Nan Ryan (43 page)

The strong fingers were holding her arms tightly and pulling her closer. She writhed and jerked against the big, solid body and was pulled back with such force it momentarily knocked the breath from her. Kathleen felt strong blows falling on her back and looked up at her captor. He laughed and said, “Don’t want you passing out, that wouldn’t be no fun for me!” She gasped as her lungs filled up again and with the first breath she was begging.

“Please, please, let me go. Or kill me, just kill me. Get it over with.”

The big, dirty hand that had slapped the breath back into her clutched a portion of Kathleen’s hair. He jerked her up to him, “Oh, no girlie,” he leered, his hot liquor breath inches from her face, “I ain’t about to kill you. A pretty little thing like you was meant for pleasure,” and he crushed his cruel mouth down over her trembling lips. Kathleen’s attempt at a loud, chilling scream was no more than a stifled whimper as the salivating mouth of her tormentor covered her lips with a force so powerful her mouth was bruised and crushed against her teeth. She could taste her own blood as the soft flesh of her lips tore under his brutal assault. She fought against him, pounding on him with an arm she wrenched free for a moment. The other arm was still in his viselike grip, his fingers holding it so tightly she couldn’t budge it.

Kathleen’s furious struggling made him chuckle and her terror fanned the flame of the base passion stirring in his loins. “Look, boys,” he laughed and shouted to the others, “we got us one of them lil ole southern belles that likes it wild.” He looked back down at Kathleen, raised a dirty hand and wiped the blood from her mouth, saying, “Bet you’re one of them gals that like a little scratchin’ and bitin’ to spice it up a bit.” He moved a big hand over her back and let it slide slowly down her hip and leg. “That’s fine, honey, ’cause you got the right man here. I love it fiery. Yes, sir, little darlin’, we’re going to have a good time,” and he licked his lips again.

Kathleen shuddered, her body trembling violently with fear and disgust. Her frightened eyes were vaguely aware of three or four blue-coated soldiers moving towards them. A new horror registered in her muddled brain as the animal holding her said in a hoarse, guttural voice, “Look, boys, this little thing is trembling all over, guess she’s as stirred up as I am. There’s enough in this little package for all of us. She’s probably been frustrated by the soft, lazy gentlemen they produce down here that never knew how to give her what she really needs.” He looked back down into her face and grinned, “Don’t worry, honey, we’ll take care of you. I’ll show you what it’s like to be taken by a real man.”

“Dear God, please, please,” Kathleen looked helplessly at the other men now encircling them. “Help me, help me,” she begged, but the others were grinning at her and each pair of eyes held the same dirty gleam of determination as those of the giant holding her.

“I’m first, boys,” the hot whiskey breath said into her face, then turned to the others, “when I’m finished, you can have what’s left.” Loud, throaty laughter rose from the others and they crowded up closer. Agreeing that since he had found her, he should have the first go, a tall, slender man with a patch over one eye said very softly, “Save some for me,” and reached out and stroked the shiny blond hair, smiling wickedly.

Kathleen felt her head spinning and her stomach churning with nausea. She prayed she would vomit, that she would wretch and repulse them. A lightheaded blackness of fear spread over her and a small hope of relief surfaced as she felt herself starting to faint. The next movement of her captor stole the last hope of unconsciousness as he roughly shoved her away, snapping her head back, bringing her to full awareness. He leered at her, his mouth watering, and Kathleen watched in suspended horror as his huge, hairy hand came up to the front of her dress. With one quick jerk, she heard the material tearing and closed her eyes as the entire front of her dress and underclothes were stripped away. She heard lewd whistles and felt cool air on her exposed body. Her eyes fluttered open in time to see the hand coming at her again. Her flesh crawled as the hand came in contact with her bare skin and he pushed her to the ground. She was lying on her back, trying to struggle to her feet, when the hand pushed her back with a force so powerful she couldn’t move.

Kathleen raised tired, shaking arms across her breasts, trying to cover her nakedness, when the big man stepped over her, stood directly above her, his legs apart, a foot on each side of her body. His hands went to his belt buckle. A resigned whimper of terror escaped her lips as her hands went up to cover her face and brace herself for the horror that was inevitable.

The cold barrel of a Colt .44 came swiftly to the temple of the man standing over Kathleen and an even colder voice said, “Do you enjoy raping helpless women as much as robbing the graves of babies, you lowdown Yankee bastard?” The hammer of the gun clicked and the shocked eyes of the man with his hands still on his belt buckle widened, though he made not a sound. Through splayed fingers, Kathleen watched as a brown hand pulled the trigger of the gun and in unreal slow motion saw the big man’s head explode and a fine pink mist of brains and blood float through the still night air.

She was jerked from the ground by a strong hand and in a half-crazed daze she looked up into the face of her savior. Relief flooded her and her shaky, weak body swayed against him as he quickly removed the long black cloak from his body and she felt it come around her trembling shoulders. The same hands pulled the cloak together, shutting out the cold and the fear. The face above looked strangely familiar and the body she leaned against was lean, hard, and reassuring.

“You’re safe now,” Dawson said and pushed her behind him as he turned to face the other Yankees. Kathleen clung to the tall back and could see nothing as she huddled close to him.

She heard several more shots and heard Dawson shouting, “Behind you, Sam,” and more shots were fired. Kathleen peeked and saw the tall man with the patch falling in the death throes.

Kathleen realized then her vision was unobstructed and she saw Big Sam, a revolver in each hand, his huge eyes blazing as he whirled around, checking to make certain that all the Union soldiers were dead or dying. At last, his eyes turned on Kathleen, but left her in an instant. They went to the ground in front of her and, with a sickening agony, it dawned on Kathleen why she could now see all around her. Dawson was on the ground at her feet. She screamed and fell to her knees beside him as Sam reached them. She was leaning over Dawson, watching in horror as a tiny circle of blood on his white shirt grew bigger. Sam roughly pushed her away, bent over Dawson, and with one quick motion lifted his lifeless form and slung him over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Kathleen was still on her knees, frozen with fear. Sam bent again and jerked her to her feet. He then stooped and she felt a powerful arm come around her thighs as he lifted her against his body, her feet dangling helplessly. He was running, breathing heavily, supporting the weight of both their bodies. “Sam, Sam,” Kathleen shouted, clutching his broad neck, Daniel, he’s still …”

“He’s dead, we can’t take him, there’s no time. Those shots will draw more Union soldiers,” and the big black man continued to run with Dawson draped over his shoulder and Kathleen in his arm. Kathleen cast one fleeting glance at the still form of her murdered friend. The tall Union soldier with the patch lay close to Daniel and Kathleen saw him move and heard his groans as he lay dying on the ground. Dawson was losing blood rapidly, dark red saturating his white shirt and soaking the blue cotton shirt of the man carrying him. Kathleen clung to Sam, her arms around his neck, her eyes on the still, helpless body slung over Sam’s shoulder.

“Sam, I can walk,” Kathleen was afraid his strength would give way.

“No,” he shouted and continued running, “There’s no time, they’ll be coming.” He tore through the thick undergrowth and headed for the river.

The
Diana Mine
was moored at a hidden nook in the river, all its lights darkened. Kathleen could barely make out its smokestack sticking up through the trees in the darkness, but Sam was already shouting from fifty yards away, “Stoke the boilers, get her ready,” and the skeleton crew on board swung into action.

Sam’s big feet had hardly touched the deck when he released Kathleen. She lost her balance and fell on her hands and knees. Sam went directly to the captain’s cabin while Kathleen scrambled to her feet and followed. Sam gently laid Dawson atop his big bed and turned and ran out of the cabin, brushing past Kathleen. “Sam, Sam,” she shouted, running after him, “don’t leave him,” and grabbed his arm to stop him.

With one hand he moved her aside and hurried out, shouting behind him, “Watch him, I’ve got to get this boat going or we’ll all be dead.”

He was gone and Kathleen turned and ran back to the bed. She bent to Dawson and called his name, but the dark eyes were closed and the brown face was ashen. She gasped when she looked down at his chest and saw the circle of blood on his shirt getting larger with each passing second.

Her fingers flew to the shirt buttons as she opened it to pull it away from his body. She jerked at the shirt and it wouldn’t come. She unbuckled the belt at his waist, then unbuttoned the trousers to free the long shirttail. She pulled the shirt out of the trousers and away from his body and her hand flew to her mouth when she looked at the bullet-torn chest. The blood was coming fast and, frantic, she looked around, snatched a pillow from the bed and stripped away its white case. She folded it into a thick square and pressed it to the oozing wound while tears streamed from her eyes and she begged the lifeless form to live. Within minutes, new panic rose in her while she watched helplessly as the thick folds of the pillowcase turned red under her fingers. “Oh, my God, Dawson, please, you cannot die!” She applied more pressure to the quickly reddening makeshift bandage. Having no idea what she should do, she threw herself cross him, pressing her body to his, willing her own trembling body to put life back into his. She held her chest tightly to his and murmured against his neck, “I won’t let you die, Dawson, I won’t. Take my life, take mine.” The heart in the chest under her own was barely beating and she could feel blood from that chest wetting the black cape she still wore and her naked flesh underneath. She was still laying atop him when finally Sam returned and pulled her away.

“Get down to the crew’s mess hall and get all the table-cloths you can find,” Sam commanded her. “First, get a bottle of whiskey out of Dawson’s desk and hand it to me. The bottom drawer.” She flew to the desk and handed the whiskey to Sam and ran up the steps to carry out his orders. When she returned, she carried four white tablecloths. She went to the bed. Sam had cut the shirt from Dawson’s body and it lay in a bloody heap on the floor. He was bathing the wound with whiskey and looked up at her. “Hand me one of those cloths and start tearing another into long strips.” She did as she was told, but when she tried to tear the cloth, it would not rip. “Here, hold this against him and I’ll tear the strips.” She traded places with Sam, holding the thick white cloth to the wound and looking at the gray, still face. Sam quickly tore long white strips and was at her side again. “Now, I’m going to lift him up easy,” Sam looked at her, “and I want you to try to support as much of his weight as possible while I tie these strips around the bandage, do you think you can manage?”

“But, Sam, I’ve got blood all over me, I’ll get it on Dawson,” she looked at him.

“It doesn’t matter, we’ll be changing this bandage again in a little while. Right now we’ve got to stop his bleeding or he’s not going to live.” Sam went to the top of the bed and carefully lifted Dawson’s limp body into a sitting position. Kathleen sat behind him and let his weight drape against her, using all her strength to avoid toppling over. He was dead weight and she was terrified she wouldn’t be able to support him. Sam saw her struggling and, while he swiftly wrapped the long strips of cloth around Dawson’s body, he sat down on the bed in back of Dawson and pulled him against his own chest. With the bandages tight in place, Sam got up and gently laid Dawson back on the bed. “You better get out of here now, I’m going to undress him and get him under the cover,” Sam looked at her.

“I’m not leaving, Sam, I’ll help you.” Kathleen was adamant.

Sam walked to the end of the bed and pulled the long black wellingtons from Dawson’s feet. Together, Sam and Kathleen removed his trousers and pulled the covers up to his waist.

“I’ve got to get back to the wheelhouse. Watch him and if you need me, I’ll come.” He was hurrying from the cabin. “Miz Kathleen, there’s some of Dawson’s clean shirts in the closet, why don’t you wash up and put one on,” and he was gone.

Kathleen leaned back over Dawson to make sure he was still breathing. Satisfied that he was, she slowly untied the bloodied black cape from around her neck and let it fall from her shoulders. The torn dress was hanging loose and her bosom was red with Dawson’s blood. She looked down at herself, touched the now-drying blood, and cried, “It’s my fault, oh, Dawson, I’ve killed you.” and sobs wracked her bloodied body.

Calm returning at last, Kathleen walked to the bureau beside the bed, picked up the pitcher of water on its top, and poured the cold water into the large china bowl beside it. She stripped the torn clothes off and picked up a clean washcloth and began dipping it into the water. She stood bathing the blood from her body, turning the water in the basin a bright pink. She picked up a bar of soap and lathered her skin, trying to wash away the horror of the entire nightmare. Rinsing away the soap, she dried herself and went to Dawson’s closet. A half dozen clean white ruffled shirts hung there; she took one down and slipped her arms into it. So long it reached to her knees, she buttoned it up to her throat and rolled up the sleeves over her hands. Turning back to the bed, she pulled up a chair and sat down to watch Dawson. His face was still gray and a shudder of fear once again claimed her weary body. She pulled the cover up over him and tucked it under his chin. Her hand went to the black hair and gently she smoothed it from his forehead, then sat back to wait. There was nothing else she could do. How long would it be before she knew? Would he live long enough to get to a doctor? She sat helplessly by while the man willing to give up his life for her lay dying before her.