The River Palace: A Water Wheel Novel #3 Read online

  Gage reined Cayenne down to a slow clop-clop as he came alongside the man. The stranger looked up, a ghostly pale face with great shadowed dark eyes under the Union blue forage cap with a captain’s gold braid and insignia on it. His canteen had “U.S. ARMY” stamped on it. Both of the man’s hands were pressed to his left side. Gage had thought he had been limping because of injury to his legs, but now he saw that the man was practically staggering from weakness.

  “Hello, Billy Yank,” Gage said.

  “Hello, Johnny Reb,” the man said as jauntily as he could manage, and then turned to look straight ahead down the road.

  They walked a few feet. “Looks like you’re in somewhat of a situation here, Billy Yank,” Gage said.

  “Yep.”

  “Seems like you could use some help.”

  “Yep.”

  Gage dismounted and started walking by him. “I’m Gage Kennon.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Reb. I’m Dennis Wainwright. My friends call me Denny, but you can call me Captain Wainwright.”

  “I’ll do that,” Gage said slowly, “as long as you’re above ground. Don’t reckon that’s going to be too long if you keep bleeding all over the place like you’re doing now.”

  “Oh, you noticed? Yeah, that’s because I’ve been shot,” Wainwright said sarcastically.

  After another drawn-out silence Gage said, “I’ll help you, if you want, Captain.”

  The man stopped and turned to Gage, swaying precariously. “You will? Why would you do a thing like that?”

  “I’d hate for our genteel Southern ladies to see a Yank wandering around in his johnnies,” Gage said lightly. “They’d swoon, I guess.”

  “Don’t think so, Reb. At least some of them . . .” And then he dropped like a stone, unconscious.

  Gage untied his saddle roll and took out his oilcloth and folded-up tent. “Stay here, Cayenne,” he instructed the horse, and walked straight off the road into the woods. After about a hundred feet he stopped to listen; there, he could hear water. A little further on was a shallow little brook running over white stones. Four tall longleaf pines stood close by, their thick tops grown close enough for a canopy. Gage took out his Bowie knife and cut away all the vines and undergrowth, and laid the tent down on the thick aromatic-scented bed of pine straw. Then he returned to the road and picked up the injured Wainwright. “C’mon, Cayenne, cool drink of water just ahead.” The horse followed him obediently.

  As Gage carried the man he studied him more carefully. He had light brown hair that still had some curl, though it was dank and limp. His features were clean and boyish, with a small nose and generous mouth upturned at the corners as if he were about to smile. It was hard to tell how old he was, because his face was so gray and drawn, but Gage thought he was probably about his own age. He wasn’t a big man, maybe five-eight and slender, but he was dead weight and it was a hard go to carry him. Gage could feel heat radiating from his body; he was fevered.

  When he reached the pallet under the trees Gage laid him down as gently as if he were an infant. The first thing he did was go to the stream and wash out his canteen again and again, then filled it with the cold water. Gage returned to him and saw that he was rousing. His face had the pallor of a dead man, his lips had no color, and his breath was coming in short pants. He struggled to sit up.

  “Lay back down, Captain, sir,” Gage said mockingly. “If you sit up you’re just going to pass out again. Here, drink this, but not a lot, and not too fast.”

  Wainwright took a couple of small sips, then shivered. “Good, but cold. I’m cold.”

  “I know, you’ve got fever.”

  Cayenne was wading in the water, drinking happily. Gage said, “C’mere, boy, you gonna make me wade out in my fancy boots?” The horse came back to the side of the stream, and Gage took his saddlebags and rucksack off.

  Kneeling at Wainwright’s side, he said steadily, “I can make you more comfortable, but I think I’d better take a look at that gunshot first.” Wainwright nodded mutely, and Gage pulled up the thin cotton shirt. The bullet had entered his left side, above and to the right of his hipbone. “Let me see your back.” Groaning a little, Wainwright shifted to his side, and Gage saw the exit wound. He had had lots of experience with gunshot wounds, and he reflected that the man must have been shot at very close range. Usually exit wounds were much larger than entrance wounds, but this hole was about the same size as where the bullet had entered Wainwright’s side.

  “Not too bad,” he said evenly. “A straight through-and-through, and it missed all the important parts, I guess. Except maybe your rib.”

  Wainwright lay back down, nodding weakly with relief. “I thought so, but I couldn’t tell, really.”

  Gage pulled the tail of his shirt up closer to look at it. His face grew grave, and when his eyes met Wainwright’s bleary gaze he saw that Wainwright knew the news wasn’t all good. Wainwright said ironically, “Nice round hole in my best undershirt.” Some of the cloth must have gone into the wound, and that meant that the chance of sepsis was high, indeed.

  Gage sat back on his heels and thought. Wainwright watched him warily. “When did this happen?” Gage asked.

  “Last evening, about six.”

  Glancing at the sun, Gage muttered, “Sixteen hours, give or take. Where were you going?”

  “About eight miles southeast there’s a settlement, Cold Spring. I don’t know if they’d help me but I figured they might at least bury me.”

  “You want to try to make it there?” Gage asked.

  With desperate weariness Wainwright answered, “Don’t think so, Reb. I’m pretty sure that bullet broke my rib, and it hurts more than the gunshot, every time I breathe. I can’t make it that far.”

  “I saw a wagon road about a half mile up, it might go to a homestead. Maybe you could—”

  “No!” Wainwright muttered with vehemence. “No, thanks. That’s where I was running from, Reb. Take my word for it, I’d get no help there. So whatever you can do, just do it.”

  “It’s going to hurt,” Gage warned. “I don’t have any laudanum, or even whiskey.”

  “I heard that at the end you boys had to live through amputations without anything,” Wainwright said in weak defiance. “If a Reb can do it, I can do it.”

  “Okay. I’m going to go clear a place right by the stream, in the sunlight, to lay you down. I’m going to need direct sun to see into that wound. I’ll have to try and get that piece of your shirt out, and it might take some digging. You understand, Captain?”

  “Yeah,” he said faintly. “I understand.” He laid back and closed his eyes.

  Gage got his oilcloth, then rummaged in his rucksack and came up with his toothbrush, soap, a paper-thin hand towel he’d been using for almost two years, and his “housewife,” a cleverly-made small sewing kit. He went to the stream, took out his Bowie knife, rubbed his toothbrush against the cake of carbolic soap, and began to scrub his knife. Then he plunged a thick needle into the cake of soap, and threaded it with black thread. When everything was completely rinsed in the fast-flowing stream, he laid them down on the clean towel. Then, using the side of his boots, he kicked away all the rocks and stones from the riverside, clearing about a six-by-three space down to the wet earth and laid the oilcloth down on it.

  Returning to Wainwright he asked, “Can you walk?”

  “Yeah, I can walk,” he said with determination. But Gage had to help him stand up, then he threw Wainwright’s arm around his neck to support him. “You can make it, Billy Yank. See? Right over here, just lie down on it.”

  With relief Denny laid down on the oilcloth. Gage lifted his shoulders and stripped off his shirt. He dipped it into the stream, and then wrung it out, the droplets colored pink from Denny’s blood. Then he folded it, folded it, until it was a small, thick rectangle. “Here you go,” he said kindly, and handed it to Denny. Denny took it, breathed deeply, then stuck it between his teeth.

  Gage sponged away all the blood from
Denny’s side until the wound was a clean, round hole. He made two small incisions, like a cross, with the wound at the center. Pulling the tiny flaps open, Gage moved so that the brilliant sun struck the wound just right. Leaning down he scrutinized it with his sharp eyes, occasionally sponging away welling blood. He thought, he was almost sure, he could see the tiny piece of lint, about a half-inch down in the hole. Taking his Bowie knife, he inserted it into the wound, and with small, precise movements turned it so that the curved tip would be against where he thought the fabric was. Then ever so slowly, he began to pull the knife back up to the surface of Denny’s skin. Of necessity he had to keep the needle-sharp point of the blade against the side of the wound track so that the fabric would come along with it. During the whole thing Denny panted, painful grunting animal sounds, but he didn’t cry out. Gage admired him exceedingly for it.

  Finally the tip of the knife came out, dripping blood. Carefully Gage moved it just far enough away from the wound and held it stone still. He took his thumb and forefinger and ran it down the blade . . . yes, there it was, the feel of a tiny, soft, wet piece of fabric. He held it securely, dipping it into the water, then brought it up. With the utmost care he smoothed it out. It was a perfect circle. The edges weren’t even ragged, for they had been scorched closed.

  Denny took the rag out of his mouth and said weakly, “Is it . . .”

  “I got it,” Gage said with satisfaction. Then he went on in a businesslike voice, “Now I’ve got to wash that wound out good, Captain. Can you turn over on your stomach?”

  “Yeah,” he answered, and tried. Then he said, “No.”

  Gage turned him. He emptied his canteen, then filled it up with fresh water. Pressing the mouth of the canteen so it would encircle the exit wound, he pressed it down against Denny’s skin so all the water filtered through the straight line of the bullet’s exit and entry. He did this several times, and Denny began to shiver uncontrollably, though his skin was hot. Turning Denny back over, Gage quickly stitched up the incisions he’d made and saw with satisfaction that the bleeding stopped. The exit wound couldn’t be stitched; it was just a round hole. Folding up his hand towel, he pressed it to Denny’s back.

  Gage said, “That’s it. Hang on just a minute, Yank.” He went back to the tree stand and piled even more pine needles under the tent so that the pallet would be well cushioned. Then he took his wool blanket out of his saddlebag; he had happily put it away about two-thirds of the way down the Natchez Trace, and now he was glad that he hadn’t thrown it away. Hurrying back to Denny, he could see that he was conscious, but only barely. He picked him up and carried him back to the campsite and laid him down, making sure the pad was pressed securely against his back. Then he covered him with the wool blanket.

  “It’s kinda itchy, I know,” he said. “But I guess you’re tough enough to take it. You did good, Billy Yank. You did real good.”

  Denny managed a weak smile, then closed his eyes with exhaustion.

  Gage gathered firewood and built a fire. Then he went hunting, and after about ten minutes he came back with a fat wild turkey. Denny still slept. Now there were two red spots on his cheeks, and his hands felt hot, but he no longer had fever-chills.

  Gage cleaned the turkey and butchered it until he had several good-sized, moist dark meat pieces. Adding water to his eight-inch cast-iron skillet, he arranged river rocks for a flat surface above the small, hot fire. He boiled the meat until it was falling to pieces, skimmed off the grease, and the broth was rich and thick. It smelled delicious.

  He made himself a nice thick pile of pine needles and laid the oilcloth over it. By the glowing afternoon sun he read for awhile. Denny slept on.

  Cayenne wandered back into camp, and Gage unsaddled him and brushed him thoroughly, taking particular care with his mane and tail. The horse was looking better and healthier every day. When Gage finished, he petted his soft nose and Cayenne nudged him affectionately. “Can’t fix you any hot mash right now, boy, that Billy Yank’s using our only pan. I will in the morning, though.”

  Gage laid down on his pallet again to read the Bible, as he did every day. As the sun set, it cast orange and crimson rays in the near clearing, and he laid the book down on his chest to look at them. He thought how long it had been since he’d had such a peaceful few moments of simple enjoyment, watching the light shimmer and slowly darken to violet and deep purple and then soften to a gentle dying gray.

  “Am I alive?” he heard Denny whisper.

  He turned to him, and saw that his eyes were closed. “You’re alive, Billy Yank.”

  Denny opened his eyes to stare at him. “You . . . you helped me. You saved me.”

  Gage shrugged. “Hope you would have done the same thing for me.”

  “But I probably wouldn’t have,” Denny said. “Why? Why did you?”

  Gage answered quietly, “Because I had to. I’ve killed men, I’ve watched them die, I’ve walked away from them when they were wounded. It was war. But this is different. I don’t walk away from anyone who needs help, not if I’ve got that help to give.”

  After a moment Denny said, “Yeah. Yeah, I see that. Uh, what did you say your name was?”

  “Gage. Gage Kennon.”

  “Thank you, Gage Kennon. Thanks for everything.”

  “You’re welcome, Captain.”

  Wainwright said with a weak grin, “You can call me Denny.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Captain Dennis Wainwright woke up. He hated to move because of the pain it caused him. He didn’t even open his eyes. He just laid there, comfortable and warm on his forest bed, reflecting how lucky he was that Gage Kennon had come along. Denny knew that in the hours after he’d been shot he had lost an immense amount of blood, and he’d known that he just might bleed to death on that deserted road. He figured that the only reason he had lived as long as he did was because he was generally a healthy man with a robust constitution. The only times he was ill was with occasional catarrh in wintertime.

  He pondered about his savior for awhile. Gage Kennon was an odd bird. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a set jaw, firm mouth, and somber twilight-blue eyes. At first he was an intimidating figure, until he started talking. He was soft-spoken, but more than that, his whole attitude and demeanor was that of an easygoing man, relaxed and even-tempered. It was at odds with what Denny knew his wartime record must be. Denny had seen Gage’s Whitworth rifle, expensive weapons, imported from England, and they were issued to only one elite group of men—sharpshooters. Whitworth Sharpshooters were legendary. They had played havoc on the Union armies, particularly officers. Somehow Denny had always thought that such men must be coldly savage, stony-eyed assassins. Gage Kennon was nothing like that.

  Denny heard a soft rustling right near his head, and he opened his eyes. A pretty doe was nibbling on a trailing vine wrapped around the tree behind him. She chewed and regarded him with velvety brown eyes. She was only about two feet away from him, and suddenly Denny wondered how on earth anyone could ever shoot such a gentle, lovely creature. He smiled at her; she watched him curiously as she delicately chewed. Denny thought how odd it was that this animal was so much prettier than any woman he had ever known. No human had such soft sweet, brown eyes, and no human ever evinced such purity and innocence as the doe radiated. After awhile he must have made some small movement, for she started and bounded away.

  With a sigh Denny managed to pull himself up to a sitting position. Gingerly he looked at the wound on his stomach. It was oozing a small amount of blood and serous fluid, but his skin looked pink, with no sign of infection. The wound on his back, he knew, kept opening up and bleeding as he moved. He reached around to feel it, grimacing with pain from his broken rib. The skin on his back felt cool, not hot.

  Shifting a little, he moaned, and was distressed to hear the pitiful sound in the quiet forest. He looked around for Gage. He didn’t want the man to hear him mewling like a kitten. But his companion wasn’t in sight. Now Denny saw that Gage’s
second rifle, the M1841, was lying beside his pallet. So was Gage’s “mucket,” which was basically a big, thick tin cup with a handle and a hinged lid. It had turkey broth in it, still warm. His canteen was there, filled with fresh, cold water. He remembered waking a couple of times during the night with a high fever, alternately shivering and then sweating, and Gage bathing him, and insisting that he take only small sips of water. Now he drank thirstily; he was sure his fever was gone. He had not slept well at all. Every time he moved the stabbing pain from his ribs woke him up, and then he had trouble going back to sleep. He felt exhausted and feeble.

  Denny considered the fact that Gage had left him with a loaded rifle, another puzzle of the man. Suppose Denny just shot him when he returned? Gage Kennon didn’t know him, didn’t know the first thing about him. Yesterday Denny had been too bad off to make any explanations. Suppose he was a deserter? A Confederate helping a Yankee deserter would be in a deadly position; he would certainly be hanged along with the deserter. And Denny could just be a common murdering thief who’d gotten shot while attempting some robbery. None of these things had any relation to the truth, but Gage Kennon didn’t know that.

  Suddenly Denny decided that he wasn’t going to shoot any more deer. That little doe had been at his mercy just as surely as he had been at Gage Kennon’s mercy. Mercy he had been shown, and mercy he would give. It was only fair.