The Rebel Bride

by Shannon McNear

  Portius had gathered up all the men’s clothing, bundled the men themselves in blankets, and handed everything off to Pearl to wash. Clem had helped, though grumbling about his lack of freedom for the day. After letting the garments soak awhile in warmish water—what could be spared from bath preparations—she poured in a bucket of cold and started scrubbing.

  She never knew such a tedious task could be so satisfying. After drawing water for rinsing, she wrung out each garment then hung them on the line. The wind would thankfully dry them quickly.

  Afterward, she went to the barn and, taking a lantern, descended to their hidden cellar to take inventory of what they had left by way of foodstuffs. In past years, she and Mama had labored the entire summer and fall to pickle and preserve and dry all they could, from beets and carrots and turnips to peaches and apples and berries. But because of the army’s predations on their garden, she’d put up only a fraction of what they’d always had before.

  A bin of apples she’d managed to pick before others did and squirrel away. Another of sweet potatoes, rapidly dwindling. Half-a-dozen jars of blackberry preserves that she stubbornly refused to break into. She might be able to scrabble a few carrots, onions, and sweet potatoes from the earth, if the foragers had missed any.

  She turned a slow circle in the middle of the floor, lantern lifted. “Lord, I don’t know what You’ve got in mind here, but … please do something with this situation.”

  After picking a half-dozen apples from the bin and tucking them in her apron, she left the cellar and headed back to the house.

  Three figures sat on the porch. Pearl recognized Pa right away, dressed and hair combed and looking neater than he had for many a week. He looked to be feeling better, sitting upright in his chair with both hands gripping the handle of his cane before him. He was at the moment engaged in conversation with the two men beside him but saw her coming and smiled. “Ah, there you are, Daughter! Do you see, our guests from the North are greatly improved. Is this not a wonder?”

  She couldn’t help a laugh. Guests from the North? And speaking of those—the man nearest to Pa, also chuckling and shaking his head, had the vivid auburn hair and beard of Mr. Wheeler, but also so neatly combed she’d not have recognized him.

  Her feet dragged to a halt, heart thudding in her chest before settling back to a more manageable beat. Mercy, but—all cleaned up, blue coat draped about his shoulders over a clean shirt and an obviously borrowed pair of trousers—he was fine to look at.

  The laughter faded from his expression, and he rose slowly from his chair to greet her. “Miss MacFarlane,” he said with a nod. “We wondered where you’d gotten off to.”

  She forced a smile—likewise forced her feet to move forward, and for her gaze to register the third man. Fair hair also combed, blue eyes regarding her with humor and warmth, though his face was yet a bit pale.

  “Oh! Mister Thorsson. I am much relieved to see you up and about.”

  She suppressed a wince at the pitch of her own voice. Was the sudden squeak of nerves obvious to anyone but herself?

  He gave her a boyish grin and bob of the head. “Tank you. I am still not feeling all myself, but God is full of grace, is He not?”

  “Indeed He is.” Another shaky, broken laugh as she made herself meet Mr. Wheeler’s deep brown gaze once more. A hesitant smile curved his mouth.

  Oh Lord, why? Why did he have to be so very handsome—and why was she reacting this way to a bluebelly?

  “It’s good to see you looking better as well, Mister Wheeler,” she managed, at last.

  His smile deepened, so warm it was like a breath of summer over her. He bowed a little. “Thank you, Miss MacFarlane, for your hospitality.”

  The ridiculousness of their playacting wrung another chuckle from her. “Of course. Now, if y’all will excuse me, I have work in the kitchen.”

  She moved toward the steps, but Mr. Wheeler preempted her. “Ah, I am bid tell you to use the back door. Our good Portius has the sitting room curtained off so everyone can be scrubbed down, but the kitchen is safe for you to enter.”

  The sparkle in those brown eyes would not be refused, but somehow she tore herself away. “Thank you.”

  She fairly fled to the other side of the house, to the back door, where Clem and Portius were just emerging with yet another tub of filthy bath water. “Just one more,” Portius huffed.

  “Thank you for taking on this task,” she said, as the two men lugged the tub into the yard and tipped it out.

  “They needed it.”

  Even Clem nodded his agreement to the older man’s statement. “Full o’ lice, they are. Every one of ’em.”

  “Clem!”

  “It’s true, Miss Pearl.” Portius set down his edge of the tub and wiped his brow. “The men themselves own up to it. Just part of camp life. Our own gray troops suffer the same.”

  Pearl was seized by the sudden urge to scrub at her scalp. Just barely did she keep both hands knotted in her apron, where the apples were bundled. “Well then,” she said.

  He grinned, white teeth shining against his dark skin. “You have some good lye soap, Miss Pearl. I’ve no doubt it’ll help.”

  She lingered, doubtful, but he made a shooing motion. “Get yourself inside. Or wherever you need to be. We got this.”

  “What about the bedding?”

  “Tomorrow is good enough, if it ain’t raining.”

  Gritting her teeth, she stepped inside the kitchen. Lice. She should have guessed. Should have observed it herself.

  It was not such a terrible thing, she reprimanded herself. They’d contended with such, before, when she and Clem were very young. And it wasn’t like the men could help it, being all crammed together in camp.

  But—she thought of sitting there, so close to Mr. Wheeler’s bedside—and that of Mr. Thorsson—and how she’d tended both of them—

  Well. Nothing to be done about it now, except what they already were.

  She lifted her apron and carefully spilled the apples onto the table. Found a bowl and knife, set to work cutting and paring them. She’d little flour, so no pie, but perhaps a cobbler or crisp. Yes, a crisp would be just the thing, with cornmeal.

  “If thine enemy hunger …”

  It was, as she’d told Mr. Wheeler, just simple hospitality.

  She’d do the same for anyone.

  Josh reckoned it had been, oh, possibly before he’d enlisted since the last time he’d had a real bath inside a house. He’d nearly forgotten what a difference it made to be completely clean, with fresh clothing. Even if it wasn’t his own …

  He thought back on the long months on campaign. Sleeping on the ground, marching through muck and dust, over rocks and through creeks and rivers. Sometimes not even a fire on cold nights. Subsisting on coffee and hardtack.

  The terrible march south to Chattanooga, across the rugged, unforgiving terrain of middle Tennessee. An even more terrible pair of days and nights spent in the agony of waiting for battle interspersed with the terrors of battle itself, until that minié ball shattered his wrist bones and took his hand. The agony of being moved to a hospital and then here.

  And now … He leaned his chair back enough to rest his head on the outside wall of the house. Mr. MacFarlane had gone inside after Portius and Clem came for Mr. Thorsson, but Josh had asked to stay outside awhile. Though cool and breezy, it felt too good to be outdoors.

  And clean. And halfway well groomed.

  That startled expression on Miss MacFarlane’s face when she’d caught sight of him … He knew the look well enough from years of trying to charm this girl or that back home. This one, however, was doing her best not to be charmed, he was sure.

  And he’d be doing his best not to charm, except—she was just so charming herself. He was coming to look forward to every instance of speaking with her, just to hear whatever surprising thing she’d say or do next. Even when caught off guard, or maybe especially then—like the burst of laughter from her pa’s comment, com
pletely transforming her for a moment and lighting up those green eyes, which then caught his and widened.

  The knowledge of what that response meant lit through his blood like, well, a stolen shot of his father’s best whiskey, and left him twice as addled.

  Even the memory of it was heady. He drew a deep breath, seeking to steady his thoughts and his heartbeat, and the aroma of apples set him nearly to salivating.

  Was she—baking in there? An apple pie, maybe? And where on earth had she found apples, at this time and place, where an army occupied and had for a while?

  He sat up, just a little too quickly, and was rewarded with a stabbing ache in his left arm that left him gasping.

  And like a bucket of cold water over his head, the sure knowledge of his position—and that he had absolutely no grounds for pursuing such frivolous thoughts—doused any fire that might be lingering in his veins. It left him shivering.

  Pearl worked steadily the rest of the afternoon, finishing the apple crisp and setting dinner to cooking on the stove in between trips outside to check the dryness of the laundry hanging on the line and peer at the thickening clouds. She’d likely not get the bedding laundered tomorrow after all.

  She pulled the shirts off the line and brought those inside. The men could wear damp trousers if necessary, but this at least would be a start. Portius and Clem had gotten everyone washed up and the tub back outside and tipped upside down against the back of the house, but they left the blanket between the kitchen and rest of the house hanging to preserve Pearl’s sensibilities. She smiled thinly. Others had it worse, Travis had said. She should be thankful that Portius was here and mindful of sparing her such things.

  And she was thankful. If Travis’s prediction that he’d be bringing her more wounded was any indication, such delicacy might yet meet a sudden death.

  Lord God, thank You for helping me thus far. Please … please keep giving me strength in this. I don’t know how we’re to continue on … but if others do have it worse, and very much so, then help them and give them strength as well.

  Late that afternoon, as the first drops of another squall spattered her, she pulled the last of the laundry off the line and hauled it inside, then handed everything off to Portius and Clem for the men to sort. Portius was just taking down the dividing curtain, and she’d decided supper was as ready as she could make it, when a commotion came at the door, and someone called out that they had company.

  She turned, half expecting Travis, but it was a shorter man, slightly stout in a knee-length fawn coat and black hat, which he removed to expose a greatly balding head of still-black hair. “Ah, Reverend Mason!” Pa exclaimed, from his chair. “Come in, and welcome!”

  Pearl gritted her teeth and put on a smile. Reverend Mason’s gaze swept the room, widening as he almost visibly counted the number of men there, and doubtless made note of the color of their clothing. “Well. I had heard you have guests, but this …”

  He crossed the room to stand near Pa. “I am making rounds today to inform everyone that we’ll not be having services on the morrow because the church has been taken for hospital purposes.”

  “Well that is very much too bad,” Pa said. “But understandable.”

  Reverend Mason looked about as if he doubted that. Mr. Shaw and Mr. Jackson were just being reinstalled in their beds, while Mr. Thorsson sat on one of the kitchen chairs, Mr. Wheeler standing nearby, both steadfastly giving their attention to the pastor.

  “Will you stay to supper?” Pa asked.

  Even from across the room, Pearl could see the conflict in the preacher’s face. The willingness to be fed must have won out, however, because at last he nodded, forcing pleasantness into his expression. “I would be glad to stay.”

  Pearl laid an extra place at the table, and after the two men across the sitting room had been served bowls of corn bread and beans, the rest of them assembled for supper. She did her best to ignore the somber handsomeness of Mr. Wheeler as he stood beside his chair, waiting ostensibly for her—or Pa—to be settled, and though his gaze flicked toward her once, he likewise did not acknowledge her.

  Whether that was a relief or a disappointment, she could not say.

  They sat, among introductions that Pa insisted on. Reverend Mason peered into his bowl with a frown, and Pearl squashed any feeling she might have at his response to such a humble meal. This was what they had to offer, and if he found himself offended by it, well then perhaps he shouldn’t have accepted the invitation to stay.

  She likewise squashed the successive wave of guilt that came for having such thoughts about a man of the cloth.

  Reverend Mason was not too proud to bolt down half of his bowl before pausing long enough to pat his lips with his handkerchief and take a breath. “Such a fine victory we have won this week, George, would you not say?”

  Complete stillness fell over the house. Did the man have no regard for half those present being already wounded and at the mercy of the Confederacy, that he felt the need to insult them further?

  Pa favored him with a look of shock. “Have we, then?”

  Pearl choked down the bubble of laughter that rose in her chest unbidden and bent over her bowl.

  “Why yes.” A frown flickered across Reverend Mason’s face, and his gaze skimmed around the table. Though Mr. Thorsson’s expression remained mild, Pearl took unaccountable satisfaction in the way Mr. Wheeler turned that calm, intent gaze of his on the preacher and that the older man glanced away, clearing his throat. “Well. Perhaps best to not speak of such things in polite company.”

  “Hm, yes, thank you,” Pa said gravely. Pearl bit her lips together, not daring to look up. “We have missed hearing your messages these past weeks, Reverend Mason. What was the text of your sermon Sunday?”

  The preacher hemmed and hawed for a moment. Pearl stole a glance and found him looking imploringly at her. She shook her head slightly. “It was on 1 Corinthians 13, of course,” he said. “You were there, after all.”

  Pa huffed. “I have no memory of that.”

  “Well, 1 Corinthians 13 it was, on the subject of charity.” Another cautious look around the table, this time more lingering. “How nothing we can accomplish for our Lord is of worth if—if we do not show charity to our fellow man.”

  Reverend Mason had the good grace to flush after those words.

  Pearl tried her hardest to look prim and ladylike. “We are certainly doing our best to fulfill that command, here. ‘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,’ ” Pa finished, with a note of triumph.

  Though his head was likewise now ducked to hide it, Pearl spied Mr. Wheeler’s telltale smile over across the table. In the next instant, he flashed her the barest wink.

  It was very nearly her undoing.

  Reverend Mason looked thoroughly abashed, but did not refuse a helping of the apple crisp when she offered it once everyone had their fill of the beans and corn bread. He tasted it and made no comment—indeed, looked surprised at its flavor. “I am sorry we have no cream to pour over it,” she said. “The cow was taken some time back, but I’d saved back some of the summer’s honey.”

  “It’s quite toothsome,” he admitted.

  She smiled thinly. And there, in the edge of her vision, was—confound him, anyway—Mr. Wheeler nodding emphatically as he shoveled in another bite.

  And suddenly her smile was not so thin after all. But Reverend Mason didn’t have to know the true reason why.

  He ate quickly and made his excuses. Pearl offered to see him out. A shepherd should know the true state of his flock, after all, and Pearl would not speak of Pa’s spells in front of Pa himself.

  She walked with Reverend Mason to where his mount, a rather worn-looking bay horse, was tethered beside the barn. “I wonder that you dared leave him unattended,” she said. “Neither army would care that they’d be taking an animal from a man of God.”

 
; He did not answer but fixed her with a look of deepest alarm and concern. “You are in a precarious position here, no mistake.”

  “I am perfectly aware of that fact, sir.”

  That mollified him a bit. “Has your father had another spell, then?”

  She let out her breath in a rush. “Yes. It was—so frightening, Reverend. I was busy doing laundry, and he slipped out and climbed all the way over the ridge.”

  Proper shock registered on the pastor’s face at last. “It’s a miracle you found him.”

  “That was my thought. And he’s—not been himself since. He refers to our unfortunate houseguests as if they were honored guests indeed, and—”

  “And you merely wish to keep the peace.” Reverend Mason reached out to seize her hand and patted it. “You are a good Southern girl, Pearl MacFarlane. Pray do not let yourself be swayed by anything they might say. You know our cause is a righteous one.”

  How to answer that? Eyes stinging, she swallowed and stammered, “I—I will trust God to lead me as He wills. And to give me the strength to serve as He requires.”

  Reverend Mason gave her hand a last squeeze then took up his horse’s reins. “And I will pray for you and your father.”

  “Thank you, Reverend.”

  She suppressed the urge to scrub her palm on her skirts in his presence and contented herself instead with clenching her hands in her skirts as he rode away.

  It wasn’t that she doubted his sincerity. It certainly wasn’t that she doubted the good Lord either. Why, then, did his words unsettle her so?

  Near dawn, Josh dozed fitfully and woke by turns. The house was blessedly quiet. The burning ache in his arm had faded to a dull throb, though he guessed he must have smacked it against the wall sometime in the night … again. The bandages at the end of the stump were oozing a bright red, visible even in the gloom.