March Toward the Thunder (14 page)

The man drank and then jerked back. “You?” he said, his voice startled. “How can it be? In a uniform? And your hair? Where's your beautiful long hair?”

"Tom O'Shea.” The little private was weeping now in a most unmanly way. “I did it to be close to you. Can you forgive me?”

"Mary,” Captain O'Shea said, his hand caressing her face. “My Mary.”

Louis was not sure how many realized what they were seeing, but he knew.

He looked over at Sergeant Flynn.

“Hold your fire!” the sergeant suddenly bellowed in a voice that echoed off the hills. “That wee lad is a lass. Put up your guns.”

Flynn was at the top of the parapet now, waving one arm in the air and pointing the other toward the stunned men in gray.

“
D' ye not see 'tis the man's own wife?
”

On the field before them Mary O'Shea had taken off her private's coat and unwound the roll of cloth she'd bound around her chest to hide the curve of her bosom. She began tearing the cloth into bandages.

By the time she'd bound her husband's wound, a party of stretcher bearers had reached her, Louis and Flynn among them. Not a shot came from either side as men stood and watched, guns by their sides. And who among them was not thinking of the dear ones they'd left behind? For one blessed moment, all thoughts of fighting left that field.

In the surgeon's tent, no one seemed to be able to say a word until Surgeon O'Meagher had finished his examination of the weak but still conscious man.

"No need for amputation of any limbs,” O'Meagher said to Captain O'Shea. "Clean flesh wounds in both arms and legs. You would have, of course, exsanguinated had you been left to lie for another hour. With proper care you'll live a long life—though your career as a soldier is over.”

“I'll care for him,” Mary said.

How could I have ever thought her anything but a woman?
Louis thought. Now that he knew she was a woman, she no longer looked so young.
Much older than me, probably as old as twenty-four
.

“Private Merry,” a deep Irish voice said. It was, of course, Flynn. “I'm afraid ye'll no longer be able to be part of this man's army. Ye'll have to turn in yer weapon and kit and uniform, and forfeit what pay ye have comin', I'm sorry to say. Ye were a fine soldier.”

"Yes, sir,” Mary O'Shea said, coming to attention and snapping a salute as she did so and then breaking into a grin. “I'll gladly give up this wool uniform, sir. But I shall miss my musket.”

Flynn turned to Captain O'Shea, who hardly seemed to have heard the sergeant's speech. His eyes were on his wife, a look on his face that combined love and awe.

“Sir,” Flynn said, “I know it's out of place for me to speak this way to a superior officer and all, but I need to say it. Ye take care of yer wife and cherish her and ne'er say a hard word for what she's done or ye'll be hearing from Liam Flynn.”

"Sergeant,” Captain O'Shea said, "it's less I'd be thinking of you had you not said that.” He weakly lifted one hand to shake Flynn's. “You have my word as surely as my dear wife has my everlasting love.”

Mary O'Shea grasped Louis by the elbow and pulled him over. “Tom, this is Louis. He's a fine lad. He has been my best friend these weeks and as good a friend as any soldier could have wanted.”

Captain O'Shea turned his eyes toward Louis. "So you watched over my Mary in battle, boy?”

Louis nodded.

More like she watched over me,
he thought, but words weren't coming to his lips.

Tom O'Shea let go of Flynn's hand and reached toward Louis to grasp the same arm that Mary held. For the first time there was a hint of a smile on the wounded captain's face. “So, my wife's best friend, would you do me the honor of repeating your name?”

“Louis, Private Louis Nolette, sir.”

“Louis? That's a good name, isn't it, Mary? A good name to give a son if the Lord should so bless us in the years to come?”

“Yes, my dear Tom,” Mary said. Her face was bright with happiness, one hand on her husband's shoulder and the other on Louis's arm. “Yes.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

IN THE RIVER

“So,” Flynn said, “there's a use for cavalry after all.”

The sergeant carefully folded the newspaper and put it down gently on the log bench.

Louis hadn't really taken notice of it before. But, come to think of it, Flynn was always like that with anything with words on it. It didn't matter if it was a Bible, a magazine, a newspaper, or even a leaflet. The printed word seemed to be a sacred thing to their sergeant “And what would that be?” Corporal Hayes asked, limping over to grab the newspaper from the bench.

“Gently, Corporal,” Flynn said. “You'll tear the dear thing. Just look there near the middle of the first page.”

Hayes sat down as if his legs were made of wood.

The corporal rubbed his equally bruised chin gingerly with one hand before opening the paper.

Those Rebs who captured Hayes were none too gentle. But our corporal himself returned the favor
.

Because the corporal's captors had neglected to have him give his word that he would not try an escape, he had waited till his captors were distracted by a shell bursting near them. The thought of being shot while trying to get away appealed to him more than being sent to Andersonville. Grabbing a gun from one man, the corporal had kicked another in the belly and slugged a third in the chin with the musket barrel. Then Hayes hightailed it through the trees.

It had been near dark, but even then he might not have made it had he not been near a small rapid-flowing stream. Without hesitating, Hayes had jumped in and been carried around the bend. It had taken him two days to find his way back to what was left of E Company.

Louis smiled at the memory of the return of their formerly lost noncom. Corporal Hayes had thought to surprise them, but had ended more surprised himself. That their numbers were so diminished was sad but not shocking. That one of their men had been a woman shook him more than his own capture and bangs and bruises.

“The wee lad was a lass?” Hayes said in a voice that brought a grin to Sergeant Flynn's face. “The wee lad was a lass?”

In the day and a half the corporal had been back with them he'd repeated his bemused question innumerable times. One minute he'd be pounding a piece of hardtack with a stone to break it into pieces that his sore jaw could handle and the next he would pause and look up.

“The wee lad was a lass?”

Even last night, settled into his tent, other men snoring about him, his voice had broken the still of the night every two or three hours with those same six words.

“The wee lad was a lass?”

Louis wondered if the sergeant's calling Hayes's attention to the newspaper was not just a way to turn the corporal's mind toward something else.

Hayes's brow furrowed as he studied the paper, leaning his head close to the page. Unlike Flynn, the corporal was a deliberate reader whose lips moved as he sounded out each word. He finished a sentence and looked up.

“General Jeb Stuart is dead?” Hayes asked.

“Aye,” Flynn replied. “Shot and killed dead by one of Sheridan's men in a clash between their cavalry units. I heard word of it two days ago, but seein' it in this copy of the
Richmond Enquirer
so generously given to me by one of our prisoners—ye can trust that it's gospel truth. They are mournin' his loss in Richmond. 'Tis the heaviest blow they've took since Stonewall Jackson.”

Flynn slapped his thighs with his broad palm and stood up.

“So, as I said, there seems to be a bit of use for cavalry after all. And that is t' lessen the number of cavalrymen on the other side. For an enemy cavalryman is worse—though only by a hairsbreadth—than one of our own.”

Flynn carefully extricated the newspaper from Hayes's grasp, folded it again, and stowed it in his pack. Then the sergeant stared off into the distance, one broad hand on his chest, his fingers tapping against the buttons of his coat. The Virginia sun was beating down from a cloudless sky and Flynn reached up to wipe the sweat from his brow. It was so quiet in this lull between the fighting that had lasted for over a day now, you could hear the trickling voice of the North Ana River as it rippled over the stones down into a little pool a hundred yards from them.

As the sun reflected off its surface, that pool caught Louis's eye.
Almost the same as the one Artis led me and Kirk and Belaney and Devlin to before the battle
.

All five of them frolicking like little boys in the water. He smiled at the thought that all five of them were still among those who could breathe and walk on their own feet. Not among the lost. True, he'd lost Merry—Mary O'Shea. He was going to miss Merry dreadfully. But the thought of the happiness she'd found made him feel warm inside. He thought of his mother's words: “We never know what each day will bring us. Be thankful for every small blessing from Bon Dieu.”

The boy he'd been only weeks ago hadn't understood those words at all. Now, though, they were easier to understand.

He'd seen Artis just last evening. Both of them on picket duty—Artis to the left of his company's line and Louis to E Company's right. They'd been able to exchange a few quick words.

But none about the fight they'd survived.

“You bark-eating Abernakis ever play marbles?” Artis asked.

“A sight better than most Mohawks,” Louis answered. “But I don't have a marble with me.”

Artis jiggled the leather sack that hung at his side. “Plenty here to loan you some till I win 'em back. You know us Mohawks always win when we come up against you Abernakis.”

“In a pig's eye,” Louis replied, keeping his face straight for another moment before breaking into a grin as wide as the one Artis wore. They'd made plans to get together after mess the next day if things stayed quiet.

It would be good to do something so far removed from the grim business of war. He was looking forward also to surprising Artis with the news that one of the soldiers he'd introduced his new friend to had actually been a woman in disguise. Although Artis might already have heard. The tale of Mary O'Shea, the warrior lass, was making its way from one regiment to the next.

“Hmm,” Sergeant Flynn said loudly to himself, his fingers drumming again on his buttons.

It drew Louis out of his reverie. The other men of E Company pricked up their ears as well. Something was on their sergeant's mind when he made a sound like that. Clasping his chin in one hand and grasping his elbow with the other, the big Irishman lapsed back into momentary silence.

The men of E Company held their breath. Flynn getting quiet like that meant for sure that something was being planned.

Whomp!
The sergeant's broad palms slapped together like a thunder clap.

“Aye!” Flynn exclaimed, raising up the index fingers of both meaty hands. “That's the ticket! Ye need to rid yerselves of the stink and stench of battle. And who among ye but our good Corporal Hayes has had himself a proper bath? Form up, lads. It's down to the river with ye all.”

When they reached the riverbank, Flynn looked them over. “Now, who among ye can swim?”

Half of the men raised their hands.

“Fine,” Flynn said. “Then ye who know the ways of the otter and the finny fish may keep an eye on the others t' be sure they don't drown. Because each and every one of ye is going into that water. Wait! Every stitch of yer clothing is coming off before ye go in.”

Halfway through pulling off his underwear, the first time he'd fully undressed since putting on his uniform, Louis had a thought.

Louis shook his head in amusement. His own skin was an even earthen brown. But the other naked privates were a patchwork of colors—sunburned red on their necks, tanned on their faces and hands, and pale as plucked chickens where clothing had kept away the sun. Some were covering their parts with hands or caps.

“Attention!” Sergeant Flynn barked.

The men snapped straight, hands at their sides. Sergeant Flynn walked past them eyeing each closely. “Fine,” he said at last. “At ease,
men,
and into the river with ye.”

The water of the pool was cool and clean and a blessed relief, indeed. As Louis floated on his back, looking up at the blue sky, the other men laughed and splashed at one another as if they knew nothing of being soldiers hardened by combat. Up on the bank their clothes lay in piles.

Take off our uniforms and what do we become? Boys again
.

Louis chuckled.
But not girls. Not a wee lass among us
.

Sergeant Flynn's bathing party had made sure of that.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

SKILLYGALLEE AND SONG

Almost as soon as the men had dried themselves and put their uniforms back on the order came down that they were to break camp. Grant had ordered Meade to lead the Army of the Potomac across the Mattapony River, so Louis's plan for marbles with Artis was not to be for now. A bigger game was about to be played in which men, and not balls of clay, were the pieces to be shot at.

They forded the Mattapony after another night march. Then it was across the North Ana River, where they engaged Lee's grayback boys. All in a heat so great that Louis felt as if the buttons on his sack coat were about to melt.