Shattered Lives (Flynn Family Saga Book 1) (6 page)

Hank nodded.  He went into the shed and lay down
next to the Major.

Sam smiled at Flynn.  “Thank you.”

Flynn turned and looked at the ashes of the raft. 
He sighed and entered the shack.  He lay down on the other side of Hank.  He
slept, but his dreams were filled with the screams of the wounded and dying.

*  *  *

In February, the order came to leave Belle Isle. 
The guards marched them onto boats, which took them to Richmond.  There, they
were herded into boxcars, which headed south.

Four days later, they arrived in Atlanta.

Of the eighty men who had entered the boxcar, only
fifty-nine survived.

Flynn, Ben and Sam were among them.

Hank was not.

Sam wept openly as he closed Hank’s eyes.  He bowed
his head.  Ben did the same.  When he spoke, Sam’s voice was hoarse with
emotion.  “Lord, you saw fit to take Hank from us.  Please take better care of
him than I could.  Thank you.  Amen.”

Ben raised his head.  “Amen.”  He put on his hat.

Flynn waited until he was alone with Hank.  Then, he
chanted the Lakota prayer for the dead.  When he finished, he put on his hat
and followed Sam and Ben out of the boxcar.

They marched wearily to a stockade.  A hastily
painted sign named the place Camp Sumter.  When they entered the camp, it
smelled even worse than Belle Isle.  For a moment, Sam’s shoulders sagged. 
Then, he pulled himself upright and walked through the gate.

Flynn followed him.

As soon as he passed through the gate, two men
grabbed him.  Brooks pummeled him with his fists.  Flynn endured it until he
lost consciousness.  He came to with Sam bending over him.  “Are you all right,
son?”

Flynn nodded.

Sam patted his pockets and swore softly.

“What is it, Major?”

Sam looked away.  “It was just a locket, but I’ve
had it a long time.”

Ben’s eyes widened, and he felt in vest pocket.  “Emma!”

Sam turned to him.  “Your wife?”

Ben nodded.  “She had a daguerreotype made of her,
just before I left.  Those bastards took it.”

Flynn got up and started after Brooks and his men.

Sam grabbed his arm.  “No, son.  Let them go.  What
matters is that we’re all right.”

Flynn hesitated.

“Come on.  If we hurry, we might get a tent.”  Sam’s
grip tightened on his arm.

With a sigh, Flynn followed him into the camp.

That night, when both Ben and Sam were asleep, Flynn
crept silently into the darkness.  He found Brooks easily.  He took his belt
out of its loops and wrapped around Brooks’ neck.

The man woke with a start.  He stared at Flynn with
eyes wide with terror.

Flynn smiled.  “Now, you are going to give back what
you stole, and you are going to leave Sam and Ben alone.  Do you understand me?”

Brooks nodded.  His hand fumbled in his pocket.  The
locket glinted in the firelight.  Flynn nodded once.  He tightened the belt
again.  Brooks handed over the daguerreotype.  Flynn continued to tighten the
belt until Brooks lost consciousness.  Then, he walked silently back to Sam and
Ben.  He opened the locket.  It contained a picture of a woman with hair the
color of honey.  She had high cheekbones and an aristocratic look to her. 
There was something familiar about her.  The daguerreotype showed a woman with
a plain, wholesome face.  He drew a deep breath and woke Ben.

Ben stared at him.  “Flynn?”

Flynn nodded.  He held out the daguerreotype.  Tears
glistened in Ben’s eyes.  He touched the picture reverently.

Flynn squeezed Ben’s shoulder.

“Can’t a man get any sleep around here?”

Sam’s bass growl startled Flynn.  He turned to the
Major and held out the locket.

Sam’s hand shook as he took the locket.  “Kate,” he
whispered.

“Your wife?”

Sam shook his head.  “No.  She married someone else.”

Flynn looked away from the raw pain in the older man’s
face.  “I’m sorry.”

Sam sighed.  “It was a long time ago.  Get some
sleep, son.”

Flynn nodded.  He curled up next to the Major. 
Eventually, he slept.

They got nothing to eat that day or the next.  One
of the guards came over to them.  He cut up an apple into thirds with his knife
and handed it to them.

Sam nodded to him.  “Thank you, son.  What’s your
name?”

“Joseph O’Malley, sir.”

“Well, Corporal O’Malley, we are in your debt.”  Sam
touched the brim of his cap.

O’Malley shook his head.  “No sir.  What we are
doing here is wrong.”

Sam laid his hand on O’Malley’s shoulder.  “Son,
this isn’t your fault.”

The corporal opened his mouth and shut it again
without speaking.  He turned and continued his rounds.

The three men ate the apple slowly.  Flynn savored
the sweet juice.  The scent reminded him of Maude and Hector and pies cooling
on the windowsill, and his eyes filled with tears.

But he could not cry.

CHAPTER
SIX

The days blurred into one another.  Flynn was always
hungry.  It was a little warmer in Georgia, but not much.  Three weeks after
they arrived in Camp Sumter, Sam fell ill.

“Cholera.”  Ben looked up at Flynn.  “Do you know
any Indian medicine for cholera?”

Flynn shook his head.  He stood up and went in
search of Corporal O’Malley.  He found the young man supervising the daily
burial detail.  “Corporal O’Malley, Major Anders is sick.”

“Cholera?”

Flynn nodded.

O’Malley sighed wearily and stared at the linen-wrapped
bodies.  “That’s what they died of.  I’m sorry, Lieutenant Flynn.”

Fear pooled like icy water in his belly.  Flynn
turned away.  Then, he turned back.  “Is there any chance of getting us some
laudanum?”

O’Malley hesitated.  “I’ll see what I can do.”  He
turned and walked away.

Flynn sighed and went back to the Major.

That night, Sam’s fever rose, and Ben couldn’t stop
vomiting.  Flynn paced.  “There has to be something we can do!”

“You can pray.”

Flynn turned.  Corporal O’Malley stood behind him. 
The little man pushed a small vial into Flynn’s hands.  Then, he turned and
disappeared into the night.

Flynn bowed his head a moment, weak with relief. 
Then, he went back to Sam.  He poured a few drops into the Major’s mouth.  Sam
choked, but he swallowed the medicine.  Then, Flynn lifted Ben’s head and
dribbled a few drops into his mouth.  Ben made a face and tried to spit it out,
but he was too dehydrated.

Sam began to mumble.  “Kate!”

Flynn took Sam’s hand.  It was hot and dry.  “Hang
on, Major.  Hang on.”

In the morning, Sam’s fever was down, and Ben had
stopped vomiting.

Sam opened his eyes.  Slowly, they focused on
Flynn.  “Thank you, son.”

“For what?”

Sam drew a deep breath.  “I remember now.  You went
to one of the guards and brought something back.”  He grimaced.  “It tasted
awful, and I had terrible dreams.”

Flynn smiled faintly.  “That was laudanum.  And you
can thank Corporal O’Malley for it, not me.”

Sam smiled back.  He shut his eyes.  “I think I
could sleep a little.”

Flynn nodded.  He pulled the blanket up to Sam’s
chin.

“He’ll live?”

Flynn turned.  Ben was sitting up, and his eyes were
clear.  Flynn nodded.

Ben shut his eyes.  “Thank God.”

Flynn looked away.

Sam lived, but he was very weak.  Every week more
men entered the camp.  Every week, there was less food.  Summer came, and insects
plagued them, carrying even more diseases.  Sam got sick again.

Flynn stared at the Dead Line, a stretch of bare
earth between the tents and the wall.  He watched as the new prisoners were
brought into the south gate. 

He looked toward the north gate.

All the guards had moved to the south gate.

Slowly, he smiled.

*  *  *

On the last day of June, Flynn spoke quietly to Ben
and Sam.  “I’m going to create a diversion when the prisoners come in
tomorrow.  Be ready to run for it.”

“Son, we aren’t going without you.”  Sam laid his
huge hand on Flynn’s shoulder.

Flynn shook his head.  “I’m the youngest.  I have
the best chance of surviving this place.”  He forced a grin.  “I’ll meet up
with you in St. Jo in time to help you form that wagon train.”

Sam nodded.  He drew a deep breath.  “Be careful,
son.”

Flynn nodded solemnly.  “I will.”

And so, eighteen days before his twentieth birthday,
Flynn edged as close to the south gate as he could get.  He waited until the
guards opened the gates.

Then, he ran toward the opening.  He fully expected
to be shot.

Instead, Brooks knocked him down and held him until
the guards came over to him.  They beat him, which he expected.  He clenched
his teeth and protected his belly.

And then he heard the shout from the north gate.

Despite the pain from the beating, Flynn smiled.

Furious, the guards beat him harder.  Flynn held out
as long as he could, but he soon lost consciousness.

For the first time since he was at Lewisburg, he
dreamed of the large white house that stood on a hill overlooking a green
valley.  He heard the sound of water and the laughter of children.  Someone
took his hand.  Her hand was strong and brown from the sun, and when she
touched him, he knew he was safe and loved.

Flynn woke up in the Hole.  He was cold and hungry. 
His ribs ached, and rain dripped down the sides of the Hole, turning the floor
into a foul mixture of mud and excrement.

But now, he had something to live for.  He wanted to
build that white house and find the woman with strong, brown hands.  He wanted
to have children and raise them beside that clear stream.

He shut his eyes and slept.

*  *  *

At least once a week, the guards beat him.

Then, he got sick.  He was feverish, and he dreamed
of the day his father died.  He drew his knife and tried to kill Pathfinder,
but the knife turned into a snake in his hand and bit him.

Flynn cried out.

Joseph O’Malley woke him.  The little guard wore a
plaid shirt and Levi's.  He held out his uniform.  “The trousers are too short,
but I’m pretty sure the tunic will fit you, at least well enough to pass in the
dark.”

Flynn shook his head.  “I can’t.  You’ll be court-martialed.”

O’Malley shrugged.  “It’s all right.”  He met Flynn’s
gaze levelly.  “Even if they execute me, it’s all right.  The things I did when
I first became a guard...well, let’s just say I’d like to make reparations.”

Flynn nodded solemnly.  “Good luck.”

O’Malley nodded back.  “You too.”  The two men shook
hands.  Then Flynn took off his shirt and pulled on the tunic.  The sleeves
were several inches too short, but O’Malley handed him a pair of gloves that
covered his thin wrists.

Flynn got up.  He turned back once.  “Thank you.”

“Go!  Before I lose my nerve!”

Flynn nodded.  He hesitated.  Then, he hit O’Malley
in the jaw as hard as he could.  The little man looked surprised as he fell
backward.  Flynn knelt.  O’Malley was unconscious, but his heartbeat was
strong.  Then, Flynn walked slowly out of the north gate.  As soon as he left
the city limits, he began to run.  He stole a shirt and a pair of trousers. 
They were big in the waist, but at least they were long enough.  He started to
walk north.  He had no food, no water, no plans.  For a long time, he simply
enjoyed the freedom of being able to walk in any direction he wanted.  He
trapped a rabbit and cooked it over an open fire.  The meat was stringy and
tough, but he thought it tasted better than the food he used to eat at Black
Birches.

Flynn continued to walk northward.  He had a vague
idea of reaching St. Jo, but before he got out of Georgia, he ran into a Union
patrol.  “Halt!  Who goes there?”

Flynn raised his hands.  “I am Lieutenant Robert
Sean Flynn of the South Carolina First Battalion.”

“Deserter?”

“No sir.  I was imprisoned in Camp Sumter.”

“Camp Sumter?”  The captain dismounted and came over
to him.

“Yes sir.”

The captain rubbed his chin.  “What the hell were
you doing in a Confederate prison camp?”

Flynn sighed.  “It’s a long story, sir.”

The captain nodded.  He turned to one of his men.  “Sergeant,
take this man into custody.”

“Yes sir.”

Flynn sighed.  Once again, he was a prisoner of
war.  But this time, he was treated well.  The sergeant took him back to camp. 
He was allowed to bathe and shave, and he ate with the other soldiers.  The
sergeant was an older man with a full beard.  “How did you escape?”

Flynn sopped up the gravy with a slice of bread.  “It’s
a long story.”

The sergeant grinned.  “We’ve got all night.”

Flynn laughed.  “All right.”  He began with meeting
Sam on Belle Isle.

“Major Sam Anders?”  The sergeant raised his bushy
eyebrows.

Flynn nodded.

The sergeant shook his head.  “Who would have
figured?  I served under him until he was captured.  It’s good to hear he’s
alive.”

“He was when I last saw him, but he escaped Camp Sumter
about a month ago, and I don’t know what happened to him after that.”

“My name’s Frank Lennox.”  The sergeant held out his
hand.

“Robert Sean Flynn.”  He took Frank’s hand.

“What in tarnation were you doing in a Confederate
prison camp?”  Frank pulled up a barrel and sat down next to Flynn.

Flynn sighed.  “I was seconded to the South Carolina
First Battalion.”

“The Sharpshooters?”

Flynn nodded again.

Frank whistled.  “Boy, I sure am glad I never came
up against you fellas in combat.  Were you there at the battle of Fort Wagner?”

Flynn looked away.  “Yes, but I was in the
guardhouse at the time.”

“Drunk and disorderly?”

Flynn shook his head.

“Then it must have been a woman.”

Flynn looked back at Frank.  “How did you know?”

Frank shrugged.  “There are only two reasons for
being in the guard house, drinking and women.  Sometimes both.”

Flynn laughed again.  “Well, it was just a woman.” 
He sobered.  “No, not just a woman.  The most extraordinary woman I’ve ever
known.”  His voice broke, and his eyes burned with tears.

Frank patted his should awkwardly.  “You must be
wore out.  Get some sleep, Lieutenant.”

Flynn nodded.  He rolled up in a blanket, but
whenever he closed his eyes, he saw Jennie’s body, hanging from a rope.

*  *  *

A month later, he stood in a military courtroom in a
tent outside of Atlanta.

The major in charge read the affidavits of Sergeant
Lennox and his commanding officer, Captain Burr.  He shook his head.  “As much
as I would like to believe your story, Lieutenant Flynn, without the
corroboration of Major Anders or Lieutenant Brewster, I cannot, in good
conscience, release you.  You are hereby remanded to the prison camp at Point
Lookout.”

Guards led Flynn from the courtroom.  A week later,
he arrived at Point Lookout, but he had barely gotten settled in when the
guards rounded up nearly a thousand prisoners.

Flynn stopped one of the guards.  “Where are we
going?”

“Shut up!”  The guard struck him with the butt of
his rifle.  Flynn fell.  He struggled to his feet.  Someone helped him stand.

“Flynn?”  The older man looked surprised.

Flynn frowned.  “You look familiar, but...”

“It’s me.  Corporal Addison.  From Fort Wagner. 
Remember?”

Pain kicked Flynn in the gut, and he turned away.

The older man touched his back gently.  “I was real
sorry about Miss Jennie.”

Flynn stiffened.  “Don’t.”

Addison sighed.  “I’m sorry, Lieutenant.”

Flynn turned back to him and smiled wanly.  “Don’t
worry, Corporal.  I won’t hold a grudge.  I found out at Belle Isle that we
have to stick together to survive.”

Addison nodded.

The train lurched forward.

*  *  *

Two days later, they stopped in a town on a river. 
Flynn stared out at the water.  Lights gleamed from the windows of the homes
that lined the streets.  A sign at the station read, “Port Jervis, New York.”

Corporal Addison rubbed the sleep from his eyes.  “Where
are we?”

“New York.”

“Elmira?”

Flynn shook his head.  “We’ve got a long way to go
yet.”

Addison nodded.  He curled up and fell asleep.

Flynn envied him.  He lay awake, wondering what had
happened to Ben and Sam.

At dawn, the train lurched forward again.  Flynn
dozed as the train moved.  The motion was soothing.  The car began to heat up
as the sun rose, and thirst woke him.  He looked out of the window.

Sunlight filtered through gray clouds.  The railroad
wound beside a river.  Tall pines lined the river and the mountains to the
north of it.  The tracks entered a deep cut, obscuring Flynn’s view.

A sudden violent jolt threw Flynn onto the floor. 
The scream of tortured metal mingled with the screams of injured men.  The
walls of the car splintered.  A few men ran toward the pines.

Flynn got to his feet.  He started after the
escapees.  A moan stopped him in his tracks.  He turned back to the car.

Addison and a dozen other men lay bleeding on the
floor.

Flynn sighed and turned back to the wounded.  He
used strips from his shirt to bind their wounds.  Then, when he used the last
shred of cloth, he stripped the dead of their shirts.  He was still working
with the wounded when the townspeople arrived.  They picked up the wounded Confederate
prisoners and carried them away.

Flynn stood numbly beside the tracks and watched as
they carried Addison toward the town.  He sank down onto the ground.

One of the Union guards prodded him with his rifle. 
“Get up, Reb.”

For a moment, rage burned through Flynn.  His hands
curled into fists.  Slowly, he forced his hands open.  He let the guard take
him to another train.  He boarded it and waited.

In the morning, they loaded a few of the wounded
onto the train.  Addison was one of them.

Flynn sat beside his friend.  “How are you?”

“Banged up a little, but I’ll live.  You?”

Flynn shrugged.

“Where are we now?”

Flynn shook his head.  “Pennsylvania.”  He took a
notebook out of the pocket of his stolen shirt and sketched a map.  “Three
states touch right here:  New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania...”

Two days later, the train arrived in Elmira.

At first, it was a huge improvement over Camp Sumter. 
There were only a thousand prisoners.  The guards were reasonably civil, and
Flynn began to think that he might survive the war after all.  But every day,
trains stopped in Elmira, and more prisoners entered the camp.  By the end of
the month, the camp was full.