Savage Cry Page 3

  Though it had seemed much longer to the frightened woman kneeling in the dirt of the corral, the raiding party had actually been there no more than half an hour when the cabin was set ablaze. Finished with their savage business there, the warriors, numbering twenty, gathered up their horses and loaded them with the spoils of their raid. Still with no hint of what the Indians had in store for her, Martha grew more and more frightened by the moment. Most of the warriors paid little attention to her as they swaggered back and forth, comparing their loot, occasionally laughing at one another when they modeled Robert’s or Charley’s clothing. Their tall leader exhibited no interest in any of the white men’s apparel, smiling only slightly when one of his party pranced about with Martha’s bonnet upon his head.

  Black clouds of smoke billowed from the doorway and windows of the cabin as the fire began to consume the inside of what had been her home for more than a year. Gripped by fear, her eyes searched the ridge beyond the cabin for some sign of her husband. Her only hope for salvation was for his return. At once her despair was deepened with the realization that there were too many warriors. Robert and Charley were fortunate to be away, otherwise they would most likely be dead. This realization was immediately followed by one that was bound to be as certain: If she were taken away by these savages, she was as good as dead. She would never see her husband or anyone again. The finality of this thought caused her to strengthen her resolve to somehow escape. If at all possible, she must make a run for her life, or she might never be heard from again. The opportunity came sooner than she expected.

  Turning his attention to the business of getting his braves organized and underway, the tall warrior walked over toward the burning cabin to talk with the others, leaving Martha unguarded. Looking around, she realized that the burning cabin had claimed everyone’s attention. I may never get another chance, she thought, I’ve got to do it! Forcing herself to move very carefully, she rose to her feet. Knees trembling, she slowly backed away until she felt the corner post of the corral at her back. Not one of the Indians happened to look her way, so she quickly moved behind the corner post, her heart threatening to pound through her chest. Still there was no outcry from the band of warriors. Encouraged by their lack of vigilance, she stole swiftly along the side of the corral, doing her best to stay low, praying the slender rails would hide her escape. Once she reached the back corner of the corral, she paused for a moment to steal one more look back toward the noisy celebration around the burning cabin. Still unnoticed by the raiders, she steeled herself to run for her life. Pushing away from the corner post, she started running as fast as she could across the meadow in a desperate attempt to reach the forest beyond.

  “Black Elk!” one of the warriors cried out. The tall war chief turned to see Wolf Paw pointing toward the meadow beyond the corral. “The woman!”

  Black Elk did not respond for a moment. Watching the fleeing woman running for her life, he did not feel any urgency to pursue. After a moment, he calmly said, “She cannot get far.” He strode leisurely over to his pony and leaped gracefully upon its back. “She runs in the same direction we are going, anyway.”

  No more than fifty yards from the thick forest of white spruce, Martha tried to push her exhausted limbs harder. Gasping desperately for breath, her heart pounding in her throat, she began to stagger uncontrollably. Got to get to the trees! she pleaded. Just a few yards more! Then the pounding of her heart rapidly became louder and louder, and she uttered a cry of despair when she realized that it was the sound of horses’ hooves pounding the meadow grass behind her. She knew she was doomed. Still she tried to will her body to move faster.

  Five yards from the trees, she suddenly felt the heavy breath of the Indian pony as the weight of the animal pressed against her side. Jostled by the prancing white stallion, she would have been knocked to the ground had it not been for the powerful hand that grasped a handful of her long auburn hair. Breathless and exhausted, she cried out in pain as she was forcefully brought to a stop.

  Without releasing her hair, Black Elk threw one leg over his pony’s back and dropped to the ground beside her. “Don’t run,” he said, speaking in his native tongue. His face remained devoid of expression, so she had no notion what he was saying. But his next actions conveyed his feelings. Still holding her by her hair, he administered several sharp strokes across her back with a short rawhide quirt he carried. She screamed out in anger and outrage. The pain was considerable, but not as stinging as the shock of the beating. Never before had she been whipped like that, not even as a child. Her natural reaction was to fight back, and she beat her fists against his chest. Surprised, his face registered the first sign of emotion she had seen, although it was no more than a raising of his eyebrows and a slight widening of his dark eyes. Standing firmly before her, he did not try to stop her from pounding his chest, waiting patiently until she had exhausted herself. Then, as if disciplining a child, he whipped her again—this time a little harder. “Don’t run,” he repeated softly.

  Releasing her hair, he watched her drop to the ground. He stood over her for a few moments while she cried, her head sagging in humiliation and pain. After a little while, he took a length of rawhide rope and tied her wrists together. Taking her by both hands, he pulled her to her feet and roughly lifted her up on the horse she had ridden from Laramie.

  “We go now, we have wasted enough time,” he said, with no hint of anger in his voice. Leaping upon his white war pony, he nudged the stallion with his heels, heading up through the trees at a slow walk, leading the woman captive behind him.

  Chapter 2

  Clay Culver reined his horse to a stop on a low bluff bunched with tall poplars and sturdy water oaks that cast a solid cool shade upon the narrow river crossing. He slid down from the handsome chestnut’s back to stretch his legs a bit while he looked across the shallow ford, filling his eyes with a scene he had lain awake many a night trying to envision during the past few months. The modest farmhouse on the other side of the little Rapidan River looked smaller now than he had remembered. Maybe, he allowed, it was because the little peach tree his father had planted by the back porch had grown as high as the eaves of the roof. It was barely reaching the kitchen windowsill when he had marched off to war.

  Wrapping the reins loosely around a dogwood branch, he walked down through the trees to the edge of the water, where he paused to scan the valley from east to west and back again. There was still a little evidence of the war’s destruction here, but it appeared that his family had been lucky. Although there were some fence posts missing along the high ridge that ran down to the river, at least the house was still standing, as well as the barn. Evidently the Union army had crossed the river farther down toward Fredericksburg. The missing fence posts were more than likely used to build fires for Union patrols foraging for food. No doubt his father and brothers had been working hard to reclaim fields gone fallow during the conflict. His pa was a good farmer, a hard-working man—Clay was not surprised that the place was looking prosperous once more.

  He wasn’t sure why he hesitated on the riverbank. Maybe it was to permit his mind to realize that he was really home. When he had lain in the hospital bed, with the yellow-green fluid oozing from his battered shoulder, he had rehearsed this scene over and over in his mind, the moment when he finally saw his home again. He told himself that he would let loose with a raucous Rebel yell, and charge across the ford, hell-bent for leather, galloping up to the house to a joyous reunion with his family. Why then, now that the moment had finally come, was he overcome with a sense of sadness and reluctance? He recognized the fact that the war had changed him, and it lay heavy upon his mind. Maybe he had seen too many months of endless marches with shortages of food and ammunition—and too many insignificant little meadows and churchyards strewn with the bodies of men he had marched alongside merely hours before. He had been knocked from his horse by a burning hot shard of shrapnel and left to lie bleeding and unattended at the bottom of a deep ravine for hours b
efore help arrived. Then, after the doctors patched him up, he was ordered to report to an infantry unit, instead of his old cavalry regiment. He was told that he might as well be in the infantry. There were no extra horses to replace the one shot out from under him.

  Before he even realized it, his mind had slipped back to those days of profound sadness that had heralded the death throes of a once-proud army. After ten long months in the trenches at Petersburg, General Lee was forced to evacuate the town. Clay Culver remembered the night, April second, as clearly as if it were only yesterday—instead of over a year ago. He permitted his mind to recall the night, and soon he was reliving a time when he had ceased to be a boy.

  “Sergeant Ivers said to pack up your kit. We’re pulling out of here tonight.”

  Clay looked up to see his friend Wes Fanning striding toward him. “Pulling out where?” Clay asked. They had been occupying the trenches for so long, he was not going to respond quickly until he was sure of the orders. Only the generals knew the whole picture of their situation, but the lowliest of soldiers knew that the Union forces had the Army of Northern Virginia virtually surrounded. There had been some talk among the rank and file about a spring offensive to break through Grant’s armies and push them back. But the poor condition of the horses, and the lack of rations to feed the men were signs enough for Clay that they were in no condition to launch any kind of offensive. “Pulling out where?” Clay repeated.

  “Sergeant Ivers said the captain told him we’d be marching to Amelia Court House to get rations and hook up with the boys from Richmond. That’s all I know.”

  No one was sorry to leave the squalid conditions that had been their lot for the better part of a year. In fact, there was an air of excitement about being out of the trenches and back in the field. It didn’t last long, however. The poor condition of the troops turned the optimistic mood to hunger and fatigue after the first day’s march. To make matters worse, when they reached Amelia Court House, the promised rations were not there. The troops from Richmond had not arrived, having been delayed by flooded roads and poor traveling conditions. With Grant’s Union armies following close behind, it was imperative to keep the army on the move in hopes of joining with General Johnston’s Army of Tennessee near the Roanoke River. General Lee waited for his troops from Richmond for an extra day. While they waited, he sent wagons out to scour the countryside in search of food, but there was little to be had. It had been three days since Clay had eaten anything beyond a little parched corn he and Wes had hoarded from the last of the supplies at Petersburg.

  On the march again the following day, the ragged troops left Amelia Court House with Union troops close behind. The day’s delay had cost them, however. With only a few miles covered, they encountered Union troops firmly entrenched squarely across their line of march. In no condition to fight, Lee ordered a change in direction to the west in hopes of marching around the ambush, and maybe to supply his troops at Farmville. It was the worst time in young Clay Culver’s life. He was tired and hungry, hungry enough to eat anything that even resembled food. Gone were the romantic illusions of glory he had sought when he had left his father’s farm near Fredericksburg.

  Like his friend Wes, and so many other young men, Clay had lost his enthusiasm and eagerness to fight after his first major skirmish as a foot soldier. Advancing toward a suspected Union position on a thickly forested hillside, he got his second close look at man’s fragile mortality. Caught in the open while crossing a small road at the foot of the hill, Clay’s regiment was suddenly cut down by a blistering barrage from the trees above them. Men on either side of him cried out in pain, dropping in their tracks as they tried to scramble for cover behind a shallow bank. Clay had burrowed as far as he could into the scant protection the bank offered, and laid there for three hours while the rattle of cannon and the hiss of miniballs pinned the regiment down until reinforcements arrived.

  Now, on this rather ordinary day in early April, there was no energy available to waste on thoughts of victory. Weary and hungry, most of Clay’s comrades in arms harbored thoughts only of survival. Still there were some, Sergeant Ivers among them, who urged the men to maintain their spirit. “Supplies are waiting in Farmville,” he promised. “We’ll play a different tune for them Yankees then. General Lee’s always got something up his sleeve.”

  Clay did his best to maintain his faith in the Confederate army’s ability to regroup and take the fight once again to Grant’s troops. But with more and more men breaking ranks in desperate attempts to find food while others simply dropped beside the road, unable to take another step, there were soon great gaps in the line of march. Taking advantage of these gaping holes in the Confederate line, Union cavalry dashed in upon the Confederate wagons, destroying a great number of them and killing hundreds of Clay’s comrades.

  Clay and Wes, their luck still holding, found themselves among the weary troops that staggered into Farmville on the seventh of April. As Sergeant Ivers had promised, desperately needed rations awaited them. But Union forces were so close behind that Confederate cavalry had to make a stand in the streets of Farmville while the rest of their army escaped. With no chance for rest, the ragged troops continued to march westward, their only hope to reach Appomattox Station before Grant’s forces cut them off. It was not to be.

  Appomattox was where it all ended, that chilly April morning near the little town of Appomattox Court House. Of all the many days of fighting—the long exhausting marches, the frequent nights with nothing to eat, the magnificent charges, the demoralizing retreats—that one day at Appomattox stood out as a day he would relive over and over in his mind.

  The approaching dawn had seemed to herald a morning of dark defeat. Bleak and chilly, the first light of day had spread reluctantly upon the Confederate battle line, stretched out on the western side of the village. Before them, the Union forces were amassed, well positioned with earthworks and long lines of cannon. But in those early hours, few men on either side were stirring. Clay thought of his friend, Wesley Fanning, and his ability to sleep in the most perilous conditions. He and Wes had fought side-by-side for over a year—ever since Clay returned from the hospital and found himself assigned to an infantry regiment commanded by General John B. Gordon. On that morning, even Wes was tossing fitfully in his blanket, trying to stay warm. Soft murmurings along the line of soldiers on each side of him confirmed the uneasy wakefulness of his comrades in arms.

  Shortly after first light, some of the boys on his left pulled some fence rails over behind the line and built a fire. Clay, staying low to keep from tempting a Yankee sniper, moved closer to catch some of the fire’s warmth. It seemed that the Union army must have been waiting for Clay to rouse himself. For he had no sooner joined those around the fire when the Yankee cannons roared out the initial barrage. Like angry dragons belching fire and thunder, they turned his section of the line into a heaving mass of smoking earth, sending all of the men scrambling back to their positions. Almost immediately, the Confederate cannons behind him opened fire, signaling the attack. Clay and Wes exchanged glances, a silent promise that they would see each other again at the end of this day. Then joining in the fierce Rebel yell that had started back down the line, they left the cover of the fence row, and charged toward the waiting Union rifles.

  Wes Fanning advanced no more than thirty yards before he broke the unspoken promise just made moments before. Clay heard a soft exclamation, as if Wes had merely stubbed his toe—or cut his finger. When he turned to look at his friend, Wes collapsed heavily, a miniball having split his face apart. Clay would never forget the look of astonishment in Wes’s eyes. His mind registered the horror of it, but there was no time to ponder the loss of his friend. Finding himself in a storm of flying lead, he forced himself to charge forward, his rifle before him. He went forward mindlessly, for the simple reason that the men on either side of him went forward. In the heat of the cannons’ thunder and the whining miniballs, all reasonable thoughts were abandoned—charging
onward through the hailstorm of death, not even aware of his own maniacal yell until the whole world was suddenly plunged into darkness.

  The Confederate attack had been thrown back. Still the fighting went on for two hours before General Gordon sent word to General Lee that he could hold no longer. The final hour of the Confederacy was at hand when Lee was forced to send a flag of truce to General Sheridan’s headquarters. It was over. Clay remembered very little of the events that took place on that day, or the days that followed. Lee’s surrender to Grant in the McLean house near Appomattox Court House, the disarming of the troops, were all merely blurs in Clay’s memory as he lay unconscious in a makeshift hospital on the edge of the village.

  Now, months after the surrender, Clay found himself a survivor, back from the dead—healed physically, but still permanently scarred inside as he stood gazing upon his home. When that Union cannon exploded almost point-blank before him, hurling him into total darkness, it was no less than a miracle that he had managed to emerge from death’s waiting embrace. For months, not knowing who he was, or where he came from, he lay bedridden, tended by a kind Virginia family, who were more than willing to give comfort to one of the South’s fighting men. Their name was Loudon, and they had lost a son, John, in the long siege of Petersburg. Clay supposed they saw something of their son in him, prompting them to take him from the ghastly hospital where he had been left to die.

  Gradually Clay’s lost identity began to return, and he started to recover. The day came when he was ready to leave. Saying a tearful farewell to the family that had cared for him, Clay set out for Fredericksburg on foot. The clothes on his back—shirt, trousers, and shoes, once belonging to John Loudon—were now his only earthly possessions. His situation might have left a lesser man with no sense of purpose. More than a few men were broken in spirit after being cast into the cauldron of bloody combat. Clay Culver emerged from the horrors of war knowing he possessed a steel inside him that would never admit defeat.