Ring of Fire Read online

  My God, how could this be? Frantically, he swung himself to the side of the bed, pushed away, and stood wobbly while he looked from side-to-side. All he saw were rows of similar beds and other wounded men.

  He lowered his head and sobbed into his right hand, then remembered his family ring, touched it and memories of his brothers, mother and father rushed into his mind. His fingers were swollen and there was no way the ring was coming off now without being cut in half. His shoulders rose and fell. When the civil war started, Kansas had no troops. Recruiting began at once and military companies were formed in many Kansas towns, but not Abilene. Ring and his oldest brother had not waited for the new state to act; they rode east to volunteer and get in on the war quicker. More patient, his younger brother waited and joined a Kansas regiment. He had been injured in the Mine Creek Battle, the greatest battle in the state and the last big fight in the west.

  “Captain McCollum? You awake, sir?” The voice was thin, feminine and somewhat condescending. It was a nurse helping with surgery.

  “You need to get back in bed, sir. The doctors will be with you in a few minutes.”

  “What? The hell you say,” he bellowed and most of the men in the beds near him looked up to see what was happening. “Nobody’s cutting on me. Nobody.”

  A red-faced surgeon in a blood-stained apron hurried toward him. Behind the doctor was the surgical table—an old door propped on barrels. Lying on the blood-soaked space were bone forceps, tenaculum scalpels, a forcep for gouging and a metacarpal saw. On the floor beside it was a pile of bloody amputated arms and legs. A second surgeon waited on the other side of the table-door; weary eyes told of unspeakable horror.

  “Captain McCollum, you shouldn’t be out of bed,” the surgeon said.

  “Go away,” Ring blurted. “Leave me and my arm alone.”

  He looked at the foot of his bed. His holstered Moore revolver and gun belt, two additional revolvers and his own saber lay there. For an instant, he wondered who would have picked up his sword. It was slightly bent in the middle of the blade.

  The doctor’s tired face showed no surprise at Ring’s demand. It was far from the first. In many cases, the only choice was to remove a damaged limb rather than risk the real likelihood of gangrene setting in.

  Straightening himself, the surgeon said, “Captain, you arm is severely damaged. It must come off or you risk dying from infection. It will never be useful again.” He cocked his head. “There’s no way we can save it. I’m sorry . . . but we can save you.”

  Ring pushed himself upright, using his remaining good arm for balance against the bed. “You go on, sawbones. I’m sure there are more arms and legs you can hack off.” His glare went from his weapons to the physician’s face. “Don’t try to touch me.”

  The surgeon took a deep breath, swallowed what he was going to say and turned away. After watching him hurry off, Ring decided to walk through the hospital, partly to show the doctors he was fine and partly to see about any of his men. His first steps were uneven, but slowly he became more confident. A few feet from his bed was a familiar face. It was Private Silvas Peterson of Ring’s company. The soldier’s leg was wrapped in a bloody bandage. Ring took a deep breath and tried to control the emotions. There couldn’t be more than a year’s difference in their ages, if that, with Ring being the older.

  “Howdy, Captain.”

  “Private Peterson. Sorry you are here, too.”

  “I’m all right. Just ran into some Rebel lead. Thought you’d like to know, sir, that the little general came by. Sherman himself, sir. Pinned a silver star on your bed. Wish you’d been awake to see it, sir.”

  Ring McCollum looked around and saw the medal pinned to his pillow for the first time.

  “Guess they’ll be giving all us one of them Purple Heart medals. I guess.”

  Ring nodded without really understanding.

  “We dun it, sir. We run them Rebs right back to Sherman. Tore ‘em up real bad, sir. It was a great sight to see all that blue coming at ‘em from the other way.”

  Johnson took a deep breath. “Real sorry ‘bout your arm, captain. Heard the surgeons say they got no choice. It being smashed an’ all.”

  Ring glanced away to hide the swelling in his eyes. “N-No one’s taking off my arm.”

  “Heard ‘em say they were glad you was unconscious. Guess you came to . . . before . . .”

  “How many of our men are here?”

  “Don’t rightly know for sure, Captain. But I reckon there’s at least twenty,” Peterson replied, shifting his body to turn toward the trembling Ring who was using his right arm against the bed to steady himself; his left arm hung like dead meat at his side.

  “Don’t think we lost more’n six though,” the private continued. “They thought you was a goner for a while. Yes sir, they did. That Reb cannon hit ri’t where ya was. But I reckon they didn’t know how damn tough you be.”

  Ring straightened himself and let his good arm drop to the side. “Well, I’m glad they were wrong.”

  “Yes sir. Me too.”

  They talked for several minutes with Ring asking about the status of various men in the company. He hesitated, but finally asked about Sergeant Ferguson Cook.

  “Uh, he didn’t make it, sir. I’m sorry.”

  Ring McCollum stared at the dull brick wall. That brought him back to his damaged arm. He clenched his teeth and stared back at the revolvers on his bed. Maybe that was the answer. One bullet in his head and this madness would be over.

  Finally, he glanced at the soldier on the next bed. The man’s eyes were wrapped with thick bandages. It was obvious the soldier had been blinded. Ring shook his head. How could he feel sorry for himself? He still had one good arm, both legs and both eyes. He bit his lower lip, looked away and felt very weak. An observant nurse tried to help him back to his bed. This time he didn’t resist.

  At the front of the hospital, a wide-eyed sergeant burst into the dreary building and yelled, “Richmond has fallen!” He looked around the hospital and only heard a few feeble responses.

  From his bed, Ring watched the excited man being surrounded by doctors and nurses. He wasn’t certain how he felt. His left arm tingled and he held it close to his side. He didn’t remember going to sleep, or retrieving his Moore revolver and holding it, or the nurses tending to the wounds in his chest.

  Late March became early April and word came about desperate fighting at Sayler’s Creek, Rice Station and High Bridge. Ring knew they were crucial battles to end Lee’s attempt to escape into the Carolinas. Ten of Lee’s top officers were dead or captured. Lee’s oldest son, Custis, was one of the captured leaders. When he was lucid, Ring tried to get out of bed to rejoin the fighting. He made it halfway across the hospital before collapsing.

  The biggest news came on Palm Sunday, April 9th. Lee had surrendered to Grant at Appomattox Court House in Virginia. The war was over. Over! The hospital roared approval. Many sobbed. Ring wobbled to his feet and yelled out, “To the United States of America!” Throughout the hospital, the phrase was repeated with gusto and pride. Of course, there were other Confederate armies in the field; Robert E. Lee commanded only the Army of Northern Virginia. Still, Lee was the center of the Rebel force and everyone knew it. Even the South.

  A few days later, he began to walk through the hospital, stopping to talk with his wounded men and any others who seemed in need of encouragement. Gradually, he wandered outside where many wounded convalesced, sitting in camp chairs, stools or the ground. Some played cards or threw dice, a few read letters, and a few more simply leaned against the building, using their crutches for additional support. A tired chaplain talked with a group of four men, huddled under a sympathetic cottonwood offering its gentle shade.

  As the days passed, word filtered in that Confederate Generals Johnston and Taylor had surrendered after learning of Lee’s final defeat. Most of their men had simply headed for their homes after hearing the news, leaving the officers with no men to actually command
. Bedford Forest’s cavalry was crushed by a massive Union force and Kirby Smith had finally quit. Only the news of Lincoln’s assassination brought reaction and it was heated throughout the hospital with fierce threats to kill every Rebel.

  Then came news that the newly constructed Capitol building was nearly finished with gas lamps ablaze atop its majestic dome. And the whole city had rejoiced with a glorious “The Grand Illumination” celebration involving every candle, gas lamp and fireworks around, even the Willard Hotel had emblazoned the word “UNION” on its face. There were jubilant marches in Washington D. C. First, by Major General George Meade’s Army of the Potomac. They had marched like toy soldiers with all the spit and polish they could generate through the excited streets. Women and children threw flowers in their path and sung their praises.

  The following day, over the same roads, came Major General William Sherman’s Army of Georgia and Army of Tennessee. What a contrast. Strutting with gusto, they were a wild string of even wilder men, laughing and singing, swinging chickens, legs of lamb and hams tied to the ends of their muskets. Weaving among them were dogs, goats, and a few pet raccoons. Even pigs on long leashes. Negroes sat in wagons loaded with military gear. Here and there a gamecock sat proudly on a piece of artillery. News of them brought chuckles throughout the quiet building. Even Ring had to laugh.

  Two weeks later, Ring McCollum left the hospital in spite of the stern warnings of the doctors and the special caring of the nurses. He mustered out of the army, collected his backed-up pay and turned down Sherman’s offer to promote him to permanent captain.

  It was time to go home. Maybe Aimie Cradack would still be waiting. Maybe she wouldn’t mind a one-armed man. Maybe . . .

  Chapter Three

  An overworked quartermaster allowed him to take a saddle horse, pack mule, ammunition, two canteens and supplies for the trip back to Kansas. The quartermaster accounted for them in his ledger as “battlefield losses.”

  Saddling and packing as a one-armed man was frustrating, requiring time to think through processes he had always taken for granted. He swore under his breath, first at the surgeons, then at the war itself. He left wearing his old uniform, out of necessity, not pride. Even his worn cavalry gloves. His left arm hung at his side. He told himself there were some signs of improvement, but it remained useless. His McClellan saddle held two saddle-holstered Walker Colts and a carbine in its boot. As he had become accustomed, he carried two additional navy Colts shoved into his pistol belt, in addition to the flap-holstered Moore revolver. The saber was left on his hospital bed.

  Home was a long way away. Many told him to wait and take one of the army trains headed that way. It didn’t appeal. Not at all. He wanted to be away from the army, not handled by it. Besides, riding would give him time to think–and heal.

  The countryside was dark and damaged with the aftermath of war. Instead of rolling hills of verdant grass and untouched forest, the land was littered with burned wagons, spoked wheels without vehicles, tilted axles without wagon beds, burned ambulances, empty trenches and make-shift fortifications made of fallen trees, torn-up fence rails and packed earth. Abandoned battle flags fluttered on the ground like so many fallen birds. He rode quietly along muddy and rutted roads lined with discarded blankets and guns, bloating bodies of dead horses and mules.

  He passed deep holes where artillery shells had smashed into the land. Ten yards from the road was a huge Napoleon cannon. He’d seen the big gun drop 12-pound projectiles a mile away. He grimaced and rode on.

  Ring McCollum passed two men digging in an open field for lead and brass cartridges to resell. Here and there were make-shift cemeteries holding the bodies of Union and Rebel soldiers alike. Some wooden crosses were topped by a Union or a Confederate cap. Side-by-side. He shook his head at the irony. Farmland was raped by war and only a few determined farmers attempted to heal its richness with careful plowing and new seed.

  Dull eyes watched him pass, eyes of despair mostly, but some of hate. He kept his attention on the torn-up roads, staying away from people as best he could. Many Union soldiers had warned him against the trip, especially through defeated Confederate country. They said he was asking to be ambushed or bushwhacked. Maybe down deep, he was.

  On the side of the road he passed groups of Negroes, mostly men and mostly without jobs or money or places to be. Their eyes followed him with envy; his horse and mule were valuable property.

  “Hiyah Yank-ee! Cum o’vr hyar. We gots sum corn licker.” A tall black man in a two-piece suit several sizes too small for him yelled and waved. “We share it wit ya. Sort o’ a thank yah fer freein’ us an’ all, ya know’d.”

  The group started to toward him and Ring spurred his horse into a fast lope and the mule reluctantly sped up.

  He yelled back, “No thanks, boys. Leave me alone.”

  By the close of dusk, he made camp at the end of a long draw where a small pond rested. His horse and mule were watered and tied with enough rope to graze. His fire was small, just enough to heat his small coffee pot. He drank coffee and chewed on jerky and an apple. It was lonely and his mind was dark, as dark as the starless night. He let his mind wander back to his parents and his brothers. Would his oldest brother already be home? He hoped so.

  In his shirt pocket were four letters that caught up with him in the hospital. He had forgotten about them. He yanked off his gloves, laid them beside him and took two letters from his pocket, the oldest two. Smiling, he would leave the other two for another time; it was a nice way to spread out news from home. Opening them one-handed wasn’t easy and he ended up putting his boot heel on one side of the envelope and cutting it open with his knife. He touched his family ring as sort of a ceremonial preamble to the reading.

  The first was written by his mother, Isabella McCollum. She and her husband had built a successful stage coach stop in the tiny settlement of Abilene in the middle of the rich prairie grass of Kansas. The station consisted of two log houses, a stable and corrals and offered fresh animals, overnight stay and simple, but good, food. They were under contract with the Butterfield Overland Dispatch stage line. They had begun the effort during the national depression of 1857, when about the only financial success in the territory was transportation, and survived the severe drought of 1859 and 1860, when the land was bone-dry and people were starving. Through it all they had survived and, to a degree, prospered.

  Abilene itself began as a small prairie village long the Smoky Hill Trail at the crossing of Armistead Creek. When the war began, the name was changed to Mud Creek because its namesake joined the Confederacy. The name Abilene itself came from a Bible verse meaning “City of the Plains.” The settlement was initially a grouping of huts with mud-covered roofs, log cabins and farms, but it kept growing as settlers decided to stay. A general store was owned and run by the Noonans, his aunt and uncle—and parents of his cousin and best friend. There was also a combined church and school and “Old Man Jones” saloon. Gradually, Abilene had turned into a true community. His uncle was the official register of deeds. While Ring’s father supplemented the family income by serving as postmaster and repairing settlers’ wagons headed for the frontier. The coming of the Kansas Pacific railroad promised a greater role for the town.

  The discovery of gold in the Rocky Mountains had been a boon to their business as people headed for the eastern slopes of the mountains to seek their fortunes in the part of the Kansas territory that would become Colorado. Settlers and miners stopped at their relay station–and the adjacent general store–for wagon repairs and supplies. By the summer of 1859 the new towns of Denver City and Auraria were jammed with miners and retailers supplying their needs, and Abilene itself was benefiting from the rush.

  In January 1861, Kansas became the 34th state. When the news was received that President Lincoln had signed the papers admitting Kansas, people stood on street corners, danced and cheered. Gradually, there was a sense of growing opportunity within the state with newspapers popping up in every co
mmunity to match these optimistic prospects. By 1865, there were at least 27 publishing in one form or another. Farmers were again optimistic about selling their crops; livestock was on the increase, even a few herds of sheep could be found. Homesteads were being grabbed up all over the prairie. Still, most Kansans lived in log cabins or dugouts. It was a place for young people with the ability to see beyond the hard work.

  The McCollums had endure it all and done more than their share to help Abilene survive. The high point of the relay station was its food–and the reputation for good meals was well known along the line. Isabella served bacon and eggs, hot biscuits, coffee, tea, dried or canned fruit and wonderful pies. Occasionally, beef and home-grown vegetables were added to the menu.

  His mother’s letter expressed a wide range of concern, optimism and love. Besides the war, she was worried about what the railroad’s coming would do to their business. In November 1865, the Union Pacific reached Lawrence and word was it would soon reach Topeka. How long would it be before there was no need for a stagecoach?

  Her letter was lengthy and he reread every word, savoring the experience. Of course, his mother addressed him as “Ringmond,” his given name. Actually Ringmond Travis McCollum. No one called him Ringmond, not even when he was a baby. Ringmond was her father’s name and she cherished it. If anyone besides his mother had called him that, a fist fight would have resulted. Travis was his father’s middle name and he went by that.

  Things were going well for them, but they worried about their two sons still in the war. Edward McCollum, their oldest son, was with General Meade and doing well. The middle brother, Brannon, had also served in the Union army, in the Kansas Fifth cavalry regiment. They had fought well at the Battle of Wilson’s Creek near Springfield, Missouri, and the Battle of Mine Creek in Kansas itself. He was home now, nursing a badly wounded leg from the Battle of Mine Creek. Brannon was two years older than Ring and the quietest of the four brothers. The youngest brother, Will, remained at home; he was ten when Ring left for the war.