The Rebel Bride

by Shannon McNear

  “I’ll go look.”

  Pearl darted from the room, dashed into the kitchen, and knelt beside the pantry to pull out a tin stowed far in the corner of the bottommost shelf. After carefully pulling open the top and peeking inside to confirm contents and amount, she replaced the lid and scrambled to her feet again.

  “Here,” she said, a little breathless, handing it to Portius back at the man’s bedside.

  He took a pinch of the precious greenish-yellow powder, sprinkled it into the bandage, and wrapped it again. “We’ll gather what fresh bandaging we have, then change those who needs it worst, this afternoon.”

  Next came breakfast. There was no coffee, of course, and only enough chicory for Pa—not that Pearl minded, since only he seemed to have acquired a taste for it. Pearl stifled a sigh and got to work boiling water and mixing up biscuits. At least the ones who could eat would have something in their bellies.

  She thought of the man who was gutshot. The one missing a leg. The one whose leg lay in tatters—the fact that they hadn’t amputated it amazed her. And the man missing a hand.

  She didn’t even know their names. Who were they? Where were they from, and what families had they left behind on this cause they felt was so important that they must go make war on those who had formerly been fellow countrymen?

  Her hands stilled in the dough. Fellow countrymen. What had they done that was so terrible, that these men would come down from the North, invade someone else’s home? Some said it was because of slavery, but—she knew very few who could afford even one slave. Most folk of her acquaintance worked their farms with their own hands and were proud of it.

  But this was their land. These, their homes. And the bluecoats had invaded, plain and simple.

  She slapped the dough into a thick mass on the table. Likely the biscuits would be tough, now. She didn’t care.

  With breakfast accomplished, Pearl set herself to find bandaging.

  The last of her simmering resentment had leaked away under the gratitude of those awake enough to eat what she offered, but her chest still ached, and her head was beginning to, with the weight of all there was yet to do before she could go steal a few hours of sleep.

  Stacked in neat rolls on the bottom shelf of the pantry, next to where she’d found the goldenseal, remained far fewer cloths than they needed. She blew out a hard breath, thinking. Did she risk a trip into Chattanooga to see if any cloth could be found? She couldn’t imagine such a venture being successful in the aftermath of a battle. Not with the Confederate army quartered there for so long, and the Union army occupying it now. Surely anything that might still be available in the mercantile had long since disappeared.

  Perhaps her neighbors … or there was Lydia. Pearl sat back on her heels. Yes … she would do that.

  She rose, went for her shawl and carrying basket, and let Pa know she’d be back soon. After a moment’s hesitation, she found Portius and informed him of the same. He stopped what he was doing and fixed her with a grave look.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I’d like to accompany you, Miss Pearl.”

  “That—that isn’t necessary.”

  “It might be,” he maintained in that even voice, which somehow for all its mildness brooked absolutely no refusal. “It would, however, be on me if you met with any harm.”

  She held his dark gaze, momentarily mesmerized by the flecks of gold there, then let her breath out in a rush and dropped her head. “Very well. But you must be discreet about anything you might see.”

  “Silent as the grave, Miss Pearl,” he rumbled, and she choked a laugh, despite herself.

  She stepped outside. Sunlight and fresh air were a shock, nearly an insult, after being indoors with only lamplight for hours. Pearl lingered for a moment on the porch, nearly gulping her breaths, before tightening her shawl about her and hurrying down the steps and across the yard. She gave the barest glance back to make sure Portius followed.

  Skirting the high, tree-covered ridge that rose along the western edge of their farm, she followed the edge of their nearest field, bare now. Her path took her across a narrow, rocky stream, barely a trickle with the dry spell they’d had, then between neighbors’ fields, past a stand of corn nearly ready to harvest. How the soldiers had missed that, she didn’t know, but she sped on at the edge of the field and pushed on up over the next hill.

  At the crest she stopped, the breath knocked from her lungs. Not from the climb, but the view that lay before her. What was formerly a lovely vista with brushy pasture, bordered at the far edge by graceful trees arching over the winding banks of West Chickamauga Creek, now lay torn and devastated. The earth itself lay shredded like the flesh of the men being sheltered in her house, with bushes and trees likewise naked and ripped to pieces, punctuated by the occasional granite outcropping.

  Pearl went forward, but slowly. It wasn’t just the ground and vegetation. Evidences of battle lay everywhere—the wreckage of a cart, several bloated forms that she realized must be horses or mules. Bits of clothing, a broken musket there, a pistol here—

  Without thinking, Pearl stooped, picked up the gun and slipped it into the pocket of her dress. She’d not gone another half-a-dozen steps when her gaze snagged on a mounded something that for a moment appeared only to be a small dead animal, except it had no hair—

  She stopped again, gorge climbing into her throat. It was part of an arm, or had been—a man’s arm, mangled and gray and black with blood, swarming with flies.

  God—oh God—how could You allow this horror?

  A living arm, warm and strong, came around her shoulders and tugged her on. “Come, Miss Pearl. This way. Just keep moving.”

  The air scraped her throat as her lungs worked to take in breaths, her feet numb as she stumbled along beside Portius.

  “Which way, Miss Pearl?” he asked, halfway across the terrible field.

  She shook her head, gaze still skimming the landscape, hardly registering where they were. She lifted a hand and pointed in what her mind finally admitted was the right direction. “Over there. Down the creek. There is—was? A footbridge.”

  The sights were no less horrible as they went, but somehow her feet found their way, her body kept breathing, and by the time they made it down to the edge of the creek, rational thought was beginning to return.

  The bridge, already a rude affair with rough planks, lay in shambles. Portius set to work repairing it as best as he could with fallen limbs, and finally they were able to cross over.

  Would Lydia even be there? Or had the tide of battle overwhelmed her house? Pearl realized suddenly how fortunate her family was to have been spared such direct devastation.

  Through a stand of timber that seemed a little less shattered than down by the creek and up another hill, Pearl led, without Portius’s help this time. Her legs still trembled, but she climbed with more strength, following the barest path up through the rocks and brush. And though she was winded from the steepness of the hillside, by the time she reached the top, her heart had steadied somewhat with the prospect of seeing her friend.

  She slowed on the path down into the hollow, picking her way more carefully. Portius still followed hard after.

  About halfway down, the cabin came into view through the trees. Pearl stopped, listening to the faint sounds of life floating upward, then gathered her breath. “Halloo the house!” she called out.

  A shadow at the window, and a flash of blue, then the piping of small voices and an older, hushing them. Pearl waited, folding her hands around her basket. At last a figure emerged, tall, slender, but buxom. Dark hair pulled severely back but still escaping to frame a face that was the shade of coffee with but a touch of cream. Beautiful, slanting cheekbones with a full mouth set in equally severe lines.

  Pearl came forward so Lydia could recognize her. Her expression transformed, and a glad cry burst from her lips as she ran forward to throw her arms around Pearl. “Oh, you’re all right! I was worried, so worried, after that
terrible long battle.”

  Pearl embraced the other woman long and hard, then stepped back to look for her self-appointed guard. He too came forward, and alarm flashed in Lydia’s golden eyes. “Have no fear, Lydia. This is Portius. The Confederate army has insisted I help quarter a few wounded Yankee soldiers, and they sent Portius along to help. I’m most indebted to him these last several hours.”

  Lydia considered the tall black man. After he offered a quick nod and rumbled the word ma’am, Portius stood still and bore Lydia’s regard with calmness.

  At last she sniffed and turned back to Pearl. “Well then. And have you come just to visit?”

  Pearl blew out a breath. “I need bandaging material, Lydia. We’ve used all the sheets and worn-out clothing we can spare.”

  Lydia stood, arms folded, head tilted. Her gaze strayed to Portius again. A shriek from the house broke the silence, but she did not move until the child responsible for the sound came tearing outside—a tiny girl with brown braids, in a threadbare but neatly mended dress of faded yellow, who threw herself into Lydia’s skirts. Her hand went to the girl’s curly head. “Child, I told you to stay in the house.”

  She peeked out and giggled. “Auntie Pearl!”

  No greeting was offered Portius, though the man smiled back at her. Pearl could not resist a chuckle of her own. “Now, Sally, what have I told you about listening to your mama?”

  A boy of four, in a likewise much-patched short trousers and shirt, ran across the space to Lydia’s other side and peered solemnly at Portius. “Hello, young man,” the Negro said.

  “This is Jem and Sally,” Pearl said. “Lydia’s little ones.”

  The boy only hid his face.

  “I think I might be able to help,” Lydia said, with a sigh.

  The return trip was easier. Pearl could brace herself against the sights and did not need Portius to steady her as they crossed the field. Portius did, in fact, have his arms full with a bolt of fabric as he walked alongside her.

  She knew she could count on Lydia for having squirreled away something useful. She felt enormously guilty for having asked. Even more for accepting the woman’s offering.

  But they needed bandages.

  “Who is that woman to you?” Portius asked, his voice very quiet.

  Pearl thought through all the ways to reply to that. “My very dear neighbor, of course,” she said, more lightly than she felt.

  He gave a soft snort. “I heard the little one call you Auntie.”

  Pearl smiled, but without humor. “And she couldn’t do so merely as a term of affection?” She felt the black man’s eyes on her. “Why do you ask?”

  “I just wanna know who I’m protectin’, here.”

  They were nearly to the foot of the ridge.

  “Is she your sister? Or are those babies your sister and brother?”

  Pearl sucked in a breath. “My father is not that kind of man, and our immediate family has never owned another soul.”

  With one exception …

  Portius only smiled patiently.

  “She is”—Pearl stumbled a little, came to a halt, and swung toward him—“Lydia is my sister-in-law,” she whispered. “My brother Jeremiah’s wife. He—was on a trip to Savannah, met her, and fell stupid in love, as my father was fond of saying. Saved the money and bought her, then brought her here and emancipated her. So those babies are his. Yes—before you ask—our family considers her his wife in truth, though it isn’t recognized by law. I don’t know where they found a preacher willing to marry them, but they swore that they did, and I believe them.” She blew out a breath. “Officially, folk around here refer to her as his Creole housekeeper. And so far, to my knowledge, no one’s troubled either of them over it.”

  The Negro did not move for a long minute, only searched Pearl’s eyes. At last he smiled, sweet and slow. “Very well, then.”

  And he led on, up the ridge.

  By the time they made it back to the house, Pearl was wilting. Portius nodded toward the stairs. “Go get some sleep.”

  “But there’s more to be done—”

  “Sleep, Miss Pearl. You’re no good to anyone if you faint from exhaustion.”

  She didn’t argue further. Up the stairs she went, brushing off Pa’s inquiry, falling once more into the bed.

  But this time, she dreamed. She stood again on the lower slope on the other side of the ridge as a column of men and horses marched on, kicking up clouds of dust that billowed to the sky until the sun hung a sullen red in the west, drenching everything in what looked like blood. The men’s coats dripped with it, and the horses splashed through puddles of it. As they passed, many of the soldiers turned and waved at her, laughing—and suddenly her own brothers were among them, with ghastly, skeletal grins. Among them was a man wearing, not the blue coat he’d been brought in with, but gray, like her brothers, his hair glowing like fire in the light of the setting sun. He too gave her a jaunty smile—

  She saw then that ahead of them yawned a vast cavern in the side of the mountain, of such complete darkness that there remained no trace of light or sound. The column of men kept marching, marching, disappearing into that dark, as if entering the maw of some vast monster. And Pearl could only stand and watch, as the dust now rose up and choked her, and even her limbs were too heavy to lift—

  She woke, tangled in her quilt. With a gasp—oh, blessed air, and light!—she shoved herself free and sat up.

  Outside, afternoon light fell across the ridge. Yellow-and-white wildflowers waved at the edges of the field, with maples and sourwoods just beginning to redden on the far hillside. In all, an ordinary-seeming day, not tinged with either dust or blood.

  She rose, straightening her dress, and went downstairs to find Clem stirring a pot of beans over the stove and Portius making rounds while Pa slept. He gave her an assessing look then beckoned her near.

  He’d taken some of the fabric already and torn it into strips for bandages. Pearl assisted as instructed, holding limbs or bits of bandaging, or setting the soiled aside for washing, and somehow it was easier this time. She still couldn’t bring herself to look at the men’s faces, however, or ask their names.

  But full-blown panic beat in her throat—or something like it—when they entered her bedroom to tend the men there. Pearl forced a deep breath, and her dread changed to alarm and concern at finding the one with the amputated hand still feverish and unconscious. Even Portius frowned and hmmed over the wound, dusting it generously with the goldenseal before he rebandaged it. The man flailed, and Portius caught the limb before the man knocked it on the wall or furniture. “I’m gonna need you to bind it back up, Miss Pearl, while I hold him down.”

  Pearl gritted her teeth but took the cloth in both hands. She would do this. An image flashed in her mind of the forgotten arm lying in that field they’d walked through—and then of the dream she’d just awoken from. All that dust … all that blood. She swallowed hard and, not looking at either man, did her best to mimic how she’d seen the Negro rewrapping the limb, before.

  Just like wrapping a ham for smoking. She didn’t know whether to be amused or scandalized at the thought.

  By the time she finished, the other man was awake and needing water. Finding his needs so much simpler—at the least, he hadn’t figured in her dream—Pearl helped Portius tend him, tucking all unruly thoughts back into the dark where they belonged.

  But it became difficult once more when Clem brought bowls of the thin bean soup and she had to help the men eat. The one with the amputated leg wedged himself into enough of a sitting position to hold his bowl and spoon, but the one with gunshot wounds still needed assistance. Behind her, when Portius went to feed the man who was gutshot, he met with argument. “I’m a gonna die anyway,” the man said. “Don’t waste good vittles on me.”

  “You don’t know that,” Portius said in his most soothing tone. “ ’Taint a waste.”

  “It is, and you know it.” The man’s voice cracked.

  T
he sound tore at Pearl’s heart. She twitched toward the man, almost without thinking. “Hush now, and eat that soup.”

  His eyes snapped to hers, wide and dark in sockets already hollow from the battle that raged on inside his body. The pale mouth went slack, doubtless with desperation and a good bit of shock.

  Pearl found herself trembling. “You will take nourishment and water until the good Lord decides you’re done here with us. You hear?”

  He gave the barest nod, then turned and obediently opened his mouth for the spoon at Portius’s hand.

  We need to get some water down that fellow with the missing hand,” the Negro said, when they were finished feeding everyone supper. He peered at Pearl.

  She blinked at him. “I need to wash those bandages.”

  “Clem can haul the water and get started washing.”

  Why her? “I—I suppose I can then.”

  But she knew if she walked back in that room, she’d feel compelled to do more than just dribble water in the man’s mouth. With a muted huff, she set off to find her basin and rag from before, and fresh water for both drinking and bathing the man’s face.

  Inside the room, with everything laid out within reach, and the window open for light and freshness of air, Pearl settled again at the man’s bedside. Why did Portius insist she take this task? And why did it tie her own insides up in such knots? She wrung out the rag and smoothed it across the unconscious man’s face. He did not move in any way.

  The other man, with the fair hair, lay asleep as well, but even to the casual eye his was a more healing slumber.

  Pearl set the rag back in the basin and blew out a breath. “I’m told I have to make you drink some water,” she whispered. “Been a long time since I’ve done such a thing, so you’ll have to bear with me. But I really don’t want you dying on me, here.” Unaccountably, her eyes prickled. “Please don’t die. We’ve already had one man here expire. And one more likely going to.” Not to mention my brothers …

  She swallowed. Leaned forward a little, forced herself to keep talking. “But you. You have as good a chance as anyone to keep on living.”