Passion's Fury (43 page)

Rance rubbed at his left arm and winced. It was a slight wound, but still sore. He had caught the slash of a saber wielded by a man whom he was killing.

Rance had not had to go with Major General George Pickett on that last afternoon of the three-day siege. He had killed his share of Yankees. But he had wanted to go. It was to be an assault on the central federal position on Cemetery Ridge. It might have won the battle. And it nearly succeeded.

But, Rance lamented ruefully, “almost” was not good enough. There had been fifteen thousand Rebels in that assault, but they suffered terrible losses and the troops were separated, their column finally falling back to Confederate lines existing before the battle.

The battle of Gettysburg was over, and there was nothing left for General Lee to do but retreat, which he did. Meade followed, but his own army was mangled, and he was too cautious an officer to force another battle with Lee north of the Potomac. Rance was relieved. Like all the other battle-weary Rebels, he knew that Lee’s army could not have withstood another head-on clash.

One of the wounded called for water, and Rance brought the wagon to a stop beneath a shaded grove. He got down off the seat and took a canteen. Clark opened dazed eyes and lifted his head.

“Are we out of Pennsylvania?” he demanded, a surprising strength in his voice. “Damnit, Taggart, get me out of this goddamned Yankee territory.”

Lifting the canteen to Clark’s lips, Rance said, “General Lee made it back into Virginia. The campaign is over for now, Clark. You just rest. I told you, we’re almost into Richmond. I’ll have you tucked safely into bed at Chimborazo Hospital by sundown.”

Clark’s eyes focused sharply upon him, and Rance was relieved to see a bit of his old spirit return. “Yeah, and then you’ll head for Trella, you dog. You been so long without a woman, you’ll steal mine.”

“You don’t worry about her working in a bawdy house, you son of a gun,” he laughed, gently tousling his hair, “but you worry about
me
having a tussle with her. Now that’s a friend for you.”

“Hell, yes.” Clark nodded. “The women you take to bed have a way of falling in love with you. I don’t have to worry about her falling for one of those other rowdies.”

Rance shook his head and returned to start the wagon. They lumbered forward again.

He snorted and thought, fall in love, indeed! Maybe there had been a few who had run after him. And most wanted a repeat performance. But there was one, he reminded himself, who had not fallen under any charms he might possess. April.
She
hadn’t minded leaving his bed.

Maybe that was why he found her so enchanting, he suddenly realized. She was actually the only woman he had never been able to possess totally.

He shook his head. They had enjoyed each other. She was one hell of a woman. But she had left him. Why? Damn it, he was going to find out why. There weren’t too many things he set his mind to that he didn’t wind up doing, and by God, this was going to be one of them.

Soon they came upon what Rance knew was called “old fields,” a coarse, yellow, sandy soil that bore scarcely anything but pine trees and broom sedge. There were some places where, for acres, the pines would be only about five feet high, so he knew this was land that had been in cultivation probably no more than six or eight years before. He could also see patches where the trees were perhaps a hundred feet high. Then, for long intervals, there were fields in which the pines were just beginning to spring from the ground into beautiful green plumes, growing among the grass and sassafras bushes and blackberry vines.

He found Virginia a beautiful state, but not nearly as appealing as Alabama. He felt a twinge of homesickness. One day, by God, he would return to the peace of Cheaha mountain and raise his beloved horses. And he would raise them, not for war or strictly for profit, but for the sheer love of the animals.

It was almost sundown when the wagon rolled through the gates of Chimborazo Hospital. Rance had been stopped several times as they approached the outskirts of the Confederate capitol, as sentries made sure that he was, in fact, a Rebel and carrying true Rebel soldiers. He hated the delay and the answering of questions but understood the need for security.

When he arrived, the gate soldiers immediately sent for someone to escort him inside. He moved on past rows of identical white buildings until he was signaled to stop. Then, while his men were unloaded by soldiers who seemed to appear out of nowhere, he unhitched Virtus from the wagon and led him to a water trough. He found a place to secure him, then went back to inquire about Clark.

He saw a harried doctor walking away from the cot where Clark had been placed, and he touched the doctor’s shoulder. “I’m Captain Taggart. I brought these men here. I want to know about Clark.” Rance pointed.

“He’s in bad shape, just like all of them,” the doctor snapped. “Damnit, who do they think they are, refusing amputation? And what kind of stupid doctors did you have out there on the battlefield that they let patients tell
them
what to do? When the bone is split and shattered, there’s nothing to do but cut off the limb.”

“There were plenty of others who didn’t argue,” Rance told him quietly. “I think the doctors were glad enough not to worry about those who did. Now just tell me how my friend is.”

The doctor frowned. “All right, Captain, I’ll tell you straight. Your friend’s arm is mangled—”

Rance interrupted, “He got a minie ball straight through the muscle. It was an ugly, jagged wound, but a clean one. I was there when it happened. Then we had to lie down and play dead when some Yankees rode through. They rode right over us. One of their horses stomped on Clark. That’s what mangled it, not the minie ball.”

“It doesn’t matter now. It’s mangled. Gangrene has set in.”

“He won’t let you amputate. He’d rather die.”

The doctor raised an eyebrow. “Well, he may just get his druthers, Captain.”

The nerve in Rance’s jaw tightened, and he fought down the impulse to smash his fist into the cocky-talking doctor’s mouth. “Spare me your sarcasm and tell me what you can do for him,” he snapped.

The doctor shrugged, glanced at Clark, then said, “I’m going to give him a cathartic to keep his bowels open, first of all. He’s complaining about stomach pain. Then I will give him some opiates for the pain in his wound. A soon as I can get to him, I’ll make an incision to drain the pus and wash it out with chlorinated water. About all I can do then is apply tincture of iodine or a tannic acid solution and camphorated oil.”

“I saw some maggots in his wound the last time I changed the bandage.”

“Yes, I saw them, too. We’ll get them out.”

“Leave them.”

The doctor’s eyes widened. “Maggots are an infection of the worst kind. I’ll get them out with injections of chloroform.”

“No, you won’t,” Rance said quietly. “They may be his only chance.”

The doctor started to brush by him, but Rance spun him around. Speaking low enough that no one else around them could hear, he said, “Now you listen to me, doc, and you listen good. You leave those maggots in there. You think he’s going to die, so what’s it going to hurt to try something? I heard about a group of surgeons tending gangrene cases in a prison stockade in Chattanooga. The Yankee surgeons wouldn’t give them bandages and supplies, so there was nothing the Rebs could do but leave their patients’ wounds unbandaged for the flies to blow. As it turned out, the maggots ate the infection, cleaned the wound out, and the men were cured.”

The doctor sputtered, “That…that is the most insane thing I have ever heard of! And you unhand me at once before I have you thrown into jail. I’m a Colonel, and—”

“I don’t give a damn if you’re General Robert E. Lee.” Rance’s upper lip quivered. “That man over there is a friend of mine. I don’t want him to die, and he doesn’t want his arm cut off. So you just leave the damn maggots in his wound. Now, I’m going into town. But I’m coming back first thing in the morning, and if either his arm or those little white maggots are gone, I’m going to come looking for you, and you just better hope I don’t find you. Do we understand each other?”

“All right,” the doctor sighed, taking a few steps to the side. “Just don’t blame me if he’s dead when you get back. It’s your responsibility, not mine.”

Rance nodded. “Good.”

He walked over to Edward and touched his shoulder. “I’m going into Richmond to find Trella. You rest, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

Edward managed a weak smile. “Thanks for getting me here. I don’t…” He paused to take a gasping breath. “…even care if you make love to my woman. Just don’t make her fall in love with you.”

“It’s information about April that I want from your woman. Nothing more.” He gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze and turned to leave.

“Captain. May I have a word with you?”

He walked over to where the doctor was standing.

“We were never formally introduced. My name is Dr. Gilstrap.”

“Captain Taggart.”

The doctor nodded curtly, eyes stormy. “I want you to know that I plan to report you for threatening me. I don’t appreciate anyone telling me how to practice medicine.”

Rance sighed impatiently. “Do whatever you like, doctor, I don’t have time to discuss it.”

He started to walk on by, but the doctor placed his hand against Rance’s stomach, hard. Rance saw that two guards stood nearby and quickly figured that the doctor had asked them to be close by for this confrontation.

He slowly dropped his eyes to look at the doctor’s hand, then raised them. “I don’t like anybody touching me except women.”

Dr. Gilstrap jerked his hand back quickly and said, “Look here, I want you to know that I am going to treat that man as I see fit. I don’t intend to be intimidated by you. The very idea! Leave the maggots in the wound! Why, if that were reasonable treatment, I would have heard about it, and—”

“Then you’re saying you know everything.”

“Why, no…” he sputtered. “Not at all, I’m saying—” Rance cocked his head to one side and grinned. “Did it ever occur to you that there just might be a few medical advances being made out there on the battlefield that you don’t know about, doctor? Haven’t you got enough wounded soldiers to tend to without worrying about a few maggots crawling around in Clark’s arm? Are you so goddamn stubborn you aren’t willing to try something new?”

“I…I…” Dr. Gilstrap swallowed hard, glanced around to make sure the soldiers were still nearby, then cleared his throat. “I’m saying that I will treat that man and any man in this ward the way I see fit, and I will not be intimidated by you, Captain. That is my privilege, and I intend to exercise it.”

“And my privilege, doctor,” Rance smiled, “will be to make good my threat. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He tipped his hat to the soldiers, then walked away.

When he arrived in Richmond, he found the city teeming with boisterous soldiers. Respectable townspeople had long since retired to their homes as darkness fell. The night belonged to the men of war, who were attempting to drink away their sorrows.

After checking into a hotel and taking a hot bath, Rance changed into the fresh uniform he had carried in his saddlebag—a gray tunic with black facings and stand-up collar with tiny gold stars adorning. The trousers were dark blue, a black velvet stripe bordered in gold cording running down the outside of each leg. He pulled on scuffed ankle boots, yearning all the while for the casual dress he had always worn around the ranch. Officer’s dress, he had decided long ago, was not to his liking. He had to wear the uniform, for he did not want to be thought a nonsoldier. That would be dangerous in a town full of drunk, battle-weary men.

The streets were crowded with drunken, jostling soldiers as Rance made his way to The Bed of Roses. He looked neither right nor left as he walked briskly along. Soon he found himself in front of a two-story house set back from the street and painted fiery red. He shook his head in disbelief. The front porch and the columns supporting it were covered with climbing roses. The yard was filled with thick, flowering rose bushes. The aroma was overwhelming.

He took the steps two at a time and rapped on the front door. A moment later a woman with a heavily made-up face and wearing a bright red satin wrapper appeared. Her eyes sparkled as she gazed up at him. “Well, hello, big boy. Welcome to The Bed of Roses,” she cooed, taking a deep breath so that her fleshy breasts would rise above the low-cut gown. “Ain’t seen you around here before. My, my, you are a handsome devil. Big, too.”

She waved him inside. “You come on in here, big boy. My name’s Paulette, and I just happen to be available for the evening. We’re going to have us a fine time.”

Rance glanced around at the entrance foyer, saw that the wallpaper was of red and pink roses. Pots of red roses were everywhere. Beyond, he could see a parlor decorated in pink and white and yellow; candlelight cast a mellow glow around everything. Despite the apparent effort at sophisticated decor, it was obviously a cheap house. Paulette, who was tugging at his sleeve, was an example of the low-quality woman employed here. He had been to some houses where the girls were actually pretty, but there was no way that he could ever make love to the fleshy blob beside him.

He took a deep breath and said, “I’m looking for Trella Haynes. I was told she works here.”