Shades of Gray: A Novel of the Civil War in Virginia (59 page)

“Wait! Let me help!” Hunter thought he said the
words out loud, but if he did, she did not listen. She slumped off the side of
her horse to the crystal earth, almost at his feet. He heard the dull thump
when her body hit the ground, stared in awestruck horror at the
scarlet-spattered snow all around her. He looked to her face, now devoid of all
color, then to the brilliant green eyes that stared blankly at the full moon
overhead.

“Andrea! No!” He knelt by her side in frantic
horror, blinking in disbelief as he watched the light flicker and go out of
those once-expressive eyes, just like a match suddenly extinguished.

“Can you hear me?”

But he knew she couldn’t. Couldn’t possibly. Not
now that the green was gone. Gone! Melted away! Those beautiful windows to the
soul were now two gaping, vacant orbs.

Hunter’s gaze turned to the pure white snow
contrasting against the shocking red flow of gore that seemed ever spreading.
He looked toward heaven, hoping for some refuge there, but now even the sky had
turned to a crimson sea of horror, as if her lifeblood ebbed from her body to
saturate the very heavens. Panicking, Hunter looked around for his men, but
they had all vanished.

There was no movement. No sound anywhere. It
seemed the world had stopped.

“Andrea!” He reached out to touch her, to
somehow stop the vital current that continued to spurt like an endless fountain
from her motionless form.

That’s when he noticed the gun, still smoking,
in his hand.

No-o-o! 

* * *

 “Colonel. You all right?” Carter knelt beside
his commander.

Hunter sat straight up, gasping for breath, his
hands clenched into fists. “Is she dead?”

“Is who dead?”

Hunter appeared drenched, like he had been
caught in a downpour. He rubbed his hand through sweaty hair, and looked over
Carter’s shoulder apprehensively, as if expecting to find something there.

“You sure you’re all right, Colonel?” Carter put
a tentative hand on his shoulder. “You kill someone we don’t know about?” He
tried to make a joke, but he could see it was no laughing matter. He felt
Hunter trembling through the heavy woolen coat, and his clothes were so damp
with sweat they steamed in the cool night air. Hunter continued to stare into
the darkness, breathing heavily, his face solemn.

“Here,” Carter instructed, digging through a
saddlebag. “Take a swig of this.”

Hunter accepted the small flask, but his hand
still trembled so violently, he handed it back, exasperated. “I’m all right.”

Carter knew differently. The face of the man who
had always possessed such extraordinary control over his feelings, expressed
perfect despair and hopelessness. Carter waited, hoping Hunter would want to
talk, but the sound of a train whistle in the distance brought the Colonel to
his feet.

“Get the men ready,” was all he said, before walking
stiffly toward his horse.

Carter’s gaze remained on Hunter as he strode
silently across the moonlit field and went through the motions of preparing his
mount. War was usually good for taking the mind off things, but Carter could
see not even that was sufficient to release his commander from the terrible
turmoil within.

Chapter
59

“Love does not die easily.”

– Hamlet, Shakespeare

Andrea ignored the unearthly scream of shells.
She moved from wounded soldier to wounded soldier, trying to give aid and
comfort to those who lay where they fell in the midst of the thunder of guns.

She was not unaware of the chaos or the dreadful
suffering and agony around her. She was simply too exhausted and concentrating
too much on her duties to take much notice of it. The field on which she worked
was a vast plain of wreckage, as if a great storm from a place worse than hell
had swept through. Yet she continued her work without pause, refusing to allow
brave men to lie in misery while their countrymen continued to slaughter one
another.

Lifting her eyes briefly in an attempt to get
her bearings through the thick haze of smoke, Andrea caught a glimpse of the
seemingly endless sea of writhing humanity strewn around her. The beautiful
rolling hills of Virginia were nothing like she had once known them. The
paradise she had once considered beautiful was now a living hell. Andrea
lowered her eyes again and moved on. She could help but one at a time. There
was no use agonizing about it.

Kneeling by a man who lay just within a tree
line, Andrea stared at the bloody path he had made by dragging himself there.
She ripped open his pants leg and tried to stem the bleeding of the fearfully
torn flesh. She knew it was somewhat futile. From what she knew of such
injuries he would not have the limb for long, if he lived at all. Still, she
was determined to do her best. Concentrating on the wound, she felt a hand
grasp her wrist.

“Andrea?”

She blinked at the barely recognizable face
staring up at her. The only identifiable features were the eyes—and they
portrayed mortal agony. “Yes, Alex. It is me,” she whispered.

He stared at her unbelieving, blinking through
sweat and blood, apparently trying to decide if she was an illusion or real.
Andrea put water on a cloth and wiped his brow, resisting the urge to lay her
head upon his chest and weep. She had cried many tears since leaving Hawthorne,
more than she thought a human being had within them. Now she wondered what kind
of God it was that wished to torture her afresh. Why could He not let her go on
with her life and forget?

“I must …” Hunter swallowed and licked his lips.
“I mus …talk …to you.” He struggled to hold his eyes open, to stay conscious.

“Be still,” Andrea commanded, sweeping her eyes
across the field. Although she could see none of his men, she knew they must be
watching, waiting for the opportunity to extract their leader from this
precarious place.

“I made … terrible mistake.” His eyes were eyes
glazed with pain. His fevered, bloodshot gaze searched her face.

“I’m sure your men will forgive you.” Andrea
poured water on his wound.

“No!” He grabbed her again violently. “Nothing
to do … with … men!”

Hunter seemed to turn somewhat delirious.
Although he appeared to be trying to talk, he succeeded in doing little more
than muttering incoherently. Still, his voice, his presence, affected Andrea,
making her heart throb frantically as she wiped the clammy dew from his brow.

“Andrea … where are you?”

“I’m right here.” She tried to sound calm, while
turning her attention back to his mangled leg.

“N-o-o!” His voice sounded agonized. He reached
out to her again, grabbing frantically for her wrist, which he held with a
strength she could not believe he possessed. “Where are you? Take me … there!”

Andrea looked at his wild, glassy eyes. Sweat
ran in torrents down his face. His shirt was soaked. “I cannot take you there …
a field hospital near Winchester,” she said, grasping his meaning. “You would
be taken prisoner.”

“No matter. Take me there,” he said weakly. Do
not … leave me, Andrea! Please!” It seemed to her he was almost sobbing. “I
cannot … find you.”

Andrea removed his hand and looked down at him.
His face was contorted in a blend of physical agony and emotional anguish.
“Your men will get you out,” she assured him. “You are better off here than in
a Union prison.”

Hunter
whimpered and began talking in a hurried, rambling tone that was frantic and
confused. Something was wrong, and it was far more tormenting to him than his
injury.

Andrea looked again at his leg, an
unrecognizable wreck of flesh, and then at his dead horse that lay some rods
distant. She sat awestruck at the valor of the man who had faced the obvious
superior fire power—no doubt in accordance with orders.

A drink of cool water revived Hunter somewhat,
though he was still unable to articulate what he so desperately wanted her to
understand. He seemed so distraught, rambling on to her about snow and bloody
moons, that Andrea feared the injury affected his senses.

Dressing his leg as best she could on the field,
she watched him open his eyes and search for her once more. “Don’t,” he
commanded her with his tone and his look, “don’t . . . leave . . . me!”

Andrea looked away. She had to refuse him. She
had no means to move him, and even if she did, she could not bring herself to
convey him to a place of certain death. He was safer here.

A movement from the corner of her eye drew
Andrea’s attention to within the canopy of trees. Shifting her gaze, she saw a
single rider on horseback appear from behind a boulder within the dappled depths
of the woods. Soon she made out the ghostly figure of another on foot, and then
another, crouching in the shadow of the trees. Their eyes and attention were
focused solely on the man before her, making it clear she was delaying his
rescue.

Leaning over Alex, she wiped again the moisture
from his face. “Alex, your men are here. You are safe.”

“No.” He grabbed her arm. “Don’t leave! Take
me!”

“It is better this way,” she whispered, wiping
his brow one last time. Then disregarding her heavy heart, and ignoring his
anguished cries and pathetic appeals, she turned her back on him and walked
away—though heaven knows it was the hardest thing she’d ever done.

* * *

For weeks Andrea tended the wounded of that
horrible battle. Hour after hour in those days immediately following, she
hastened to the side of the dying, listening to soldiers plead for mercy while
they waited for attention from a surgeon. Her task seemed hopeless—and
endless—so she no longer took it personally when she arrived too late to staunch
the flow of lifeblood that dripped out while they waited. Yet she could not
help but wonder, when she gazed out at the rows of lifeless bodies, if
Alexander Hunter, too, had been sacrificed to the insatiable war-god that ruled
the land.

Although her mind still reeled at the shock of
seeing him, her duties and responsibilities distracted her from her grief. It
had been days since she had slept more than a few hours and weeks since she had
slept a full night. Yet she had no desire for rest. Lying down and closing her
eyes would only cause her to dream of heaping piles of entrails steaming in the
morning chill or of some mother’s young son holding his leg in bloody arms. The
constant cries of “please help me, nurse,” kept her body busy and her mind void
of any other thoughts.

“
Miss Evans! Wake up!”
She heard the
voice, but struggled to clear her weary mind. Had she actually fallen asleep?

Andrea opened her eyes and stared at the patient
to whom she had been reading, while another voice spoke harshly from behind her.
“Miss Evans, there’s a gentleman here to see you.”

Knowing that no one knew where she was, Andrea
dismissed the nurse’s announcement. “They must be mistaken,” she said over her
shoulder. She leaned forward to wipe the young lad’s brow, apologizing to him
for falling asleep.

“There’s been no mistake.”

Andrea swallowed hard at the sound of the voice,
straightened slowly in her chair, and turned around hesitantly, afraid she was
somehow still dreaming. Her gaze fell upon Hunter leaning on a single crutch,
his left arm hanging lifeless in a sling. Although his face was bearded and
gaunt, the piercing gray eyes remained unmistakable. Neither war nor wound
could diminish his manly strength or vigorous power.

He was still striking.

* * *

 “I’ve been looking for you.” Hunter spoke as if
their separation had been one of but a few hours. His eyes did not falter or
leave her face. They scrutinized, waiting to see her reaction.

Andrea stood and took a hurried breath, but
otherwise successfully concealed any emotion. “Then it appears you’ve met with
success in your endeavor.” Her gaze wandered down to his leg, and he could tell
she was wondering how he was standing so soon after so serious an injury.

“I feared you
would not receive me.” Hunter’s heart banged so wildly in its cage, he could
barely speak. He could not recall ever having been this frightened, never
dreamed she would still have this effect on him. Those beautiful green eyes,
though sunken and exhausted, had not lost their magic.

Her expression abruptly changed from a look of
relief to one of wariness and heartbreaking suspicion once she recovered from
the shock of his appearance.

 “This is a hospital, sir,” she finally
answered. “We do not turn away the injured, even if …”

Her voice
trailed off. She did not finish, but stared straight into his eyes with a gaze
so penetrating, Hunter knew she would detect any deception if he showed it. She
was obviously questioning in her mind the reason for his visit.

“I-I was afraid they would have to amputate,”
she said, looking at his leg again with grave concern.

“It was recommended.” He watched Andrea move her
gaze to somewhere over his shoulder with a sorrowful expression that appeared
to be a part of her now.

 “May I ask what are you doing here?” She
returned her gaze and her attention to him.

 “I … need to speak with you.” Hunter focused
his thoughts back to the task at hand. “Is there some place we can go that’s a
little more private?”

“I have duties, sir. I cannot just cast them
off.”

“Pray oblige me,” he countered. “I will be
leaving in but a few minutes.”

Andrea stared at him intently. “Follow me then.
I believe I know a place.”

When they stepped outside and she turned to her
left, Hunter put his hand out to stop her. “I prefer we go this way.” The hand
in the sling grasped her arm firmly and ushered her toward a wagon holding
three injured Confederate soldiers.

Andrea
shrugged him off when she saw his intent. “What are you doing?”