The Rebel Bride

by Shannon McNear

  Or had he also dreamed the declaration that he was now a prisoner of war?

  The slender figure of a woman swept inside the room and stopped, clutching a basin. Her eyes widened. “Oh! You’re—awake!”

  “Not sure I’d go that far,” he whispered. It hurt to speak.

  She set her basin down beside the bed then whisked to the washstand, where she poured a cup of water before perching on the chair at his bedside. “You’ll want this, I expect,” she murmured.

  He levered painfully to his good elbow before remembering he had no way to take the cup from her. But she seemed to anticipate the need and, lifting it to his mouth, helped him drink.

  When he was done, she sat back while he wiped his mouth against his upper arm. “Thank you, ma’am.” The wispy dark hair escaping her sober knot and the equally sober green eyes he definitely remembered. Likewise the dark gray calico of her full-sleeved dress, covered in a clean but well-worn apron. Her skirts full but limp—no hoops, then. A practical choice, that.

  But what was it he’d felt the need to ask? Suddenly he could no longer find his tongue.

  “Who are you, then?” the woman said, more a statement than a question. “I’ve learned the name of every man here, but yours.”

  Why could he only blink at her? Maybe because there was a steel in those eyes that brooked no nonsense.

  “Sergeant Joshua Wheeler of the First Ohio, at your service, ma’am.”

  The corner of her mouth lifted in the slightest of smiles, and then she sniffed. “You won’t be at anyone’s service for a fair bit yet, I reckon. But I’m glad to see you awake.” Her expression settled into grave lines once again. “I thank you for not dying.”

  Another memory of a voice that matched hers flitted through his mind. So it was she who’d offered those fevered pleas? “I feel I can take no credit for that.”

  A definite curve to her lips this time. “Likely not. I’ll be thanking Providence as well.”

  “And I’ll try not to give you cause to regret it.” A muted sound, like a stifled chuckle, came from her throat, and he offered a weak grin in response, then lay back and closed his eyes for a moment. At her continued silence, he cracked an eyelid open again. “You have me at a disadvantage, ma’am. I’m aware I must be your prisoner, but I do not recall your name. Or where the location might be.”

  Another soft snort. “I am Pearl MacFarlane. And it’s miss. You find yourself in Tennessee, nearly Georgia, just southeast of Chattanooga.”

  She winced as if she’d said too much.

  “What news of the lines?”

  “I’ve not been paying attention,” she said. All steel, once more.

  What a very different thing to tend him while asleep than to face him now, awake and talking. His hair lay askew, and deep shadows encircled his eyes, but there was an intentness to his gaze that kept her pinned to the chair even while she longed to flee. Especially when he asked after news of the recent battle.

  Regardless, he remained a fair example of a wretched Yankee. And here he was, awake but still lying in what had been her bedroom.

  “How long was I asleep?” he asked.

  She thought back. The days and nights had seemed endless. “The better part of three days.”

  He blinked and frowned. “Three … days …”

  “You were awake once or twice at the beginning. Then you went insensible with fever for two solid days. Which I’m not sure I count as sleep.”

  The frown deepened.

  “Would you like something to eat?” she suddenly remembered to ask.

  His eyes brightened. “I would be most appreciative, miss.”

  His manners were pretty at least … nearly as pretty as a Southern boy’s. Pearl sniffed. For whatever that mattered, because there was always Travis, who presumed on their hospitality without so much as a by-your-leave.

  “Very well. I’ll be back in a moment.” She rose from the chair.

  “Wait. Miss?” His expression went apologetic. “If you could, ah … I need the necessary.”

  “Of course.” She should have thought of that as well.

  The rest of the house was lit at either end by two lamps. Something else they’d have to think about—finding kerosene. Papa was nowhere to be found. He’d been reading the Bible earlier—sometimes he could read and sometimes not, although daytimes were certainly better than night—but he must have retired to bed already. Clem of course would be off doing—whatever. But Portius was nowhere in sight, either.

  Oh Lord, please help. The very thought of simply helping the man walk to the necessary, or use a chamber pot, completely terrified her.

  She ran to the front door and outside, her lungs tight. The last light of day rimmed the ridge, and above its crest, a nearly full moon hung among a sprinkling of stars. The cool air washed over her, sweet and calming, and she stepped to the edge of the porch and clutched the post.

  “Miss Pearl? Is something wrong?”

  She swung toward Portius’s voice, so deep and soothing, and took another gulp of the night air. “I—yes. Our last sleeping soldier is awake. Needs help to the necessary.”

  “Ahh.” The man’s breath escaped in a low hum. “Well, that’s good news, at least.”

  She bobbed a nod but didn’t release her hold on the porch post. “It is.”

  Portius came to the bottom of the steps and looked at her gravely. “P’raps you should stay out here and take a bit of the evening air.”

  “I—” She shook her head. “I told him I’d get him something to eat.”

  He dipped his own in acknowledgment then moved past her.

  She waited until he’d gone in, caught a last deep breath, and finally felt her heartbeat settling to a more normal pace.

  Maybe she could face the rest of this night, after all.

  “I’m weak as a kitten,” Josh muttered, as the massive black man helped him to his feet.

  “I reckon so,” the man responded evenly.

  Doggone it all, but everything hurt. His arm was merely the worst of it. And the room spun each time he moved. Being on his feet, though, felt like either the best or the worst thing he’d ever experienced, and no journey had ever been so long as the one across the house where he was quartered, out to the porch, and through the yard. A light wind greeted him, and a moon and stars in an almost-black sky.

  So it had indeed been sunset when he’d awakened.

  His escort brought him back and steered him toward the kitchen, where lamplight revealed the woman—Miss MacFarlane, that is—bustling about with the briefest glance in his direction. Settled in a chair at a table that looked to be oak, its uneven surface rubbed shiny by years of use, he nodded at the black man. “My thanks.”

  The man smiled a little and offered a blanket to wrap about his bare shoulders. Josh tucked it around himself, awkwardly, the aching stump of his forearm pressed to his belly beneath the cloth, as Miss MacFarlane set a bowl and spoon in front of him. “This was tonight’s supper, though it’s cold now.”

  She followed it with a stoneware mug of what looked like water. Josh reached for it and was rewarded with the blanket slipping off that shoulder.

  What must this Rebel girl think of a half-naked, one-handed Yankee at her table?

  Her expression seemed curiously blank at the moment, unlike earlier when he thought he could trace a dozen emotions as they flitted across her features. But maybe that was simply the lingering effect of being unconscious for too long.

  Regardless, he’d no call to be thinking about this young woman’s state of mind. He’d best be seeing to how to be the least burden to her as possible.

  He curled his hand around the cup and lifted it to his mouth. Water. Sweet, cold. The most refreshing thing he’d ever tasted in his life.

  Likewise the thin bean soup in the bowl before him, once he set down the water and reached for the spoon. He wanted to weep, it tasted so good. Instead he curled himself around the bowl so not a drop would be wasted.

&nbs
p; Thank You, Lord God, that I’m not in a prison camp. Yet, at least.

  That could change at any moment, he knew. Although why the Rebels had brought him here instead of packing him aboard a train for Richmond, he’d no idea.

  He glanced up. The black man stood at the end of the table, arms folded across his chest forbiddingly, and quite in contrast with the mild set of that one’s bearded features. “How many days ago was the battle?” Josh asked, his voice still rough with disuse.

  Hardly a flicker in the dark eyes. “Four days since the Federals give up and run back to Chattanooga.”

  He let the spoon sink back into the bowl. The Union troops had given up? After months of striving over Middle Tennessee, and slogging through mud and dust to get to Chattanooga? Not to be wondered at, some would doubtless say, given what some saw as the indecision of Rosecrans. Old Rosey hesitated often enough before, much to the frustration of Josh’s more immediate superiors. The battle itself had been one long frustration for his regiment—what he recalled of it, anyway.

  But now, to have expended so much effort—so much blood—to simply give up? Josh could scarce take it in.

  Would Rosecrans even be able to hold Chattanooga?

  “Do you know when I was taken prisoner?” he asked.

  “About then,” the black man responded evenly.

  Josh thought about the timbre and rhythm of the man’s speech. “I believe I remember you. The hospital tent. After—” He shrugged his left shoulder. “After this occurred.”

  The Negro gave a long, slow nod. “You may call me Portius.”

  Josh lifted his spoon once more. Curious, the Negro’s reserve toward him. Though the Proclamation had gone out at the first of the year, giving Negro slaves their freedom wherever the Union army occupied, depending upon the state, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d encountered such coolness from Southern blacks, or loyalty to the Rebel cause. In some cases, Negroes actually preferred the perceived security of a white master to their own freedom. Was Portius one of those? Or did his apparent service to the Confederacy serve some other purpose?

  It could hurt nothing to ask. But probably not here and now.

  He looked around. Two beds stood against the far wall of the open sitting room. “You have four of us quartered here? Or are there more?”

  “There were six,” Miss MacFarlane answered. “Two died.”

  Please don’t die, echoed the words from his fevered dreams.

  “ ’Tain’t all from the same regiment, if you’re wondering,” Portius supplied, next. “And none of you is fit to escape, so don’t give that any thought.”

  Josh lowered his gaze to the bowl, regretfully empty now. Of course the man knew he’d have to try.

  Eventually, that is.

  “Do you want more?” Miss MacFarlane’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

  “Is there more?”

  “A little.” She whisked his bowl away and brought it back half-full.

  He hesitated before digging in again. “Thank you.”

  There was the tiny flare of emotion across those stern features. Then she dipped her head and turned away.

  Supper finished, Josh allowed Portius to shepherd him, arm aching so fiercely he could barely shuffle along, outside again and then back to his bed. Once there, he nearly stumbled over the basin of water still sitting on the floor next to the foot of the narrow bedstead. He peered at it, trying to divine its specific purpose.

  “It’s water. For washing,” Portius said, before Josh asked.

  “Washing what?”

  The black man helped him get seated at the edge of the bed, then bent to move the basin from floor to chair seat before fixing Josh with a stern look. “I reckon Miss Pearl was in here nearly every waking hour while you was out of your head with fever, trying to keep you alive and halfway comfortable by bathing your face. Since ’tain’t needed for that anymore, I suggest you use it to wash yourself.”

  And with that, he wrung out the rag and handed it off to Josh then retreated to the door.

  For lack of anything better to do, Josh wiped his face, neck, and the wounded arm. Tried not to think of that plain, severe girl out there ministering to him in the way Portius described.

  How foolish of him to think he could simply sail through an entire war and never—never be hit. He’d just never expected it to be like this.

  There had always been a certain amount of romance attached to going to war, even to the idea of being wounded and then tended by some pretty nurse. Only with their first battle, experiencing the noise and smoke and the horror of what real killing felt like and afterward helping move the wounded, did his conjured images of clean, sunny hospitals blow completely away.

  The fact that this tiny room, which he shared with only one other man, was such a contrast to the chaos and filth of a field hospital made it seem all the more unreal.

  He stopped and looked at his bandaged half arm. This, however, was real enough.

  God … why? For what purpose did You deem it necessary to allow this to happen? How am I to make a living—provide for a wife and family?

  Or even go back to soldiering?

  He’d known of men who’d lost limbs and still served.

  He’d known of many men who lost limbs, in fact, and some of those losses were arguably unnecessary. Camp was rife with stories of cold, hurried surgeons lopping off arms and legs because they didn’t have the patience to see to care for the long haul.

  “Do you happen to recall,” he asked the black man, “just how bad the injury to my arm was?”

  Portius swung toward him. “The surgeon said it looked like damage from a minié ball. Your wrist was well-nigh gone.” He regarded Josh impassively for a moment. “Taking off the hand was necessary, if that’s what you’re asking. Gangrene would have set in, otherwise.”

  Josh stopped, clutching the rag, then gave a quick nod. “Thank you kindly.” It was precisely what he wished to know.

  He realized with a jolt that he still had his one good arm to wash and—no way to hold the rag from the other side. He stared at the cloth for a moment then raised his eyes to the Negro, still regarding him impassively. “Do you mind—that is—” He swallowed. “I can’t reach this arm.”

  The ghost of a smile crossed Portius’s face, but not an unkindly one. He stepped forward, took the rag, and accomplished the task with an ease that bespoke having done it many a time before.

  “How did you come to be—here?” Josh asked.

  “You mean, with the Confederacy?” Portius’s voice held a slightly mocking note.

  He blew out a breath. “Yes.”

  The other man chuckled. “Don’t make sense to most, I own.” He held up the basin so Josh could swish his hand in the water, then swiped it with the rag. “Don’t even make sense to me, some days. But I can assure you”—his gaze sharpened again—“you Yankees who think you got a corner on having the right cause? Most of y’all care nothing for the black man. It’s all politics. They call it ‘Black Republicanism,’ but—” He shook his head. “I just know I’m supposed to be where I am. Serving a man who flat saved my life, and whoever else the good Lord puts in my path. Which at the moment happens to be you.”

  With another smile, he set the cloth back in the basin and rose.

  “Thank you,” Josh said, holding his gaze.

  The black man nodded and left the room.

  So much to think about. Too much. Josh dragged his fingers through his hair and beard, and with a sigh, he maneuvered himself to a prone position. A bed had never felt so good.

  And when had they moved him to a bed?

  It was his last waking thought.

  Is it customary for a man sick and feverish just hours before to be up on his feet so quickly?”

  Pearl found a moment to murmur the question to Portius, after the man had finally returned to bed and fallen asleep.

  No, not the man. He had a name now. Joshua Wheeler.

  The side of Portius’s mouth hitc
hed. “Hard to say. If he was in good health before the hand was taken off—but the way he was completely unconscious for two days tells me his body took it plenty hard.”

  She nodded distractedly. “Does anyone else show signs of infection?” The Negro cast a glance toward her bedroom. “I confess I fear for the other man in there, Mister Thorsson. That leg is so tore up—”

  He shook his head, leaving the thought unfinished. Pearl couldn’t help but agree at the horrifying nature of the wound, but she’d little enough experience to be able to say if the man could even recover.

  Portius leveled her a look. “Miss Pearl, I’ll sit watch for part of tonight, but I’ll be needing to return to camp tomorrow.”

  The now-familiar panic beat inside her chest, but she pushed it down and nodded. “Of course. You have—obligations, I’m sure.”

  And then she realized. Eight months ago and more was the Proclamation that had come down from President Lincoln, essentially declaring that all Negro slaves were to go free. Tennessee did not fall under the jurisdiction of that, however.

  But why was Portius still serving the Confederate army?

  He must have caught the alarmed glance she gave him, because he hesitated. “Is something wrong, Miss Pearl?”

  “I”—she swallowed—“I am simply wondering …”

  His face did not alter from its kindly expression. “Why I am going back?”

  She let out her breath in a rush. “Yes.”

  A tired smile creased his face. “Some loyalties go deeper than the skin.”

  She failed to divine his meaning. “Which is to say?”

  The smile widened. “Some things more important than color, Miss Pearl.”

  She lay awake long after she should have easily fallen asleep. The Negro man’s coming had been such a relief—could she manage the four wounded Yankees who remained, with only Clem and Pa to help? It had been difficult enough to manage the farm with Pa not able to do the heavy work of planting or harvest and with her older brothers gone. They’d really only gotten enough planted to feed themselves and their stock, or what remained after the predations of the Confederate army, anyway. They still had apples, sweet potatoes, and some corn hidden away—and wild hogs roamed the hills—but Pearl was truly afraid they’d starve come winter. And now with the game chased off, or mostly so, by the battle and continued presence of two armies …