A Place of Peace (6 page)

chapter seven

“
Son,” Colonel Wilder of
the 5
th
Tennessee Cavalry Company said.  “We’re going to have to do something about that leg of yours.”  Rain streamed off the brim of his hat.  He had the stern look of a brimstone preacher as he sat on his horse with his saber drawn.

Colby clutched a double handful of his horse’s mane and tried not to double over in pain.  If he let go, he would fall, and if he fell, it was unlikely he would be getting up anytime soon.  His leg was inflamed, streaking red in sharp bursts up throughout his entire body.  Colonel Wilder had halted the entire company just north of the
Hardin County line as the rains began to pelt them.

The company consisted of ninety men: sixty regulars and thirty more pulled from the train wreck near
Savannah.  Colby and his fellow former prisoners had stepped up when Wilder called for volunteers.  They had been armed with the rifles from the dead Union soldiers and mounted on the horses roaming near the tracks.

John Holcomb watched with concern as Colby tried to mount a horse.  It was apparent that Colby was desperately trying to hide how much pain he was in.  He had his leg sticking out stiff, away from the horse’s body as it moved, trying not to knock against the horse’s flank.

They pushed north with surprising speed considering most of the soldiers from the train were not trained as mounted cavalry, but the majority of them had grown up in Tennessee, and they had  practically been raised on horseback.

The troops made their way through a backwoods network of logging roads and foot paths, plunging through thick groves of trees at an almost full gallop.  The company’s banner flapped in front: crossed golden swords against a stark white field.

They continued moving with speed, and with each step his horse took, Colby felt a lightning flash of agony.  It was a blur of movement, and Colby felt his head go light until Colonel Wilder pulled them up to a stop.  The rains came in a torrent, and most of the men welcomed a chance to stop for the night.

Colby shivered against his horse’s neck as he leaned against it.  He could feel the fever beginning to take hold of him, and the infection from his leg was a red arrow shooting straight into his head.

The company regulars gathered around Colby and formed a semi-circle with Colonel Wilder nudging his horse closer to the sick man.  He had his saber out, and as he spoke, Colby had a vision of the colonel taking a swing and severing his leg in one swift motion.

“Going to have to do something about that leg, son,” Wilder repeated.  “Going to slow you down, and my boys like to move fast.”

“Sorry, sir,” Colby whispered.

“We’ll take care of it for you,” Wilder said.  “Sergeant Beard!”

A stocky man dismounted in the mud, his boots sinking into the wet ground.  He came up to the colonel and saluted.

“Sir!”

“Sergeant Beard here, Private Dalton, is a famous man.  He’s renowned for his surgical skills.  In fact, he was assigned to the medical corps, but he requested a transfer so he could ride with me.  I was flattered of course, but I realized how useful a man of his skills and talents could be with all of our dangerous undertakings.”

“Let me take a look at your leg, Private,” said Beard, stepping up beside Colby’s horse.  He pushed the trouser leg up and whistled at the sight beneath.  “It’s infected and turning green,” he said.  “Gonna have to take that leg off.”

Colby heard the sergeant’s analysis, but was in too much pain to protest.  Beard walked over to his horse and removed a small box from behind the saddle.

“Take care of it, Sergeant,” ordered Wilder, swinging himself off his horse.  He moved off into the rain where the rest of his men were trying to set up their tents for the night.

John Holcomb came up beside Beard as the doctor walked back over to Colby.  Colby was slumped against his horse’s neck, his eyes closed, and water streaming across his face.

“Is this really necessary?” asked Holcomb.  “Do you have to take his leg?”

Sergeant Beard barely acknowledged the man beside him.  “Colonel’s orders,” he said.  “Doesn’t want anyone slowing us down.  Have you seen his leg?  It’s a mess, no question.  Help me get him down.”

Colby felt hands lifting him off the horse, then he was stretched out beneath a tent of some sort.  Through a haze, he saw Sergeant Beard cutting away at his trouser leg until he felt the cool night air biting into his wound.  He moaned a little, and he noticed Holcomb was there, holding a flask of some kind.

“Rum,” said Holcomb.  “Drink some.”

The bittersweet liquid ran down Colby’s throat, sending a strange burn throughout his body.

“Do you have morphine?” Holcomb asked as he watched Beard open his box and pull out a small bottle.

“No,” said Beard.  “It’s chloroform.”

The sergeant uncorked his bottle, and Holcomb grew dizzy as the scent filled the tent’s interior.  A small amount of the liquid was poured over a cloth rag.

“Rest easy, son,” Beard told Colby.  “This will make it better.”  He pushed the rag over Colby’s nose and mouth.  Colby’s arms flared out in sudden alarm, then he felt himself drifting away into a hazy sleep that was very comforting.  From somewhere out there in the darkness, he heard the faint hiss of a metal blade being drawn out of its scabbard and a scream he thought might have been his.

***

When he awoke, he
thought the doctor had changed his mind and decided not to chop off his leg.  In fact, it still felt as if he had it, and there was a faint itch somewhere down there around his foot.  As he reached for it, his hand met empty air, and his eyes flared open.

He saw Holcomb’s concerned face sitting beside him on the cold ground.  Colby was lying on a blanket, but Holcomb sat in the grass, flask in hand.  From the angle Holcomb held it, Colby figured it was empty.

“My leg.”

“Took it off and buried it,” said Holcomb, voice edged with the drink.  “Colonel Wilder said they were riding out, but they left me here to watch you.”

“What?”  Colby felt grainy and tense, his head throbbing from the chloroform.  It hadn’t worn off enough for him to feel the pain of his missing leg.

“Yep,” said Holcomb.  “Said they had to push on toward
Nashville.  Asked for volunteers to stay with you, because the Doc didn’t know when you’d be ready to go.  Wilder said you were a rock  chained around the leg of his horse, and decided to leave you.”

Colby groaned and closed his eyes, wishing he could drift away again.  His leg kept itching, and he kept trying to touch the space where it used to be.  It was a strange feeling, like he was unbalanced.

“They brought us a wagon and left us two horses,” said Holcomb, tipping up the last of the flask to his lips.  Colby wondered how long he had been sitting there drinking.

“Where exactly are we?” asked Colby, though his mouth felt stuffed with cotton and tasted of old leather.

“South of Decatursville,” said Holcomb.  “Nashville’s to the east, and Savannah’s to the south.  God’s in his Heaven, and I am here.”

“I’m thirsty,” said Colby, his eyes drifting toward the flask, but Holcomb offered him a canteen of water, which was warm and stale tasting.  He looked at what was left of his leg.  They had taken it just above the knee, and his slim thigh ended in a bloody stump capped with what looked like a leather patch.  He didn’t feel the pain.  Not yet.  But he knew it was coming soon.  He could already feel it around the edges, a gradual heat growing hotter with each passing minute.

“Thank you, John,” he said.  “For staying.”

Holcomb looked at him, his eyes flushed and red and watering.   Colby knew Holcomb would probably regret his decision very soon, but for now, as long as the rum had lasted, Holcomb seemed  content to stay where he was.

“Do you think they did me a favor?” Colby asked, his voice hazy from the chloroform.

“I think they probably saved your life.”

“I wouldn’t have done it.  I’m a farmer, and now what am I going to do?”

“Marry into a rich family.”

Colby cracked a brief smile.  “People will stare.  They’ll whisper to each other after I’ve passed by and some will  ask me how I lost my leg.”

“What will you tell them?”

“I lost it defending the cause.  That’s all.”

“I think Colonel Wilder would be proud to hear you say that.”

Colby thought of the poor engineer swinging in the tree.  “Colonel Wilder is not about what we are fighting for.”

“What are we fighting for then?”

“Ten dollars a month and a new rifle to take home when it’s all over.”

***

With Colby stretched out
in the back of the small wagon, John Holcomb stretched a white canvas over the wagon’s bed to keep the sun off before driving the wagon over the hills.  Colonel Wilder’s troop had crashed through the underbrush with no regard to their horses or men, but the wagon was not designed for such speedy travel, and Holcomb found it difficult to navigate through the dips and valleys that made up most of the countryside.

Colby drifted in and out of consciousness while they rode.  When he would awaken, he tried hard to swipe away the mosquitoes who constantly tried to land on his bleeding stump of a leg.  He wondered if it hadn’t hurt less before they took it off.  Now the fire that consumed him was not isolated to his leg, it was an inferno that devoured his entire body.  They had no medicine for the pain, no morphine or even whiskey to take the razor sharp edge off.  Colby only had himself, squeezing his eyes shut with every hellish bounce the wagon took as he forced himself to think of other things besides his stump.

There was the portrait of Melinda, and he gripped it until the edges of the locket cut into the palm of his hand.  He would see her soon.  They would reach Nashville, and then he would go north to find her.  Her perfectly round eyes would sink deep into him and take away his pain.  Then, when he was better, he would sit for long hours and explain to her the story of her father.  She would be sad, but Colby would be there to comfort her and console her.

He had made a promise to her father. 

Holcomb drove for hours, finding a road when they eventually emerged from the underbrush they had been rambling through.  The ride smoothed out, and they headed east along the road.  Holcomb was watching for soldiers on the road, and he kept his rifle nearby.  Wilder had left them, but he had also left them enough food and ammunition to last them no matter how long it took them to get home.  Holcomb didn’t think the food would last long if Colby was up and able to eat.  However, Colby had shown no interest in the food, so Holcomb assumed it would be plenty for him.

“Where are we?” he heard Colby call from the back of the wagon.

“Decatursville,” said Holcomb.  “We’ll see if we can find a doctor to give us something for that leg of yours.”  Holcomb knew there probably would be no doctor in the town, for the army had called most of them away to serve, but he still had a little hope.  He was also hoping to find a way to get a message home to his wife in Murfreesboro, but he knew that when the Union soldiers had come through western Tennessee, they had cut or torn most of the telegraph lines.  Perhaps he could write a letter and have it sent by post: if there were any riders available.

The town of
Decatursville consisted of a scattering of houses along the road leading up to a central dirt road branching out to the east and the north.  It was here a small collection of storefronts lined up neatly, and one of them bore the small emblem marking a pharmacy and general store.  Holcomb didn’t see anyone as their wagon rolled closer to the center of the town.  It was as if the town was abandoned.  He saw a few faces peer out of windows, curious and fearful, but Holcomb’s wagon was not carrying Union troops.

“Hello?” called Holcomb as he parked his wagon and climbed down.  They stopped in front of the general store.

“Stay here,” he told Colby as he walked through the dusty street and entered the store.  The cool darkness was a sharp contrast to the bright sunshine outside. Holcomb’s eyes adjusted and the sharp smell of spice greeted him, but he saw no one inside.  He walked through the store, boots echoing on the wood floor.  Most of the shelves were bare: the army had already been through here and taken what they needed.  There were a few gardening tools, shovels and rakes, hanging on hooks  in a lonely array, but all of the barrels of seed were empty, and the racks that used to hold the horse tack were bare as well.

“Hello?” called Holcomb.  “Anyone here?”

He moved over to the counter where a closed door led to another room behind it.  He tapped on the wooden surface of the counter.  “Hello!”

The clicking of a hammer being cocked sounded behind him.  Holcomb froze, slowly putting his hands up.  Another click, and Holcomb recognized the sound as that of a shotgun: both hammers now cocked and ready to fire into his back.

“Turn around real slow,” a voice said from behind the shotgun.  “We’ve had enough trouble with thieves and don’t need any more.”