A Strange and Distant Land

CHAPTER 1

The cover of the guidebook she had purchased at the Visitor Center is damp, and the pages stick together as she thumbs through them. Little drops of sweat leave bubbled distortions on the text as soon as they hit the paper. The woman pulls a bandanna from the canvas backpack she has slung over one shoulder and dabs her face and neck dispiritedly. The heat drips from her; she feels worn out and drained. The morning had seemed cool, so she had worn khakis and a long-sleeved white shirt. As the morning cool gave way to the oppressive heat, she rolled her sleeves and opened two more buttons on the shirt. Her clothes are moist and she is limp and sticky, as if the sweat has been wrung out of her. It is nearly four o'clock, and still the sun radiates heat relentlessly, with no breeze to break the sultry July afternoon. Birds warble their notes listlessly and grasshoppers leap from their hiding places in the grass; a low droning of bees contributes to the low-decibel cacophony across the fields. The insistent whir of a lawnmower somewhere distant injects a jarring, discordant note.

It hasn't rained for weeks, and the path the woman walks is choking with red, clay dust that is stirred up every time she takes a step. Now and then, she stops to study the maps in the guidebook and to gaze out over the fields. She finds it difficult to orient herself, and the markers placed around the fields and paths only serve to confuse her as to the original movement of the troops. She tries to imagine what it must have felt like, to be a young man in the midst of noise and smoke, terror and red death. Were they afraid? Did their hearts beat with fear and anticipation? Her own beats strongly against the exertion of walking the rough ground in the stifling heat, and she pauses to pull an old tin canteen from her pack--Conor had teased her about her preference for Boy Scout canteens to plastic water bottles. As she drinks, she turns in all directions, surveying the land, the ground rising gently to the east, a steeper slope in the west. To the north, she can make out the sharp rises across the road. She wonders how it felt, how any of those men dared to go on, advancing to inevitable destruction. She doesn't notice that her map falls to the ground as she reaches behind her to tuck it back into her pack.

She wanders over toward the woods east of the Visitor Center. They look invitingly cool, and she would like to find a stump to sit on, to think about locations and troop positions, to digest what she has read about the slaughter that had taken place here. She tries to remember the comments Conor had occasionally made about this battlefield, but she had not shared his passion, and she listened only with polite interest, as an acknowledgment of his pride in his family’s Southern heritage.

As she moves nearer to the woods, she rambles off the path, which seems to become dustier with each step. The grass is spiky and coarse, and the ground shimmers with the heat. She looks back toward the Visitor Center, which closes at five and notes with some surprise that the other tourists, plentiful along the paths only minutes ago, have all left the adjacent fields. It is very still; no highway sounds or tourists' voices reach her ears. Conor had wanted to visit these battlefields with her, but she was reluctant and pleaded off with the excuse of being too busy, too pressed for time, too much to accomplish. She was not as curious as Conor was about tragedies played out a century and a half ago. There is grief enough in her own world. She promises to reward herself with a long, tepid shower at the motel after she has duly walked through these woods and noted the lay of the land and attempted to feel the desperation of that distant past.

She glances at her wrist to check the time and shakes her head in annoyance as she remembers that she’d broken her watchband that morning and shoved the timepiece in a pocket. She pulls it from her pants and notes the time. It is nearly 4:30.

She follows a trail at the woods' edge. A faint sound gradually becomes a roaring, and she thinks it might be the rushing of the Bull Run, which is not far away. Her backpack suddenly feels unbearably heavy, and a sensation of dullness and lethargy weighs her down further. She shivers with a twinge of unaccountable apprehension, but she shrugs it off.

The trail ends and she decides she will turn back, but as she backtracks her steps, the trail disappears. The bright white fieldstone of the Visitor Center is no longer visible from where she stands, although she doesn't remember having gone that far into the woods. Must have got myself turned around, she thinks wryly, her sense of direction never very keen. I've gone north or south and the tree line must hook back on itself. The tree ceiling is high enough so that no sun clearly marks the direction. She begins to walk, a little bewildered. She hears faint screams, sounding almost human, no doubt small creatures warning their own kind of birds of prey circling rapaciously high above the treetops. The sound of thunder, too close, alarms her, but she assures herself that it is heat lightning. Bands of heat, even here in the thick of the woods, sway in front of her like a ghostly vapor dance. The temperature has risen higher, and she begins to perspire in earnest, drops gathering at her brow and running off her face, the wetness collecting in the middle of her back. It is strangely bright with intermittent flickers of light flashing around her. She is uncomfortable and stumbles slightly. She is concerned that she may be experiencing heat exhaustion.

She switches her knapsack from one shoulder to another. It is heavy, still filled from the last camping trip she and Conor took months ago. A deft packer, she was able to cram in everything they could possibly need, and some things they didn't. Her pack is not a high -tech marvel from the glossy pages of a mail-order magazine, but an old beat-up bag she had jubilantly discovered at a flea market. She liked it, and she liked to keep it with her. She smiles as she remembers Conor asking her if she planned on meeting grizzlies, because she had all manner of knives, little saws, and picks. Some of these she had literally unearthed on hikes. People were careless and left remnants of their camps lying on the ground. She had told Conor, with annoyance, that it was groups of drunken college kids, out playing backwoodsmen, who gave camping a bad name. She had never been interested in the outdoors, other than sunning herself on a beach, until she had married Conor, who was an avid sportsman. Much as she had taken to camping and hiking, she relied on Conor for direction, and she could not bring herself to take part in his hunting and fishing sports. She argued that the animals hadn't a chance against high-powered rifles; there was no sport to it, except for the hunter. Fishing seemed dishonest to her: the fish were stupid and the lures and bait were used to trick them. She had wished that only wily old trouts lived in the streams where fishermen tried their luck. She hoped they refused the bait, craftily nibbling at a small piece and swimming away victoriously.

This is so strange, she muses, casting aside her thoughts of fish and Conor and grizzlies. She doesn't expect to meet a grizzly, but she puzzles over the trail. The air takes on a sudden, fragmentary chill, and she shivers again, a long shudder moving through her body. The disturbing sense of heaviness she experienced as she walked into the woods returns with such force that it nearly drives her to her knees. As she struggles to keep her footing, the flickering lights intensify and the thunder rolls more ominously. There is a disturbing din in this forest sanctuary; sharp, crackling sounds join the heavy thunder closing in, and hissing, whistling noises accompany the twigs and pine needles that randomly shower her. She notices that the saplings are oddly bent and twisted and the ground cover disturbed looking like a large, heavy object trampled them. Here and there, trees are split, the wood jagged and white like splintered bone, and many of the trees are naked, stripped of leaves, as though a great, sharp wind blew in and sheared them from the branches. There is an acrid odor like piles of burning matches. She winces, thinking that the birds of prey must have found their victims, for a shrill, ululating wail pierces the clamor, reminding her of childhood stories of banshees that stalked the wood. Suddenly, she can barely make out the ground, for she is enfolded by a foggy haze. The clap of thunder and the whizzing noises grow louder. The woman attempts to get her bearings, searches for a marker; distracted, she nearly bumps into a man moving quickly through the trees. He stops short and stares at her in amazement, which is the first thing that she notices about him--the look of total surprise and perplexity.

The second, more disturbing attribute that catches her notice is that his face is gaunt and caved-in, yet there is a hardness about him as though his leanness came from extreme, prolonged labor and little time for long and hearty meals. He has a wild, bushy beard and stinks of sweat, unwashed clothes, and a peculiar, distinct odor. She identifies this smell as that of blood. The odor is sharp, as pervasive as that in an emergency room filled with accident victims. His pants are a quilt of patches, so worn as to be a nondescript color. His shirt, a yellowed tan, is stained with a black, powdery substance, as are his lips and mouth. He wears a floppy hat. Her concern for him overrides her alarm at meeting a wild-looking stranger, and she asks him if he is all right. He stares at her, ignoring her question.

You heah with yer man? He has a deep, lilting voice, the vowels soft and liquid.

I-I'm a widow, she replies, her voice taking on the quaver that shakes her whenever she mentions this word. She mentally kicks herself for revealing something of such a personal nature to this strange man. He snorts, not with contempt, or disdain, but with bitterness.

Gonna be lots a you'uns, now, he sighs, weariness clouding his voice. But ya knowed it purty quick, y’all bin followin' him?

I am not following anyone. I just came to look over the battlefield.

He nods, looking away from her. Yuh, some folk brung their picnic baskets. Plenty to see, but it ain't a safe en’ertainment fer y’all. Ya'd best tend yer man and git on back. He nods to a place over his shoulder.

Her curiosity gets the better of her, and despite her usual good sense, asks this man where he is from.

I'm from Virginia, miss. He touches his grubby hat. Tom Sammons, ma'am.

He squints at her, also curious. Y’all purely are dressed queer as a cow in a haysack, what wi’ them trousers. Must be a Yankee fashion—y’all are a Yankee, ain’t ya? First off, I took y'all fer a fightin' gal.

She laughs, and his eyes light momentarily with pleasure at the sound. Yes, I am a Yankee and no, I assure you am not fighting. What an odd thing to say. And I don’t think that I am dressed that badly, this isn’t a party, is it? She looks at him closely. My name is Callie McCord. Impulsively, she thrusts out a hand, which he takes in his own, covering it with the other. He stares at her quizzically, pain and fatigue etched in his bony face.

I cain’t figure how ya got this far, but I reckon y'all ain’t sure how, neither. His eyes, unblinking, bore into hers. We heared rumors that y’all was braggin’ that there’d be dancin’ in Fairfax Court House a’ter it was all over. But it ain’t over yet an’ it ain’t safe fer y’all. I’ll show ya the way back to the rear.

Callie begins to feel the first rumblings of fear, which have been merely stirrings till now, of this queer, ungainly, unkempt man. Why did I tell him my name? What in the world possessed me?

What’s not over yet? she asks.

Why, miss, the fightin, he answers, taken aback. What y’all come to see. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other. Your side turned an’ run, but it still ain’t safe fer a woman. Mebbe not fer a man neither, he adds in a glum voice. If y’all need help, I can help ya, but I gotta find someone, myself.

No, no, Callie says, growing more apprehensive. I’ll find my own way back, thanks.

The man who calls himself Tom touches his filthy hat. Ma’am. Y'all take care, now.

Callie starts to run, manners and civility bowing to fright. Something isn’t right; something is so out of place. The man is strange beyond the run-of-the-mill nuts she usually runs into. She turns to see if he is following, but he has vanished. Her heart pounds from the effort of running in the still ungodly heat and from fear of her strange encounter.

Damn, she swears, I wish I had worn some decent shoes. She stops to catch her breath and to pull off a flat leather shoe, fine for browsing through antique shops, but not serviceable for racing through the woods. She shakes out pine needles and bent twigs that have collected in her shoes, and as she bends, she sees that the ground cover has been completely trammeled. Saplings are broken like toothpicks and leaves lie as though they have been chewed by snaggled teeth and spat on the forest floor. Thicker trees are strangely topped, their upper branches lying crookedly beside the trunks, standing like skeletons. The sulfuric stench is powerfully strong, and the trees are barely visible ten feet ahead of her, the haze as dense as stormclouds. She smells again the unmistakable rusty, iron stink of blood.

She replaces her shoes, alone in the woods with a weird man running around. Fear engulfs her. God knows who he is, a madman on the prowl, scaring tourists and satisfying his bizarre urges. She hears a low moan and picks her way to the sound. She trips over a man slumped against a tree stump, rotted and swarming with insects. A rifle, the make of which Callie can not identify, lies beside him. Terrorized, Callie turns away, preparing to run, but his pain-racked voice calls out, Please miss, some water.

She drops beside him and recoils, for his ragged shirt is soaked with blood. He has opened his shirt, and she can see the wound several inches from his left collarbone. Dismayed, she sees there is another one further down, in his belly.

My God! she cries, those are bullet wounds! She has seen enough hunting accidents and shootings to recognize a gunshot wound, yet these are different. The bullets have not passed through cleanly, but have torn and ripped up all the flesh in their paths. She can see that cloth and dirt have been carried into the wounds. Gut shot, she thinks grimly.

The man grimaces. Yep, they sure are. I’d be obliged, miss, if you have water, for a drink.

Callie fumbles frantically for her pack and pulls out her canteen. Cradling his head, she unscrews the canteen and holds it to his mouth. Here, she urges, drink. Not too much, not till I’ve checked you. He needs to replace his fluids.

As he drinks slowly and gratefully, she sees that he is exceedingly handsome, or would be if the grime and filth were scraped off, the hair cut and the stubbly beard razored. Like the man who called himself Tom Sammons, his mouth is strangely blackened, and his hands are blackened with the same substance; they also look as if they have been burnt. He returns her canteen, and as he stretches one leg out, she sees that he is very lean. His right thigh, too, has been bleeding profusely, and he has ripped off a piece of what is left of his shirt and tied it around his leg. He reaches down to tighten the tourniquet, and Callie watches as though the small drama is being played in slow motion in front of her.

Much obliged, miss. He reaches for the rifle while Callie shrinks back from him. But he is not paying attention to her. He is using the rifle as a crutch to pull himself up to a sitting position.

Don’t try to get up, Callie tells him. I’m going to get help. We’ll get you to a hospital. You’re going to be fine. She is panting, frightened out of breath.

No, I ain’t, he gasps, and that's a fact. He struggles to stand, and as she moves to help him, she sees two figures a few feet beyond him. Disbelieving what she sees, she walks over on her knees to the dark forms. Gasping, she scrambles to her feet, a scream forming in her throat, as her mind tells her to swallow the terror and panic lest they escape and alert the madman who did this. She looks back frantically at the wounded man, then at the mutilated bodies in front of her. As she turns, she sees three other bodies covered with blood that is only beginning to cake and dry in a stiff, brown mass. She runs from one body to the next, trying to find a spark of life in any. Tears spring to her eyes as she touches the face of a boy--he can’t be more than 17 or 18-- whose sightless eyes, already clouded, are being invaded by insects from the forest’s floor. Angrily, she brushes off the ants, and stifles a cry as she realizes the boy’s chest is gone. Something strikes her, a discordant note, but she brushes thought from her mind.

Danny’s past pain, miss, ain’t nothin’ to be done for him now. The man is standing now, with superhuman effort and obviously with great pain. I already looked over these fellows, and they are dead. All of ‘em dead.

My God, my God, she moans, shifting back and forth in agonized horror. Did you do this? She expects that he will now raise his rifle and kill her, too, to be found by some unsuspecting tourist who innocently wanders into the woods.

Startled, his mouth drops open in surprise. No, miss, I didn’t kill Danny!

Relieved at his words, Callie decides to believe him. I think-- I think I know who did it, she stammers hurriedly, breathlessly. We have to leave here quickly. She rushes over to the man. Let me help you. She hooks her shoulder underneath his good shoulder and pulls his arm across her back. She is a tall woman, but he has enough height that he is forced to bend considerably.

Do you know the way back to the Visitor Center? she whispers urgently. I couldn’t find my way back. She glances around frenziedly. I saw the man who shot you and killed your friends, just a little while ago. She tries to contain the horror that sits high in her throat. He must be crazy, we have to get out of here. Not wanting to call for help in case the maniac on the loose hears her, she drags the man toward the clearing she can now see. Ignoring his grunts of pain, she hobbles toward the clearing, the safety of the Visitor Center her only thought. Please, please, she sobs, invoking a god who has not stopped in these woods, please let us be safe.

Callie murmurs words of encouragement to the tortured man, his breath coming

raggedly and his blood draining from him. Her foot slips on a patch of dark, sticky wetness, and she stumbles. Catching herself, she sees it is the blood from another body, a hand severed from it, the fingers curling like a claw and the head thrown back in supplication. Clutched in the other arm is a rifle, and the puzzle that had gnawed at her when she tripped over the first bodies form a piece: they all have rifles in their hands or near to them. She falters only a moment. She looks at the man she is half dragging. The rifle was left behind, and he is too exhausted from his wounds to do her harm now. She fears he will die from blood loss and shock if he isn’t soon helped.

Why do you all have guns? she asks woodenly.

The man stops moving and glares at her. "Do you think I should not shoot

back at the Yankees?"

Oh. I suppose you are a Confederate, she says sarcastically.

I am.

She understands. This is a reenactment group. It is July 21, the anniversary of the first battle of the Civil War. But a monster has slipped in amongst them.

Is Tom Sammons with your group? He was the one I saw in the woods. I think it is possible that he is the one who is using live ammunition.

The man stops again, and looks at her, his pain-blanched face showing utter exasperation.

Tom Sammons dragged me off the field to die in the shade and maybe saved me from another bullet. He ain’t the one who shot me, ma’am. And what kind of ammunition do you expect we should use?

Callie is not listening, her ears deaf to any sound save that of her own breathing, her senses dulled to any feeling except the determination to reach a safe haven. They are at the clearing now, and in relief she looks for the Visitor Center, which should be visible just over the rise. But no buildings greet her, only a burnt house which is where Henry House should stand. Bodies and bits of clothing, some with body parts still attached and equipment of some type litter the gently sloping fields. The rotten egg, matchstick odor she has been smelling is stronger, but the other, more pungent stench overwhelms that, for the grasses, so recently fragrant and singing with life, are trampled and soaked through with blood, changing the pale green to a muddied red.

She drops to her knees, confusion and panic competing for her attention. The

man drops beside her, managing to break his fall with his good arm.

They’re retreating now, his voice is gentle, despite his agony. You don’t need to worry now, miss, someone will care for you. The bluebellies are skedaddling.

She stares at him. Who are the bluebellies? she whispers, fearing the answer. Where are they retreating?

His face is wracked with pain, but the voice is stronger, carrying notes of exultation and pride. Why, the Yankees, miss, and I expect they’ll hightail it to Centreville and then on back to Washington, where I fervently do hope they’ll stay. He spits to the side. But I don’t figure that to happen. We are in for a long, hot time of it, if the action of today prophesies the future, never mind what the politicians and patriots say.

You need help, Callie says. She nervously touches around the shoulder wound, which still seeps blood, and the rag tied about his thigh. We need to loosen the tourniquet and see what you’ve got there. She tells herself: I will help only him, I need to help him, then I will wake up, and I will go back to my car and to the hotel, and I will have a few drinks. I will have many drinks.

Yes’m, I’m much obliged for your --help, he speaks the last word with some irony. But you got to get back yourself, best get back to Centreville. Then you can go on to where y’all came from.

I should get back to the Visitor Center--

His face is contorted with pain and shock. Centreville? It’s directly east. You best get back.

He is concerned about me, even shot three places.

I can’t go back, she says, anguished. The inconceivable fancy hits her with a thudding clarity. Her heart slows and her body goes numb. She can not think. She will not. This is a dream, she frenziedly assures herself, this is not real. This can not be real. Bile rises in her throat, leaving a bitter, harsh taste in her mouth.

Sure you can, miss. Someone will fetch you back in a wagon. You oughtn’t be here. Or have you come to nurse? Do you have someone here?

Her head drops to her hands and she leans against her knees, the tears slipping down her cheek, one by one, then collecting to fall with force. She struggles against the enormity of her nightmare. Her body heaves with wracking sobs.

The man watches Callie with tender concern, despite his own wounds. I reckon you came out to watch, and you got yourself lost, he says gently.

Yes. I am lost. I think my soul is lost. The unimaginable has turned to a certainty. Horror faces her not only on these verdant fields, but it defies the reality of her world. She turns to him, her eyes brimming. What date is this?

July 21.

The year?

He smiles. Is this a riddle?

I woke up this morning, in the hotel, I had breakfast, drove over here, and walked around the battlefield.

You’ve been here all this time? How did you manage? He is aghast.

She takes hold of the remnants of his shirt, and ignoring his injuries, shakes him, hard. What year is it? What year? she demands, the hysteria building to a crescendo in her, her voice sharp and high.

He takes her hand from his shirt, holds it and searches her eyes. He is silent for a while, quieting her with his stillness. He answers, 1861.

CHAPTER 2

The sun drooped in the west, and fiery reds, pinks, and oranges streaked across the deepening blue horizon. Smoke lingered in the sky, like storm clouds gathering on a bright day. The smell of rain-filled clouds sweetened the stench of the bloodstained air, and the brilliance of the hot day was soon shadowed by the promise of cooling rain. As she looked across the hill, Callie saw men walking among the bodies strewn over the grass, poking in knapsacks, tipping canteens towards parched lips, turning bodies over to search for familiar faces; men kneeling and praying; men writhing in agonized contortions on the gently rolling, blooded fields. The wounded had pulled their clothing apart to search for the source of their deaths, and they lay in disarray, like torn Christmas paper wrapping. Sharp screams of agony accompanied low, hoarse moans. Here and there, men pulled off their flat, thin-soled shoes and rubbed their feet. Already, corpses were blackening and bloating in the oppressive heat. The numbers of civilians gradually swelled as they tripped anxiously through the wreckage, poking through the remains of men and hoping they would not find their own loved ones.

Dusk was ushered in with a chorus of the suffering wounded, while the dead witnessed the awful day’s deeds in silence. An occasional shout of laughter erupted across the hills. Picnic baskets littered the fields, their contents spilled in an obscene parody of the burst bodies, human and animal, lying near them. Men gathered in large groups, barely able to hold themselves up, some leaning on their rifles, others shambling along, almost asleep on their feet. Men on horseback rode up and down, back and forth, barking orders. Groups of blue-clad soldiers shuffled dispiritedly under the watchful eyes of their Confederate captors. Several men were examining cannon, apparently still hot, and attempting to get them hitched to teams of horses. Some weary soldiers dropped where they stood, cradling their heads in their arms, submitting to the sleep that had eluded them for so long. Others wept, finally succumbing to the murderous work in which they had engaged this day. Horses, some horribly eviscerated but not yet dead, screamed their anguish, their cries filling the evening with an unearthly sound.

Aware that the injured man beside her desperately needed attention, Callie turned from the tragedy playing around her and within her. She could not speak, so staggered was she with the unspeakable thought that she was truly trapped in the wrong time. Had she been able, at that minute, to talk, she would have screamed her disbelief and fear. Yet, despite the absurdity of this man's revelation, her small voice told her that it must be so...regardless of the impossibility. She had only to look at the wounds, at the countryside, at the man beside her, to know that no reenactment was ever so remotely detailed. Even had the day's evil work been performed by some foully fiendish madmen with a few old cannon and antique guns, the shoes, the clothing, the landscape, and the disappearance of the Visitor Center, were too real to be staged. She set her teeth and tried to bite back the panic that threatened to erupt into hysteria. This man acts as if he has merely an upset stomach. If I help him, then I will wake up. She had always relied upon her innate decency to balance the sorrow in her life. She used her skills as a negotiating tool, a remnant from her childhood, when she prayed to a god whom she believed would reward her for good behavior: If only you will make this better, I will say ten prayers. Her parents were honest people, humorless and hard working, who expected no breaks from life. They dealt with what they were handed and believed their lot was preordained. They reproached Callie for bargaining with God.

Removing her backpack, she found a clean bandanna. She indicated to the man that he should let her remove what was left of his shirt. I’m going to look at this now, she said weakly, hiccoughing with sobs as she gently probed the wound. Rummaging through the pack, she grabbed the few alcohol swabs she had dropped in the bag and began to clean the ragged flesh. The man drew in his breath as the stinging isopropyl seeped into the wound. It appeared that the bullet had glanced off the scapula and had not passed clean through. The damage, though severe, was confined to the flesh and muscle, and the bone was intact. No obvious splinters had worked their way to the top. She thought she could see the bullet wedged about half an inch into the shoulder

She sighed. You are lucky. There is not as much damage here as you would suppose. Three terrible gunshot wounds—boy, how lucky can you get? He will go into shock from blood loss.

She pulled away the blood soaked cloth from his abdomen. To her relief, she saw that though his flesh was torn and mangled, the intestines were not exposed. The bleeding was steady, but not gushing, and it carried with it no odor of spilled fecal matter. A quick assessment told her that the stomach and large intestine had probably not been hit. If his luck held, the shell would have ripped through the skin, not the muscles and intestines. She loosened the tourniquet he had applied to his thigh, and pulled at his trousers, trying to unzip them. She laughed ruefully to herself. Of course, they’re buttoned. They don’t have zippers in the Civil War.

Ripping at the buttons, she tugged at his trousers, yanking them down around his legs. He watched her for a second, too amazed to protest. Like the shoulder wound, it was severe, but the bone was not shattered. Unlike the shoulder wound, the bullet had gone clear through the thigh, bypassing bone and major arteries. It too, was confined to the flesh, but the worry was the dirt, cloth, and debris carried into the wounds, besides the immediate concern of blood loss. God, nothing’s sterile, I remember that much, she grumbled.

Her voice broke the outraged fascination with which he had watched her.

You can’t do this, miss, he sputtered indignantly, clasping his pants with his good hand and scrambling away from her.

Oh, hush up, she said, impatient with his bashfulness "and quit moving all over. I don’t know how you summon the energy to fuss over nothing. I want to get you further back into the trees where you’ll be a little safer and I can examine these injuries.

I already was dragged into the trees by Tom Sammons and left to die in peace, he protested darkly, before you came and dragged me out. He gingerly pulled himself to his feet, and Callie darted over to him.

You shouldn’t be putting any weight on that leg, she admonished him, and you are doing your insides no favor at all by moving around. Let me clean it up and get the bleeding stopped.

I reckon I’ll just find a field hospital, he replied without much enthusiasm. But first I’ve got to check on my boys and see that all these captured guns are turned. We should be able to deliver some fire to the retreating bastards, beg pardon, miss.

If you let the doctors work on you, they’ll probe around with knives that are contaminated with other people’s pus and blood and all manner of germs, and then they'll try to dig out the bullet with their fingers, and you’ll get an infection and probably die. And that’s after they’ve amputated, Callie remembered learning about that from the little reading she had done about the Civil War. As for the retreating bastards, don’t you think you’ve all done enough damage today?

The man gritted his teeth against the pain, but shot her a grin. He seemed to find her response amusing.

You sit here, and don’t you budge. You’ve been badly hurt, and you have got to be still, for crying out loud. I sound like a fourth grade teacher scolding a willful child. God, but you’re hardy.

Are you a lady of mercy?

I’m a doctor, she snapped. And you have got to let me staunch the bleeding and get fluids into you and clean out these wounds as well as I can, considering there are no sterile instruments, no antibiotics-- she stopped short, and rooted through her backpack. Oh! she exulted, I do have antibiotics!

On their camping trips, Conor had always managed to cut, stab, abrade, or otherwise mutilate himself, so she took along swabs to ward off infection. She had carried codeine during the beginning stage of his brief, ruinous illness, when despite the ravages of the disease that weakened and debilitated him at an alarming rate, he summoned the will to go on his beloved expeditions. A stubborn sinus infection prompted Callie to pack a broad spectrum antibiotic. She could get along without them; this man needed them more, and because he had never been exposed to the wonders of antibiotics, he would need only a fraction of the dosage she normally prescribed. Still, she could not give this wounded man anything until she had determined how extensive the belly wound was. She quickly debated the merits of giving him antibiotics--would he react violently to them? The chances of infection setting in are about a hundred per cent. I shouldn’t give him even water, but it's the only way to replenish his fluids and hydrate him and try to ward off shock. It would be cruel to deny him that little bit of relief.

Although normally confident about her work, she was plagued with doubts as she contemplated the injuries of the man before her. I’m not a surgeon; I should just clean him up and find one. Maybe even a nineteenth century surgeon is a better choice than I.

What’s an anniebodic? the man asked her, as he limped painfully, awkwardly attempting to pull up his pants.

Callie silently cursed herself--this was a mid-nineteenth century Southerner, probably illiterate and certainly he had no idea what an antibiotic was. I remember. Most of the doctors had never seen bullet wounds before the first battles, and they know little of germs or microbes, and even if they do, they usually aren't impressed that there is a connection. I’m better prepared to help him, despite my inadequacies. Anyone who completed a first aid course would probably be able to help him. She swiftly made a decision. She would care for him. Why else did I find him?

Look, she said, I can help you, I really can. She grabbed his good arm and gently tugged, urging him to the ground. I have matches and I can make a fire. Is there any place you know of that I could get water? she asked.

You’re a doctor, he shook his head, amazed. I’ve heard of women doctors, but I have never met one before. I've heard there is a Union doctor by the name of Mary Edwards, I believe, but she is permitted only to serve as a nurse, and she dresses in men's clothing, too. It must have been-- it must be--difficult for you. There must be many men and women who don't show you the respect you deserve. His eyes were hollowed, and utter exhaustion was beginning to overtake him. He rested on his good arm, his legs thrust out before him. He twisted and turned, trying to find some comfort in the hard, dry ground. Callie opened her knapsack, and selected the things she thought she could use. Better than nothing, she thought, considering the alternative.

She pondered how to respond to him, wanting to engage him in conversation that would take his mind off the terrible pain he must surely feel by now. The numbness from the shock of being shot would have worn off, but she didn’t want traumatic shock to set in. Although his wounds would not be mortal if dealt with in a modern hospital under antiseptic conditions and the efficacy of modern pharmaceuticals, they probably would kill him here unless she could intervene. She marveled at his stoicism and strength. She had tended patients who seemed impervious to pain but rarely to this extent. She had a fuzzy memory of reading or hearing about the valor and courage of the average Civil War soldier, not only on the battlefield, but in the aftermath as well, bearing his terrible injuries with fortitude and patience. It seemed she had met one. She groped for a topic that was less controversial than the uniqueness of her chosen vocation, for she knew that his was a patriarchal society, and the prejudice towards women was more than likely of a degree that she had not encountered in her life. She would not submit to it with the forbearance required of mid-nineteenth century, rural American women; still, this man seemed to admire the fact that she was a physician. At least he expressed sympathy for the ghastly prejudices that women in his time must have faced every single day of their frustrating attempts to practice medicine. It would serve no purpose to pursue this topic right now. She settled for the obvious conversational ploy. What is your name?

Tandy Wakefield, ma’am, he bowed his head to the side, a curiously graceful gesture in one so filthy and ragged. May I know yours?

I’m Callie. Callie McCord. She set to gathering sticks to build a fire, hopelessly trying to ignore the gore that was never far from her eyes.

I am pleased to-- he grunted softly, gathering his strength about him-- make your acquaintance, Miss McCord. My home is in Brandy Mills, in Sterling County, right here in Virginia. And you, of course, are a Yankee.

Of course, she knew he was a Southerner, but his accent was so soft and subtle, not at all what she would have imagined. But how would she ever have anticipated that this unspeakable thing that happened to her could ever occur?

She laughed shortly, Well, yes, I am, and I recently moved to Washington--

He interrupted her. And you came to watch the Union deliver a sound drubbing to the Rebs. Only it didn’t work that way, he continued, we whupped them. He looked satisfied.

Tandy, she said, putting her hand on his arm, vaguely sensing that the gesture might seem forward to a man from the inhibited, Victorian-era South, you must replenish your fluids. You have lost a great deal of blood. I’m going after water.

If you go back through the woods, you’ll come across the Bull Run. He gestured with his chin. Up yonder over the rise is where the burnt-out house is--it got shelled pretty badly-- and you might fetch water at the well. That’s much closer. He made an effort to get back up. I am well enough, and I reckon that maybe I am not going to die after all. I am not going to lie about when there’s many worse off than I. I could be seeing to my men.

Callie drew herself up to her full height, and glared at Tandy Wakefield. You are going to stay put, and I am going back over the hill to get water and take care of your wounds. Whatever you do for anybody will not make any difference, in the long run. I, however, am meant to make a difference to you, or else why would I be here? In the meantime, drink this water. She threw him a half-full canteen that had been owned by one who would not need it again, his hands beseechingly raised in death to a power that abandoned him in life. She started off with her own canteen, wondering if what she said, mostly for her own benefit, were true.

As she reached the crest of the hill, she saw that the house known in 1861 as Spring Hill Farm, but familiar to her as Henry House, had been riddled with shells. Shingles and siding boards were strewn about the small building, presenting a far different facade than it had when she viewed it that morning in the twentieth century. Soldiers gathered around talking quietly, while others sat staring into oblivion, too worn out to move. As far as dress was concerned, they seemed to lack uniformity, some wearing gray, others various shades of blue, and some in the peculiar hue known as butternut. Callie would later learn that at the beginning of the war, both federal and rebel forces were lax in their uniforms, with a few federal regiments bedecked in gray and some of the Confederates in blue, which led to confusion and troops firing on their comrades rather than the enemy. At First Manassas, Jackson’s 33rd Virginia advanced on Union troops, who, seeing the blue uniforms, thought they were friendly. The Confederates moved to within sixty yards of the mistaken Federals and delivered a deadly fire, killing or wounding over fifty men and one hundred horses.

Men lay over the field in an obscene patchwork, some dead, some crying out their agony and fear. There didn’t seem to be an orchestrated effort to collect the wounded and bury the dead, although here and there a few black men loaded the wounded onto stretchers, while other bands of blacks dragged the dead, both Confederate and Federal, into ghastly heaps. Her sole purpose was to tend to this man. Although she was utterly baffled and horrified as to how or why, the unnamable it had occurred because of him. He has to be the reason. She was here for him; that much seemed obvious to her, and she focused on that thought in order to keep the more terrifying ones at bay.

Adjacent to the splintered small house was a pump. Several men were drawing water from it with a small wooden bucket. Callie walked determinedly over to the well, and staring fiercely at the men who turned curious faces to her, she filled her canteen and the bucket. It wasn’t enough, but it would have to do. Several men passed her as she hurried back to Tandy, but they quickly averted their eyes after gaping at her.

Nearing the spot she had left Tandy, she saw him hobbling around, peering into the faces of the fallen. He had a canteen in his uninjured hand, and with difficulty, kneeled down beside those who were not slain. Some wore jackets of blue, from dark to light, others wore gray, and still others were dressed in homespun shirts of varying shades, checks and patterns. If they were alive, Tandy gave them water and moved on to the next, oblivious to their newfound, wickedly contested nationalities.

Come over here, she said sharply. Sweet Christ, you will go into shock and bleed to death. Your own wounds need tended, and you have got to take in as much water as you can. Otherwise, you’ll be no better off than these poor men. Their fates have already been written. Yours has not.

At that moment, a haggard looking man trudged up the hill, calling Tandy’s name. Captain Wakefield, he called out, relief evident in his voice. Tom said he drug ya into the woods but ya wasn’t where he left ya. We thought y'all was dead. He eyed Callie, with obvious appreciation and consternation. He said he saw a gal in the woods dressed like a feller.

Miss McCord, with those words of gallantry, I have the pleasure of introducing you to Aiden Jarman. Tandy winced and his voice was barely audible. He was nearing collapse.

Jarman made an awkward, half-bow. Pleased ta make yer acquaintance. He kept eyeing Callie, trying not to be rude, but clearly intrigued by not only her presence on the battlefield, but also her strange costume. Turning to Tandy, he asked anxiously, more a statement than a question, Y’all shot real bad, Cap’n?

No, Aiden, they’re only flesh wounds. Miss McCord is a doctor, and she tells me I may live if I do as she tells me. How did our company fare?

Aiden Jarman surveyed the man’s wounds, and looked doubtfully at the blood on his abdomen, momentarily distracted from the question. We suffered seven casualties I know of. You. Terry Potts is kilt, a bullet clean through his heart. Johnny Ray Park is daid. A shell took his whole haid off. It's a turrible thing to see. He shook his own intact head, in amazement and dread. He ticked off his fingers, Walker Calhoun is kilt, I heared, but I ain't got hit positive. Jed Smith is gone lose a leg, and John Davies was hit in the leg, but I reckon hit ain't too bad. John Ruggles, Richard Sturgis, and Andy Guthrie is all settin' down stupefied that they ain't kilt. Andy got part a his hand shot off but hit's his left one, and he says he aims to do more damage to th’ Feds if they’s fixin' to come back. I think y’all got to see the surgeons directly. He stared openly at Callie, disbelief evident on his face with her prognosis for Tandy.

Ignoring Jarman’s observations, Tandy replied, We got to get those guns the Yankees so graciously left us as a memento of their visit with us. He gestured at the cannon and small arms littering the battlefield and the road running to the north.

We’re seein’ to it, Cap’n. We're gone head on back to Manassas. There don't appear to be no ambulances; them dad-burned sumbithces, beggin' pardon, ma'am, they's nought but thieves and scoundrels and they all turned and run, soon as the firin' got hot. That's the trouble with hirin' out drivers, but hit looks like the Yankees didn't fare no better with their drivers. We found some wagons equipped with handcuffs. He grinned. Guess the Yankees was figurin' to take prisoners. The men smashed 'em up and are having all manner of fun, jestin' 'bout the handcuffs. He glanced quickly at Callie, colored as she impatiently tapped her foot, and brought his attention back to his wounded captain. We oughter head over to the field hospital, they are settin' them up down by the red stone house. Or else maybe I could persuade a horse to join me.

He’s not going anywhere on a horse, Callie interrupted, annoyed, at least until I have had a chance to dress these wounds and stop the bleeding. Otherwise, you can just send a coffin up for him. Seeing the stricken look on Jarman's face, she relented. Oh, he's not going to die. He's going to recover, I promise you, although you certainly don't seem to believe it, you're pulling such a face. You look like a kicked dog, she finished nastily, hoping to make someone else feel as miserable as she did. She succeeded, and felt guilty for it, because Jarman's jaw dropped pitifully and his eyes clouded.

I’m sorry, I don’t mean to snap at you. I’m just--She let her hands drop by her side. How to explain her bewilderment and dread?

Aiden graciously nodded his head. Ma’am. I reckon y’all are a little lathered. I am, too.

He stared at Tandy, searching his face. He pulled off his hat, and grabbed Tandy’s hand. You need to see the doctors, Cap’n. Tom told Cap'n Brevard an Colonel Ellis that you disappeared, an they's in a flap. They’ll wanna see you, he finished faintly.

They can come satisfy themselves I ain’t dead. Or you can tell them that I am not going to die. I’ve studied on it, and I don’t believe I care to. And this beautiful woman says she can fix me up.

Jarman stood miserably, twisting his hat around and around. If you say so. I pray it’s true.

See to things, will you, Aiden? Get that artillery. If the Yankees come at us again, they’ll taste a bit of their own deviltry.

Done, Cap’n, Aiden finally nodded. The men have discovered all kinds of stuff in the Yankees haversacks, an they's fixin' ta make a meal. There’s cans a sweetened milk an little stews. There is word runnin' about that the food has been poisoned by the Yankees, so if they cain't kill us with bullets, they'll do it with their crackers.

Tandy laughed, more of a huffing sound as he protected his ribs. Can’t be any worse than the swill we’ve been eating. I believe I’d take my chances with the haversacks. They meant to invite us to a party, and it’d be ungenerous to decline.

Aiden Jarman smiled. He bowed again toward Callie. Miss, he said simply, and started off.

Mr. Jarman, Callie called sharply, walking towards the swiftly moving man, out of earshot of Tandy. Where did you say they are taking the wounded? She knew that she had to get those bullets out of Tandy, but she had no instruments, no chloroform, which, if she remembered rightly, was the anesthesia of choice during the Civil War--that and ether, but ether was so flammable. Somehow, she would have to talk her way into getting what she needed and work on him herself, leaving the surgeons with their unwashed hands and filthy instruments to the other unfortunate wounded.

Aiden Jarman looked at Callie quizzically for a minute, recognizing the authority in her voice and the expectation that she would be obeyed without question. Yes’m, I think the closest the doctors is operatin' is at the stone house down the hill by the ‘pike. I reckon that’s where Tandy oughter be. He mightn’t live, but at least we all'd feel that somebody tried.

Bring a stretcher up here and another man to help you carry him, she ordered. I am going to do what I can for him. She shot the wretched-looking Jarman a hard look. He is not going to die, and I am the best possible doctor for him that is available on this god-forsaken battlefield. Her voice quavered with intensity, feeling the truth to the words even as she spoke them.

Aiden looked back briefly at Tandy, who watched them with a weak grin. Hesitating just for a second, he finally made up his mind and nodded. I’ll be back, Miss, soon's I can git a stretcher. He moved back to Tandy, threw him a worried look and said earnestly, Don’t you go dyin', Cap’n, I ain’t had sech a good day, and I don’t care to have it made worser. He patted him awkwardly, and Tandy smiled crookedly up at him, his head swirling with the fog of pain. Jarman trotted off to the sloping rise south of them, as Callie prepared to work on her patient. She was unsure how to proceed. She, who had always been so confident, so unhesitating, had in the past year been plagued with self-doubt, a terrible affliction for a doctor.

She pulled out matches from her knapsack, and lit the little pile of sticks she had gathered. She set the canteen into the sticks, impatiently willing the water to boil.

I have to pull your pants off, she said bluntly.

Tandy colored. No, you ain’t, he protested. I ain’t taking off my britches. It ain’t right.

Christ on a crutch, let me pull off your damn pants or I’ll cut them away. What in hell do you think I am going to do to you anyway?

Tandy’s mouth dropped open in shock. Why, you swore! he exclaimed.

Yes, and I am going to swear a whole lot more if you don’t do as I say! Don’t be such a prude! Her voice was shrill with hysteria.

Summoning the strength for a grin, he shrugged, and she tugged off his pants. My drawers are in pretty bad shape, he apologized, looking down at his undergarments. Like the rest of him, they were filthy and caked with blood.

Forget it, she said shortly. She began cleaning the wound with alcohol and water, saw that the bullet had gone clean through his thigh, as she had originally assessed. The damage was dreadful, but the artery wasn’t severed and the bone was intact. She knew nothing about weapons of this era and how the bullets tore their vicious path through the body.

A new kind of musket had been introduced, with a rifled bore, and they used Minie balls, named for the French captain who invented the cone-shaped bullets that mushroomed through the flesh, shattering bone and dragging debris into the wound. A Yankee inventor had perfected the percussion cap, which allowed the musket to detonate, as well as discovering the uses of chloroform.

Because the velocity of the Minie wasn't great enough to continue through the body, the bullet often stayed in the bones they splintered in such a horrifying manner. The surgeons caused further damage and increased the almost inevitable risk of infection by probing the gaping holes with their fingers, pieces of wood, or any instrument at hand. Shortly into the war, a porcelain-tipped probe was developed, but at the war's onset, the surgeons were left to their own devices. Although there were a few doctors who had observed the effects of infection, or the concept of it, such as the redoubtable Oliver Wendall Holmes, Sr., most were untried and their education completed on the battlefield. Since they occasionally washed the blood and gore from their hands, but rarely washed their instruments, pausing only long enough to wipe the knives and saws on their filthy aprons and coats, it was debatable which method of bullet extraction--probe or fingers-- was the most sanitary. When the bullet did exit, it left an enormous cavern.

The soldier who shot Tandy evidently wasn't issued the rifled musket, but rather the old-fashioned, smoothbore kind, which caused considerably less damage. With luck, Yankees who him in the shoulder and belly were issued the same weapons.

I am going to clean this wound, she told him. Then I’ll get to the shoulder. This won’t be too bad.

I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe I am cleaning a bullet wound in a man who was not born in the twentieth century. I can’t believe this is happening to me. Her mind repeated a litany of the unbelievable events that had taken place. Get a grip, she told herself, before you go stark raving. How old are you, Tandy? she asked, to break up the thoughts that returned to torment her.

I am near 30, he answered, his teeth set. He did not groan or mumble.

Callie started to laugh mirthlessly, agitation fueling the hysteria that was rising again. She made some quick calculations, figuring his birth year as 1831 or thereabouts. That would make him one hundred and seventy years old. Since she was thirty-one, she was a