Quick as the pallets of the dead were emptied and shaken by the burial detail they were filled with new wounded, men from a Confederate cavalry shot while scouting Union troops.
With them came rumors of two Union brigades marching toward Petersburg to resupply Gen. Grant. Fifty miles of open fields, timber, and our hospital camp stood in their path as the crow flies—more miles if they traveled the roads. That gave us roughly three, maybe five days, if the storm slowed them down. Wooster and I were hard pressed to guess which might be worse for us—McCain or Union troops.
The rain stopped altogether on the fifth day, leaving the whole camp flooded. Still the wind blasted, still rumors flared from couriers anxious to talk after three sips of John Barleycorn, and still McCain’s foraging party did not return.
Wooster sat next to me in the late afternoon, shoving down my throat hot broth that I could just as well have eaten myself, when we first heard McCain’s roar. “I foraged twenty miles east and west and never saw so much as a blue streak across that land!”
“I understand that the last courier said three days more. But you’ll want to speak with Col. Monroe, Maj. McCain. That’s all I know.” It was Chap. Goforth’s voice. “I believe he’s in his tent. He’s expecting a high-ranking visit shortly. I’ll show you the way.” We could hear the chaplain steer McCain away from our tent and blessed him for taking a quick hand.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” Wooster whispered. “That Col. Monroe’ll send him our way, sure as we’re setting here.”
Memories of McCain jerking my arm high behind my back, cutting rope burns into my raw wrists, his threats—all of it swelled in my brain. I was more scared of McCain than of Union or Confederate armies, more scared of him than of dying on the run. I grabbed my boots. Wooster pulled on one while I tugged on the other.
Katie Frances burst into the tent to the delight of every man there. “Miss O’Leary! Nurse O’Leary!” they called, reaching for the hem of her skirts. She smiled at each one, promising to see to them in a moment, as she made her way across the tent floor to Wooster and me. She knelt down as I forced my arm into a woolen butternut jacket. Her green eyes stood wide.
“Col. Monroe is meeting with Maj. McCain now,” she whispered. “The major’s returned a ‘conquering hero’—foraged a bounty—though where he could have found it no one knows, or is asking.” She glanced over her shoulder. “The colonel’s sure to tell him about you. He’s been asking me every day if you’re strong enough for field duty, Robert, and why I’ve taken such an interest in the two of you. He thinks you’re deserters. They shoot deserters! Though why they’d do it when there’s such a need for soldiers, I don’t know.” Her forehead creased, and her eyes grew fearful.
She watched the tent flap one second and worried over us the next. “You must move to a different tent—bunk in with Wooster, or Andrew—and pretend you’re well. Lend a hand with the wounded; blend in. We’re expecting those Union troops before day’s end. And a Brigadier General Somebody-or-other is on his way to camp—passing through. They’re all in a tizzy. The confusion of it all is the only chance you’ll go unnoticed. But you can’t be seen together. They’ll call you out in no time! You really both must go now! They’ll be here, sure and certain, any moment!”
“I can make it to Wooster’s tent.” I pulled myself up. “I don’t know about tending wounded. I’m still shaky on my feet.”
“We’ll think of something. Now, go!”