The Rebel Bride

by Shannon McNear

  Lord God … help …

  She tucked the thought, and the prayer, to the back of her mind. So much still needed to be done. Water fetched, food prepared—oh, the food! How was she to feed them all? That alone nearly buckled her knees.

  One meal at a time.

  Very well, then. They had the sack of beans and some freshly smoked hog hidden high in the barn rafters. She’d work with that tonight, and think about tomorrow when tomorrow came.

  On her way past her room, she peered inside. The man in her own bed shifted, but the other, who’d lost his hand, hadn’t moved from where Travis and Clem had settled him earlier. Heart dropping, she leaned closer until she caught the movement of his chest, rising and falling.

  But, oh so shallowly.

  Deep shadows lay beneath the long, dark lashes, stark against the paleness of his skin.

  She forced herself to turn away and go to start supper.

  Gauging how much to cook this first night proved nearly more than her mind could sort, and in the end, she fell back on preparing what would have fed the family had her brothers been present. In the process she could ignore who she was actually doing the cooking for and pretend—if even for mere snatches of time—that the meal was indeed for her brothers and not for these motley and uninvited guests who lay, occasionally moaning and tossing, in beds across their sitting room.

  Pa sat and watched them, making no comment. Pearl almost wished he’d chatter, as he sometimes did after the spell that left him weakened on one side not long after the war had begun. But silent he remained, before heaving himself to his feet and shuffling toward her bedroom, where the other two men lay.

  Pearl scooped handfuls of cornmeal into a bowl. What on earth was he doing? As she broke two of their precious store of eggs into the meal, Pa emerged and shuffled toward her, his tall, lean form now stooped and slightly doughy in the middle. Slightly curling gray hair and beard, both thinner than they once were, graced his mild face.

  She sent him a questioning look.

  “I was praying,” he said.

  She nodded shortly and stirred the mixture with the worn wooden spoon. He watched her for a moment.

  “If your enemy hungers, feed him.”

  Pearl glanced up again. “And so heap coals of fire on his head,” she responded, without thought.

  Pa smiled, his creased face lighting up. “I reckon you wouldn’t mind heaping a little fire on a Yankee’s head, now would you?”

  Pearl coughed a laugh. Sometimes Pa surprised her so, though he had always been fond of sliding a rebuke toward her in such a sly way. “I surely wouldn’t.”

  His blue eyes went grave in an instant. “Then care for them, Pearl, as you would your brothers. They are someone’s sons. Brothers, and husbands as well, some of them.”

  Her jaw ached before she realized she was gritting her teeth. And she’d stirred the corn bread batter too long. “I—am trying.” Leaving the spoon in the batter, she set both hands flat against the table, one on either side of the bowl. “Am I not feeding them?”

  He nodded slowly. “But they need more than food for the body. More than water for their physical thirst. They need”—his gaze wandered as his mind searched for the words, and Pearl waited—“they have … hearts and souls that need to be fed.”

  She sniffed and reached for the baking pan. Lifted the bowl and poured the batter, scraping the sides with a little too much force. “We are nothing to them, Pa. Rebels. You know it’s true—they think themselves the only ones with a just cause.”

  But Pa’s gaze held steady. “Even so. Coals of fire, my girl. Coals of fire.”

  And with that, he shuffled away and resettled himself in his chair.

  When those who were going to eat had been fed, with Clem’s help and even a little of Pa’s, Pearl started the process of making sure all were made comfortable for the night. She’d some idea of how to do this—nursing Mama through her last illness and Pa through the worst of his spells—but having half-a-dozen men at one time presented a daunting task.

  Whether it would have been better to simply go help at a field hospital, she could not say.

  The gathering dark outside finally forced her to light a pair of lamps. A knock came at the door, startling her, but Pa was on his feet and shuffling to answer it before she could get there.

  “Sir? How can I help you?” Pa said.

  “I reckon you could allow me to help y’all,” a deep, resonant voice responded. “My name is Portius. Mister Travis sent me, thinking you might need an extra pair of hands.”

  “We surely do.” Pa scooted back to allow the man entrance.

  Portius stepped across the threshold, a tall, sturdy sort with close-clipped hair and skin so ebony he could have been formed of midnight itself. He surveyed the room until his gaze landed on her, and he gave a slow, deep nod. “At your service, ma’am.”

  She nodded back. “Thank you for coming.” She could not deny the relief of an able-bodied man to assist, but—did they not need him worse, elsewhere? “We have but half-a-dozen men here.”

  He nodded again. “So they told me. Mister Travis was right concerned for you, though.”

  When his gaze became searching—and not a little speculating—Pearl turned away, her cheeks heating. “That’s very kind of him. But as I told him, we’ve little enough to offer here. He’d have done as well to keep these men at the field hospital.”

  “I ’spect he had his reasons,” Portius responded, his slow, deep voice remaining even. “And I ’spect these men have as good a chance at surviving here. Better, more like.”

  “Yes. Well.” Pearl cast him another glance. Did Portius belong to Travis, or was he a freeman? Her own parents had not held with owning slaves, but others in the family did, whether for economic expediency or other reasons, and while Pearl thought she knew everyone in their households, it was possible in a time of war that one such as Portius had changed hands. He did not behave as though he were familiar with her or her family. “I trust that Travis made sure your papers were in order, so you could get here safely? The Home Guard is very zealous hereabouts.”

  He cracked the barest smile. “Thank you, ma’am. My papers are just fine, and I had not a bit of trouble.”

  “I am glad of it.” Pearl turned this way and that. “Let me show you about, then.”

  They went to each of the beds in the sitting room, with Pearl relating what she knew about the men, and Portius nodding and making the occasional comment. She took him next to her bedroom, where the man in her own bed had fallen asleep after being fed supper, but the man with the missing hand had not awakened to eat.

  Portius leaned closer then laid a hand across the second man’s forehead. “I remember this one. Reckon he’s having a rough time of it, mebbe rougher than others who’ve lost a hand or foot.”

  How could such a thing not be rough? Pearl held the words back.

  “He’ll bear watching a bit extra, the next few days,” the black man added, softly. He stepped back and rubbed his palms together. “If you could show me where to find water—?”

  She called Clem in from the barn and tasked him with taking Portius about, then climbed the narrow stairs to the attic. She and Clem had already agreed that because they’d had to put wounded prisoners in her room downstairs, he would move to the barn—at least for the time being—and she’d take the attic as her own.

  She turned a little circle in the middle of the floor and blew out a breath. Simple, narrow frame bed with a straw tick in one corner—that was all she needed, really, and at least she had this much.

  Rather than undress completely, she merely lay down on the bed and, despite the pressure and pinch of her corset, pulled the worn quilt up over herself. It amounted more to hiding from the horror that lay downstairs than taking proper rest, but she could not bring herself to do more, in this moment.

  Much later, she awoke to quiet voices downstairs. She stiffened, listening, clutching the quilt. What—oh yes, the wounded prison
ers. Throwing back the cover, she pushed herself to her feet and padded across the floor to the top of the stairs.

  The unmistakable deep tone of Portius alternated with Pa’s slightly higher twang, then Clem’s still-reedy voice. Pearl lifted her shawl from the chest against the wall then tiptoed down the stairs.

  The three men clustered around the bed on the far right of the sitting area but turned at her approach. “Is something wrong?” she said.

  Clem and Pa just looked at each other, but Portius straightened a little. “This one has expired, Miss Pearl. I was about to get Clem here to help me carry him out for buryin’.”

  Her insides congealed, and her heart stuttered then regained its beat, hard and painful. Lord, have mercy. Her hands came up to cover her mouth, and then she dropped them and looked closer at the still form on the bed.

  “We’ll take him out straightaway, miss,” Portius said.

  She drew a deep, unsteady breath, ignoring the stench that hung in the air. “It’s all right. I’m no shrinking violet. I’ve tended the sick before.”

  And if she’d be tending these wounded men, she’d best toughen up even more.

  Portius nodded gravely. “The others might need a bit of watching, before we get back from buryin’ this one. Especially the one in the other room who lost a hand.”

  She bobbed a quick nod of her own. “Thank you,” she said, after a moment, and a brief smile creased the dark face before he turned back to the bed and directed Clem in helping wrap the body.

  She went to each of the other beds in the room. Two men were fast asleep, another lay awake watching the proceedings with the man who’d expired. Nothing seemed amiss with any of them.

  Aided by the sheet they’d wrapped around him, Clem and Portius heaved the dead man up from the bed and headed toward the door. Pearl went to open it for them, shut it after, then crossed the floor to where Pa still stood, leaning on his cane. “Go to bed. I’ll sit up with them now.”

  He nodded distractedly, gaze flitting everywhere before finally landing on her face, then shuffled toward the tiny room that was his.

  At least he could spend the rest of the night in comfort.

  Waiting until he stepped inside and shut his own door, she gave one last glance to the men in the sitting area. “Might I bring you some water?” she asked the one who was still awake.

  Eagerness lifted his expression, visible even in lamplight. “That would be mighty welcome, miss.”

  Fetching water was easy enough. “If thine enemy thirst, give him drink.” She filled the cup, helped the man hold it, accepted his whispered thanks, and withdrew.

  Now to the other room. She couldn’t even think of it as her own anymore. And why did the thought of looking in on those two fill her with dread?

  Feet dragging, she had to force herself to the doorway. Stopped to listen. One set of breaths, deep, slow, normal-sounding except for the occasional catch, came from the left. But to the right, the man’s breathing was labored, uneven. Troubling just in its cadence.

  She fetched a lamp and returned, setting it on the nightstand. Peered at the man who, yes, slept, but not peacefully at the least. Even in slumber he seemed to be in battle.

  What had he witnessed, that his very sleep was troubled? What had all these men seen?

  Just as quick, she hardened herself. Her older brothers, lying cold in the earth by now, all three of them. Put there by the likes of these.

  “If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head.”

  She bent a little closer, still listening to the heaving rattle, and held one hand near but not quite touching his forehead. Heat radiated from his skin, even with an inch between them. This one didn’t need any more coals heaped on his head—he was already on fire.

  Even the Samaritan took pity on a man who was his enemy, though, and tended his wounds. Pearl suppressed a huff, and this time went to fetch a basin, clean water, and a cloth. Setting the basin beside the lamp, she pulled up a chair, wrung out the cloth, and with the barest hesitation, stroked it across the man’s burning forehead.

  This way, and that. Turn the cloth over, and do it again, until the cloth itself was too warm to be of comfort, and then she dipped it back in the water and wrung it out again.

  This time not just his forehead, but his cheeks too. Neck below the beard, and upper shoulders, which were both wide and strong, the skin there pale but freckled as well.

  Why was she taking note of such details, at such a time?

  She wrung out the cloth, started over at his face.

  “They are someone’s sons. Brothers, and husbands as well, some of them.”

  She gritted her teeth at Pa’s voice.

  Lord God, I do not want to be reminded of that. I do not want them here. But if this is the burden You’ve laid upon us for this time—help me to bear it….

  Lord, help me.

  She didn’t even want to be praying that prayer.

  But his breathing had slowed, and he was less restless than before.

  Others were feverish, when she took a break to make the rounds, but none seemed as in distress. Still, she took a few minutes to change out her water and mop brows as she had the first man, then returned to sit at his bedside. He was tossing again and muttering.

  She freshened her water then started in again. And just like before, he calmed under the cool of her damp rag.

  Once, he twitched, knocking the bandaged arm about, and winced in his sleep. Pearl considered the limb. What must it be like to wake and find part of your own body missing? How would this unknown man fare once he knew—if he didn’t already—that he’d now have to live and work with only one hand?

  Some had much worse, she knew. And what if this were one of her brothers? How would they fare with a similar limitation?

  Her eyes burned, and she blinked to clear them. Useless, maundering thoughts. She’d do what was necessary to care for these men, and then they’d be taken away to a prison camp. Their lives were not her concern, beyond fulfilling the duty of the moment.

  How long it was before Clem and Portius came back, she didn’t know. The night wore away under the tedium of tending the wounded, and it was with something like astonishment that Pearl finally glanced out the window to see the sky becoming lighter.

  She rose and stretched then carried her bowl and rag out to be dumped. Portius was still up, tending to a bandage on one of the men, while Clem lay stretched on the floor, arm across his face, apparently asleep.

  Pearl set the bowl by the door and tiptoed over to watch the Negro as he worked. His head lifted. “How much do you know about tending wounds, miss?”

  She thought before answering. “I’ve tended hurt critters. Horses and cows, mostly, and dogs or cats that have gotten in a scrap. And I had older brothers.”

  A smile lightened his face for a moment. “Come and give me a hand, and I’ll show you a thing or two.”

  She edged closer, steeling herself for whatever she might see. But worse than the sight—bad enough that, of torn flesh and crusted blood and whatnot—was the stench that hit Pearl like a visible, noxious cloud.

  “Now, this poor man was gutshot.” Portius’s voice remained low and even. “Made worse by them moving him, if that smell is anything to go by. Best we can do, I expect, is keep him clean and comfortable. And pray.”

  She nodded belatedly and swallowed. Portius leaned closer to inspect the ragged, oozing hole in the man’s abdomen, then covered it again. The man moaned but didn’t waken, and Portius moved to the next bed. “Morning, sir,” he murmured to the man lying there, who opened his eyes briefly, then drew back the edge of the wool blanket to reveal the bandaged stump of his right leg. Pearl held herself still as he loosened the wrapping and unwound it. “Have you more bandages?” he asked. “We’ll want to wash these soon.”

  She offered another stiff nod. “Not near enough, but a few.”

  “We’ll make do, then.”
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  For all the horror of a man’s leg ending just above the knee, Pearl found herself oddly fascinated at how neatly muscle and skin were wrapped over the end of the stump, even rudimentarily stitched. Portius bound it up again and gave the man a drink of water. “We’ll find some breakfast soon, sir,” he said to the man’s raspy inquiry about food.

  Pearl’s stomach rolled. “I—could go see to the meal.”

  “First we finish making rounds,” Portius answered, steady but firm.

  The wounds sustained by the man lying in her bed were even more horrific than those of the man who’d been gutshot—his thigh was near to shredded by shrapnel—but without the stench. Pearl could not deny the relief of that simple fact alone. This time she leaned in, attentive, as Portius pointed out various aspects of the wound and what could be done to treat it.

  The man himself lay quietly, watching and listening. Portius finished, gave him a nod, and turned to the other bed. “Still feverish, I see. You sat with him half the night, didn’t you?”

  “I did. He seemed better when I bathed his brow, at least for a while.”

  Portius gingerly lifted the bandaged limb and unwound the cloth. Pearl felt a bit more prepared this time, especially after seeing the amputation wound of the other man’s leg, but still her gut clenched as the stump was exposed. Purplish and oozing. The same folding and wrapping of the tissues yet somehow different from the wound in the other room.

  “Is that—infection?” she whispered, afraid to say the word.

  “Hmm.” Portius’s face was grave. “Beginnings of it, yes.” He cut her a glance. “Did Mister Travis leave you any medicines?”

  She shook her head slowly. “I reckon he either knew they’d all die, or …” She hesitated, chewing her lip, thinking through her precious store of remedies. Some left over from when Mama was alive. “I’ve goldenseal. No idea if we can even find more. But it might be enough to give him a chance….”

  Portius considered then gave her a nod. “Might at that. If you have any to spare.”