A Dangerous Promise (8 page)

A wave of Rebs pushed forward, unloading their muskets. Then with no time to reload, they jabbed and stabbed all about them with the bayonets attached to the muskets' barrels.

A southerner about Todd's age bellowed in agony. He clasped a Union soldier who had fallen, screaming, 'T shot my pa! Oh, God help me, I shot my pa!"

Horrified, Mike cried out, too, but what could his cries accomplish? A mass of Second Kansas volunteers rushed

forward. After they had passed, the Reb lay dead on the ground next to his father.

Tears streamed down Mike's cheeks. As he hunched his shoulder to wipe them away, a blow from the side sent him sprawling.

It took Mike a moment to understand that a heavy body had fallen on top of him. As strong hands helped Mike to his feet, he looked at the face of the dead man.

"Captain Dawes!" he shouted. "No! Not the captain!"

Someone began leading Captain Dawes's horse away, the captain's body slung over the saddle. In a daze Mike staggered after them.

Sergeant Gridley grabbed Mike's shoulder and shoved the drumsticks into his hands. "Keep up the call to advance, Mr. Kelly. That's your job. I'll tell you if you need to drum retreat, and I hope that may never be."

"Y-yes, sir," Mike stammered. Sick at heart, cold with terror at the destruction all around him, Mike stood his post, his drumbeats steady.

Although Mike wouldn't have thought it possible, the fighting grew even more intense. The roar of the cannons, the musket fire, the screams and shouts ... It was a bad dream, a bloodred nightmare, a horror that wouldn't end.

During a blessed lull in the fight. General Lyon rode up astride his gray horse and regrouped the Federal line. Leading the Second Kansas himself, Lyon began the charge against the Confederates, but the Rebs had rallied in even greater numbers, and the fighting grew fierce along the entire line.

For an hour the battle roared with fury. Mike, finding a perch on a rock ledge near the brow of the hill, bravely kept drumming. Nearby he could hear Todd's bugle. Mike could only hope the call to battle spurred the soldiers of his company onward, helping them to fight even more aggressively.

Near Mike a man cursed and nearly dropped his musket.

"The damned barrel's too hot!" he yelled. "It burnt my hands!"

A soldier at Mike's left fell. With an angry yell, Ben charged into the breach, cutting in front of Mike. But before he could shoot, an enemy bullet struck Ben's head, splattering his blood and brains onto Mike's face and jacket.

More powerful even than the wave of nausea that enveloped Mike was one horrible thought: He was alive only because Ben, brutally killed, had blocked a bullet aimed in his direction. As the battle raged around him, Mike beat his drum numbly, as though he were no longer a part of his own body.

A sudden burst of fire brought down General Lyon's horse. Lyon pulled himself out from under the animal and limped forward, waving his sword and shouting. Mike saw blood streaming from the general's forehead and his leg.

Soldiers from the First Iowa straggled back. "We have no leader!" someone shouted. "Give us a leader!"

"You have a leader," Mike heard Lyon call to them. "Sweeny, lead those troops forward. We will make one more charge!"

On his orderly's horse Lyon rode into the fray, swinging his hat and calling out to the Second Kansas, "Come on, my brave boys! I will lead you! Forward!"

His horse had taken but a few steps before Lyon clutched his chest and fell. His orderly caught him and carried him gently to the ground. "Our general is dead!" he cried.

The fierce blast of musket fire killed Colonel Mitchell, too. Many of the Union soldiers, dazed and confused, turned to retreat.

Mike slammed the drumsticks into their rat-tat-a-tat with all his strength. "This is not a call to retreat!" he shouted. "Fight, men! Fight the Rebs!"

Harley's strong voice bellowed, "Does the boy have

more spirit than the rest of us?" Harley ran ahead. The soldiers who had hesitated now turned and followed him.

"Good work, Mr. Kelly!" Sergeant Gridley called out, and Mike's eyes filled with tears. That was what Captain Dawes would have said. Mike's arms were heavy and painful from the relentless pounding of his drum. But beneath the mercilessly shining sun, Mike beat on.

Hearing the loud blare of Todd's bugle, Mike glanced to his right and saw Todd standing near the front lines.

"We'll beat them, Todd!" Mike yelled.

But before Todd could respond, Confederates surged toward the Federals. Whooping with excitement, a Reb charged directly at Todd, plunging his bayonet through Todd's chest.

"Todd! No! No!" Mike screamed, but there was nothing he could do.

Clutching his chest with a cry, blood spurting through his fingers, Todd fell to the ground and lay still.

With a grin the Reb scooped up Todd's bugle, tucked his trophy into his shirt, and plowed forward, holding his bayonet before him.

Mike started after the Reb who had killed Todd. "I'll get you!" he sobbed over and over.

But just as Mike stooped to pick up a musket, a horse rode into Mike's path. "Drummer!" the rider shouted. "Keep to your business! Sound retreat, boy! Now!"

Fighting nausea, tears streaming from his eyes, Mike obeyed orders. He dropped the musket and stood his ground, beating out the call, as the Rebs advanced with eager shouts.

Suddenly, a gray-uniformed Reb slammed through the underbrush and came face-to-face with Mike, his musket and bayonet pointed at Mike's forehead. Mike closed his eyes. This was it. He winced as he waited to be shot.

But the soldier groaned. "I can't shoot a boy!" he muttered.

The Reb roughly brushed past him, but there was no time for relief. Other Confederates were pouring up the hill and through the gap in the underbrush. A shot ripped through Mike's drum, tearing it from the strap around his neck, and another shot struck his right leg.

Mike fell from the ledge where he'd stood. He rolled uncontrollably down the hill, sharp pebbles scratching his face and arms. His leg felt as if it were on fire. / have to get help or ril die, Mike thought. As he landed headfirst against a tree trunk, a sea of blackness curled around him, plunging him into a deep, pain-free unconsciousness.

Monster nightmares tortured Mike's dreams. He tried to cry out, but he couldn't. Through blinking eyes, he saw only darkness.

Don't fight the pain, Mike. Let go, he thought he heard Da say. With a sigh, Mike slipped into a blackness that soothed hira like a stroking hand.

He awoke in a puddle of blood and sweat and mottled sunlight as a shower of pebbles stung his face. The sounds of war had vanished, leaving behind a silence even more horrible.

A few more pebbles rattled down the slope, striking Mike's face, and he glanced up through the noonday brightness to see a Confederate soldier making his way down the hill toward where he lay. The Reb yelled to someone out of Mike's sight, "There's a dead Yank down here! Looks like he's got fairly good boots. Ought to fit somebody."

"I don't like this robbin' the dead. That shouldn't be part

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of a soldier's duty." The voice that had answered the Reb sounded familiar. Whose was it?

"We got their ammunition—what little was left—and you know the men in our company are in need of every pair of decent boots we can find."

"Long as we leave it at that," the familiar voice said. "But don't go through their pockets, Jiri. The bugle you been braggin' about should have been enough, but I saw you take that dead boy's pocket watch as well."

"It was mine by rights. I killed him."

Mike gasped and stiffened, remembering the grin on the Reb's face. Rage, stronger than his pain, poured like red-hot metal through Mike's mind and body, and he clenched his fists, biding his time.

"Besides, the watch won't do the Yank any good." The wiry blond Reb called Jiri laughed and slid farther down the bank until he stood next to Mike.

Mike's eyes narrowed to slits. As Jiri bent forward, Mike reached up and grabbed his neck, pulled Jiri off balance, and slammed his face into the dirt. Mike yelled, "Give me Todd's watch! Grave robber! Dirty Confederate grave robber!"

But Mike's wound had left him weak, and it took only a moment for Jiri to scramble free. He got to his feet and gave Mike a kick in the side. Mike cried out in pain.

Having reached the bottom of the slope, the other soldier grabbed Jiri and pulled him back just as he was aiming another kick.

"What's wrong with you, Jiri?" he shouted. "The man's wounded! For all we know, he's dyin'."

"He attacked me!" Jiri complained.

"He stole Todd's watch!" Yelling the words took all Mike's energy.

Grinning, Jiri pulled the watch from his pocket and dangled it out of Mike's reach. "It's mine now," he said. "I got it fair and square off a dead Yank."

The watch had baby tooth marks on it. There was no doubt about it—the watch was Todd's.

The other soldier shoved Jiri aside and stared down at Mike. "Well, I'll be!" he said. "It's you, Mike Kelly."

Mike looked into the eyes of the tall lean Reb with sun-bleached hair and gasped. "Corey Blair!" he cried out. Mike well remembered Corey, who had been so intent on courting and marrying Marta, the young woman who worked for Mike's first adoptive parents, Mr. and Mrs. Friedrich.

"If you can, get up and come with us," Corey said.

"As a prisoner," Jiri sneered.

"I can't get up," Mike told Corey. "My leg . . ."

Corey tore Mike's pants leg free from the wound. He made a retching soimd. "Looks awful," he said, and turned back toward Mike, his face pale. He wiped at the sweat on his forehead. "Mike, you got hurt bad and lost a lot of blood. There's pus and dirt and maggots in the wound."

"I'm not going to die," Mike said firmly.

Corey managed a shaky grin. "I'll go along with that. A nearly dead man couldn't pull Jiri off his feet the way you done."

As if he'd just remembered Jiri, Corey stood and said to the other man, "Why don't you go see what else you can find? I'll take care of this one."

"He's a Yank. Why not just shoot him in the head?"

Corey flushed. "I'd as soon shoot you as him. The battle's over, and the Federals have been gone since yesterday."

"Leaving us to bury their dead," Jiri grumbled.

"It makes no nevermind," Corey told him. "This man is our prisoner, and we don't shoot prisoners."

Jiri glanced at Mike's leg. "He'll probably beg you to shoot him after he finds out the surgeon's gonna take off his leg."

Mike's heart raced. "Corey? Your surgeon wouldn't do that, would he?"

With a nasty laugh, Jiri began to climb the slope, and Corey bent to study Mike's leg. This time Mike could feel him pushing and probing around the wound. Mike bit his lip to keep from crying out. When Corey finished, Mike fell back, exhausted.

"The bone's not broke," Corey said. "As far as the wound goes, it's stopped bleedin', and it needs a good cleanin' out. 'Course, I'm no company surgeon, and hke Jiri said, the doctor we got is kinda inclined to handle bad leg wounds by taking off the leg."

Mike clutched at Corey's hand. "Don't let him cut off my leg! Please, Corey! Let me just stay here until I've got my strength back."

"You lie here much longer in this heat, with those maggots eatin' away at that wound, and there won't be anything left of you."

"But my leg—"

"Listen to me, Mike," Corey said. "I've got to take you to where you'll get care."

"Then take me to my own company."

"No chance in the world for that. Your Federals were retreatin' fast. By this time, they've reached Springfield and then some. With our army on their tail, they'll have to keep movin'. No telling where they'll run to."

Without Todd. Without me. The last bit of Mike's resolve melted, and he burst into tears.

Corey was silent for a few moments, then touched Mike's shoulder. "You're no older than my brother Ezra. I don't know what gave you the notion to join the army, but you did, so you gotta get yourself in hand now. You done me some favors by carryin' my notes to Marta, so I promise I'll see you get care, Mike, and I'll do whatever I can to keep you from losin' your leg."

Mike struggled to get himself under control. He rubbed the tears from his eyes with the back of one hand and looked up at Corey. "Thanks, Corey," he said.

Corey's smile was brief. "I'm gonna have to carry you up this slope and out of here," he said. "I won't try to fool you, Mike. Afore I get you to the hospital that's been set up at the farmhouse, your leg's gonna hurt somethin' awful."

Mike nodded. "I understand."

"Okay," Corey said. "Reach up and grab me around the neck."

Mike did, and Corey swung him upward and over one shoulder.

"Don't worry if you can't hang on," Corey said. "I've got a good hold on you."

Pain streaked through Mike's entire body. This time he didn't try to fight it. Gratefully, he slipped back into the darkness.

Mike awoke to find himself lying on the ground in the shade of the white farmhouse he'd spotted from the ridge on the hill. Around him were other wounded men. Some lay still, eyes closed, wrapped in blankets, while others cried out in agony. A man crawled over Mike's feet. "Oooh!" Mike yelled, but the man didn't hear. Moaning, talking to himself in delirium, he crawled on, sprawling over the bloody blanket of the man who lay next to Mike.

"Did he hurt you?" Mike asked as he twisted toward the injured soldier.

The man didn't answer. His half-lidded eyes were dull, his jaw slack. The soldier was dead.

An officer, his clothes stained with blood, approached the row of wounded where Mike lay. Following the officer was an orderly with a sheaf of papers on which were printed large numbers. As the officer examined each injured man, he spoke to the orderly, and the orderly tied one of the papers to each one's coat buttons.

This must be the company surgeon, Mike thought, and he was so frightened, he found it hard to breathe.

The doctor spent only a moment looking at Mike's

wound. "Infection's already set in," he said to the orderly. "We'll have to cut it off."