The Rebel Bride

by Shannon McNear

  No response. Not that she expected—or wanted—one. She picked up the cup and, tipping it just a little, spooned out some water. Slipped her hand under the man’s neck—oh, he was burning up—and tilted it so she could spoon the water into his mouth. It went inside his parched lips then dribbled out the side of his mouth.

  “Come on, you ornery cuss,” she muttered. “Drink this.”

  The second spoonful likewise poured down into the man’s beard. She set the spoon down, wiped his cheek on her apron, shifted her angle, tried again.

  The water went in. Didn’t come out. Pearl waited.

  His throat moved, once, then again. Hesitantly, Pearl slipped in another spoonful. He swallowed that one too.

  Her eyes stung even more. “That’s it. Just a little more …”

  She fed him water until the cup was half-empty and she had to tip the vessel with one hand just to get a good spoonful. About that time, his swallowing seemed to slow, so she set his head back down and wrung out her rag again. She couldn’t see any change, but then—she’d known with Mama how even little things made a difference, whether or not they showed.

  She leaned close again as she bathed the man’s face and neck. “You just keep fighting. I told the man in the other room who’s gutshot and expecting to die that he’s not allowed to give up until God Himself says it’s time, and you’re not allowed to give up either. So there.”

  Not a flicker of his eyelids. She smiled thinly. “Who are you, I wonder. Seems kind of silly to keep thinking of you as that man.”

  Or any of the others, for that matter.

  Something inside her crumbled.

  The night wore away as she made rounds in both rooms. While his other two companions slept, the gutshot man moved restlessly, his eyes cracking open at Pearl’s approach. “What time is it?” he whispered.

  “Long about midnight, I reckon.” Pa owned the only watch in the house, and she’d not disturb him to go look. They’d long since sold the timepiece on the mantel for kerosene and other necessities.

  He shuddered a little. “Could I—might I trouble you for water?”

  “Of course.”

  She answered without thinking, but after she’d provided the drink, helped tip his head up as she had the man in the other room, Pearl looked at him for a moment. Truly looked at him. The shadows in his face were deeper, his color more gray.

  If he were really not long for this world, then what harm could it do for her to show at least a little compassion? Even beyond providing a simple sip of water.

  “What’s your name, soldier?” she asked.

  He blinked at her, slow and heavy. “S–Simon Murphy, miss. Of the Eighty-Second Indiana.”

  A burn kindled under her breastbone. God, help me. She drew a long breath. “Well, Simon Murphy. I am most regretful that you had the misfortune of landing here with us.”

  The ghost of a smile lightened the shadows. “A man could do a lot worse than to have something as pretty as you to look upon in his final hours.”

  An unexpected bubble of laughter hiccupped from her. “You, sir, are a flatterer, for I am not pretty.”

  The smile deepened. “Are so. As beautiful as—an angel …”

  And with a sigh, he closed his eyes and turned his head.

  Fear clutched her throat. Was he—but no, his chest rose and fell with definite if unsteady breaths. Apparently the exchange had merely drained the last of his meager strength.

  She rose, brushing dark hair off the man’s brow with her fingertips. Bless him, Lord in heaven. Let him make his way to Your throne, where I know all things will be reconciled at last.

  She made to turn away, but the wide-open eyes of the next soldier over caught her attention.

  “Bring some of that sugar this way, would you?”

  For another moment, she could neither move nor think, then heat rushed through her and with it, equally hot words to her lips. “And that, sir, is why we call y’all filthy Yankees.”

  He only laughed, and she wheeled about and fled the room, not caring that he called after her and might wake the others. Better to sit at a fevered man’s bedside all night.

  Voices echoed through shifting dreams that made no sense. Sometimes he thought he could make out the words, but other times it was just garbled sound that grated on his already raw nerves.

  And through it all, intense pain. And cold. So cold. He could not get warm.

  Oh God, have mercy. Take me soon …

  Then there was her voice, husky and rich, like warmed honey dripping through the edges of the pain. Don’t die, she said. Don’t you dare die.

  For a moment, he was warm, almost. He wanted to reach out to that voice. Argue with her. And why ever not? It would be easy, so easy, to slip out into the darkness. To escape the fury of sound and fire.

  The woman’s voice dropped to a whisper. Please don’t die. Please.

  Who was she, and why was it so important to her that he live?

  The howling winds of pain and nightmares returned. And all he could do was howl along with them.

  A warmth covered him. The woman’s voice came again, shushing. Coolness passed across his forehead and cheeks, and he shivered. Liquid passed between his lips, and he swallowed obediently.

  More? he wanted to ask, but the word wouldn’t form on his tongue.

  She was speaking again, softly, but not to him, this time.

  Hours of the night whiled away, and still Pearl could not sleep.

  At some point, the object of her watching began to shiver, and she went to her trunk for a quilt. Pearl spread it over the man, pulling it up over his shoulders, then settled herself to mop his still-burning face and offer him water again. He swallowed with less hesitation than before.

  “Trink please?” came a rusty voice behind her.

  The man with the shredded leg and strange accent was awake.

  “Certainly,” she murmured and poured from the pitcher on the stand.

  He gulped an entire cup without stopping, sighed, and frowned a little, focusing on her. “It is still night?”

  She nodded. “I’ve been tending your companion there.”

  His frown deepened. “He is—not companion. I am of the Fifteenth Wisconsin. He—” A single shake of the head. “I do not know where he comes from.”

  “I see.” Pearl glanced behind her. Was it her imagination, or did he rest more easily at the moment than he had before? “I only meant that in reference to the two of you being in the same room.”

  The explanation felt silly as soon as she said it, but the man’s face relaxed as if with relief. “Ah. And you said you are Miss Mac—Far—lane?”

  He struggled through the syllables as if simple English—or in this case, Scottish—names were foreign to him.

  Come to think, perhaps they were. “Yes. And you are?”

  Another flicker of an attempted smile. “Berndt Thorsson.”

  Her turn to struggle. “What, now? Burnt Toors-son?”

  His chapped lips parted in a grin. “Na, na.” He said the name again then mimed writing. “You have—something with which to draw?”

  She rummaged for the old school slate and pencil she still kept in her trunk. He took it, and with a firmer hand than she expected, wrote it out.

  Berndt Thorsson.

  “What on earth kind of name is that?” she said, then clapped a hand to her mouth.

  The grin returned. “I am born in Norway. Family come to America, fight now to preserve the Union.” He said the words as if rehearsed.

  “There is no Union if some states can’t mind their own business instead of nosing around in that of other states’,” she muttered. The blue eyes continued to regard her steadily, and she pulled in a long breath. “I am most sorry that you find yourself in this predicament, Mister Thorsson, as to be wounded and under my care. But I promise I won’t let you die by intention.”

  The Norwegian sobered and gave a nod, his eyes cutting to the other man. “You worry that he will
die?”

  “Yes. He has been feverish. Taken no nourishment, and very little water.”

  Mr. Thorsson’s brow furrowed again. “I will pray he lives.”

  Pearl stared at him for a minute. “Thank you,” she said finally, for lack of anything better to say.

  Why had it never occurred to her that even Yankees could be men of faith?

  The Norwegian’s blue eyes sparkled back at her as if amused at the idea … but it was absurd to think he knew what she thought. She turned and plunked herself back in the chair next to the unconscious man.

  “So what of your family?” Pearl tossed the soft question over her shoulder as she reached for the rag and wrung it out again.

  Mr. Thorsson took a minute to reply. “I have two sisters and three brothers. Two of the brothers also are fighting. My father tends the farm back in Wisconsin. My mother is in heaven now.”

  For the hundredth time, Pearl smoothed the cloth over the fevered forehead and cheeks. Was it her imagination, or did the man beneath the covers twitch? “Mine as well.”

  “I am sorry for your loss.”

  She nodded. “And I, for yours.”

  They kept the quiet dialogue going until Pearl looked up and saw the horizon beginning to color with the dawn. She excused herself and went to change out the basin of water—and take a moment to linger watching the sunrise. Though bone weary, the growing wash of vivid rose and orange across the sky soothed her spirit.

  With a sigh, she turned at last to go in. The sitting room was quiet. Blessedly so, because it meant that vile man in the middle would not be awake—

  But wait, it was almost too quiet. She set the basin down on a sideboard and tiptoed closer to the bed of the man who’d been gutshot.

  Simon Murphy, she corrected herself.

  He lay still. Perfectly so. No lift to his chest.

  Her own heart pounding, she crept nearer. Hesitantly put a hand to his brow.

  Cold and smooth, like carved ivory.

  He too had flown away to heaven.

  Somehow, Pearl accomplished cooking breakfast and seeing to Pa and their four remaining charges while Portius and Clem carried Simon Murphy’s body out to be buried. The man with the missing leg, the same one who had harassed her during the night, awoke enough to take his bowl and give her an oily smirk in return, but thankfully, he said nothing.

  Maybe he knew to mind his manners at least while Pa was present. Pearl turned away from him and went to help the other man eat.

  She thought of the Norwegian in the other room and blew out a breath. “What’s your name, sir?” she asked, waiting until the man had swallowed the bite she’d just given him.

  He blinked. Apparently he’d no more expected kindness from a Confederate family than she had faith from a Yankee. “Toby Jackson, ma’am. Of the Eleventh Michigan.”

  She nodded as if that meant anything to her. “Mister Jackson. I sincerely hope you recover and return to your own lands to plague us no longer.”

  That earned a weak grin, and she fed him another bite.

  “And I be Abner Shaw of the Thirty-Eighth Indiana,” came the voice of the other man, with just enough smugness in his tone to turn her stomach.

  Pearl gave him a glance and a nod.

  “Welcome, regardless,” Pa piped, from across the room.

  She winced. That was laying it on a bit too thick—or was Pa wandering a bit, in his mind? The others cast him uncertain glances, as if they too were unsure how to interpret his cheery pronouncement, but no one said a word.

  Pearl finished her task, gathered the bowls, and went to check on Thorsson. He too had finished, and after setting his bowl on the floor, he was asleep again.

  It had been a long night, after all. Strangely, she wasn’t yet sleepy enough to retire, herself. Weary to the bone, for certain, but sleepy? Most emphatically not.

  With a little sigh, she turned to the other man. Sagged into the chair at his bedside. She’d forgotten her basin of water and rag. Was it even making a difference? With only the barest hesitation this time, she laid her hand over his forehead. Still warm but—was that sweat beneath her palm?

  Her heart leaped. Sweat would be a good sign.

  As before, however, he didn’t move. She sighed. “Please don’t die.”

  She slumped against the wall and closed her eyes. Just a few minutes and then she’d go see about washing dishes.

  The few minutes apparently became a few hours. Pearl woke to rustling beside her and a terrible crick in her neck.

  “Miss Pearl,” came the deep voice of Portius, “if you don’t mind giving me a hand with these bandages, you could go lie down awhile.”

  She drew a deep breath and stretched her neck one way, then the other. “Of course,” she answered without thinking and reached for the bundle of cloth he handed her.

  Portius had hardly touched the man’s arm before the limb flailed, and the wounded soldier exploded in a shouting fury. Pearl scrambled backward, out of her chair and to the middle of the room. The Negro kept a low murmur and, getting a grasp on the man’s upper arm, set his other forearm across the man’s chest to press him back to the bed.

  The unknown patient wasn’t even awake, but he subsided at last under the Negro’s superior strength and lay gasping.

  “That’s it,” Portius said. “Just settle down. All we’re doing here is trying to tend your arm.” He angled a glance at Pearl. “Go ahead. I’ll hold him down.”

  She gave a quick nod and stepped forward. Obviously the arm pained him greatly. Could she remove the old bandage without setting him off? She had to try, regardless.

  When her fingertips brushed his arm, the man twitched, hard, but Portius held him firm and nodded for her to keep going. She plucked at the edge of the bandage, tentatively at first, then with more purpose, until the end came free. Even then it was a bit of an ordeal to completely unwind, since the wound had seeped through and hardened the outer layers. The man beneath Portius’s hold whimpered as she sought to work the worst of it free.

  “Pour a little of that water over the cloth,” the Negro murmured, “and let it soak for a minute.”

  She scooped with her palm and poured, and indeed, that loosened some of the crust, at least around the edges. At last the bandage came off, and she used the relatively clean and dry section to wash around the amputation wound itself.

  “It looks a little less angry,” she said.

  “Mm, maybe. Be generous with that goldenseal, now.”

  She did as he directed and then began to rewrap the limb. The wounded man’s breath caught, but he lay otherwise limp now.

  Lord in heaven, please let him not die.

  Pearl’s throat closed. She almost couldn’t help the prayer.

  As she finished up, Portius eased his hold on the man. “Go on and take a rest now, Miss Pearl.”

  With a stiff nod, she rose and gathered up the soiled bandaging.

  In the other room, Pa sat and read from the great volume of the Bible laid out in his lap, his voice a steady, soothing rhythm.

  “ ‘Save me, O God; for the waters are come in unto my soul. I sink in deep mire, where there is no standing: I am come into deep waters, where the floods overflow me. I am weary of my crying: my throat is dried: mine eyes fail while I wait for my God.’ ”

  Pearl had surely become weary of her own crying.

  “ ‘They that hate me without a cause are more than the hairs of mine head …’ ”

  She shot a glance at the two men remaining in the sitting room. Toby Jackson. Abner Shaw. The former lay listening quietly, while the latter’s eyes were shut tightly as if he were in pain.

  “ ‘O God, thou knowest my foolishness; and my sins are not hid from thee.’ ”

  Perhaps, under the convicting power of God’s Word, he was in pain. Pearl fervently wished so, at least, after the way the man had spoken to her.

  Upstairs, she stretched out on the bed and let the distant murmur of Pa’s voice wash over her. She could no
longer make out the words, but the sound of it lulled her back to sleep.

  “ ‘But as for me, my prayer is unto thee, O Lord…. Let not the waterflood overflow me, neither let the deep swallow me up, and let not the pit shut her mouth upon me.’ ”

  The floodwaters had indeed swept over him. Still held him prisoner.

  “ ‘Hear me, O Lord; for thy lovingkindness is good: turn unto me according to the multitude of thy tender mercies.’ ”

  He cast about for words to match the plea of his heart. Oh God, save me, indeed. Please. I am drowning….

  He felt, as it were, his body rising from the depths, floating toward the light. The pressure gradually lifted from his chest, and the fire in his lungs dissipated, trickling down from his chest into his left forearm. The burning there lingered despite the chill in the rest of his body, but at least now he could breathe.

  After what seemed an unreasonably long time, he realized his eyes were open, and he could look about the room. It seemed to be dusk—was that the ending of a day, or the beginning? He had no way of knowing except to wait and see if it grew more dark or more light.

  Blinking, he rolled his head to the side. A small room, with two beds—he thought he remembered seeing it before—and another man in the other bed, asleep, or at least with his eyes closed.

  He scoured his memory but came up with nothing that would provide the least clue to his location or how long it had been since—yes, he recalled a battle, and the name Chickamauga, but nearly nothing apart from that. The ache in his arm demanded his attention, but something about it caused him to swallow heavily before hazarding a look.

  Because he just might have dreamed the horror he thought he remembered.

  But no, the bandages ended smoothly below the elbow. Just as he recalled.

  Oh … God. He felt the sudden need to puke.

  It wasn’t that others hadn’t lost more. He knew this. And to wake up and find himself in what was obviously someone’s home—and a tidy one at that, by all appearances—rather than the battlefield or a prison camp was nothing short of a mercy. Except that this would undoubtedly be some Rebel’s home.