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Chapter One

Elmira Prison Camp, New York

August 1864

Grayson Drake glanced to the note in his hand from the Major Britton Darkmore, the man in charge of the prison. It wasn't the first time he'd been summoned to Elmira Prison to minister to the sick and dying. With a bit of luck, it might soon be his last. A raw-boned, soulless man, Darkmore's penchant for corporeal punishment would lead to a violent death one day. . . his. The thought brought a smile to Grayson's lips. One third of the prisoners at Elmira died from smallpox, rickets or malaria after drinking water from a frog-infested pond in camp. Darkmore couldn’t be bothered to remedy the abhorrent living conditions. The guards at Hellmira─rumored to be ten times more vindictive than those at Andersonville─starved and robbed the prisoners and then tossed their dead bodies into pine boxes to be transported to the local cemetery. For these reasons, and more, Grayson detested Darkmore and his corrupt soldiers.

Grayson had scant information on the prisoner he'd visit soon, only what Darkmore had scribbled on the missive: Prisoner number 594, Marx Wellbourne. Report to barracks No. 3 on West Water Street. Grayson had been to the prison often enough to know solitary confinement held court in barracks No. 3, as did the filth-riddled infirmary.

With a gentle snap of his wrists, Ol' Masie picked up her gait along the narrow, gravel road and soon the prison's observation towers came into view. Grayson drew the carriage to a halt near the front gate and passed Darkmore's note to the sentry.

Moments later, the man shouted out a command. “Open the gate for Dr. Grayson Drake.” The stiff-spined man turned to him. “To your left at the end of the row of barracks.

Grayson nodded, clucked to Ol” Masie and passed through the entry. By now, the old nag could find her way to the infirmary in the dark. Up ahead and resting on high ground between Foster's Pond and Water Street, thirty-five wooden buildings loomed. Grayson called forth an image of their interiors—a hundred feet long and sixteen feet wide with two rows of flea-infested cots lining the walls. Whether fighting for the North or the South, no human being should be forced to reside in such deplorable conditions. One man could only do so much. If he spent his days fretting over the inhumane treatment of the prisoners at Hellmira, he could end up a candidate for bedlam.

Colonel Darkmore stood on the rickety front porch of the building with cigar in hand, a wreath of gray smoke encircling his silver hair and stern features. “Ah, Dr. Drake, I see you received my missive.

Grayson took his time climbing from the transport before reaching for his medical bag under the seat. “I set out the moment I finished with my last patient this afternoon. Why?” he asked sardonically. “Should I have saved myself a trip?

“No, no, good doctor, our patient is alive.” Darkmore lifted his chin to an overcast sky and watched a hawk in flight. “Barely.

Grayson would never adjust to the brash change of seasons in New York. This past winter had tested his mettle, not to mention his sanity. He missed the sultry climate of home, longed to fill his senses with the sweet smell of rhododendron and crepe myrtle. And the mountains. How he missed his beloved mountains.

Drawing his weasel-like scrutiny to an end, Darkmore turned to him. “Come, Corporal Wellbourne occupies a cell in the infirmary.

So, the man was a Corporal in the Confederate States Army. His rank alone would be reason enough for Darkmore to loath the man, and reason enough to want to save him. “What is his condition and when do you expect to get a Surgeon in Chief at Elmira?

“What ails all the varmints? Pneumonia, small pox; choose your poison, Doctor. Most stepped off the train with a ghost dogging their heels.” He measured his next words. “As for the upper echelon assigning another surgeon, I don't believe they will. In case you hadn't noticed we're in the midst of war and every available physician has been conscripted for service.

“His symptoms, if you'd be so kind to enlighten me before I see him.

“Fever and chills.” Darkmore paused. “The man's condition has deteriorated after two days in the box.

Grayson swallowed his rage. “You must be mad. No man can survive the box while suffering fever and chills.

The door to the infirmary rose before them. “As you'll soon discover, sir, Marx Wellbourne is no ordinary man. In fact, I'd venture to guess he was spawned from the loins of a wild beast.” The Major inserted a key into the lock, pushed the door open, and with a flourish of his arm, directed Grayson into the room. “Lieutenant, escort Dr. Drake to Wellbourne's cell and remain with him until he's finished with his examination.

“One question, Major. What did he do to merit two days in the sweat box?

“He's a rebel, sir, of the highest degree. Ten Confederate prisoners escaped from camp three days ago, tunneled their way to freedom. All ten belonged to Corporal Wellbourne's unit, and he'd have escaped with them had he been fit enough.

Grayson found it difficult to stifle the ripple of gratification washing over him. “Yes, well, you can't blame a man for wanting to escape from this . . . this prison, Darkmore.

“Do not think for one moment your sarcasm went over my head.” The major's voice lifted an octave. “And for the record, I don't give a goddamn what their wants are. We've never had an escape under my watch, and I intend to see it never happens again.” Lowering his hysteria, he continued. “You'll see to it that Corporal Wellbourne survives this malady so he can return to the box posthaste.

“You wish me to save him only to have him die?

“I don't care if he dies, Drake, as long as he does it after he tells me what I want to hear.

“Excuse my naïveté, Major, but if Wellbourne didn't provide you with information after what he went through, what makes you think he'll cough it up the second time around?

The Major slammed his fist down on a nearby desk. “I'll flay his back until he begs to tell me what I wish to know!” His face turned the color of beets as he tugged on the hem of his jacket, struggling to regain his composure. “Lieutenant, I gave you an order.

“Yes, sir.” The man clicked his heels. “Follow me if you will, please, Dr. Drake.

Grayson took a final look at the poor excuse of a man standing before him, turned on his heels and followed the Lieutenant down a dimly lit hallway. The sickening stench of human waste and pungent urine spiraled up his nose. “Good, God,” he said to the floor.

The Lieutenant marched on, his eyes straight ahead, his features stoic. Placed in the same situation as the Confederate prisoners, Grayson would pray for a speedy death. No wonder ten had burrowed their way to freedom.

Moments later, the man stopped before a set of metal bars, inserted the key and pushed the heavy door open with the toe of his boot. “There he is, sir, Marx Wellbourne.

Sprawled on his back, his arms resting at his sides on a dingy cot, the man looked like a specter from a child's worst nightmare. Gray trousers clung to his flat abdomen and lean hips. The matching jacket, ragged and speckled with blood stains, lay open, exposing a muscled chest and broad shoulders. Long, tousled hair, darker than tar pitch, fell about his shoulders except for one thick strand that veiled a portion of his face. Despite the impediment and the fine sheen of sweat, the man's features were well-defined—prominent cheekbones, straight, narrow nose and full generous mouth. His torso rose and fell with shallow breaths, punctuated by an occasional cough of phlegm that came from deep within his lungs.

“You may leave, Lieutenant, and I'll call for you when I'm finished here.

“Sir, I'm not sure that's a good—”

“Whatever the man has done in the past, he seems quite docile at the moment, incapable of doing me harm.

“Major Darkmore said I should stay by your side.

“Yes, Lieutenant, but I’m certain whatever it is that ails Wellbourne . . ..” For effect, Gray pulled a hankie from his pocket and covered his nose. “Is . . . let’s say it is contagious, very contagious. I don’t think we need to share our little secret with the Major.

The Lieutenant backed up, pulled the door shut and locked it. “Very well, Doctor Drake. Rap three times on the bars when you're ready. I'll hear you.

Grayson advanced, lantern and medicine bag in hand. After setting the lamp down on the floor, he pulled a stool up to the cot and settled onto it. Studying him for a moment, he realized Wellbourne was much younger than what he'd expected, too young to die in this rat hole. Of course he'd seen him on one or two occasions, but only across a room or masked at the brothel they both frequented in Charleston.

When he pushed the lock of hair from Wellbourne's face, his hand came into contact with his feverish skin. Damn, perhaps he'd arrived too late. He should have asked Darkmore additional questions about the malaria diagnosis. Caught up in the sadistic Major's tale of tunneling, escapees and the box, he'd become distracted. Pneumonia would have been Grayson's first choice after seeing his gray pallor and labored breathing. It was also possible he suffered from pneumonia and malaria. Two days in the sweat box had greatly compromised his maladies.

Pulling the bottle of quinine from his bag, he poured a liberal amount into a tin cup, lifted the patient's head and placed it to his mouth. His lips parted and Grayson trickled the remedy down Wellbourne's throat amid his chortled cough. He waited a few moments and delivered the remainder of the quinine.

The man's arms flailed about and garbled words spewed forth. “No retreat! Charge!” He jackknifed up, the hard muscles of his torso tense. “Hold the line!

“Whoa, easy now, son.” Grayson stilled his arms and eased him back onto the mattress. “You're safe, take it easy.

“Hold the line . . . hold the line,” he spat through feverish lips and lapsed into a semi-consciousness state again.

Grayson reached for the opium in his bag and held the bottle to his lips. “Here, drink.” Met without protest, he urged him to swallow. “That's it, a little at a time.

He could do nothing more for the Corporal now but hope the quinine would cut his fever and the opium ease his pain. Spying the bowl and pitcher at the head of the cot, Grayson rose, poured the tepid water into the bowl and swished the cotton rag through it once or twice. He wrung it out, returned to the stool, and mopped Wellbourne's brow.

The muscles in his abdomen clenched and a hiss stole his breath. Beneath the grime, his feverish skin was supple and firm. Drawn by a strange sensation, he left the rag on his forehead and traced a deliberate path around his lips with his finger. His hand traveled to the carved cheekbones and lingered. A fine bead of sweat broke out above Grayson's upper lip as he drank in every detail of that face. He couldn’t recall the color of the man’s eyes, but brown, like the color of acorns, came to mind.

His fingers eased across that soft, taut flesh, and he felt a pang of sorrow. Stretched over his facial bones like a tanned hide on a stretcher, he knew starvation had been the cause. His eyes found his naked chest. Like his face, the skin served as a thin covering for his ribs. Nothing thicker than parchment.

He longed to know more about his background in the war. Where had he been captured and under what circumstances? Like him, did he miss the mountains? Grayson shook his head to clear his bedazzled senses and wondered what it was about Wellbourne that had drawn him from the moment he saw him four years ago.

He wrenched his gaze away, had no business thinking such thoughts about an unconscious patient. But by God, Wellbourne lay before him, and the man's beauty up close astounded him. The interludes with nameless strangers at Madame Belle's paled next to his reckless, errant thoughts about Wellbourne. He'd never been able to erase the man's visage from memory and didn't have the courage to summon him to his room at the brothel. When the war came, he'd sworn off such wicked delights to serve his country, vowed to dispel thoughts of the blissful rapture while another man writhed beneath him. Until his orders came through to rescue Corporal Wellbourne and bring him in alive at any cost. Irony had a strange way of kicking a man in the ass when he least expected it.

He risked another look at Wellbourne and shivered. With an exasperated sigh, he rose from the stool and with tin cup in hand, banged on the bars three times. The Lieutenant appeared a short time later, opened the door and locked it after Grayson passed through.

The guard’s face paled. “Is he going to die?

“No way to tell at this point. He's burning with fever but should rest through the night after the opium I administered. Or die.

“Between you and me, Doc, it would be best if he did. Man don't stand much of a chance in Hellmira. That's what the prisoners call it . . . Hellmira.

“So I hear.” An image of Marx Wellbourne rose behind his eyelids. “I'll be back tomorrow evening to check on him.

“Yes, sir.

“Do you happen to know if the Major has a file on the man, notes about where he was captured; anything at all?

“On his desk, Doctor, but the Major has already left camp. The Confederacy would give their eyeteeth to exchange him, offered five prisoners in exchange for Corporal Marx Wellbourne.

“Hmm.” At the end of the hallway, they turned right and Grayson followed the Lieutenant into a room that served as Darkmore's office. “Why is that, because he's a Corporal?

“That's a conundrum that eats at the Major. Most of the time, the Rebs will offer to exchange Corporal for Corporal, but they want Wellbourne so bad seems their teeth ache.” The Lieutenant picked up the file and passed it to him. “Can't let you take it with you. The Major would have my hide, but no harm in looking through it while you're here.

“Thank you.

Grayson plopped into the Major's chair and flipped through the file, storing as much information about the Corporal's recent past as possible. Long minutes later, he rose and bid good-day to the Lieutenant, his thoughts on Wellbourne as he walked to Ol' Masie.

Most likely, the man would die, if not from the pneumonia or malaria, Darkmore's insistence of relegating him to the box again. He could do nothing at this point but nurse him back to health and complete his mission.

The fate of his country depended on it.

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