Kathy Otten - Redemption of a Cavalier/Otten-RCavalier.htm

The Wild Rose Press www.thewildrosepress.com

Copyright 2007 by Kathleen H. Johnson

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Redemption Of A Cavalier by Kathy Otten

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Redemption Of A Cavalier

COPYRIGHT

2007 by Kathleen H. Johnson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

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Cover Art by Nicola Martinez

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Publishing History

First American Rose Edition, February 2007

Published in the United States of America

Two hours before dawn, six sharpshooters in Confederate gray, climbed over the outer breastworks of their own line near the Ni River. They scurried low through the mist, into trees shrouded in darkness and fog. Their sergeant used hand signals to disperse the group, fanning them out in a line to the left and right of himself.

Wesley Cole gave a curt nod to acknowledge the instructions and took up his position at the end of the line, about a hundred feet from the private next to him. He sprawled flat on his belly, behind the stump of a newly felled oak tree. Though it was May, a steady rain the day before had drenched the ground, chilling him to the bone as he lay waiting for dawn.

He carried a Whitworth rifle, an English gun known for its superior accuracy. He'd used this weapon for three years, and knew its idiosyncrasies as well as he knew himself.

In the pre-gray of dawn, the silhouette of an abandoned house took shape just off to his right. Seeking a more strategic position, Wes dashed through the yard to the back door. He ducked inside and flattened himself against the wall of the kitchen. Dirty dishes littered a plank table in the center of the room. Cautiously, he moved to the cast iron stove. He checked the ashes. Cold. Feeling relatively safe he started up the stairs.

At the top he turned left and froze. Poking out from behind the partially closed door of the nearest bedroom was the long barrel of a Hawken rifle. The edge of a faded blue skirt with no crinoline was the only clue Wes had to help him identify the person aiming the old flintlock.

"Stop right there. Though she tried to sound tough her southern drawl softened the hard edge of her command. Put your gun down and leave this house."

"Ma'am, I mean you no harm. I don't know why you're here but it isn't safe."

There was a long pause then from behind the door came an incredulous question. Wes?"

Nonplused he stared. Who are you?"

Slowly the barrel lowered, and the door swung inward. A young woman stepped out from behind it.

His mouth dropped open in shock. Abby?"

She wore her wheat blonde hair pulled back into a simple long braid. Her dress was faded and patched, and hung loose on her too thin body. Her eyes were the same soft brown, but a few tiny lines around the corners lent her an aura of maturity he found more appealing than the bright-eyed innocence she'd had at sixteen.

He almost reached out to embrace her, but checked the impulse. Instead he latched onto the memory of Manassas, flogging himself with haunting images of the battle, grinding them like salt into his wounded soul, making certain he would never forget that what he'd done that day had torn their love apart forever.

She took a hesitant step forward, her brown eyes searching his face. You've been well?"

"Disappointed?"

She gasped and stepped back as though he'd struck her. Oh, Wes, can you ever forgive me for writin that hateful letter? We were all so young. We didn't understand what war was. It was all supposed to be so glorious. Our boys were goin to fire their guns and send the Yankees runnin back north. No one was supposed to die. It wasn't your fault. Matthew would have died even if you had been standin right beside him."

"But I wasn't was I? Self-loathing laced his words with bitterness. No, I ran to the rear and hid behind a tree snivelin like a Goddamn baby."

"But, Wes...."

He blew out a long breath of air. Abby what are you doin here?"

"There was a battle near our farm and when Mama and I returned, the house was burned and our cornfield was destroyed. So we came here, to stay with Mama's cousin Ruth and her Aunt Mae."

"But why are you alone? Abby, this house is in the middle of a damn battlefield."

"I know. We heard the guns up toward Wilderness Tavern a week ago, and it's been gettin closer every day. Mama, Ruth and Aunt Mae left Monday afternoon, but I couldn't find my...."

Abby drew in a deep breath and lifted her eyes to met his. I tried to contact you, but you'd stopped writin', and no one knew where you were. I wanted you to know, I really did. I tried so hard to find you...."

She squared her shoulders and blurted out the words, Wes, you have a son."

She disappeared behind the door. He heard some soft scuffling and Abby's crooning voice. Come-on darlin', you can come out now. Your Papa is here to help us."

Wes stood at the top of the stairs suddenly feeling as if he'd been kicked in the chest by a mule. To find Abby here in the midst of all this insanity was shock enough, but this? A son?

He stood blinking in disbelief even as she returned, having exchanged her Hawken for the brown haired, blue eyed boy on her hip.

"His name is Trevor. He turned two in March. His whole life has been war and Yankees and bein afraid. When we heard the Yankees were comin', we packed up to leave, but Trevor hid. I told Mama I'd catch up, but by the time I found him, I didn't know which way was safe."

"Well I have to get you back behind our lines. Our army has built breastwork around most of Spotsylvania Court House. It's quiet right now, but we have to hurry."

The sun was rising, lighting the area around the house. Across the room, a window looked out over the front yard and road. Through it, a flash of movement caught his attention and he shoved past Abby.

Slamming his back flat against the wall, he carefully turned his head to peer through the glass. About fifty Yankees were marching through the field toward the house. We have to get out of here. Now!"

Abby's face went white. Wes grabbed her old Hawken from along the wall, ushered her out in front of him and down the stairs.

"The root cellar! Abby cried as they ran into the kitchen. We've been hidin in there!"

"No. That'll be the first place they'll check."

"Then you take Trevor and hide. I'll stay here. I'll tell them I'm all alone."

Wes froze. He lifted his chin and glared at her, his tone cold and brittle. I don't run anymore."

He shoved aside his regret for the harsh words, for the confusion in Abby's face, and the trace of fear he glimpsed in the eyes of his small son. Offering no apology, he pushed them toward the back door.

Cautiously, he opened the portal and peered outside. Apparently the Yankees were still in front. He searched for the other skirmishers who had come with him, and caught a glimpse of shadows darting into the trees.

"Abby, when I say go, run as fast as you can through those trees. Our first line of breastwork will be on the other side. Wait for me. I'll catch up."

Abby bit her lip and shook her head. No, Wes, we'll go together. You don't have to prove anythin to me."

But he had to prove it to himself. He wasn't a coward!

He stared at her for several heartbeats. He never blamed her for breaking their engagement; he knew she deserved better than him. But this war was so uncertain, their lives all so fragile he wondered if they'd stay safe, if he'd ever see them againAbby or the boy.

Overcome with an impulse he couldn't control, he stepped toward her, his free hand reaching out to grasp the nape of her neck, pulling mother and son against his chest. Surprised, Abby's mouth dropped open as his lips swooped down to claim hers. His tongue probed deep, urgently twining with hers, as he tried desperately to say with his kiss what he couldn't say with words. I'll always love you. I'll die protecting you. Then just as abruptly he pulled away. He turned and scanned the distance to the trees one more time. Abby, go!"

She blinked, her brown eyes slightly dazed. Wes?"

"I'll be right behind you. Now go! She ran.

He watched her for briefest of moments, then dashed to the front parlor window, snatching up Abby's old Hawken in his left hand as he ran. He leaned his Whitworth rifle against the wall and used the butt of the Hawken to smash out the bottom pane of glass. The Yankees were in the yard.

At the sound of shattering glass, a corporal yelled. Someone's in the house!"

Wes pulled back the hammer, and praying Abby had loaded it correctly, aimed and squeezed the trigger. The corporal went down. The others returned fire. He picked up his Whitworth, aimed and fired again. Another man dropped, but Wes didn't wait to see him fall. His rifle in hand, he raced through the house and out the back door.

He made it half way to the trees, before they realized he was no longer in inside and gave chase. He heard shots behind him, but kept running. A bullet plowed through his right side. The force of its impact pitched him forward into the wet grass. Resolved to see Abby and Trevor safe, he pushed to his feet and continued running.

There was a lull as the Yankees reloaded, then they were pursuing him again. His fellow sharpshooters returned fire as he sprinted toward them, keeping the largest trees between himself and the Yankees. Damn! He didn't know how long he could keep going.

Ahead, he spotted Abby and Trevor. Relief washed over her pale face when she saw him. Wes gritted his teeth against the pain. He raised his left arm, which now held his rifle, and used it to gesture across the field toward the salient portion of the breastworks.

"Run!"

Abby ran. He was right behind her. Ahead, the rest of the skirmishers raced for the main defense lines around the village as he fell farther and farther behind. He could feel the wet warmth of his own blood sticking his cambric shirt to his skin as he pressed his right forearm against the wound, his blood quickly soaking through his wool jacket and sleeve. A staccato of gunfire erupted from behind the breastworks as the soldiers opened fire on the advancing Yankees. He stumbled.

Through the haze of gun smoke he watched Abby at the trench in front of the breastworks, passing Trevor into the arms of a fellow Confederate. She started climbing to safety, but turned to look back.

"Wes! He heard her scream, then blackness claimed him as he dropped to his knees and fell forward onto his face.

* * * * When he opened his eyes the sun was going down. The acrid bite of gunpowder filled his nose and throat. Gunfire popped incessantly from every direction along with the shouts and screams of thousands of men. Cannon fire vibrated the ground on which he lay looking up through the branches of a tree, watching the leaves shake with every explosion.

Though the noise of battle surrounded him and he shivered from the cold and wet he was relieved to feel the thick pad of a bandage beneath his shirt, knowing he hadn't been forgotten on the battlefield. For a moment he wondered what had happened, then it all came rushing back. Abby! My God he had a son!

"Wes? He turned his head. Abby knelt in the grass beside him. Her hair was damp and disheveled. Blood and mud so splattered her dress, it was difficult to tell the material was blue. Trevor sat in her lap gnawing on a piece of hard tack while he played with the strap from Wes's canteen.

"Where are we? His voice was barely a whisper. She reached out to sift her fingers through his damp hair. He closed his eyes, absorbing the pleasure of her touch. It had been so very, very long.

"Near the surgery tent south of Brock Road. Dr. Welch said the ball entered your back, glanced off a rib and came out your side, but you've lost a lot of blood. I have been helpin where I am able, but the wounded are still comin'. One soldier told me this is the bloodiest hand-to-hand fightin he has ever seen, and he has been in this war since the beginnin'. Another told me the mud in the trenches is nearly knee deep, and the dead are bein buried under the feet of the men scramblin over their bodies. Oh Wes, you could have been one of them!"

"And would that have been so bad? Maybe I finally would have found some peace."

Abby gasped. Her fingers stilled in his hair.

He opened his eyes and met her gaze. Ironic isn't it, that I have spent the last three years in the very front. of every battle, tryin to somehow redeem myself for your brother's death and never received a scratch. Then when I am finally shot, it's in my back, once again runnin from the Yankees."

Tears welled to soften her brown eyes. Slowly she leaned forward and kissed his stubble coated cheek. Wesley Cole, you are my hero, the love of my life, and the father of my child, but you are a stubborn man. Your redemption will not come by sacrificin yourself on the battlefield. Your redemption is here, in my arms, in the son you have created, in this child who carries a piece of Matthew inside of him."

Their eyes locked, the silence between them so intense it muted all sounds of the battle around them. He stared at her, hearing the truth, yet refusing to accept it. He'd nursed the guilt for so long he didn't know how to let it go.

Two attendants arrived, disrupting current between them as they lifted him on to a litter. He winced against the pain their unintentional jostling caused.

Hoisting Trevor to her hip Abby asked, Where are you takin him?"

"They's sendin the wounded to Guinea Station. Hospital trains there will take em on down to Richmond. But the roads is so muddy it's hard to get the ambulances through."

Abby hurried along beside him reaching out to hold his hand as the two men maneuvered his stretcher between the thousands of wounded moaning on the ground around their feet.

"Abby, Wes called as the two privates lifted him into one of the wagons lined up along the road and lay him beside three other men, on a bed of pine boughs and blood soaked straw. Where will you go?"

"Aunt Mae wanted to go south where it's safer. And Mama's old girlfriend, Mrs. Helen Harper, has a modest home down toward the Chickahominy River near a cross road called Cold Harbor. I will try to catch up with them there. The wagon tipped as a big, beefy faced man climbed onto the seat and picked up the reins.

"Hold up! A young attendant waved to the driver. I got another one for ya."

"Abby, will you be all right? Do you have enough money? Wes called as she stepped aside for the wounded private.

The soldier's arm was in a sling, his tattered uniform coated with red mud. He dropped heavily onto an empty ammunition crate and stared into the distance with vacant eyes. He blinked a few times, yet seemed unaware of his surroundings.

"I'll be fine. Mama gave me a few coins before she left. I love you, Wesley Cole. When this war is over I expect you to come back to me."

The driver collected his reins and started his team of mules forward. The distance between them grew as the ambulance slowly rolled south.

Suddenly Wes was terrified of never seeing her again, of never having the courage to forgive himself and reach for the second chance she offered. He studied the soldier with the empty eyes and recognized himself, going through the war like a machine, not feeling, not caring, always looking for absolution. But how many times did he have to face the enemy before that one act of cowardice was absolved; one, ten, a thousand? How many years did he sacrifice for a quest he knew in his heart was futile?

In the distance Abby set Trevor down beside her. Hand in hand they started back toward the field hospital. Gradually they diminished in size until the boy was no longer visible.

"Stop! He called to the driver. I have to get out."

The big man swung around in his seat and eyed him dubiously. Ya all right boy?"

"Yeah, but I need to get out."

"Are ya fixin ta walk ta the train? It's comin nigh unto dark and ya cain't even stand up."

"I'll have help."

"Suit yerself. The driver halted the mules. Mustering all his strength, Wes climbed over the side of the make shift ambulance, now barely able to discern the silhouette of Abby's head and shoulders in the fading gray light. Knees shaking, he started walking. The wagon drove on.

"Abby! He yelled. Pausing to take a deep breath he tried again. Abby! No longer able to make her out, he started to run, though he knew it was pointless for he didn't have the strength. He stumbled to his knees after only twenty-five feet.

"Abby. He was barely able to push her name past his lips. He sat back on his heels and dropped his chin to his heaving chest. Stones dug into his shins as he squeezed his eyes shut. He'd failed again.

The sound was faint, like the chirp of a distant bird. At first he dismissed it then he heard it again. This time the sound was closer and more distinct.

"Wes! He was almost afraid to open his eyes.

"Wes! Unmistakable. He lifted his head. Abby was running toward him. With her arms wrapped around Trevor, the boy was firmly anchored to Abby's chest as she quickly closed the distance between them. A few moments later she skidded up beside him and dropped to her knees.

"Wes, you crazy fool, what are you doin'?"

He reached out and cupped her right cheek. Her skin was like silk beneath the rough pads of his fingers. Their eyes met. I can't let you go to Cold Harbor alone and unprotected. What if somethin happens? Abby, I won't fail you again."

Tears filled her eyes as she reached out to brush back his hair. She smiled. It's all right Wes. We'll go to Richmond with you. As long as we're together."

She helped him to his feet. He draped his left arm around her shoulder and she wrapped her right arm around his waist. Trevor slipped his little hand into Abby's left palm and the three of them started back to the field hospital.

Then with each slow step they took together the oppressive weight of guilt he'd carried for three long years lifted from his shoulders. In its place settled feeling of contentment unlike any he'd ever known before. He had a future. Abby still loved him. He had a son with whom he could share every adventure and peccadillo of his uncle's life.

And for the first time since Matthew's death, that was enough.

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