Nan Ryan (44 page)

“How is he?” Sam was back in the room. She had no idea when he had returned.

“There’s no change, Sam. What are we going to do? Is he going to live?”

Sam looked at Dawson’s ashen face then at her, “I don’t know if he will or not. That bullet has to come out, but I have no idea how close it is to his heart. There is only one good sign; he didn’t bleed from the mouth, so maybe the lungs weren’t punctured. If they aren’t, he may have a chance. There’s nothing else we can do for him. We have to get him to a doctor.”

“When will that be, Sam? He needs one now.”

“I know, but we can’t risk it. All these shores are full of Yankee soldiers. It would be suicide to try to get him through the lines. Our only hope is to stay on the river and hope we aren’t stopped by a Yankee gunboat before we get him to Natchez.”

Sam bent over Dawson and put a hand to his throat. The pulse was weak, but had a steady beat. Sam then moved his hand to Dawson’s face and felt the cold lips. He pulled back the covers and looked at the bandage. “The bleeding has just about stopped, I think, but I’m worried, his body is so cold.”

Kathleen leaned over the bed and felt his forehead, “Oh, Sam, he’s freezing. Can’t you make him warmer? He must be kept warm.”

“There’s not much I can do about it.” He walked to the closet, got another blanket, and spread it over the bed. “I have to go back up now, I’ll look in on him when I get the chance,” then Sam paused at the door and looked at Kathleen. “If you can think of anything to make him warmer, do it.”

Kathleen turned back to the bed. She bent and pressed her fingers to the pale lips of the man on the bed. They were cold and lifeless and Kathleen winced and straightened. She continued to look down at him and her heart filled with affection and concern for the man she had once loved so much. She stepped closer and slowly pulled back the covers. Kicking her shoes from her feet, she crawled into bed beside him. He didn’t move, had no idea she was there. Kathleen pulled the covers over both of them and moved closer to him. She curled her body to his lifeless form and gently put an arm around his waist. Her hand went up to the thick black hair, lingered for a second, and moved to his cold cheek. Then she carefully slipped the hand under his neck and around his shoulder, laying as close to him as she possibly could.

“You will not die,” she whispered, “I will make you live, Dawson, I will breathe life back into you,” and her warm mouth covered his icy lips. The lips under hers moved not at all, but she continued covering them with life-giving kisses, willing him to survive. She kissed the cold brown cheek and his neck and vowed to his still body that she would not let him leave her. Finally, the kisses stopped and she lay with her cheek to his. Her hand moved from his waist slowly up his body to the cameo he wore around his neck. She lightly fingered the cameo and the gold chain supporting it as her eyes closed.

Hunter’s handsome face came before her and she cried. She wept for the cold body laying against hers, for the man who had been her first dear and special love, the man who’d fathered her only child. She cried for Hunter under siege in Vicksburg, the man who was her husband, whom she had fallen in love with after all the patient years he had spent at her side, the man whose arms she had lain in earlier this very night and vowed to love until death. And she cried for herself, whose life had been torn between Dawson and Hunter for so long she was not certain she could ever be whole again. She belonged to both of them, would never be free of either, and neither would ever be satisfied to share her. Tears streamed down her cheeks as once again she turned to Dawson and said with her eyes still closed, her fingers still caressing the cameo around his neck, “Forgive me, Dawson. Forgive me, Hunter. Forgive me, God.”

Thirty-two

After Kathleen’s departure, Hunter lay down on his cot, his hands behind his head. He closed his eyes and recalled the silky blond hair falling into his face, the luminous blue eyes looking into his with love and trust, and the baby softness of her skin touching his own. Tired and happy, Hunter fell asleep with a smile on his gaunt, bronzed face.

Two hours later, he awoke feeling rested and refreshed. He summoned his orderly into the tent. “Private Bell, I want you to go below the cliffs where the townspeople’s caves are located. Make the necessary inquiries until you find a Mrs. Rachel Bost. You should have no problems, everyone in Vicksburg knows her. When you find her, ask her to accompany you back here to me.”

“Yes, sir. Rachel Bost. I’ll be back as soon as I find her.”

“Thanks, Bell.”

“Hunter, darling,” Rachel Bost smiled and hugged him.

“Mrs. Bost, it’s good to see you again. Are you making it all right? How is your health?”

“Honey, look at me, I’m as strong as an ox. But what about you, why, you’re little more than a scarecrow.” She shook her head and frowned. “Breaks my heart to see my boy so thin.”

Hunter smiled, “You’re not to worry, I’ve never felt better in my life. I’ve a favor I must ask you, that’s why I’ve called you here this morning.”

“Hunter, I’ll do anything for you, you’ve only to ask.”

“I’d hope you’d say that. Mrs. Bost, there’s a drummer boy in our regiment, he’s no more than ten years old, just a baby. I’ve reason to believe this day is going to be a violent one and I’d like you to take the boy with you. Keep him in the cave where he’ll be safe.”

“Is that all? Of course I’ll take him. Where is the lad?”

“I’ll get him,” Hunter smiled and went out to speak to Private Bell. Shortly, ten-year-old Joey Jonas entered the tent and stood at rigid attention before Hunter. A beautiful child with dark eyes and hair, small for his age, he reminded Hunter of Scotty.

“Drummer Jonas, at ease,” Hunter said to the boy.

“Yes, sir, Colonel Alexander.”

“Joey, I want you to do something very important,” Hunter put his hands on the child’s shoulders.

“Yes, sir, Colonel.”

“This kind lady here is Mrs. Rachel Bost. I’m asking you to accompany her home and stay with her, she needs your protection.”

“Colonel, I can’t do that!”

“Drummer Jonas, I’m ordering you to go with Mrs. Bost.”

Suddenly, the young soldier standing before Hunter turned into the little boy he was. The frown on his olive face showed his displeasure and soon tears filled his disappointed dark eyes as he shouted, “I’m not going! I’m staying here where I belong.”

Undaunted, Mrs. Bost took the little boy’s arm and smiled, “You’re going with me, Joey, so just dry those tears. Time’s wasting. You’ve got your orders, let’s go.”

“No, no,” the boy screamed and kicked.

“Goodbye, Hunter, I’ll take good care of him. I’ll keep him with me until this latest battle is over. There’s lots of children down at the caves. Why, by noon he’ll be having a good time.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Bost. Have Private Bell get Joey’s drum, I’m sure he’ll want to take it with him.”

She winked at Hunter and dragged the rebellious, unhappy young soldier from the tent.

Hunter sighed after they left and said aloud, “Son, I don’t care how angry you are, if it saves your life, it’s worth all your wrath.”

For weeks, the Federals had been boring a mine in front of the Confederate fort on the north side of Jackson Road. Although every endeavor had been made by the Rebs to foil their attempts, under the cover of darkness, the Union soldiers had succeeded in making an excavation large enough to protect them from hand grenades thrown by the Confederates. Powerless to stop the enemy from completing their mine, the Confederates set to work on a new line, built in the rear of the fort.

On this morning of June 25, the work was completed. The Confederates moved from the mined fort and took up their positions in the new line. Hunter and his brigade, along with the 3rd Louisiana, were stationed there. Hunter, dressed in his tattered gray tunic, the new yellow sash tied proudly around his waist, his saber strapped to his side, took up his post. He stepped into place and a chill ran up his spine, as though someone were walking over his grave. For the first time since that day in Gordonsville, Virginia, so long ago, Colonel Hunter Alexander was afraid. Kathleen’s visit had given him so much to live for, cold fingers of fear tickled his frail back.

Standing rigidly in line with his men, Hunter waited nervously for the battle he knew was going to take place. Just after noon, the Federals sprung the mine beneath the fort. A terrible explosion shook the ground under Hunter’s feet and large chunks of earth flew high into the air. The melee had begun.

“Men of the 3rd Mississippi, fix bayonets, fall into line, prepare to meet the enemy and die!” shouted their now-calm colonel. Heavy columns of Union soldiers rushed the gap blown in the works, determined to gain possession of the ruins. “North ramparts at one hundred yards, commence firing!” Hunter shouted. “Fire,” he commanded as the loudly cheering Federals stormed towards the ruptured fort. A hail of bullets greeted the advancing Union soldiers. “Independently fire at will,” Hunter shouted his last order, took aim, and began firing himself. A desperate, bloody battle ensued and the Confederates, woefully outnumbered, fought manfully, repelling the onslaught of the rushing blue tide. Close columns of Federals stormed over the parapets to be met by the defending Confederates.

The bloody battle was a severe test for the half-starved Confederates, but their courage never wavered as they met the enemy with valor and determination. While musketry and rifle fire filled the air in the raging encounter, Federal batteries in front and rear continued their cannonading. Hunter and the men under him bravely fought alongside the tough 3rd Louisiana, one of the best fighting regiments in the entire Confederacy. Calm and detached, Hunter fired his rifle at close range, mowing down the shouting Federals near enough to him that he could have whispered to them and they would have heard every word he said.

Fighting valiantly against the terrific odds, help arrived for the beleaguered, outnumbered southerners. Suddenly the 6th Missouri reinforced the regiments. Gladly, the men from Missouri rushed into the deafening melee. Hunter smiled as he watched them pouring in to help. A fresh young soldier stood next to Hunter, their slender shoulders touching. They exchanged glances briefly and, in the next instant, the young Missourian, hit by a Federal grenade, dropped to the ground. Wounded above the left elbow, the lower part of the young blond man’s arm lay limply at his side, almost severed. Hunter quickly dropped beside the fallen soldier, stripped off his new yellow sash and tied it tightly around the injured man’s upper arm, making a tourniquet.

“Thanks,” the still-conscious boy smiled.

“You’re welcome,” Hunter said and rose to fight again. Before he could get to his feet, the terrible sound of the whizzing minie ball greeted his ears. The unquestionable, close-at-hand sound of ‘bzzzzip’ was the last thing Colonel Hunter Alexander heard. He fell across the dying Missourian as the battle around them raged on.

Unmoved and unconquerable, the combined regiments of Mississippi, Louisiana, and Missouri turned back the defeated Federals. The Union suffered heavy losses in the desperate, hard-fought battle and, when the sun went down, large numbers of wounded and dying Union soldiers lay before the damaged works.

“Hunter,” Rachel Bost leaned close, pushing a lock of bloody blond hair from his forehead. Hunter lay on a cot in one of the field hospital tents, barely alive. Shrapnel from the exploding minie ball had pierced his forehead, cheek, left arm, and legs. White gauze, saturated with his blood, covered his left cheek and a similar bandage was wound around his head. His tunic had been cut away, his skinny chest was bandaged, and his injured left arm lay lifeless by his side. His face was gray, his brown eyes glazed. But he was conscious. “Hunter, darling,” Mrs. Bost tried again. He looked at her, but his eyes held only a dazed, questioning look. Rachel felt tears stinging her eyes and a black fear clutching her heart. “Darling, it’s me,” she whispered, trembling, “Rachel Bost, Hunter.” She took his right hand and pressed it to her cheek. “Oh, Hunter, are you all right, son?”

His lips began to move and she leaned closer, “I … I’m sorry,” he murmured, “I’m afraid you have the advantage, ma’am, I don’t know you.”

“Hunter, Hunter, Rachel Bost! Your dear mother’s friend. Your friend since you were a babe in arms.”

Hunter’s eyes peered into the kindly face of the woman bending over him, frustration and a sense of bewilderment written plainly on his damaged delicate features. “Hunter?” he whispered softly, “Hunter?”

“Oh, dear Lord,” Rachel clasped her hand over her mouth while the tears streamed from her worried eyes. Tenderly, she placed Hunter’s hand beside him and turned to a pan of clean water nearby. Wiping the tears from her eyes on the back of her hand, she dipped a cloth into the water. Turning back to Hunter, she pressed the cloth to his confused face and smiled into his eyes. Lovingly washing the blood stained-face and shell-torn body, she said, “Now don’t you worry, Hunter, darling. I’m going to take good care of you. Yes, I will, you’ll be fine, son.” Then she cast her eyes heavenward for a second and looked back down at him. The familiar brown eyes stared at her in confusion as she whispered, “I’ll take care of your body, we’ll leave it up to our Heavenly Father to take care of your mind.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Hunter answered meekly and passed out.

The siege continued and once again the Federals mined and blew up the damaged fort. On June 29, at four in the afternoon, the explosion could be heard throughout the lines. The Federals succeeded in breeching the ramparts, but they did not storm the works. The 3rd Louisiana, occupying the line throughout, suffered great losses, but willingly held their line, refusing to give up their position against every effort by the Federals to force them back. When the siege had begun, 450 men made up the regiment of the 3rd Louisiana. Only 250 were left when the day came to an end.

By July 2, 1863, rumors of Grant’s intention to storm and take Vicksburg, at long last, began circulating among the soldiers and townspeople alike. Starving and badly beaten, the Confederates knew there was little hope of holding out much longer without outside help. To a man they remained determined to fight on to the end, the thought of surrender repugnant to the proud southerners.