Kary, Elizabeth (25 page)

Besides,
the voice of guilt whispered, to marry Hayes now would be the final betrayal of
all the love and loyalty she had felt for Lucas Hale. Leigh could not live with
that shame.

With
a sigh she turned her attention to extricating herself from Hayes's unsettling
proposition, casting around for a suitable argument, and then seizing the
offensive when one occurred to her.

"Hayes,
am I the first woman you've taken to your bed?" she asked pointedly,
breaking the silence that had been billowing between them.

It
was Hayes's turn to color up. "I don't see what that
has to do with
what we've been discussing," he sputtered, startled and confused by her
question.

"I'm
not your first woman, then?"

"Leigh!"

"Am
I?" she persisted.

"What
in God's name—"

"Since
I'm not and since you're not married already, then I think it's safe to assume
that an encounter like the one we had the other day doesn't necessarily result
in the birth of a baby."

She
paused as a new thought struck her, and before she could consider the
impropriety of what she was about to ask, it was out of her mouth. "Or do
you have a passel of by-blows out there somewhere?"

Hayes's
face darkened ominously, but Leigh was too preoccupied to consider what his
reaction might mean.

"I
may be naive, Hayes," she continued undeterred, "but I know that the
chances of conceiving a baby the single time we—we did that are fairly remote.
And frankly, I'm not willing to spend the rest of my life married to a man I do
not love on the chance that one encounter has got me with child."

Forcing
the thought of Monica and her son from his mind, Hayes considered the woman
before him. She was a paradox: uninitiated in the ways of love, she had not
known that her first time with a man would hurt and change the essence of her
body forever. Yet now she was citing an understanding of the workings of nature
with a certainty that could only come from an impersonal understanding of
medicine. She had been trained to cure the human body as a mechanic is trained
to repair a machine, without the intimate knowledge that gave depth to what she
knew. Still, he could not fault her logic, and that made him angrier still.

"Since
it's unlikely I'm going to have your baby, Hayes," Leigh continued,
pressing her advantage, "I think I must refuse your noble offer."

"I
didn't offer to marry you to be noble," he snapped furiously.

Her
eyes opened wide at his declaration. "Why did you offer to marry me,
then?"

"I
want to marry you—I want to marry you—Oh, hell!"

He
couldn't tell her that he was asking her to be his wife because he loved her,
because he wanted her with him always. He couldn't tell her that now, not after
she had loudly proclaimed that she felt no love for him in return. His pride
would not let him go that far in declaring himself, so he turned aside the
question with one of his own.

"After
the other day on the
Barbara
Dean
you
are no longer a virgin. How will you explain that to whatever man eventually
wins your hand?"

Leigh
had not thought beyond the ramifications of his proposal, but after a moment
she answered defiantly. "I will tell them Lucas was the one to make me a
woman. We were betrothed. That way it won't make an enormous scandal."

Suddenly
fury burned through Hayes at the thought of some other man claiming this
woman's sweet, alabaster body for his own, having the right to call her his
when Hayes could not. He loved Leigh. He wanted Leigh for a hundred reasons he
could not voice, but she would not let him take her to wed. Her responsiveness
the other afternoon had been no dream, nor had he imagined the way their bodies
had fit together. What existed between them was rare and precious, something
that came only once in a lifetime. But Leigh was refusing to acknowledge its
importance, its uniqueness. For reasons he could only guess, she was denying
everything that had grown up between them since that first day at Camp Jackson,
everything that was tender and beautiful. There had been something uniting them
then, and there was something uniting them now. Why couldn't Leigh admit to it?

Leigh
sensed the trend of Hayes's thoughts and the depth of his frustration. At
another time, in another situation, she might have been able to give him the
answer he sought, but as things stood, it was impossible for her to accept his
proposal. She owed Lucas her loyalty now that he was dead because she had not
given it unstintingly when he was alive. She owed his memory and her own guilt
this sacrifice.

And
what was even more basic, she owed Hayes freedom from a marriage based on an
afternoon's mistake.

The
carriage rolled to a stop at the gate to the Pennington town house with nothing
resolved between them. Hayes had not received the answer he wanted, and Leigh
had not convinced him that she intended never to see him again. For an instant
they sat speechless, watching the confusion in each other's eyes. Then both
began talking at once.

"Promise
me, Leigh, if you find you are going to have my child, you will accept my offer
of marriage."

"Hayes,
I think it would be unwise, in the light of what happened the other afternoon,
to continue to spend time together."

There
was a moment of silence as each took in what the other had said before Banister
spoke.

"Surely
you don't mean that, Leigh. Making love can't have changed everything."

Leigh
stared down at her hands as if the creases in her leather gloves were unique
and engrossing. Making love he had called it. Was that what they had done? Were
the feelings she'd harbored for him in those minutes of closeness been love?
Was love what he had felt for her? Or had they been drawn together in order to
satisfy his physical desire and her need for comfort? Well, whatever it had
been, love, passion, solace, it was now over. Her conscience, her loyalty to
Lucas Hale, and her concern for Hayes demanded it. During these last few
minutes in his company she had to make Hayes understand that whatever had once
been between them was over.

"Leigh?"
Hayes's light touch on her coat sleeve made her newly aware of him beside her.

"I
do mean it, Hayes. What happened the other afternoon did change everything. I
don't want to see you again. I don't want to find you waiting for me when I
leave the hospital; I don't want to dance with you if we meet at parties. All
I've ever wanted was your friendship. I was wrong to turn to you when I found
out about Lucas's death, and I've never regretted anything as much as I do
that. But it changed things between us, changed them irrevocably. There's no
going back, Hayes. I'm sorry."

Hayes
reached for her, but she had already opened the carriage door and was
scrambling down the steps to the ground. A moment later she was gone, leaving
her last words echoing in the silence: "There's no going back, Hayes. I'm
sorry."

As
Hayes sat alone in the chilly carriage, there was a moment when he was
overwhelmed by all he'd had and lost, appalled by what he'd thrown away. Then
the hard, indomitable part of his personality asserted itself, and his face
took on a dark, determined set. He loved Leigh; he wanted Leigh. In these last
lonely days he had come to accept his need for her. And though he didn't know
how or when, he was going to win her back.

For
now there were other things to claim his time and energies, things beyond his
personal concerns. But when he returned from the expedition to Forts Donelson
and Henry, once his duty to his country was fulfilled, he would find a way to
win Leigh's love. There would be time then to build the future with her he had
just begun to plan. He would make Leigh his wife one day because he loved her,
because they belonged together, because he could not bear to live without that
dream.

February 16, 1862—Fort Donelson,
Tennessee

Pulling
the rough woolen blanket closer against the cold that penetrated the flapping
canvas tent, Hayes Banister tried to will himself to sleep. His body ached with
the fatigue of these last days, but his mind was alive with images and
experiences from his first glimpse of battle. He lay, as so many did this
night, shivering in the frigid February weather but thankful to be alive.

As
Pincheon had ordered, Hayes and Nathan Travis had scouted the area between the
Cumberland and Tennessee rivers where Forts Henry and Donelson lay guarding the
Confederate left. During the last days of January the two men had taken a
steamboat up the Ohio from Cairo and then moved on horseback through the
triangular piece of land between the rivers. It was an unappealing, swampy
area: a tangle of trees and vines, scored by interconnecting waterways, and
steep-sided gullies that were sticky and awash with mud. Even with the pale
winter sun filtering through the tall grasses and the birds singing, there was
a desolation about the place, a grim emptiness that played on Banister's
nerves.

The
forts they had been sent to investigate had been thrown up the preceding year
to protect the meandering river system that sliced deep into the heart of the
South. The Rebels had seen the rivers offered an invasion route that could
divide the fledgling Confederacy and sever the vital flow of supplies from west
to east. Of even greater importance was that Henry and Donelson guarded the
supply depot at Nashville and the Memphis and Charleston Railroad that passed
just south of the forts through Corinth, Mississippi. It was an area the Rebels
could not afford to lose and a sector the Northern troops must take in order to
begin an offensive that could win the war for their side. It was a piece of
ground worth dying for, a piece of real estate that would be bought and paid
for with the lives of both Yankee and Confederate soldiers.

As
ordered, Hayes and Travis had joined the river flotilla on February second just
north of where Panther Creek spilled into the swollen Tennessee River. For four
days the ironclads had lain in readiness, riding low in the water, awaiting a
chance to prove their abilities while the infantry and cavalry were ferried
down from Cairo for the combined land and water attack. Finally, on the sixth,
orders to begin the bombardment of Fort Henry arrived.

The
low-lying fortifications, manned by inexperienced recruits and armed with only
a few powerful field pieces, fell to the ironclad fleet's artillery even before
General Grant and his men arrived overland. For the Navy and Hayes, as builder
of the ironclads, it was both victory and vindication. The strange-looking
gunboats had proved their worth.

During
the battle the
Essex
had taken most of the enemy fire and retired to
Cairo for repairs while the rest of the fleet steamed back up the Tennessee to
the Ohio River, then down the Cumberland to Fort Donelson. Meanwhile, in
preparation for the forthcoming battle, Grant marched his men across the
slender neck of land that separated the forts.

Fort
Donelson was not as vulnerable as Fort Henry had been. Built on higher ground,
garrisoned by a stronger force of men and longer guns, it was sure to offer
stiff resistance.

While
Grant maneuvered his men to form a semicircle beyond the fort and its
entrenchments, the naval bombardment began. Employing the tactic that had
worked so well before, the ships pulled closer and closer to the shore
batteries. But in doing so, the ironclads came under heavy attack. The more
powerful guns within Fort Donelson and the higher angle of fire quickly took
their toll on the armored ships.

From
the pilothouse of the flagship
St. Louis,
where Hayes and Nathan Travis
had observed the battle, they could see the hammering the other ships were
taking and feel the bombardment of their own. Smoke and the acrid smell of
burning powder filled the air and all but obscured the bank only two hundred
yards away. There was the sound of shouted orders from the gun deck below and
the thunder of their own pieces answering the deadly challenge from the fort. Flashes
of flame sparked through the smoky gloom as new shells left their guns, and the
decks rolled with both the recoil of the weapons and the rain of deadly
Confederate fire. Plumes of water flared up around them as Confederate shots
fell short of the ships, and there was the constant thudding of explosions as
other bombs found their marks or imbedded themselves in the ship's heavy iron
plating.

Then,
with a flare of light and noise, one side of the pilothouse burst with the
force of an incoming shell, sending glowing metal and splinters of wood flying
everywhere. Total confusion reigned as men were thrown to and fro by the force
of the concussion and the ship bucked beneath them like an unbroken colt. Hayes
had been catapulted across the room as the explosion detonated, and for a few
seconds he lay stunned and confused by the intensity of the blast. As his head
began to clear, he had looked up to see the pilot melting slowly to the deck, a
jagged splinter of wood protruding from the center of his chest. There was
blood everywhere, slippery and dark against the walls and floor, staining the
clothes of those who had escaped the worst of the explosion as well as the men
who lay wounded and dying. Admiral Foote, the ranking naval officer, had been
injured, and as the ironclad heeled sluggishly against the current, a gaping
hole in the side of the cabin and its steering gone, Hayes had moved to where
the officer lay. Doughty and gruff even in what must have been excruciating
pain, he was every inch a commander and was determined to see to his men and
the battle before he sought attention for himself. In the explosion the wheel had
been blown away, and the
St. Louis
began to slide slowly downstream,
disabled and out of control.