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“Out!” she ordered. “Merrit, you stay with me!” Her eyes were still on Monk’s. She had not forgotten why they had come.
There was a volley of shots close outside.
As if it were the spur he was needing, the surgeon moved at last. He pushed past her and ran to the door, the others following on his heels.
Outside, they stopped abruptly. A small detachment of Rebel cavalry was twenty yards away and approaching fast. A bullet whined past Hester and slammed into the church wall, sending splinters flying. One grazed her hand, and she gasped involuntarily, putting it to her lips to stop the blood.
The Rebels stopped and the surgeon stepped forward to speak to the officer.
“This is a field hospital,” he said, his voice shaking. “Will you give us safe conduct to evacuate our wounded?”
The officer shook his head. “Get them out the best you can, but I can’t give you any promise.” He looked him up and down. “And you’re coming with us … back to Manassas Junction.”
The surgeon pleaded, but the Rebels would brook no argument, and ten minutes later they were gone, and the surgeon with them, leaving Monk, Hester, Merrit and the two orderlies to help the wounded.
They were carrying men into the carts and about to begin the journey back towards Centreville and Washington when a Union cavalry officer rode up, his arm in a sling across his chest, his tunic dark with blood.
“You’ll have to go west!” he shouted. “You can’t go by the turnpike. The bridge over Cub Run River is blocked. There’s a cart turned over on it and there are civilians all over the place, sightseers out from Washington to watch the battle, picnic hampers an’ all. Now they’re overrun and nothing can get through … not even ambulances.” He waved his good arm. “You’ll have to go that way.” He swung his horse around and headed off, picking up speed and disappearing into the dust and smoke.
“Has the Union really lost?” Hester said miserably.
Monk was standing
close to her. He could give his reply quietly enough in the momentary lull that even Merrit could barely hear him.
“This battle, by the look of it. I don’t know what’s going to happen along the road.” He could hardly believe what the cavalryman had said. Who on God’s earth would look at this voluntarily?
But the shock he had expected to see in Hester’s face was not there. He stared, puzzled. Why did it not horrify her?
She read his thoughts.
“It happened in the Crimea as well,” she said with a sad, lopsided grimace. “I don’t know what it is … a failure of the imagination. Some people cannot think themselves into anyone else’s pain. If they don’t feel it themselves, then it isn’t real.” Then she started to move again, picking up what few belongings were most important and passing around the canteens of water to anyone who could carry them.
The firing was growing closer all the time, but it was very sporadic now.
Merrit was standing frozen with dismay. In the distance they could hear the strange, high Rebel yell on the wind.
“Where’s Trace?” Hester said urgently.
Monk made the decision in the instant, even as he spoke. “He’s gone into the battle. He’s hell-bent on finding Breeland, whatever happens. We’ll have to go south if we are to get out. Take Merrit with us. It will be hard, but I think trying to find our way through the chaos here, and get Breeland out through his own people, will be next to impossible.”
Her voice caught for a moment. “Go … that way?” She looked towards the gunfire. But even as she protested he could see in her face that she understood the reason behind his words. “Will we be able to find Trace?”
He thought for a moment of lying. Was it his responsibility to comfort her, show strength and hope, regardless of the truth? They had never told each other what was comfortable. In fact, they had spent the first year or two of their acquaintance being as abrupt, as brutally honest, as possible. To do less now would be like a denial of what was precious between them, a terrible condescension, as if by marrying him at last she had forfeited his friendship.
“I have no idea,” he said with a smile which was a little wild, more than a little crooked.
A flash of humor-and of fear-in her eyes answered him.
He turned, knowing absolutely that she would follow, and bring Merrit with her, dragging her if she must, but surely she would come willingly, towards Breeland?
The battle had become a total flight, with men running and scrambling any way they knew how away from the field and towards the turnpike back to Washington.
“Come!” Hester’s voice interrupted him, and he felt her hand on his sleeve and winced.
She glanced at it.
“Nothing,” he said quickly. “A scratch.”
