnson boy back home. Maybe, if Henry knew about that, he'd understand why he couldn't raise a musket against those Yanks. "It ain't my war, Henry. I ain't killing n.o.body . . ."

Confederates scrambled to retreat from the sunken road, only to be cut down by Yankee bullets as they clambered up the rear embankment. Dead and dying tumbled into the blood-filled trench.

A searing pain sliced Isaac's shoulder, spinning him around. He tore away the shredded cloth and looked. Just a scratch. Henry? Where was Henry? There, to the front. He climbed over bodies, dragging the musket he had yet to fire. A boy in gray fell against him. Isaac caught the soldier, staring into eyes filled with terror. The rebel shuddered, then collapsed. Isaac brought his musket to the ready and called up to Henry. "Ain't healthy here, Henry. It's time we be finding our own regiment."

Henry looked over his shoulder and smiled. "You gonna shoot that thing?"

"I ain't fighting your war, Henry McConnell . . ."

A Yankee raised his bayonet, thrusting toward Henry's back. Isaac leveled his musket and fired. The dead soldier tumbled against Henry's leg.

"Thanks. I reckon now it's your war too." Henry winked.

Isaac nodded and reached for another cartridge. The Confederate line to their right dissolved. Yankees poured over the fences and into the sunken road. Henry aimed and fired. A man in blue fell. Henry bit off the end of a cartridge and turned to pour the powder when another Yankee lunged, bayonet at the ready.

Isaac's musket wasn't loaded. He dove, thrusting his musket like a spear. The Yankee bayonet entered Henry's shoulder as Isaac's bayonet gored the attacker.

The startled soldier dropped his weapon, peering at the dark blood pouring from the wound in his stomach. His eyes rolled back and he collapsed on top of Henry.

Isaac pushed the soldier off and lifted Henry in his arms. "Henry, Henry McConnell, you listen to me. Don't you die." Tears streaked Isaac's face. "It ain't your time, Henry. This ain't how it's supposed to be . . ." He cradled Henry in his arms.

A blur of movement-Isaac turned.

The rifle b.u.t.t smashed into the side of his head.

Chapter Forty-two.

September 1862 The annoying buzz grew louder as Isaac drifted toward consciousness. He rolled over and grabbed his head. "Lord, I's hurting . . ." Easing himself into a sitting position, he shooed the swarm of flies around his face. Where was he? Scattered clouds drifted across a midnight sky. Beyond the flies, only m.u.f.fled groans and an awful stench interrupted the silent darkness. Rotted deer meat? No, worse.

He steadied himself. Beneath him, something protruded wrapped in a wet cloth. Rough woolen fabric-uniform? He felt again-the bloodied trouser of a soldier. Isaac recoiled. His eyes slowly adjusted. Bloated, festering mounds of gray filled the sunken road for as far as he could see, piled randomly atop one another, rotting where they fell.

Lanterns carried by dark silhouettes dotted the fields, drifting from body to body, pausing, apparently in search of a familiar face.

Henry? Where was Henry? His head throbbing, Isaac struggled to pull the top body from the pile of soldiers. A Yankee. The corpse tumbled to the road as Isaac searched the darkness for gray. There . . . . a leg. He tugged. The long dark hair and full beard weren't familiar. Suddenly, a hand grabbed his arm. Isaac recoiled. Alive? Frantically, he pushed aside another body and pulled the wounded soldier from under his tomb of rotting flesh.

"Water . . ."

He found a full canteen on a body wearing a blue uniform and held the water to the wounded soldier's lips, drizzling measured drops to keep the man from choking. The soldier sipped, then lay back in the crook of Isaac's arm and looked up. "Mississippi?"

"Virginia."

"I'm mighty grateful, boy." The soldier smiled and closed his eyes.

"I reckon you'll be sleeping a good while, Mississippi." Isaac eased him to the ground and pulled another Yankee from the pile, this one still impaled on the bayonet that killed him. Isaac brushed aside the light blond hair. Was he the one, the soldier who tried to kill Henry? He studied the young face. "I didn't mean you no harm, mister . . ." He eased him aside, then tugged at more bodies, uncovering old and young, blue and gray, but no sign of Henry. Exhausted, Isaac slumped against the roadbed cut. He wet his bandanna and dabbed at the throbbing knot on the side of his head. Henry wasn't there. Maybe he wasn't hurt so bad. Had he escaped? It would soon be daylight. There was time enough to search then. Isaac closed his eyes and surrendered to the exhaustion.

_____.

"He's still breathing. Grab him by the feet-and be careful."

The voice was near. Isaac opened an eye. Daylight, but the sun had not yet crested the trees lining the far field. A short, ruddy-faced man in a blue uniform with a rusty beard stood in the roadway pointing toward a body. Another soldier lifted the wounded man's feet as the one who had apparently spoken grabbed the fellow under his arms. Together, the two men placed the wounded soldier on a stretcher and carried him up the embankment.

Isaac stretched. His head still hurt, but the fog of dizziness had cleared. The battle appeared to be over. The only rebels around him looked to be dead. He stared at the pile of bodies in the sunken road. The long line of corpses filled the trench as far as he could see in both directions. Up and down the road and in the fields to the north and east, Union soldiers gathered their wounded. Isaac turned toward the town. Gray bodies dotted the field they'd crossed yesterday. Most lay facing the town, felled by Yankee bullets as they ran from the Union a.s.sault. Lord, such a terrible sight.

Isaac approached a soldier in blue who was tending to a fallen comrade. "Sir? Sir, begging your pardon, but is we behind the Yankee lines?"

The soldier straightened, wiping his hands on his trousers. "You a slave?"

"Yes sir." Isaac s.n.a.t.c.hed his black slouch hat from his head and twisted it in front of him.

The soldier paused while he looked Isaac over. "You been fighting for them rebels?"

"No sir. Ain't no soldier. Isaac just do the cooking. I be looking for that freedom road now."

"North's yonder." The soldier jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "You's in a slave state *til you gets to Pennsylvania, maybe two day's walk." He returned to his fallen comrade.

"Thank you, sir. Thank you." Isaac bowed slightly. Apparently it went unnoticed. He started up the lane. "Yes sir, get behind them Yankee lines and I'll be free at last. Free, and walking to Philadelphia."

The pain drained from his forehead. His legs forgot the weariness of all-night marches. Isaac headed for the bend in the road where yesterday the Yankee a.s.sault had rolled up the rebel flank.

"Raleigh's sure enough gonna be surprised when she opens her door and there's Isaac, free as a man can be." He stepped around a rebel body whose legs were c.o.c.ked as if crawling along the b.l.o.o.d.y lane. The soldier's arm reached forward. Isaac stopped. That hair . . . . He rolled the soldier onto his back and gasped, then dropped to his knees. "Henry-Henry McConnell?" He cradled Henry's head in his lap. "What did you figure on doing, crawling all the way back to Virginia?"

Squinting, Henry partially opened his eyes. "Isaac?" He grabbed Isaac's shirt. "Did we beat *em?"

"You got your a.s.ses whupped is what you got."