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Beyond These War-Torn Lands

By Cynthia Roemer

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July 9, 1864, Battle of Monocacy Junction, Maryland

Sergeant Andrew Gallagher drew his bloodied bayonet from yet another gray clad soldier. All around, the roar of gunfire mingled with the moans of the wounded and dying. The humid air reeked of flesh and gunpowder. Waves of Confederate soldiers continued to pummel him and his men from every side like swarms of gnats. There was no time to think, only react.

He wheeled around just as another Rebel soldier charged him from behind, rifle and bayonet pointed at his mid-section. With a sharp, upward cut of his rifle, Drew tore the weapon from the youth’s hands, and it spiraled through the air, breaking in its landing. The young soldier’s face blanched, fear mingling with contempt in his eyes.

The defenseless lad gave a shrill cry and leapt at Drew, clawing at him with his bare hands. Rather than gouge him through, Drew landed a hard blow to the soldier’s jaw. The young man stumbled backward and fell to the ground, a dazed expression spilling over his face as he melted down like a wilted flower, his inexperienced attempts at warfare temporarily at an end.
Drew’s mouth pulled in a sad grin. Lord willing, some mother would have the pleasure of greeting her boy when the war was over.

A shot whizzed past his ear. He flinched and instinctively cut a glance at his men. They were weary and outnumbered. A good many had fallen.
He clenched his jaw. How many more lives would be lost if they persisted?
A bugle sounded in the distance, and a sad sort of relief washed through Drew. They’d battled nearly non-stop since daybreak, struggling to hold their ground against the Johnny Rebs along the Monocacy River. Twice he and his men had sent them scurrying, only to have them come back harder, stronger. There seemed no end to them. General Wallace must have taken note of their plight and realized it was a no-win situation. Raising his arm, Drew signaled his bugler to sound retreat.

He only hoped their efforts had not been for nothing.
As he and his fellow soldiers in blue turned from battle, another volley of shots rang out.

A hot sting seared Drew’s shoulder.

Laughter sounded a few yards to his left. “Take that you ol’ blue-belly.”

Ignoring the shooting pang in his arm, he fixed his gaze on the jeering Confederate soldier. The Rebel sneered as he lowered his rifle. Drew wavered, knowing he should remain with his men, but the temptation to retaliate beckoned him.

No Johnny Reb mocked him and got away with it.

Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.

The inner prompting gave Drew pause, but wasn’t enough to squelch his thirst for revenge. The Confederates owned this day, this battle, but he refused to let this gloating private glory in the victory. Seeing no immediate threats, Drew charged toward him, rifle and bayonet at the ready. The Rebel soldier’s face paled as he neared. With no time to reload, the man scrambled to unsheathe the bayonet he’d foolishly neglected to attach to his rifle. As Drew threw back his arm to thrust, a flash of silver whirled toward him. Searing pain sliced through him as the blade lodged deep in his side. At nearly the same instant, his bayonet found its mark in the Rebel soldier’s chest. With a loud shriek, the man crumpled to the ground.

A bit faint, Drew loosened his grip on his rifle and turned from the onslaught of Confederate soldiers headed toward him. A riderless horse trotted by several yards to his left. With effort, Drew pulled the knife from his side and pressed a hand to the wound as he limped over to the bay mare. Taking hold of the horse’s mane, he heaved himself into the saddle. With a tap of the heels in her flanks, the horse lunged forward as though eager to leave the chaos of battle.

In agony, Drew slumped forward, molding himself to the horse’s neck.
His impulsive act had cost him dearly.

The barrage of gunfire followed him along the open field and into the nearby timber to the east. His company had scattered, no doubt having sought refuge among the trees and underbrush. Once out of range, Drew slowed his mount and ventured a first glance at his pierced side. Already enough blood had oozed from the wound to leave a sizeable dark splotch on his navy, wool jacket. Loosening the brass buttons, he cringed at the bright red stain on his shirt. He raised it for a look, the deep gash continuing to spew blood.
At this rate, he’d likely not last long.

He hung his head. “Serves me right for not listening, Lord.”
Unbuttoning his shirt, he tied the shirttails together around him in attempt to stem the flow of blood. He swayed sideways and clasped the saddle horn to steady himself. Sweat trickled down his temples. The sweltering heat and loss of blood had stolen his strength. No telling what would become of him if he fell into enemy hands. More than likely he’d be imprisoned or hung—neither thought appealing.

His vision blurred and, with a hard blink, he shook his head. “Gotta keep moving.”

Though his shoulder continued to throb, the knife wound seemed ten times more excruciating. Given his rough condition, the Lord might very well claim him first and cheat the Johnny Rebs out of having their way with him.
He closed his eyes, melting into the rhythm of the mare’s steady gait.

Forgive me, Lord, for being headstrong and thoughtless. I don’t deserve your mercy, but if you could see fit to bring me…through this, I’d…be…obliged.
The sound of gunfire faded in the distance. He pried his eyes open. “Stay…awake.”

The trees swirled around him, and he clung tighter to the horse’s neck, his breaths growing shallower. Spots marred his vision and then darkness enveloped him.

He sensed himself falling, powerless to stop it.

#

A twig snapped beneath Caroline Dunbar’s boot, and she stilled. She clutched tighter to her satchel, the quietness almost eerie. The birds had gone silent as though hiding from the atrocities of war. Not a whiff of breeze stirred in the treetops. She inched forward, wondering if she’d made a mistake in coming.

A soft sigh escaped her. She’d come too far to turn back.
The fighting had sounded so close this time. So near in fact, their neighbors to the west must have seen the thick of battle. At Caroline’s pleading, Mama had finally consented to let her lend her help where needed. Long after the guns had ceased, she’d ventured toward the timber that separated their estate from the Thomas Farm. Beyond the trees lay Bush Creek and, further to the west, the Monocacy River.

Somewhere in between, the battle had raged.

No doubt the wounded would be many.

A foreboding plume of dark smoke swirled in the direction of the Thomas farm. Had they suffered harm? The Thomas’ had purchased the farm just prior to the onset of the war and had dealt with the presence of soldiers from both sides of the conflict ever since. Who would have guessed this once tranquil countryside would become a maelstrom of military tensions?

The afternoon shadows were deepening, and though Mama would disapprove, Caroline had chosen the more direct route through the timber rather than meandering along the worn trail. If Papa knew she’d strayed so near the battle grounds, his anger would prove unsightly. Yet, if she could help even one brave soldier recover from his wounds, it would be worth enduring his wrath. If her brother, Jamison, were lying wounded on some battlefield, wouldn’t Papa wish someone to aid him?

Besides, how was she to gain knowledge of nursing without a patient?
A horse’s soft nicker startled her, and she ducked behind the trunk of a sturdy oak. She waited, her heart at her throat. Finally venturing a look, she released the breath she’d been holding at sight of a lone mare munching leaves. The empty saddle across her back gave clue to the tragic circumstances that had brought her to this desolate place. Had the rider been injured or killed?

Caroline’s stomach lurched. Or was he lying in wait somewhere?
She paused to listen, but heard only the sound of the bay’s nervous chomping.

Convinced she was alone, she eased from her hiding place and stepped toward the animal, hand outstretched. “Easy, girl. I’ll not harm you.”

The horse reared its head, sidestepping as she neared. Caroline edged closer, letting the jittery mare sniff her fingertips. Speaking in low tones, she touched a gentle hand to the horse’s muzzle. “There now. You’re safe, girl.”

A faint moan sounded several yards up ahead. Caroline sucked in a breath, stifling the urge to flee. She snatched up the horse’s reins and peered into the underbrush, deliberating. Should she ride away or stay to investigate?

A second groan gave her pause. She’d come to aid the wounded, hadn’t she?
With a decided breath, she tugged the mare in the direction of the sound. Hiking her skirt to step over a fallen log, she panned the tangle of foliage stretched out ahead of her.

“Help.”

Her gaze fled to the timber floor, a few feet to her left. Though the plea was little more than a raspy whisper, it reached her very core. No longer could she question her need to help, only her abilities.
She lifted her eyes heavenward. Lord, grant me courage.

Edging closer, she caught sight of the wounded soldier and clapped a hand over her mouth. Rather than Confederate gray, the injured man wore the navy uniform of a Federal. The sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve hinted he would be missed by an entire squad of soldiers.

Her heart drummed in her ears. What now? Did she flee or help this man her family deemed an enemy—one of the very men her older brother sought to kill?

The soldier’s eyelids flickered to half-mast. His cap had fallen away, revealing a head of unkempt, dark brown hair. Though pale and marred with dirt, his face was pleasant.

One might even dare say handsome.

He cringed, pleading with her through gritted teeth. “Please, miss. I need…your…help.”

With each breath, his chest heaved as though every word was a struggle. She wavered, torn between loyalty to her southern roots and her God-given duty to aid those in need. With a furtive glance around, she inched closer and knelt beside him. Dark, oily stains soiled the left side of his torn uniform at his side and shoulder.

She cleared her throat, doing her best to appear as though she knew what she was doing. “I’ll need to examine your wounds.”

His nod did little to bolster her confidence. With quivering hands, she pulled the wool material aside, her stomach lurching at the stench of sweat mingled with blood. Heat singed her cheeks as she reached to loosen the blood-soaked shirt-ends tied around his middle. Never in her nineteen years had she been so near a man, let alone expose one’s bare chest. She kept her attention schooled on the knotted shirt, consoling herself that a nurse was forced to abandon propriety and release fears of indecency.

She could only pray her limited knowledge of nursing would prove adequate.
She fumbled to untie the shirt, her fingers slick from a coating of fresh blood. At last, she peeled it back, wincing at sight of the cavernous gash beneath. It didn’t take a seasoned nurse to determine the wound was substantial. With so much loss of blood, it was a wonder he hadn’t been rendered unconscious long ago.
Or had he for a time?

No doubt the injury would require stitches—a skill she felt ill-equipped to attempt. “Your wound is quite deep. I’m afraid it will need sewn together, but I …”

“Do it.”

His decisive command stilled her words and drained the blood from her cheeks. She’d mended clothing, but never attempted to sew flesh. The notion left her a bit queasy. She shook her head. “Under such primitive circumstances, I think it best I not try it. I-I’m not experienced with that sort of thing.”

He stared up at her, flecks of blue in his silvery eyes. “Unless you do…I’ll likely…not…survive.”

Her feeble excuses melted under the sobering words. Though his pain must have been excruciating, he bore it nobly with as much grit as any Southerner could muster. At last, she nodded. “I’ll try.”

He seemed to relax then, his lips mouthing a weak “thank you”.

Reluctantly, she reached in her satchel and retrieved her bottle of iodine, along with a wad of cotton. As she doused the fibers with the antiseptic, she did her best not to appear nervous. In her wildest notions, she’d not dreamed her day would include tending the wounds of a Union sergeant.
But pleas for help were not something she could easily ignore.

She sensed the soldier’s eyes upon her as she gently dabbed at the wound. Was he equally unnerved by these rather odd circumstances?

“What are you doing…out here…alone?” His breathy inquiry surprised her.

She hesitated, keeping her eyes trained on her work. “I-I was on my way to my neighbor’s to aid the injured soldiers.”

When he gave no reply, she ventured a glance his way. Whether from fatigue or fortitude, he uttered not so much as a groan, though his face pinched from time to time from the sting.

His cheeks flinched as he shifted his head toward her. “Confederate soldiers…I’m guessin’ by your…accent.”

She gave a slow nod.

He swallowed, his voice raspy. “Sorry to…spoil your plans. I’m obliged…you took notice…of me.”

Setting the iodine aside, she wiped her hands on a cloth and reached in her bag for the needle fastened in its lining. “You needed tending to. I only did what any good Christian would.”

He nodded slightly, his eyelids growing heavy. “God…bless you…miss.”

His head slumped to the side and, for a moment, Caroline thought she might be free of the obligation to aid him. But his chest rose and fell in steady movements. She gnawed at her lip, half tempted to leave him where he lay, but her conscience, along with the memory of his imploring eyes, held her in place. To desert him now, would make her no less than a liar and a murderer.
She’d promised to help, and that she must do.

She stood and strode to the back of his horse, yanking a strand of hair from its tail. Not the most sanitary of materials, but it was all she had. With effort, she worked to thread the coarse hair through the eye of the needle then returned to the soldier’s side. With no means to deaden the pain, his unconsciousness proved a blessing. Whispering a prayer, she thrust the needle into his skin and pulled it through.


 

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