Summer Rose Read online

  Bats flitted like shadows above the silver-tipped water, and an owl hooted from the hidden depths of the pines. Daniel let out a slow breath and one corner of his mouth curled. He nodded, just a slight bob of his head. He knew, in that instant, if he made it through the war, he’d come back and find this place. It was that special.

  “Does this valley have a name?”

  “My da called it Camelann, from the myths. The legends, you know? Of King Arthur. The place where he died.”

  “Camelann? As in Camelot? Magic? Druids? Arthur?”

  The boy shrugged and rolled his eyes. “It’s just a name, a story. My father came from Scotland. He told us all the old tales. Don’t think it’s on a map.” He sat abruptly and glared at Daniel. “And don’t you go putting the name on your maps, either. I don’t want anybody finding it.”

  He leaned against a rock and drank his coffee, watching Hal add wood to the fire. Sparks puffed and flew into the darkening sky. “Not too many folks find this valley. Seems you stumbled onto the only easy way into here.” He lifted his cup, indicating the silhouette of the mountains, now black against the lavender sky. “You’d need to use ropes to get in any other way. The few people who did happen upon the lake didn’t stay long.”

  The fire flickered orange and red on Kip’s face, making his eyes flash and dance over the rim of the tin cup. “It’s a lonely place.”

  An owl hooted somewhere behind them and the wind lifted the branches of the pines, whispering secrets through the needles. Kip picked up a handful of sand and let it trickle through his fingers. “Most of the time I like lonely. I think this valley is the most beautiful place on earth.” He sniffed. “I haven’t been to a lot of places, but it sure seems better than Philadelphia or New York.”

  The boy suddenly rose without a word, moving with the smooth grace of a deer. From behind Daniel’s left ear came a dry rattle, and every inch of his skin prickled. The hair on his forearms stood straight up and he fought the urge to bolt. He didn’t breathe as Kip eased his cup to the ground, and, with great economy of movement, slipped a Bowie knife from beneath his pant leg. In a single, fluid motion, as slick and athletic as any master knifeman, the boy threw the knife. It swooshed by Daniel’s ear, slicing the air and ripping into the snake. Daniel leapt into a crouch when the rattler whipped around, smashing and beating the dirt in a futile attempt to free itself from the blade. After an eternity, the snake and the knife stilled. Daniel’s heart slammed into the bones of his chest and his blood raced. He hated snakes.

  Hal stood, chuckling, and headed toward the reptile. “Danny finds these beasties more offensive than rebels.” He grinned from ear to ear as he freed Kip’s knife with the point of his sword, then speared the snake and lifted it. “Damn, look at those rattles. He’s a beauty. Must be close to eight feet.”

  The dogs sat up, alert and waiting for a signal from their master. Even as far away as the meadow, the horses snorted as they caught the scent. Hal slung the carcass into the night and they heard it splash. When Hal turned back and saw Daniel’s face, he chuckled again. “Easy Danny, it’s dead.”

  Daniel got to his feet, shaking his head, then bent and picked up Kip’s knife. Kneeling at the edge of the water, he cleaned the blade then wiped it dry with his handkerchief. He weighted it in his hand, ran his thumb over the razor sharp blade. Not a cheap knife; the balance was excellent. He stood and headed back to the fire, handing the hilt of the knife out for the boy. He stuck out his other hand for a grateful shake.

  “Your throw was slick. Best I’ve ever seen. Fast, too. Thank you.”

  Kip took the knife and accepted Daniel’s offered hand. “My da taught me, taught all of us.”

  Something about how Kip lowered his eyes caught Daniel’s attention. He shook the boy’s hand and held it for a moment, noticing how his large hand swallowed Kip’s. The delicate fingers and knuckles, with bones like those of a bird, were small and featherweight beneath Daniel’s rough and calloused skin. His thumb slid over and found Kip’s pulse: strong, fast, sure as a drum. Their eyes locked again.

  “Thank you. I suspect I owe you my life.”

  Kip shrugged, pulling his hand free. “Weren’t nothing. Thanks, though, for the coffee and the news.” He replaced his knife then shouldered his pack and shotgun and patted his thigh for the dogs; they bounded to his side. Just before he walked into the night, he glanced over his shoulder, his big eyes riveted on Daniel.

  After he’d disappeared, Daniel led the horses back to the campfire. He and Hal shuffled around, preparing to ride and rendezvous with Buford at Gettysburg.

  “Is Kip a boy’s name or a girl’s?” Daniel asked.

  Hal’s head jerked up, and he snorted. “No girl could throw a knife like that kid did.”

  CHAPTER 3

  GETTYSBURG

  July 3, 1863

  Daniel leaned against an ammunition crate, thick smoke blinded him, blotting out the carnage. But the smoke couldn’t take away either the stench or the cries. Nausea weakened him, tilted the earth, and he leaned to one side and retched. Through his misery flashed an unbidden image of the lake, and he marveled. Hard to believe he’d been there, how many days ago? Now he was dirtier than he’d ever been in his life, and his body longed for the blue-green water.

  A shudder jolted through him, knocking the breath out of him, making his blood race in a throbbing path throughout his body. Cries and moans pressed in on him, suffocating him. He’d wondered if anything could be as bad as Antietam. Today, this third day of hell, was worse. A picture played repeatedly through his head, and he attempted to wrap his arms around himself for comfort, but the effort hurt too much.

  The air, the goddamn air had turned pink with blood. He still saw it, smelled it. Pictures barged through his mind, showing him the poor trooper’s head as it ripped from his body and catapulted toward him like a wild billiard ball. He’d stared in horror as the ball exploded, disintegrated into gray pink slush, then slid in a warm mess of gore down the inside of his blouse. He dared not close his eyes, for fear of seeing it again. Would the image ever go away?

  In shock, he’d fallen from Chester, and a minié ball, like an exclamation point to a cruel declaration, had whistled then thudded into the meat of his thigh. He noticed not the pain but the jarring. He remembered, too, Sergeant Munro, one of Hancock’s sergeants, ripping off the slime-soaked jacket, which clung to his skin, and attempted to wipe up the mess. He remembered, too, as clear as when it had happened, the tooth and part of the trooper’s ear where it had stuck in his suspenders. All the while, the bugles blew, the cannon boomed as Pickett’s division marched toward him. Rebel officers, their horses, chest-deep in the tall grass yelled, “Forward!”

  And the drums. If he lived to be a hundred he’d still hear those goddamn drums rolling through his blood. He cried out when someone dragged him behind a fence row, then propped him by a tree, and threw him his Spencer rifle and ammunition. He watched Pickett and Pettigrew’s divisions, shoulder to shoulder, the flags flapping as they marched, then ran toward Hancock’s guns. The booming and the smoke consumed the air, and when the big guns stopped, Daniel fired the Spencer until his ammunition ran out.

  Beside him, the young corporal stirred again. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen. Daniel lifted the canteen to the young man’s lips, remembering how he’d helped him earlier, but the boy made no sign of seeing him then or now. Shot had blown off most of the kid’s hands, but he didn’t cry or moan. His big brown eyes just stared at a spot somewhere in front of him. A half hour earlier, the stretcher bearers had passed him, carrying another body to the surgeon’s table. Daniel knew the bearers took the worst first, but only those with a chance of living. The boy knew, too.

  Darkness, like a stage curtain, descended, leaving only fires and torches to provide light. Daniel dragged himself into the shadows. Shivers he couldn’t control jerked through his body. Christ, he thought, I’m not ready for the orderlies. He was a captain. He knew they’d take him soo
n. Where in God’s name is Hal? It seemed like hours since he’d left Daniel, heading out to find his horse. Chester couldn’t be that far away. His eyes drifted back to the boy without hands. I have to get out of here.

  Someone, maybe Sergeant Munro, had wrapped a bandage over his ripped trouser leg and around his thigh, trying to keep the raw flesh from oozing down Daniel’s leg. A sane part of his mind acknowledged he might lose the leg, while another part screamed, Not so fast! He knew it was bad, but not deep. He didn’t think the bone was broken. Hal and he had vowed to protect each other, not allow the surgeons to simply hack off a limb. Where the hell was Hal? He took a deep breath, but the acrid air only brought him images of thousands falling like pigeons at a pigeon shoot. Just before his mind shut down, Daniel dragged himself further away from the firelight. Each movement jolted hot rivets of pain down his leg while a cold sweat ran over every inch of skin. The pain like blades, fingers of knives thrusting, travelling down through his body, filled his throat, and he threw up bile then blacked out.

  He awoke to Chester’s snort, coming from the blackness beyond the fence. That horse had a snort like no other. Somehow Daniel managed to lift his fingers to his lips and whistled a signal, one he and Hal had used since they were boys. Moments later, Hal knelt beside him, slipping an arm under Daniel’s shoulder.

  “Here. Drink this.”

  Daniel smelled the bourbon and couldn’t help himself. He grabbed Hal’s hand, choked and laughed out loud. Hot tears streamed down his cheeks and every syllable he uttered cut straight through him.

  “Where did you get this?” he wheezed then took a big swallow. Warmth spread like a wildfire through him.

  Hal levered him to his feet, grunting with the effort. “Okay, big fellow, help me out here. How in hell I let you talk me into this, I do not know.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “Your Chester was right where he was supposed to be. Our troops are scattered from here to the Monocacy, guarding supply lines. That’s a thirty mile ride. I spoke with Captain Keogh. He gave me the bourbon. He said to either shoot you or take care of you. He’ll see to our men and let General Buford know our whereabouts.”

  With his foot, Hal nudged the wooden crate end over end until it stood beside Chester. He helped Daniel step onto it then groaned as he heaved his friend onto the saddle. “Christ. You weigh a ton.”

  Daniel fell across the horse and slowly swung himself around so he had a leg on each side of the saddle. For a moment, he pressed his cheek against Chester’s mane, wondering if he’d ever sit up again. Pain and nausea came in waves and he retched, leaving a little whiskey and bile on the side of his mouth. He lay with his hand on Chester’s chestnut neck, petting the horse, thinking, Good old Chester. With a monumental effort, he pulled himself upright, wiping the vomit off his cheek and lips with his sleeve. He managed to get his left foot in the stirrup as Hal gently nudged the right, the wounded leg, into the other stirrup. The searing pain brought tears to Daniel’s eyes.

  “Head toward the lake,” he said with a grunt. “And keep those bloody surgeons away from me. They’ll take my leg.”

  Hal didn’t have to ask which lake, and Daniel’s stomach threatened to heave again, though this time it was because of the sight spread before him. Dante’s descriptions of Hell had nothing on this scene. He passed stretcher-bearers as they sorted through the slain by torchlight, seeking the living. Following them came crews, usually punishment details, who lined up the dead, who would be buried little deeper than potatoes. He saw pallbearers checking for the bodies of officers. They would be crated into coffins and shipped home. Huge teams of draft horses dragged dead beasts, shot in their traces, clear of the artillery. The screams, the heart wrenching cries of men, cut through the night as Confederate and Union passed each other in the dark.

  The town itself, every street corner, private home, and church, had become a hospital. They passed through a maze of wounded, and Hal pointed to a church where limbs lay stacked like firewood outside a gaping doorway. As they rode closer they could see the wooden doors had been taken down and placed over the pews. The surgeons wearing filthy aprons and doing their bloody work stood over the makeshift operating tables. Small fires burned at every street corner.

  They crossed the railroad tracks, and once they were safely out of town they headed west toward the lake. Daniel gave Chester’s reins to Hal then slumped forward, his forehead heavy on the horse’s neck. If I have to die, let it be at Camelann. Hal left the crowded road and Daniel squinted beyond. Through the firelight danced shadows of Lee’s army, forming their wagon train of wounded. Again Hal changed direction, and Daniel said nothing. Hal was good at maps and had an iron trap memory. He knew the way.

  Two or three agonizing hours later—Daniel lost track of time—he rolled out of the saddle and landed in Hal’s arms. His leg was on fire, and his back had seized, having been tensed for so long. Hal lowered Daniel to the ground and dragged him under a tree, where he leaned his weary friend against a rock. The moon was bright, maybe full, and it spilled silver across the calm surface of the water. A family of ducks complained at the intrusion, and Hal broke out the bottle again.

  “Drink more.”

  Daniel took a long drink of the whiskey, then handed the bottle back. Hal took a big swig and blew out a long breath. “God, that’s good stuff.”

  He passed it back to Daniel, who took another drink. Hal unsaddled the horses and led them to the meadow, where he hobbled them. When he returned he dropped cross-legged onto the sand beside Daniel, and they passed the bottle back and forth between them. Neither had eaten for what seemed like days. Daniel tasted both bile and bourbon, but with the whiskey’s heady power, the pain took its teeth out of him. The horrors dimmed and blurred, swirled around him as they drank, until he blotted out the moon and the lake and the pain. And the fear.

  From deep in his stupor, Daniel heard something grate against the sand. He squinted in the dim light, watching a slim figure load their gear into a canoe and float away. He wanted to protest, knew he should, but couldn’t find the energy to lift his arm. Later the canoe thudded on the sand again and, in a boozy fog, Daniel managed to rise, then fall into the canoe, nearly capsizing it. He was aware of it floating across the water, of strong arms helping him out of it.

  A figure—maybe an angel—built a fire, removed Daniel’s bandage, enlarged the tear in his pant leg, and inspected his wound, cleaning it several times with water warmed in a kettle sitting on the coals. As the sky grayed with first light, Daniel leaned forward and squinted through the dregs of his drunken stupor, watching as the angel strode down to the water’s edge. The blurry figure stripped off pants and a shirt, peeling down to just frilly white bloomers and a lacy camisole. The water barely rippled when she dove deep into the lake and disappeared.

  CHAPTER 4

  DREAM GIRL

  Midmorning, someone unbuttoned the sky. Torrents of rain plastered Daniel’s clothes to his skin, freezing him to his core. His teeth chattered, and he curled into a ball to stop the shaking. Hal rigged the canoe across some rocks then draped the tent over the boat.

  “Crawl under there, Danny. Here’s your poncho. Slip it on.”

  He did as he was told, and Hal followed him. “Good Lord, it’s like the inside of a drum in here.” He held up the bourbon, dark brow raised in question.

  Daniel shook his head. The shivers wouldn’t quit, so he rolled into a ball on the damp sand. Hal spread his poncho over the two of them and the beginnings of warmth took root.

  Above the thunder and drum of the rain, the lightning ripped about them like artillery at close range. Hal took a swig and offered him another drink, but Daniel shook his head again. Hal draped himself over Daniel, but Daniel still shivered.

  About noon they crawled out of the makeshift cave. The sky was still dark and bursts of rain were now sporadic, and thunder still rolled over the mountains. That was when the angel walked out of the lake and lit a miraculous fire. Through the ha
ze of Daniel’s pain and fever, the roaring inferno warmed him. The blur of white threw more pine boughs on the fire, causing the flames to leap and throw sparks into the sky. She led Daniel to a table-sized rock, fed more pine into the fire, and helped Hal stumble to a nearby tree. Great billowing clouds of white smoke covered the island, lifting high under the grey sky.

  Daniel jerked and protested as she pulled off his boots, unsnapped his suspenders, and eased off his trousers.

  “Hush,” she said as she hauled out her big knife and cut off the leg of his underwear. As she had before, she cleaned his wound with water warmed at the fire, then pulled a glass bottle of greenish-yellow, honey-like liquid from her basket and poured the concoction into the wound, smearing it around the opening.

  At one point the pain ripped clear through him and he screamed. Her strong hands pressed against him and held him down, and she murmured, “Easy, Daniel, easy.”

  Taken aback that she knew his name, he let the idea calm him, and his fear dissolved into the smoke. Sure fingers probed deep into the wound, and he thought later he must have passed out, because the pain seemed a dream, and time didn’t matter.

  Later, through his lingering haze of delirium, he became aware of the girl in white throwing more pine on the fire. The needles crackled and swooshed as they caught, and the billowing smoke blotted out the bluing sky. When she was satisfied, she sat beside him and used her Bowie knife to cut long strips from the cotton ruffles of her pantaloons, then tied the cloth around his leg.

  “I’m tying these firmly, but not too tight, Daniel. It’s to speed the healing. I want a little air to get under the bandages and help that salve reach deep into the flesh of your leg. I pulled out the minié ball. Now we have to get your fever down.”

  She left him for a minute then held a scalding cup of tea to his mouth and urged him to drink. He gagged. She chortled lightly and kept pressing the cup to his lips, insisting he drink. “I know it’s bitter, but it helps.” When he’d managed half of it, she eased him to a blanket by the fire and held cool rags to his forehead, then swabbed his neck, back, and chest. In a moment of clarity, he heard Hal snoring a few feet away, and felt a rush of panic when he noticed the crackle and roar of the fire, the smoke rolling over all of them. God. They’ll see that smoke in Harrisburg, maybe Philadelphia. He tried to sit up, but the angel leaned against him, forcing him down, then curled up beside him. She held him close, and when he threw up, she cleaned his face, gave him water. At last the shivering stopped, and he fell asleep.