Every soldier knew Barnes as firm but fair, and even though one might consider Barnes “a friend of the family,” John knew better than to think his last name bought him any leverage with the general. His talents earned him the man’s eye, not his pedigree, and John had seen Barnes at the rally, sizing up his performance from the back corner. He’d known the job they’d given him to do yesterday, and he’d done it well, so John wasn’t surprised to receive a summons to the general’s office this morning.
While he also prided himself on good soldiering, drama and attention were John’s strongest weapons to wield. He’d known within the first ten minutes how to draw this particular audience into the cause. Really, what young man doesn’t want a chance at heroism? Doesn’t yearn to know he’s stepped into the destiny life handed him? The kindling was dry—it was only his job to strike the match and set it aflame. In his more whimsical moments, John sometimes wondered if his father was at all amused that John’s “gift for instigation,” as Mama always put it, had been put to such a virtuous use.
No sense pondering that. Father was undoubtedly back in Charleston and it was General Barnes’s approval that mattered at the moment. When John walked into the general’s office and stood at attention, Barnes gave him a broad smile. “Outstanding speech. I could have piled all the ‘Four Minute Men’ into one uniform and not done as well. We had two dozen new recruits before lunchtime today, and while I haven’t talked to the navy I suspect they did just as well.” He gestured toward the chair that fronted his desk. “At ease, son, get off that leg of yours.”
John settled into the chair. “I’m glad to see you pleased, sir.” He’d always liked Ashton Barnes, but he was smart enough to be a little afraid of the man and the power he wielded.
“I am. I am indeed. I knew you were the man for the job.” Usually a straight shooter, John didn’t like the way the general watched the way he laid his cane against the chair. Why did people always stare at the cane? Why never the leg? Or just at him? The general at least did him the courtesy of acknowledging the injury. That reaction was always easier to bear than those who did a poor job of pretending to ignore it, like his father. Barnes nodded toward John’s outstretched right leg. “How is the leg getting on?”
John stared down at the stiff limb. It never bent easily anymore so he’d stopped trying in cases where there was enough room. “Fine, sir. I’m better than most.”
“I suspect you are.” Barnes took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t like to see our boys coming home in pieces like this. Victory can’t come soon enough, in my book.”
The general had handed him the perfect opening, and John was going to take it. “I mean to go back, sir. As soon as I can.”
“So your father tells me.”
So Father had spoken with Barnes. John had suspected it—expected it, actually, given the colonel’s clear-but-unspoken distaste for his current assignment. It struck John as ironic that Oscar Gallows’s long, deep shadow lent John half the “marquee value” his current speeches produced. The Gallows family name got him this job as much as his silver tongue. After all, Gallowses were pillars of Charleston society long before John had been lauded as a hero.
While it goaded John that his father had lobbied the general behind his back, anything that sped up his return to combat was a welcome development. “I don’t think it’ll take more than three or four weeks here for me to finish healing up. Maybe two if that brute of a therapist has me doing any more exercises. I’m grateful for the chance to toot the army’s horn, but with all due respect, I’d rather be back in France.”
The general steepled his hands. “Much as I’d like to appease your father, or you, your doctors haven’t cleared you for duty.”
He didn’t say “yet.” John didn’t like the omission one bit. Father probably caught that one as well, which may have been why he’d skipped the rally. Wounded out of the service wouldn’t play well with Oscar Gallows.
It didn’t play well with him, either. He’d throw the cane away tomorrow and grit his teeth until they fell out before he’d listen to any doctor tell him he couldn’t go back up and finish what he’d started. He had no intention of being left behind among the wounded, even if others thought him a hero. His heroism was unfinished business, as far as John was concerned. He needed to be back in the fight, not sitting over here spouting rousing tales while his battalion earned a victory. “They will soon enough. Sooner on your recommendation, sir.”
“I won’t say you haven’t been valuable overseas, but you’re of no value at all if that leg fails you when you need it most. I admire your eager spirit, John—” Barnes knew what he was doing when he intentionally used his given name like a friend of the family would— “but don’t let your impatience get you killed. You’ll go back when you’re ready, and I’m of no mind to send you off a minute before.”
It was the closest thing to a promise he’d had yet; John wasn’t going to let this “friend of the family” go at a mere hint. “But you’ll send me? When I’m ready?” He was ready now.
“I imagine I will, yes.” He spoke like a true commander—leaving himself the tiniest of escapes just in case.
He may never get another chance like this. The colonel had obviously asked for it. He’d asked for it. He’d just given the army several weeks of record-breaking recruitment speeches. John stood, without his cane. He extended his hand. “I’d like your word on it, sir. I’ll give speeches until I’m blue in the face, I’ll rouse up recruits out of the sand, but I want to know you’ll send me back when I’m ready.”
Barnes hesitated for a moment, John’s message of “I will hold you to this” coming through loud and clear. “Very well,” he said after an insufferable pause. They shook on it. John had his guarantee. He wouldn’t end the war as a campaign poster. He’d go back where he belonged and make a name for himself on the battlefield, where it really mattered. “Thank you, sir.”
“I’d say you’re welcome, Captain, but I’m not so sure.”
John allowed himself the luxury of picking his cane back up, even though it shot pain like a bolt of lightning through his hip to bend over so far. “I’m sure enough for the both of us,” he said when he was upright again, making sure none of the strain showed in his voice.
“You should know it would help, Gallows, if I could have your cooperation on a—shall we say an unconventional little campaign of ours.”
Now it came out. Give and get, push and pull. Why was he surprised the general had a trick up his striped sleeve? “Anything you need, sir.”
“Don’t be so agreeable, son, until you’ve heard what it is the Red Cross has in mind.”
John sat back down again, the ache in his leg now matched by a lump in his throat.
Chapter Five
A few days after the rally, Leanne sat in the hospital meeting room helping an older nurse struggle through her first cumbersome knitting stitches. “Yes—” she smiled at the confused grimaces given by many of the women around her “—it does feel funny at first. Give it a few days, and you’ll be amazed how quickly you take to it.”
Another nurse held up the yarn Leanne had distributed at the beginning of class. “It’s drab stuff, don’t you think? I’d rather go to war in red socks. Or blue.”
“As long as they’re warm and dry, we don’t much care what color they are,” came a voice from behind Leanne’s shoulder. She turned to find Captain Gallows poking his head into the room.
“Captain Gallows, have you decided