Mr. Wheeler chuckled, surprising Pearl yet again. “Well then, we’ll just sit and chat, sir.” He reached for the straight-backed chair in the corner and pulled it closer, then waved Pearl away.
“Are you certain?” she said, and he flashed her a grin.
“Who did you say you were, again?” Pa asked, frowning hard at the younger man.
Mr. Wheeler settled himself, as calm and dignified as if he were properly dressed and not, as Pearl realized with a jolt, clad only in slightly threadbare wool trousers that had once been light blue. “I’m Joshua Wheeler, sir, from Ohio. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Pearl held her breath. Would Pa even remember that they were at war?
“George MacFarlane. And likewise.” With equal dignity, Pa put out his hand, and Mr. Wheeler shook it without hesitation. “Ohio, eh? I’ve been there a time or two. Beautiful country. What brings you to these parts?”
She darted a glance at Mr. Wheeler. A calm, friendly smile still played about his bearded mouth. “Ah—government business.”
“Aha.” Pa’s face twisted in distaste. “Well, how long are you planning to stay?”
“Don’t rightly know.”
Pearl glanced about and seized a knitted throw lying across the end of Pa’s bed then handed it off to Mr. Wheeler. With a grave nod, he pulled it around his shoulders. “Truly. I do not mind,” he murmured to her. “Go get some sleep, or whatever else you need to do. I’ll call if we need anything.”
It was just … too strange, this Yankee soldier sitting there, conversing with Pa as if they were neighbors newly met. Yet she couldn’t deny her relief at the sudden, unexpected reprieve.
This was not a duty he’d been expecting—sitting the night watch with an infirm but feisty old Confederate. One who, by all appearances, did not seem mindful at the moment of the fight between blue and gray, but only sought to sort out which way was up in his world, and which down.
And the man’s daughter, so obviously wearied by all that was laid at her feet, Josh could not find it in his heart to leave her to it.
“Have you seen my sons?”
Josh’s attention snapped back to Mr. MacFarlane.
“They’ve gone away, you understand. I’m not sure where, but I’m confident they’ll be home soon.”
Josh shifted, folding his arms against his middle, ignoring the ache.
“That’s good to hear,” he said finally.
God, could this be any more difficult?
Why yes … yes, it could. This man could be recognizing that Josh was on the side of the war that had guaranteed his sons would most definitely not be coming home soon—or at all.
“Of course, with that trouble Mister Lincoln has stirred up, it’s hard telling what might happen next.”
Well, that would qualify as more difficult as well. “How so?”
Mr. MacFarlane’s bristly eyebrows knitted. “What rock have you been living under, boy?”
Josh couldn’t stop his grin. “That trouble means different things for different folk. I’d simply like to hear your opinion on it, sir.”
The older man hmphed but sat back. “Well. Understand that, yes, we believe slavery is a dreadful institution. The South originally voted against it—did you know that?”
“I did not, sir.” And in truth, this point of argument was fresh to Josh’s ears.
“I am not surprised. They aren’t fond of admitting it, in the North. It was New England ship captains and the like, however, who saw that importing slaves was big business. And then with time they learned that the northern climates are not well suited to the practice of slavery. But the Constitution itself remained silent on the issue, as the framers intended to let the states choose how to handle the issue.”
Josh thought he could recall shreds of debate around various hearths and tables, where the names of Hamilton and Jefferson were invoked in the question of whether Union meant the states banded together under one central government, or whether the States were considered sovereign unto themselves, and the concept of government meant equality and cooperation between them.
The difference between Republic and Democracy, as they were originally conceived. It had all seemed to be but the talk of old men around a fire or a pint, once upon a time.
MacFarlane shifted on the edge of the bed, bracing himself with both hands upon his cane. “Even Lincoln said that slavery wasn’t his concern. Not that I think leaving the Union was necessarily the right thing either.” He shook his head. “So much trouble. Not like the old days when we fought the British and everything was cut-and-dried.”
That Josh could agree wholeheartedly with. Recalling all he’d grown up hearing about the old wars was certainly more comfortable territory than political debate. “Both my daddy and granddaddy did their part. Revolution and War of 1812.”
MacFarlane nodded emphatically. “Mine as well. Nothing like that kind of heroism, today. They had none of this nonsense about North and South, blue and gray.” A smile flickered across his face then faded. “And here we are. How has it come to this? All men are created equal. Even the Founding Fathers knew it. Yet we are stuck in this awful dilemma. Threatened by the tyranny of a government trying to tell the people what’s best for them, all over again, without proper representation.”
Josh sucked on his teeth for a moment. “I admit, I had not thought of it from that perspective, sir. Thank you.”
MacFarlane nodded as if he had done Josh a grand favor. “If a man cannot stay true to his country even if he disagrees with some things that country does, what sort of man does that make him?”
That statement could apply both ways, but Josh held his tongue.
The older man yawned suddenly. “I do believe I might sleep, after all.”
He stretched himself out on the bed before Josh could offer to help. His breathing shortly settled into snores.
Josh sat for a few minutes, reflecting on the last hour or two. These people were not what he’d thought them to be—what he’d always been led to believe they were. True, their situation was humble enough, but—he glanced around the room—the house and its furnishings were well made, if sparse. This man, for all his infirmity and confusion, bore a quiet dignity that reminded Josh of his own family. And the man’s daughter—there was a puzzle, for sure, one that Josh wished to examine more closely.
Secessionists they might be, but they were good people.
What was he, a soldier of the Union, supposed to do with that?
Arms still folded around his body, he curled his hands into fists—or more properly, his remaining hand into a fist, as a flare of pain in his left arm reminded him of what his service to the Union had cost so far because of these Rebels. Hot nausea flooded his body, and sucking a breath through his teeth, he curled even further in on himself.
It was easier, when other folk were awake and visiting with him, to ignore the hurt. The loss. How he’d have to write home and break it to his family that he’d lost a hand and would no longer be whole. At least he didn’t have a sweetheart to similarly inform and doubtless disappoint with the news.
But what was he, a man with a maimed limb, to do with a sudden fascination for the young woman tasked with caring for him? No woman could possibly feel anything but revulsion at the thought of him touching her, much less one who had seen him—and the amputation wound—at its worst.
Pearl woke to quiet. For a long moment, she simply lay still and listened, straining for any sound. The breath in her lungs froze with the sudden thought that everyone else in the house had gone—or worse—expired.
Or could it be that they’d all simply, yes, fallen asleep at the same time?
Drifting through the floorboards came the sound of humming, rich and low. Her heartbeat stuttered and breathing started again. Portius had returned.
She rose, straightened her clothing and hair—at some point she should do washing for herself, and bathe, and wash her hair—and hurried downstairs. It was barely daylight.
&
nbsp; Portius stood at the stove, tending a pot of something cooking, but he turned with a smile. “Morning, Miss Pearl.”
She summoned her most welcoming smile. “Morning. It’s good to see you, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
He chuckled softly, and tapping the wooden spoon on the side of the pot, he set it aside. “I don’t. It’s a whole sight more quiet here than in camp, I assure you.”
A half laugh bubbled out of her at that. “I imagine so.”
As difficult as things had been here, it was probably the truth.
“And what news of the camp this morning?” she asked, more softly.
Portius’s smile faded somewhat. “Well, now. Confederates hold Missionary Ridge and Lookout Mountain. The Federals are all locked up tight in Chattanooga. The Confederates did take out a big Federal supply train up on Walden Ridge.” He flashed her a look. “Nice if they could have brought us some of it, but no, I hear tell they burned it.”
“A pity,” she murmured. Such waste made no sense to her, but then, so little of war did.
“Mister Travis insisted I bring you a few things, however.” His gaze was more pointed this time.
“Good of him. And thank you, Portius.”
“Of course, Miss Pearl.”
She went then to check on Pa. The sitting room was still mostly dark, and a stirring told her the men sleeping there were awake, or would be soon.
Outside Pa’s window, dawn colored the horizon and lent enough light for her to see that he still lay snugly in his bed—and a second form adorned the floor. It was Mr. Wheeler, wrapped in the throw she’d offered him the evening before.
That Yankee had spent the entire night there?
“What in the world happened here?” Portius asked, suddenly behind her. “He get tired of his own bed?”
Pearl’s breath caught. “You startled me.”
He chuckled. “My apologies.”
“No, but—Pa had a bad spell yesterday. Wandered outside, all the way up and over the ridge, alone. Then he fell out of bed twice. Mister Wheeler helped me get him back up the second time.”
“The second time.”
Her cheeks warmed at the memory. “Travis was here, the first time.”
“Aha.” The Negro held his breath a moment. “He does seem mighty concerned for you.”
Well he might be. She gritted back the words and forced her voice to mildness. “Good of him. I appreciate his sending you back to us.” Suddenly remembering Mr. Thorsson, she slid past Portius and sped to her bedroom.
Would this never end, the frantic checking to see if men still breathed or no?
To her astonishment, he not only still breathed but—opened his eyes as she stumbled to a halt in the doorway.
Oh—thank the good Lord above!
The day’s demands caught her up then and carried her along, from tending a still-weak Mr. Thorsson to feeding everyone breakfast. Portius had brought supplies, and Pearl did not even care from where. Portius and Clem helped Pa to the table, with Mr. Wheeler following, while Mr. Shaw and Mr. Jackson stayed in their beds. Pa seemed more clear minded this morning. Mr. Wheeler met her eyes and nodded but otherwise seemed subdued.
Perhaps it was only the night spent on the hard floor, although she knew a soldier’s life was hardly one of ease, and surely he was well used to sleeping wherever he could find a stretch.
She was looking in on Mr. Thorsson one more time when Mr. Wheeler entered. Still holding himself in that slightly hunched position, Pa’s throw wrapped about him, he shuffled up to the bed and regarded the Norwegian gravely.
“He awoke enough to drink and eat a little,” Pearl said.
“Glad to hear it.”
She looked more closely at him. Hair rumpled, dark shadows beneath darker eyes, mouth tight. “Are you in pain?”
His gaze snapped to her with a suddenness that almost make her flinch. “Sometimes,” he said, at last.
She chewed her lip, trying not to look away. Last night, conversation had seemed so easy, so comfortable. But in the light of day—
Clearing her throat, she swung toward the wall where his coat and the Norwegian’s hung on her dress hooks, and their boots and bundles of belongings lay tucked against the wall. “I promised to help you find a shirt.”
“I don’t recall a promise being part of that conversation,” he said, an odd catch in his voice.
“Wasn’t it?” Her own voice felt strangely tight, and her cheeks were burning so intensely she dared not face him. But when she crouched and put her hand on his knapsack, to riffle further felt wrong. Gulping a breath, she turned back and presented it to him.
With another searching look she could not interpret, he sat on the edge of the bed and let the wrap fall from his shoulders before reaching for the bag. She stood carefully back, giving him at least the illusion of privacy as he balanced the thing across his knees and fumbled inside.
“I—I should also ask, now that you’re up and feeling somewhat better, would you care for a bath? I could have Portius or Clem bring in the tub and haul the water.”
His gaze came up again, betraying surprise.
“You’d have to keep the hurt arm out of the water, of course—”
“That would be most kind of you, Miss MacFarlane.”
Pearl winced a little. “It’s … simple hospitality, bluebelly.”
A grin stole across his face, for a moment banishing the weariness, then he pulled his expression to sobriety again. “And most appreciated, secesh.”
She felt an eyebrow going up. “Secesh?”
The grin reappeared, abashed. An actual sparkle lit the brown eyes. And somehow the jibe, usually aimed at folks’ choice to support Secession, seemed like mere teasing from him.
“Well, if we’re reduced to insulting each other, you might as well call me Pearl.”
To her amazement, color crept across his face as well. “I’m not sure I can do that, Miss MacFarlane.”
Well then.
A little more riffling, and he drew out a much crumpled roll of what she was sure had once been crisp, white cotton. A flick of his wrist, and he shook it out. It was, indeed, a shirt.
“There you are. I could—I could also wash that for you, and your trousers. Or anything else you’d want,” she stammered.
Just what ailed her this morning?
The color in his cheeks deepened, but he bobbed a nod. “Very much appreciated, Miss MacFarlane.”
What ailed both of them, more like. “Pearl,” she blurted.
He blinked. “Then you can call me Josh.”
Something squirmed in her middle under the warm brown of his gaze. “That I’ll have to think about,” she snapped with mock severity and, with a little smile, swept from the room.
A chuckle followed her.
Out in the kitchen, she could hardly breathe. Mr. Wheeler’s initial response was probably the truest. She was becoming far too familiar with someone she should keep firmly in mind was a Yankee and by all accounts still very much the enemy.
Josh closed a fist around the shirt. How could he have ever thought her plain? Her face was so full of life and feeling. The way the morning light caught her eyes, green and sparkling—
And he’d no business thinking any of this. Doubtless as soon as he was recovered enough, Bledsoe would have him on a train north to Richmond, despite what he’d said yesterday. And even if not—he was half a man now. Useless to a girl as capable as Pearl MacFarlane.
Pearl. Why the devil had she done that, asked him to use her given name, as if they were on their way to being the best of friends, instead of mere acquaintances across this gulf that necessity had made of what had once been one nation?
Or worse, enemies on either side of a war that should have been over with long since. He was so weary of it all. Strange how principle and resolution to a cause faded in the face of the day-to-day struggle—he’d seen that already while on the march, in camp, on the field after battle. They talked so often of glory in death�
��was there truly any glory in what he’d witnessed?
And for himself—would it not have been better to die outright than become a useless casualty of a battle that by all appearances did nothing for the Union but impoverish it?
With a deep breath, he forced himself to stir. Set aside the shirt and peer inside the knapsack. It wasn’t his bag, but he wasn’t going to tell Miss MacFarlane that. He’d seen before that when the wounded were collected off the field, it was impossible to make sure each man’s own belongings went with him, so oftentimes the abandoned blanket bundles and knapsacks were also collected and dispersed to whoever needed them. This one held not only the customary tin eating utensils, sewing kit, and hardtack crumbs, but a bundle of letters.
He drew those out. What he could make out of the name was unfamiliar. A return address read Wisconsin. Shaking his head, he slid the string over one corner of the bundle and thumbed through the envelopes, scanning return addresses. All Wisconsin, and Minnesota.
He looked across at the other man. Mr.—Thorsson? Is that what Miss MacFarlane had said? The letters looked to be to someone else—something Halvorson, if he was making the name out correctly. Not the man in the bed across from him, but perhaps someone he knew.
Josh secured the string again and slid the bundle back into the knapsack. Those perhaps could be returned to their rightful owner, eventually, but the shirt could not be helped. He needed to be decently dressed, to preserve his dignity—and that of Miss MacFarlane—if nothing else.
Pearl left the drawing of baths to Portius and Clem and set herself to preparing laundry. She’d a smaller tub for soaking the soiled clothing, and the familiarity of the task soothed her mind and helped her not dwell on the details of what she was doing or for whom.
Also it allowed her to be outdoors. And though the day was still overcast and a little windy, she was able to tuck her washtub in behind the house to shield from the worst of it. From here, she could look up and still see the hillside rising beyond the fields, where late fall wildflowers nodded in the breeze while reddening maples and sourwoods waved from the slope. Graceful chestnuts would be ready to drop their nuts soon and, if Pearl was quick enough, would add a welcome change to their provender.
The Rebel Bride Page 10
