Reincarnation (17 page)

Pottery shop where I work. I was happy enough to get the job for, as you well know, I love

making the pots like they taught us at the orphanage. The kiln shoots jets of fire just outside

the building. I can see the flames through the window. Each time I see the flame jumping

up, I nearly faint from terror. Jane says that I'm like a crazy person about fire but I can't help it.

That's probably why I started taking the laudanum, my nerves being shot from my fear of

fire. I got a doctor to get it for me to treat my bad ankle, which still gives out on me at the

worst times. I hope it doesn't give me a problem during the fighting -- my ankle I mean, not

the laudanum. To be totally honest, I look forward to taking the laudanum as it more or less

puts me in another world.

Well, maybe I'll run into you. I hope so. The only thing I'll miss from my present life is my

cat, who I call Baby. He's the

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pottery shop's cat, really, but I've made him my pet. I don't suppose pets are allowed in the

army. I can tell you that I'm exceedingly happy to be getting out of here.

Your brother, John

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The Battle of Honey Springs, Indian Territory, July 17, 1863

John Mays looked across the field from which he'd just come. The Confederate soldiers were

still in their line, muskets at the ready, but they'd sat down to rest.

Looking around, he gazed over miles of rolling hills dotted with stands of trees and a river.

He'd seen more countryside in the last six months than in his entire life spent in the city, but

he had never expected that the fighting would take him this far away. Honey Springs wasn't

even in a state. It was Indian Territory.

This battle had been going on for over an hour and the Confederate infantry forces under

General Douglas Cooper were tough. And they weren't only the regular rebel troops, either;

they had independent Texas regiments and the Indians fighting with them. Some Cherokee

were fighting with the north; Choctaw, Creek, Chickasaw, and Seminole were all fighting

with the South. The Indians called this area Elk Creek.

He was already exhausted. They'd marched all night through the rain to get to the fort. Plus,

he was out of laudanum, which was bad. He hadn't realized how much he'd come to depend

on it. Without the stuff, he really felt like death.

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The Union cavalry soldiers on horseback milled together not far away. Like the foot soldiers,

they were temporarily resting themselves and their horses, readying to return to battle.

John didn't know if he could go back into battle again. His ankle, which had always been

weak, now throbbed. Yanking up his pant leg, he saw that it had swollen to more than twice

its usual size. It had started to hurt during the long walk last night and he'd turned it during

the first advance, but still he'd pushed himself to keep going. Now he stood and his ankle

instantly buckled under, dropping him down onto one knee.

He was still down when he saw a line of fresh Union infantry troops march past him,

advancing on the enemy. They were African soldiers! Some of them might have been

freeborn, especially out here in the territories, but others of them had to be freed slaves.

"Who are they?" he asked a nearby soldier.

"Kansas First Regiment," the soldier answered. His cartridge pouch was out and he was

reloading his musket. "All volunteer colored infantry under James Lane."

"Can they fight?" he asked.

The soldier shrugged. "I sure hope so."

John's regiment was ordered to stand their ground as skirmishers, taking on any rebel

troops that broke through the line. Meanwhile the African soldiers, with aid from the

Cherokee, advanced on the enemy straight on.

The Kansas First marched to within fifty paces of the

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Confederates and opened fire. They exchanged a volley of gunfire that filled the air with

smoke.

Lou Jones was at the front of the Union line, her musket pointed forward, ready. With her

black hair cut short and her slim, athletic physique, she looked like a boy, a soldier boy. In

her Union gray uniform, nobody but she knew any different. The rain had begun coming

down hard now. Her uniform was heavy. Even if it got soaked, it wouldn't cling and give her

away. But she would have to reload soon and she was concerned about her gunpowder

getting wet.

Between the driving rain and the gray, gunpowder-thick air, she couldn't see much. She shot

straight ahead, into the enemy line, letting her ears guide her.

Crouching there on the field, she drew a cartridge from the supply case slung over her

shoulder. As she'd been trained to do, she bit off the part of the paper cartridge that held

the bullet. Clasping the bullet between her teeth, she cocked the gun and poured some of

the powder from the cartridge into the priming pan.

She was about to spit the bullet into the gun barrel and ram it down with the ramrod

attached to the musket when a Cherokee warrior came flying off his horse, hurtling through

the air. Before she could dodge, he crashed on top of her as his horse ran off wildly into the

field.

Rolling out from under the dead man, she scrambled for her gun, which lay cocked, several

feet away.

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A rebel soldier stepped in front of her, blocking the path to the gun. Looking up, his hate-

filled eyes blazed down at her as he lifted his gun to fire.

She knew that face.

A flush of humiliation and rage overcame her. One of her terrible headaches was

threatening, beginning to throb in the right-hand corner of her temple.

No!
she commanded it. She could not be disabled by a headache at this moment.

This man before her would not win. "Not this time!" she shouted at him as she scooped up the bow and quiver of arrows that the fallen Cherokee had flung to the ground. With a

knowledge seemingly born in her body, she deftly, fluidly loaded the bow and shot the

arrow at the rebel soldier.

His gun went off, ripping the skin from her forehead as he staggered backward.

Blood pouring down her face, Lou grabbed for her gun and stood. The soldier lay in the

field on his stomach.

And then he moaned, not dead!

Her gun was not yet reloaded so she grabbed another arrow, positioned it, and drew the

bow, aiming down at him.

It was her moment to finish him.

But, strangely, she felt no desire to do it.

Coming to consciousness, he rolled around. His eyes widened as he looked up and saw her

there. It was at that moment she realized the Confederate infantry, the Texas

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regiment, and the Indian troops were retreating, fleeing the field.

The rebel she had cornered raced away, clutching his shoulder with the arrow still jutting

from it.

She could have easily hit him again, but she lowered her bow. Watching them run from the

field, she felt fully satisfied.

The field doctor had sent John down to the river to soak his ankle in the icy running water.

He put his hand on his musket, sensing someone's approach, but relaxed when he saw it

was only a soldier from the Kansas First Regiment. He was a young soldier, thin with not yet

even the trace of a beard. John guessed he had lied about his age in order to join his

regiment.

"Your men fought well out there today," he complimented the soldier. "After this battle, there can be no doubt that you men are fine soldiers. I heard General Blunt say so himself. I

think he's going to write as much in his report, too."

The young soldier nodded. John could see that his face was covered in dried blood. A

horrific purple gash crossed his forehead. Whatever he'd been through, he was no doubt

lucky to be alive. The soldier crouched by the stream a few yards away and began to splash

his face with water, washing the caked blood from his face.

John pushed himself up and hobbled to the boy. "That's a nasty-looking gash on your

forehead," he commented. He

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pulled a clean handkerchief from his inside pocket. "Here, take this. It will make the job

easier."

"Thanks," the young soldier mumbled, soaking the handkerchief in the river.

John sat beside him, feeling oddly comfortable, perhaps because they had just come

through such an ordeal together. He was surprised at his level of ease. He had never met a

colored person before, though he'd seen some slaves and freeborn artisans in the city. He'd

never actually spoken to someone from another race other than his own.

"How'd you come to join your regiment?" John asked, picking up a lump of mud from the

riverbank and squeezing it absently. Its cold wetness was soothing in his rough hand, like

the wet clay in Pfeiffer's Pottery Shop.

"Just volunteered," the young soldier answered, looking away. "Seemed like the right thing to do."

"You freeborn or slave-born?" John asked.

The boy's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Freeborn," he answered, standing. "Mind if I keep the handkerchief for a while?" He pressed it to his wound.

"Sure. Keep it," John answered.

"Thanks." The young soldier hurried off and John had the feeling he couldn't get away fast enough.

In her small tent within the fort courtyard, Lou listened to the silence in her head. Despite

the ache in her

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bloodied forehead, the high whine of headache pain she'd grown accustomed to was not

present.

She dared not even breathe or move, fearing that the slightest change in her position would

bring the headaches scorching back.

Steeling her nerves, she turned her head, first to the right, then to the left.

No pain.

Since birth she'd suffered the worst headaches -- blinding pain that nauseated her, made

light itself splinter into shards. Any kind of hardship or upset would bring it on.

But now she had no pain -- at least not in her head.

Her side was hot, though, right at her lower abdomen. It wasn't her time of month; that had

passed. It was something else and it wasn't right. Unbuckling her pants, she pushed them

down, revealing the blue-black birthmark at her side, the one that her mama said looked

like a stab wound. She poked her side tenderly. Ow!

After a moment of lying there, breathing deeply, the pain subsided enough that she felt

able to go out to get food.

Outside in the courtyard, the men were up and about, eating the chipped beef being served

by the regimental cooks at a long, rough-hewn table. A bonfire roared at the center of the

courtyard, turning the men into dark silhouettes with the occasional vivid face jumping into

clarity as a soldier was illuminated by the flame.

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There was boisterous singing of off-color ditties. Uproarious laughter exploded into the

night. High spirits over the day's victory overpowered any fatigue.

Lou smiled and nodded at the others in her regiment as she loaded her plate. Usually, the

Kansas First Regiment ate a bit away from the others, never knowing what kind of reception

they'd receive from the white soldiers, and preferring the ease they experienced only among

one another.

It was different for Lou, though. She remained aloof even among her own regiment. None

of these men suspected that she was female, and that was how it had to stay.

Tonight the Kansas First seemed to have dropped much of their wary guard. Earlier, General

Blunt had praised their courage and military skill in front of all the regiments. Now they

laughed and joked with the white soldiers, who in turn praised them with high spirits.

They were drinking beer, and soon General Blunts assistant appeared with an oak barrel of

whiskey. This was met with an uproar of cheering.

Lou accepted the whiskey that was poured into her tin mess cup, but discreetly poured it

into the dirt at her feet. Letting the whiskey ease her into an unguarded moment could have

disastrous consequences.

After a few rowdy songs by members of the cavalry, the Kansas First soldiers were called

upon to sing. They began a spiritual called "Swing Lo, Sweet Chariot." A lot of the other soldiers knew it and sang along.

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While they were singing, Lou felt thirsty and searched for something nonalcoholic to drink.

Remembering a pump she'd seen back by the fort's outer wall, she left the warmth of the

bonfire to pick her way through the shadows to get some water.

In the darkness by the pump she was quickly aware of an even darker form a few feet away.

He was vomiting violently onto the ground.

She quickly pumped some water into her tin cup and brought it to him. "Hey, have this," she offered.

The sick man was the same soldier she'd met down by the river. Wiping his mouth with his

sleeve, he gulped from the cup and spit into the dirt. "Thanks."

"Hope it wasn't that chipped beef," she said with a hearty laugh. "I just finished a plate of it."

He shook his head. "No. It's the fire. It's part of the problem, anyway."

"The fire?"

He sat down heavily on a rough-hewn bench close by. "I'm scared to death of it, always

have been. I'm also out of the stuff I take for the pain in my ankle. Laudanum."

"What happened to the ankle?"

"Nothing. It's always been a bum ankle. The laudanum is supposed to help the pain. I've

been on the stuff so long that being without it is making me real sick."

"Ask the doctor for some," she suggested.