Fire on the Plains (Western Fire) (13 page)

That done, he headed toward the wagon.

Caught in the grip of a
pervasive sleep, Ben struggled to awaken. To no avail. As though he was ensnared in the devil’s web, he couldn’t escape the confines of his horrific dream. Nor could he escape the demented siren’s song that played repeatedly. Over and over again. . . .

Just then, a
blue-uniformed sergeant dodged past the throng of armed men, his face flushed with emotion. “Captain Strong! The Colonel just took a fatal hit. There’s no one left to lead the regiment, sir.”

“Where’s Major Tisdale?”

The breathless soldier stared guiltily at his boot tip. “Er, he’s not fit for duty, sir.”

Neither man so much as flinched as a mortar shell landed twenty yards to the right of them, gouging a hole in the rich Virginia soil.

“Sweet Jesus!” Ben cursed loudly. “That’s what you get for putting political appointees in command.” Like many a spineless officer, Tisdale was drowning his cowardly instincts in a bottle of rye.

Frustrated as hell,
Ben peered at the seven companies of infantrymen crouched beside a sunken road. While they were safe for the time being, if the Rebs launched an all-out artillery attack, it would quickly turn into a dead man’s alley.

“I’ve got a copy of the Colonel’s orders,” the sergeant huffed, hand
ing him a grimy slip of paper.

Ben
hurriedly read the scrawled orders, the paper on which they were written stained with splotches of blood.

—
Flush out the enemy’s right flank then hold your fire until they’re in the open—

Evidently, the Colonel’s plan had been to lure the Rebs out of the woods and into the
hayfield; then let ‘em have it full blast. As far as plans went, it lacked martial spark. Although it was better than sitting in this damn ditch being blown to kingdom come by Confederate mortar fire.

Ben turned to the company of infantry that manned the outer edge of the sunken road, their powder
-blackened faces anxiously looking to him for leadership. As usual, news of a ranking officer’s death had spread like wild fire. To a man, these soldiers knew that Ben was now in charge.

“Corporal Hibbert!” Ben yelled, raising his voice to be heard over the thundering din of artillery fire. “I want you and the other men in B Company to form a skirmish line across that
hayfield just ahead of us.”

“Yes, sir, Captain Strong!” The blue-eyed soldier leapt to his feet, eager to do his duty.

Tow-headed and fair of complexion, young Ethan Hibbert’s angelic good looks seemed out of place amongst his grim-faced comrades. But as Ben knew only too well, his half-brother Ethan had more grit, more backbone, than any other man in the company, his recent promotion to corporal well-deserved.

A
few moments later, as a light snow began to fall, Ethan and the other skirmishers fanned out across the frozen field. Their job was to draw the enemy into the open. When that was done, they were to fall back into their own ranks.

Silent and steadfast,
the skirmish line stalked toward the Confederate positions, the tips of their bayonets gleaming brightly. As they neared the woods, they came under fire. Within seconds, two blue-clad skirmishers collapsed on the ground, felled by lead musket balls. A third skirmisher weaved and bobbed, a stunned look on his boyish face as blood poured from a leg wound.

Ben stood stock
-still, waiting for the wounded soldier to drop to the ground, cursing under his breath when he remained upright.

“Goddammit, Ethan
. Take cover,” he angrily muttered. “If you don’t, one of these Rebs is going to—”

The
thunderous boom of a mortar shell reverberated. In the next instant, Ethan cried out in anguish as he slowly sank to his knees. Mortally wounded, he clutched at a huge, gaping hole in his lower belly, his entrails oozing through his bloodied fingers.

Without thinking, Ben lunged forward, determined to go to his brother’s aid.

“Sir!” The sergeant who’d delivered the Colonel’s dying orders grabbed him by the shoulder. “You can’t do it, sir! That soldier is a goner. These men need you more than he does.”

Biting back a lump of bile, Ben watched his brother writhe on the ground, the air rent asunder with his agonized screams.

“Jesus H. Christ. I just wish someone would put that poor soldier out of his misery,” one of the men in the ranks said aloud. “Lord, but I hate to hear a man suffer like that before he finally gits to die.”

Knowing what had to be done, Ben grabbed the loaded carbine out of his sergeant’s hands. Hoisting it to his sho
ulder, he took aim. And fired.

“Forgive me,
Brother,” he whispered, tears filling his eyes as watched the line of Confederate infantry advance into the hayfield.

“Please, God, don’t take him from me.
We still have a whole lifetime ahead of us.”

Not caring one whit if she was overheard, Lydia tightly clutched her husband’s hand, holding it to her breast as sh
e offered up her fervent plea.

For two days and two nights, Ben had tossed and turned in an unconscious state of delirium, issuing martial commands as
if he was in the thick of battle. Walks Tall, the Cherokee Indian who found them by the roadside, called it the blood fever.

Lydia called it sheer torment.

As far as she knew, Ben did not suffer from any physical ailment. Which led her to believe that he suffered from a disease of the spirit. Walks Tall, admittedly well versed in such matters, concurred. Although Lydia wasn’t entirely convinced that the herbal brews he concocted were the curative that her husband needed. But because she had no better remedy to offer, she’d faithfully administered each and every cup of herbal tea that their host had solicitously offered.

Hearing a knock at the door, Lydia wearily rose from the upholstered chair on which she’d been sitting. Situated next to the four-poster bed where Ben lay, the chair had cushioned her through many a fearsome hour.

Walks Tall, standing in the doorway with a covered tray in his hands, waited for her to invite him into the room.

“More herbal tea?” Lydia politely inquired as she relieved him of the tray and set it on the bureau.

The aging Indian shook his head, a solemn look on his copper-hued face. “It’s roast chicken and hot biscuits.”

“But my husband is still
—”

“It’s for you.”

Lydia placed a hand on her host’s forearm, a tremulous smile on her lips. Initially frightened by his massive size, she’d quickly come to realize that Walks Tall was truly a gentle giant.

“You’re much too kind, Walks Tall.”

Ignoring the compliment, he nodded toward the light blue infantry trousers neatly folded on the bureau with the rest of Ben’s clothing. “Does your husband ever speak of the war?”

Startled by the question, Lydia shook her head. “
He’s never speaks of it. Of course, we’ve not been married long and . . . and no doubt that is the, um, the reason why,” she stammered.

“
Your husband is holding on to something that he must let go of.”

Baffled, Lydia shook her head,
confused by his cryptic remark. “I’m sorry, Walks Tall. But I don’t understand what you mean.”

“You will.” He
then pointed toward the rolling pasture visible outside the bedroom window. “After you eat, you should look at my horses. That daughter of yours has a fine seat on her.”

“Yes, I know. Her Uncle Spencer taught her to ride when she was little more than a toddler. But as far as
looking at the horses, I . . .” Lydia glanced at her husband. “I think I’ll stay here, if it’s all the same to you.”

Having vowed to stay with Ben Strong ‘in sickness and in health
,’ she intended to do just that. Under no circumstance did she want him to awaken and find himself in a strange bed in an unfamiliar house.

Walks Tall
wordlessly shrugged before taking his leave. Lydia took no offense, having realized soon after making their host’s acquaintance that he was a man of few words. Since bringing them to his horse farm two days ago, Walks Tall had proven himself to be a good and kind-hearted man, tending to Ben as though he was kith and kin.

As she walked past the bedroom window,
Lydia stopped for a moment, and smiled. In the yard below, her daughter proudly exhibited her riding skills to Walks Tall, their host having allowed Dixie free access to a mild-mannered pony.

“Just where in the blue blazes am I, anyway?”

At hearing that low-pitched voice, Lydia immediately spun on her heel.

“Ben!”

Overcome with relief, she rushed over to the four-poster bed. Without a thought to propriety, she seated herself on the edge of the feather tick mattress.

“I’ve been so worried about you
.” As she spoke, Lydia tenderly smoothed the hair on her husband’s brow. “Can I get you anything? Are you in any pain? How do you feel?”

One side of Ben’s mouth lifted in a groggy
half-smile. “I feel fine . . . no, hungry,” he amended in the next instant. His nostrils twitched slightly. “Is that chicken I smell?”

“Indeed
, it is. Shall I bring you a plate?”

“If you don’t, you’re going to have one mean, ornery man on your hands.”

Elated, Lydia quickly retrieved the supper tray. Not only had Ben awakened from his dark delirium, but, amazingly, he seemed fully recovered. Clearly, miracles do happen, her husband living proof of it.

“What the hell!”

Glancing at the bed, Lydia nearly dropped the tray when she caught sight of Ben holding the quilt cover aloft as he dubiously peered at his naked limbs.

“We thought it would, um,
be easier to . . . to care for you if. . . .” Lydia’s voice drifted into silence as she watched Ben get out of the bed.

A second later,
espying the chamber pot on the night stand, her husband turned to her, a ferocious scowl on his face. “God Almighty. Don’t tell me that you—”

“These biscuits certainly
smell delicious,” Lydia said over top of him, her face burning with heated color. To her relief, Ben grabbed the quilt off of the bed and wrapped it, toga-style, around his body.

Stepping toward her,
Ben snatched a piece of chicken from the tray, biting into it with a hungry zeal. Drumstick in hand, he then slowly turned and surveyed his surroundings. “Where are we, anyway?”

“This house belongs to Walks Tall.”

Ben shot her a quizzical glance. “Walks Tall? That sounds like an Indian name.”

“It is.” Lydia handed her husband a cloth napkin. “He’s a Cherokee Indian. He’s also the
one who carried you here after—”

“Carried me!”

“Yes, and it’s a good thing that he did,” she retorted. “You’d lost consciousness and . . . and, quite frankly, I’d never been so fearfully worried in all my life.”

Ben stopped chewing, a
befuddled expression on his whiskered face. “An Indian lives
here
?” He gestured to the richly-appointed bedroom. “I would’ve thought that being an Indian he’d live—”

“
In a wigwam? Yes, I, too, foolishly thought the same thing,” Lydia confessed. “But having conversed at length with Walks Tall, I’m of the opinion that neither of us should glean our information about Indians from the novels of James Fenimore Cooper. The last of the Mohicans, Walks Tall is not.”

“Although he looks to be the biggest man I’ve ever laid eyes
upon,” Ben remarked as he pulled aside the brocade curtain at the window. For several moments he gazed at the fenced pastures that spread for several hundred acres in all directions. A few moments later, turning in her direction, he said, “How long was I out for?”

“
You were unconscious for two days.” Lydia hesitated a moment before asking the question uppermost in her mind. “Has this happened before?”

Ben
snatched hold his trousers. “Unless you want to sneak a peek at my manly parts, I suggest you leave the room,” he muttered in a lowered voice as he unfurled his pants and held them to his waist.