Читать книгу Honor Before Heart - Heather McCorkle - Страница 7

Not even the threat of rain heavy upon the Virginia air could banish the sickly sweet stench of death. The boom of cannons and rifle fire slowly trickled to a stop. That, or Sean’s hearing was going. A quick glance around revealed bodies of the dead and dying strewn across Malvern Hill, turning its green grass a brilliant red. Relief churned with the ever-present guilt of all he had done in the name of country and freedom this day. Turning his head up to the cloud-choked evening sky, he said a silent prayer for the fallen on both sides of the conflict.

Only soldiers in blue coats were left standing and not many of them down near the river where Sean was. It made him wonder how many of the 69th regiment had perished this day. So many Irish brothers lost…no, American brothers, he had to remind himself. They were more than just Irish now. They were Americans, and had died as such.

The muzzle of his rifle drooped until the bayonet fixed upon the end of it touched the muddy bank of the James River. With General Lee’s soldiers on the retreat, it seemed they had won the day. But at such a horrible cost.

A rustling in the brush along the river pulled Sean from his dark musings. In the fading light, he couldn’t quite make out what moved within the tall brush. Whatever it was, it was close, no more than ten feet away. Though his heart hammered like a galloping horse, his hands were steady as he tossed his empty rifle aside and drew his saber.

“Damn beast!” a man cursed with a thick Southern drawl.

The voice came from much farther down the bank than the rustling brush. Sliding into a fighting stance, Sean split his attention between the direction of the voice and that of the rustling. From the brush emerged a furry shape that at first glance seemed the size of a bear. Wouldn’t that just be his luck? To survive such a battle only to be mauled by a bear. Huge brown eyes gazed out of a gray face that was decidedly canine. While the creature was over three feet at the shoulder, it was most certainly a dog. And it was a breed Sean knew well: an Irish wolfhound. He began to wonder if perhaps he had been struck on the head. Such a dog didn’t exist in America. He hadn’t seen one since he’d left Ireland over three years ago. Mesmerized by the creature’s curious eyes, he took a step toward it. Pink tongue lolling from the side of its grinning mouth, it moved toward him as well.

The click of a rifle hammer locking back froze Sean in mid-stride. From out of the brush, not five feet away stepped a soldier in a filthy gray uniform. Blood stained his left arm. His gap-toothed sneer inspired more contempt in Sean than it did fear. The end of the rifle barrel pointed at him was another matter altogether.

“Two fer one, must be my lucky day,” the man said.

A low rumble like a distant train, only far more menacing, sounded from the dog beside Sean. Canine eyes filled with deadly intent fixed upon the Confederate soldier as her lips curled back from long, pointed teeth. The barrel of the gun swung from Sean to the dog. Overwhelmed by a powerful need to protect not only a creature his people treasured, but an innocent, he lunged for the gun with his saber. The explosion of the bullet exiting the barrel of his enemy’s rifle reverberated through his saber and up into his arm. Followed by a trail of smoke, the Minie ball tore off through the brush, thankfully far wide of both Sean and the hound.

“Damn Yank!” the soldier cursed as he swung his rifle back toward Sean.

Sunlight shone in a bright line upon the bayonet fixed to the end of the rifle that thrust at him. Sean blocked the strike with his saber. Arms shaking from exhaustion, he shoved the bayonet away and stepped back.

“Your regiment is defeated this day. Retreat and be done with it. There’s no need for more bloodshed,” he said.

Snorting laughter erupted from the soldier. “Not a chance, Yank. I’ll kill that hellhound if it’s the last thing I do.”

Brows pulling together, Sean shook his head. How anyone could stand amid so much death and wish for more, especially when it involved an innocent creature, he simply could not understand. But then, he expected no better from a man who fought to keep others as slaves. Men such as him were what kept Sean fighting when all seemed hopeless. Freedom was worth the cost, even if it wasn’t his own and even if it cost his own life.

The Rebel soldier’s eyes flicked to the dog and back again. His lip curled up from yellowed teeth, muscles tensing. Keeping his attention locked on the man’s eyes, Sean noticed his gaze skitter to his midsection. Sean blocked the strike to his abdomen but he didn’t see the Bowie knife coming at him until it was almost too late. Bringing his left arm forward, he tried to block the second strike. Breath stolen away by the pain that seared through his left bicep, he staggered back. Dark eyes filled with a terrible satisfaction, the soldier pulled his blade free of Sean’s skin and came at him again. Sean blocked the thrusting bayonet and sidestepped the Bowie knife. The man growled in frustration.

Canine teeth snapped and snarling issued forth from the hound that moved up to Sean’s side. Eyes dancing between the dog and him, the man raised both weapons and lunged. Diving in the way, Sean blocked the bayonet from the dog and brought his arm up to block the knife strike aimed at him. Instead of going for his chest like it appeared he would, the soldier stabbed the Bowie knife at his midsection. At the last moment, Sean was able to twist away enough that the blade pierced his side instead of his abdomen, but it still burned like the fires of hell. He shoved the man back with a strength born of fury.

Before the Rebel could recover, Sean swung for the arm that held the rifle, cleaving the limb off just below the elbow. Spurting blood and obscenities, the man stumbled backward, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to get away. The massive hound at Sean’s side gave chase, barking with a ferocity that made him glad it wasn’t directed at him. Screaming all the louder, the man turned tail and ran. The saber in Sean’s hand slowly sagged toward the ground. That small movement made pain erupt through his wounded side. The sight of the battlefield before him swayed and suddenly he was on his knees in the mud and blood.

“Dog!” he called out as loud as he dared.

The idea of saving the poor creature only to have it meet its death from seeking revenge for his wounds sat wrong with him in so many ways. The two fleeing figures bounded out of sight over a hill. Again, Sean called out to the canine. An eerie quiet settled once the Rebel soldier’s screams faded into the distance. With great reluctance, Sean looked down at the wound in his side. A crimson stain spread steadily across his blue uniform. The color wasn’t dark enough to indicate arterial blood, but enough of it flowed from him as to be alarming.

Even though he was on his knees, the world still swayed. He toppled onto his side, the pain shooting through his wounded left arm snapping his eyes back open. For a fleeting moment, he worried about how he was going to hold a fiddle again if a doctor amputated that arm. But with the wound in his side, he realized it wasn’t likely that he’d make it off this battlefield without help. At least he had saved the life of one innocent today, and while he had done terrible things in the course of this war, it had been in the name of freedom. Hopefully whatever lay in wait to judge him took that into account.

Big, fat drops of rain started to fall from the gray sky that loomed overhead. He turned his face up to it, trying to breathe in the clean scent of rain as opposed to the stench of the carnage around him. Were it not so warm, he could almost convince himself that it was the land of his birth he lay bleeding out upon instead of foreign soil thousands of miles away. If there were any mercy in the afterlife, he’d be allowed to return to Ireland, or better yet New York, and haunt its shores instead of this forsaken place.

A ridiculously big tongue slobbered across half his face, drawing him from his woeful musings. Soft whining sounded near his right ear. Warm fur brushed his right side, pressing against the entire length of his body. He had a moment to send up a prayer to whoever would listen that the hound at least waited for him to die before it tried to eat him. Then darkness swept him away.