Jack Caldwell - Pemberley Ranch

Darcy could see men in blue hiding in the trenches or behind shelter. He knew this assault would be costly.

A shout went up, and the Texans charged. Darcy ran before his men, the Colt in his right hand and a sword in his left. The men to either side fired their muskets on the run and continued the charge, bayonets gleaming in the afternoon light. The enemy returned fire from their positions, but even as men fell around him, Darcy knew it was too little, too late. They were almost upon them. The Union soldiers began to fall back in some disorder. Darcy bared his teeth as he smelled the impending victory…

There was a mighty explosion, and Darcy experienced a feeling of flying before the world crashed into his face.

Will Darcy knew nothing, except that he hurt. Hurt all over. Hurt bad .

After a while, he was able to discern something besides the ever-present pain: a low murmuring in the background of his darkness. It took a moment before he realized that it was the sound of men groaning and crying. Darcy opened his eyes to behold a dark, uneven ceiling, lit by the light of lanterns.

He suddenly realized that he could only see out of one eye. In a panic, he raised a hand to his face and tried to sit up. A wave of agony crashed into him, and he could not prevent crying out as he fell back.

Darcy heard voices close by. “Doc—Doc—this one’s wakin’ up.” A moment later a face came into his limited field of vision.

“Captain, how are you feeling?”

Like I’m about to die! his mind screamed. He peered closely at the man. About Darcy’s own age, the young man had a broad, flushed face and light-colored hair. It was a face that usually would be happy, he considered. That it wasn’t was a cause for concern.

“H… hurt,” was all Darcy could manage.

“I should think you do,” the unknown man said in a soft Georgia accent with a hint of a smile. The break in the man’s serious mien was comforting.

Darcy waved a hand before his face. “E… eye?”

“Rest easy,” the man said. “Your eyes are undamaged. You have a serious injury to your forehead, and the bandage must cover one eye. You’re in a hospital, Captain, in a cave to protect y’all from the incoming artillery… Don’t sit up!” he cried as Darcy moved. “Do you want to lose that leg?”

His patient lay still in fear.

The man grew grim. “Good thing you were insensible when your men brought you in. I had to do a bit of digging to get all the shrapnel out. You’ve lost quite a bit of blood, Captain. We must keep your leg still and clean, or the gangrene may set in. Do you understand?”

Darcy managed a nod, which only hurt like blazes. He determined he was speaking to a surgeon, as he could now make out the dried blood all over the man’s apron.

“Good,” the doctor grinned in return. “I must see to my other patients, but I shall stop by later. Rest, sir, and you’ll be up and walking again.”

As the doctor began to turn, Darcy fought to speak. “Th… thanks. D… Darcy.”

The doctor turned in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

Darcy gestured again. “D… Darcy.”

“Ah,” the man breathed in realization. “Captain Darcy, is it?”

Darcy nodded.

He smiled. “Charles Bingley, at your service.”

Meryton, Ohio—June 20

“Beth! Beth, come back!”

The thirteen-year-old girl disregarded her mother’s voice as she ran out the back door. Almost blinded by her tears, she managed to reach the large chestnut tree next to the barn without running into anything. The girl threw herself against the trunk, her body shuddering in sobs.

It was there her older sister found her, kneeling by the tree. Wordlessly, the blond girl gathered her sister into her arms, their hair blowing in the breeze.

“Beth—oh, Beth!” she tried to console the child.

“H… he can’t be dead!” Beth Bennet sobbed. “Samuel can’t be dead! He can’t be, Jane!”

“Beth…” Jane began.

“He promised to come back. You… you heard him. He promised!”

Jane bit her lip as she continued to stroke Beth’s curly brown hair, her own tears quietly streaming down her face. She could hear her mother and other sisters wailing in the house, an uproar that began a half-hour before as her father read the words of that hated telegram:

“We regret to inform you that…”

“Beth—oh, Beth!” was all Jane could manage. Her own distress was great. Samuel Bennet, the eldest of the Bennet children and the only son, proud corporal in the Ohio infantry, gone to save the Union as part of the mighty Army of the Potomac, had died of influenza in Maryland. Samuel was beloved by all of his family, but Beth was particularly fond of him. Jane might be Beth’s confidante, but Samuel was her hero and could do no wrong. Jane could only hold her sister, allowing her to cry herself out.

Finally, as Beth’s sobs subsided, Jane said, “Beth, we must return to the house and see to our parents and sisters. We cannot add to their distress. We must be strong, Beth.”

“S… Samuel was always strong, Jane.”

“Yes, he was. Now, it is our turn. Our family needs us.” She took the girl’s face in her hands. “It is what he would want.”

Beth nodded. Their mother loved her only son almost as fiercely as Beth, and their father doted on him. They would be shattered, leaving the three younger sisters little comfort.

Jane got to her feet and helped Beth up. Hand in hand, they turned to return to the house. As they walked, Jane heard Beth mumble something and asked her about it.

“I said it is their fault, Jane,” she spat.

“Whose fault?”

“Those damned Rebels!”

“Beth, please!” Jane cried. “Please don’t talk like that in front of Mother or Mary! You know how they feel about coarse language.”

“Very well, but I’ll never forgive those evil slave-owning Rebels—never! It’s their fault Samuel went away. Those evil, evil people! I hope God smites them. I hate them! I will hate them for the rest of my life!”

Vicksburg—July 4

Will Darcy sat up in his cot, listening to the cannons going off. He turned to the doctor sitting beside him. “I suppose it’s noon, Charles.”

Dr. Bingley checked his pocket watch. “Yes, it is. Precise, aren’t they, these Yankees?”

Darcy sighed, flexing his body. His recovery from the wounds he suffered in May had been hampered by a persistent fever. He had only grown strong enough in the last week to go to the chamber pot unaided. He desperately wanted to return to his command, but now it was too late. Confederate Lt. General John C. Pemberton had surrendered Vicksburg to Union Major General Ulysses S. Grant after a forty-two-day siege, which brought suffering and starvation to troops and civilians alike inside the ramparts. Pemberton had no choice—he had tons of ammunition, but virtually no food. They could hold out no longer.

“We’ve already furled banners and stacked arms; we were to do that before the Yankees took possession of the city,” Bingley observed. “I’m told we’re to get parole.” He patted the captain on the arm. “We get to go home, Will.”

“Maybe.” In the last month, Bingley spent all of his free time with Darcy, playing cards or telling stories, and they had developed a deep friendship.

Before Bingley could ask his morose companion his meaning, there was a noise at the entrance of the cave. “I’d best see to that,” he excused himself. Darcy watched him walk off to the exit of the ward when the doctor was pushed back by three blue-clad soldiers.