Corporal Mae Stoker is no stranger to misery or surviving harsh conditions, especially after enlisting in the Union Army at the height of the American Civil War to avoid living with her aunt and uncle. But when she's wounded during the Battle of Lov...
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August 21, 1864
Near Jonesborough, Georgia
Fat beads of sweat poured down Captain Wolstan Mitchell's brow despite the chill of the evening breeze whispering through the oak trees surrounding him. And for the thousandth time in the past two hours, he questioned his sanity.
"Almost there," he whispered to a semi-unconscious Corporal Stoker, her left arm slung across his shoulders as she struggled to walk alongside him. "Just a little further, Stokes."
A twig snapped about thirty yards behind them, and he froze.
"What's wrong?" She mumbled, looking at him with exhausted, feverish eyes.
Wolstan pressed a dirty, blood-stained finger to his lips and shook his head, urging silence.
His heart slammed against his ribs as he held his breath, adjusted his hold on Stokes to allow him to draw his pistol, and strained his ears for any sign that someone was following them.
Either the Union Army was a twitch of a finger away from shooting them for desertion—only partially true in this instance. But a fact they wouldn't wait to hear before dispatching a volley of bullets in their direction—or they were about to come face to face with the enemy.
He waited, his muscles tensing, preparing for an impending attack.
However, after several minutes passed and no Rebs in tattered grey and mustard uniforms emerged, splitting the night air with their eerie rebel yell with guns drawn, Wolstan holstered his pistol. He repositioned Stokes's arm around his neck and shoulders, hugged her to his side, and started walking again.
Wolstan gave her a little shake a few moments later when her steps faltered. "Stay awake, Corporal."
"Yes, sir," she slurred, even as she slumped against him in a dead faint.
Muttering an expletive, Wolstan latched onto her belt. He stopped mid-stride and wrapped his arms around her waist to keep her upright.
"Stokes?" He hissed, softly slapping her dirt-smeared cheeks.
Wolstan clamped down hard on the saturated bandage covering her injured right arm, hoping the pain would draw her out of the faint. "Stokes, we're almost there."
But Corporal Stoker's head only lolled on her shoulders, her face deathly pale in the moonlight.
His heart pounded, and he didn't realize he was holding his breath until he slowly released it upon finding her pulse.
"Don't you die on me now," he whispered, ignoring the panic threading his voice, making it tremble.
Reminding himself he was wasting precious time, Wolstan scanned his surroundings. He cradled her awkwardly against his body. Then, he tightened the blood-soaked bandage around her injured arm and hoisted her onto his shoulder before continuing through the woods.
