Kary, Elizabeth (60 page)

After
posting his letter, Hayes made his way back to his bedroll. It was cold in the
tiny canvas tent, and pulling the blanket around him, Hayes curled up to catch
what sleep he could. As he lay shivering, one hand crept inside his tunic to
touch the lacy handkerchief Leigh had left him months before. His fingers moved
over the soft cloth and the deeply ruffled edging, conjuring up the image of
his wife. He let the flimsy handkerchief evoke memories of happier days when he
and Leigh had been together, when they had been happy and deeply in love. With
those thoughts in his mind and a soft smile upon his lips, he let his eyes slip
closed.

It
was foggy and faintly overcast when the fifty boats set out from Chattanooga at
three the following morning, slipping silently from the city's waterfront in
groups of five or six. They were odd craft, flat-bottomed and boxy, difficult
to steer because they were the same shape fore and aft. Yet they were ideally
suited to the job they were to do. Before the boats were far from shore, the
river current caught them, drawing them swiftly downstream toward the
treacherous hairpin curve at the base of Lookout Mountain. As they floated
closer and closer to the fortifications, the men stretched out in the bottom of
each boat, lying as still and silent as corpses. Only the oarsmen were allowed
to raise their heads above the level of the gunnels to guide the boats along
their clandestine course.

Hayes
peered over the side of his own pontoon boat fighting to steer it as close as
he could to the tree-fringed bank opposite the Confederate encampment. It was
not an easy task, and in spite of the cold, he was clammy with perspiration.
Through the shifting banks of fog, he could make out Rebel soldiers taking
their ease around the camp-fires on the far bank and hear the songs the
sentries sang to keep themselves awake. His heart beat slow and heavy as they
passed beneath the eyes of the enemy, expecting at any moment to hear the
pickets' cries echo across the puckered surface of the river and see the
hillside blossom with smoke and flame. But finally they drifted into the
downstream side of the turn, with no sign of discovery. Though they had not yet
moved beyond range of the guns on Lookout Mountain, the most treacherous part
of the passage was over. It was only the troops' fight for possession of the
western bank and the road to the railhead at Bridgeton, and the engineers'
desperately hard work of building the bridge that lay ahead of them.

When
they reached Brown's Ferry the engineers discharged Hazen's troops on the
western side of the river and set out to bring Turchin's men across. Though
fierce
resistance was being met on the far bank, the reinforced ranks of Union
soldiers seemed to be progressing slowly inland, and when the last of the
infantry had been transported, the engineers began to build their bridge.

Though
a Rebel artillery emplacement a mile or so downstream from the ferry peppered
them with fire, the pontoon bridge began to sprout from the eastern bank of the
Tennessee. The nine-mile current at this point in the river made it difficult
for those waiting upstream for their turn to link up with the growing span, but
finally the engineers on Hayes's boat were directed to maneuver their pod into
place.

As
they worked to bring it into alignment with the others, shot fell to their left
and right, drenching them with spray. Luckily, Hayes noted as he wrestled with
one of the oars, the Confederate artillery seemed to be having a hard time
getting the range. But then, just as the final connections were about to be made,
the Rebels scored a direct hit at the center of Hayes's pontoon. Splinters of
wood flew in all directions, and the deck bucked wildly beneath his feet as the
concussion from the shell blew him backward into the river.

For
Hayes there was no sense of time passing: one moment he was on the pontoon boat
and the next in the freezing river water. He drifted dazed, at the mercy of the
currents, and by the time his head began to clear, he was far below the bridge.
He cried out to the men on the pontoon boats, but they were too far away to
hear him, and the Rebel firing masked any sound he made.

Realizing
there was no hope of fighting his way upstream, Hayes struck out for the
eastern bank. But he had swum no more than a few strokes when the force of the
current dragged him down. Light became diffused and dim as he was pulled
deeper, and the sounds of voices and guns were dulled and muffled by the water.
Far above him he could see the surface of the river, the lightening sky
reflected through the murky, gray-brown depths. Fighting and twisting against
the irresistible current, Hayes reached out for the brightness above him and
the promise of life-giving air.

He
had always been a strong swimmer, but his struggles were as nothing against the
rampaging Tennessee. It batted him along as if he were a toy lost in a tempest,
a leaf boat washed away by the force of swelling tides. He thrashed furiously
against the unrelenting strength of the current, battling a phantom far
stronger than he. As he struggled with the churning water, the blood drummed at
his ears and temples, the air fluttered deep within his throat, aching for
release. Pressure seemed to build within him until his lungs were swelled to
bursting and lights flared and danced before his eyes. He felt the press of panic
rising in him, a will to live throbbing fierce and strong.

But
in the moment of greatest determination, he found insidious release. He was
suddenly without the urge to struggle as he succumbed to forces stronger than
his need for air. He lost the desire to seek the things that had seemed vital
moments before: the slowly receding surface of the water, the rush of fresh air
in his lungs.

Confused
and broken, Hayes opened his mouth to cry out his surrender and felt the water
fill his throat. Stunned, he drifted as light and shadow merged. Then darkness
closed around his senses until there was no sight, no sound, no taste, no
feeling. Hayes spun away into nothingness, lost and defeated by the river.

***

November 4, 1863—Bridgeport, Alabama

"Nathan!"
Delia cried, flinging herself into her husband's arms. "Oh, Nathan, I've
missed you so!"

Leigh
watched with a now familiar tinge of envy as Delia and Nathan Travis stood
together on the platform of the Bridgeport railroad station, hugging each other
fiercely.

"I
had no idea I'd be in Washington so long," she heard Nathan murmur before
he kissed his wife.

Leigh
knew that while Delia had not been happy about the separation, she had been
just as glad to have her husband safe within the walls of the War Department
rather than scouting and in danger all the time. Nathan had been called to the
capital shortly after the surrender at Vicksburg and had been there until
several days before. It was pure coincidence that she and Delia had been on
their way to Chattanooga, too.

Hefting
her carpetbag and following in the happy couple's wake, Leigh made her way to
the carriage Nathan had hired for their use. After handing his wife inside,
Nathan Travis greeted Leigh with a hug and a brotherly peck on the cheek.

"It's
good to see you, Leigh. I hope you're feeling better."

Nathan's
concern for her was evident in the set of his solemn features, and Leigh made
an effort to bring some semblance of a smile to her face. "I'm fine,
Nathan, just tired. Though I don't know what I'd have done without Delia this
last month or so."

"I'm
sorry about the baby," he said softly.

Leigh
nodded. "So am I."

Not
knowing what more to say, Nathan helped Leigh into the carriage, then climbed
inside himself.

"I
managed to rent two rooms at the hotel," he told them. "It sometimes
takes several days to get passage to Chattanooga, so I thought we should be as
comfortable as possible until our turn comes. Since the 'cracker line' was
opened up a week or two ago, they've been shipping in supplies and reinforcements
mostly."

"The
siege has been lifted, then?" Leigh inquired.

"Not
lifted exactly," Nathan answered, grinning, "but there's sure a big
crack in the bowl the Rebels thought they had us in."

"Well,
if supplies are getting through, there should be a little room for us,"
Delia reasoned.

"We'll
manage to get you to Chattanooga somehow," Nathan reassured her, patting
his wife's hand.

It
was several hours later that a knock came at the door of Leigh's hotel room,
and when she went to answer it, Nathan stood outside. He looked freshly bathed
and barbered and more contented with himself than a cat that had lapped up all
the cream.

"Come
in, Nathan," Leigh offered, stepping back to let him pass.

With
two long strides he was in the small room, glancing around at the decor.
"These surely are tight quarters," he observed.

"Oh,
they're fine really, better than we'll have at Chattanooga, I'll warrant.
Where's Delia?"

"She
was sleeping when I left," he said, then for no reason colored up.
"We're going out to get some supper in a little while. Would you like to
come along?"

For
a moment Leigh considered his offer, then shook her head. "I think I'll
order something in my room and turn in early."

Frowning,
Nathan nodded. "Leigh, do you mind if I sit down?"

"No,
of course not."

He
took the single straight-backed chair, and Leigh settled herself at the edge of
the bed, wondering what he wanted to say.

"Leigh,"
he began without preamble, "Delia is worried about you. She doesn't think
you're strong enough to go back to nursing yet. It's only been a bit more than
a month since you lost the baby, and—"

Leigh
looked down at her hands. "I'm fine, really," she reassured him.
"Delia took very good care of me while I was sick. I don't know what I
would have done without her. But I want to go back to nursing; I want to feel
needed again."

Nathan
watched her for a long moment, seeing the sadness in her face. Once, Leigh
Banister had been a beautiful, animated woman with drive and determination
shining in her eyes. She had been filled with the courage of her convictions,
with a vitality that usefulness brought. But she was not that woman now, and he
wondered at the change in her. Was it the loss of the child and being away from
the work she loved that had made her so pale and serious? Or was there more
bothering her than she let on?

"Have
you heard from Hayes?" Nathan queried.

Leigh's
head came up sharply. "I don't know why you and Delia set such store by
whether I have received a letter from my husband," she snapped, her words
their own kind of confirmation.

"Have
you written him about losing the baby?"

"No!
Nor do I intend to!" Leigh knew her tone revealed far more than she would
have liked. "He didn't care enough to write when I told him I was
expecting a child, so I doubt it would make any difference if I wrote to tell
him I had miscarried it."

Travis
drew a long breath, his face grave. "I thought you recognized when Hayes
was shot how important he really was to you."

"I
knew it long before that," Leigh admitted, "but discovering his ties
to Monica Bennett made things difficult between us, and Hayes hasn't written a
word since I left St. Louis."

The
dark-haired man sat watching her. "I can't explain his silence,
Leigh," he finally said, "but there must be a reason for it. I just
know that if you care for someone, you must work to make things right between
you and never take love for granted. I made that mistake once in my life and
vowed I would never make it with Delia."

Travis
had never alluded to his life before the war, and even if Leigh had not been
anxious to divert him, she would have invited his confidences. "What
happened, Nathan?" she asked him softly.

Nathan
hesitated, staring down at his hands. Then he began to speak, his voice husky
and very low. "It was years ago in New Orleans, when I was just a young
man trying to make my living on the river. I met and fell in love with a
beautiful quadroon. Olivia had been raised to the only life available to a
beautiful young woman of color: to be the mistress to a planter. But when we
met and fell in love, she decided she preferred to be the wife of a poor man
rather than the mistress of a rich one. It was not an easy life, and though we
loved each other, I was gone more than I was home. We eventually had a child,
and William became the delight of our life. We were very happy.

"But
while I was away on the river, Olivia met one of the rich planter's sons in the
French market, and he followed her home. He was not used to being denied the
things he craved, especially the attentions of a woman like her. Olivia managed
to lock him out of the house when he tried to force himself on her, but that
night he returned with some of his friends. They were crazy drunk and broke down
the door. Once they were inside, they had their way with my wife. They beat her
and raped her and killed my son. And when it was over, they burned the house
over her head to hide what they had done."

Leigh
tried to express her sympathy, but Nathan waved her to silence. "When I
returned and found out what had happened, I was mad with guilt and grief. But
in time, that grief resolved itself into a need for revenge. It wasn't hard to
find out who murdered my family; there are no secrets in New Orleans if someone
really wants to learn the answers. I found out the men's names, all five of them.
And though it took years, I tracked them down one by one."