He sprang toward a dark sanctuary of trees. His foot snagged in a merciless rut. Bone twisted and snapped. Nerves in his left leg screamed. Agony raced from his heel, ending its flaming journey in the back of his head.
The reaper left the wagon and stood over him. No face, only a halo of darkness.
“Oh, Lord, please, no!” Joseph pleaded, desperately trying to crawl away.
As the headless creature thrust forth a hand, lightning shot through Joseph’s spine. He glanced up in time to see an arm so thin it could only be the bony remains of a skeleton. Pain shoved his mind into oblivion.
The “Grim Reaper” threw off her hood as she studied the fallen soldier. A smaller version appeared at her side.
“He looks like he’s seen a ghost, Sarah. Sure you wanna help him?”
Sarah turned to her younger brother. “I do, Skeeter. Get the blanket, and let’s get him to Paradise Springs.”
Fighting against the cords binding his wrists, Joseph drifted in and out of the nether world of fear. It felt like he lay on a bed. But who would tie a man to a bed unless they planned harm? Perhaps it wasn’t a bed at all but a way to torment the living while they served an eternal sentence in Hell.
The pallid eyes of the old man he’d knifed came into focus. “Get away from me!” Joseph rasped. The eyes stared on, into and through his soul, empty, yet familiar. “I’m sorry! You left me no choice.” The words spewed from Joseph’s mouth as the spear in his side ripped through mutilated flesh. “Please, Lord, don’t let it end this way!” Again, oblivion claimed him.
The spent musket ball fragment plinked into a tin pan.
Slowly, the world began to lighten. In the distance, voices whispered. Joseph used them as a guide back from the trial of ceaseless night. The fragrance of fresh baked bread filled the air. His stomach grumbled, mouth drier than August in Kansas. Perhaps if he could find his own voice, the other voices would hear.
“Water,” he whispered. “Water…please.” He heard footsteps. Although it seemed cobwebs covered his eyes, he couldn’t mistake the outline of a woman’s face.
“He’s awake.”
Joseph turned toward the voice and saw a boy about twelve.
“Shush, Skeeter. I can’t hear him.”
Joseph refocused on the woman. “Water, please.” As soon as he said it, a white china cup rimmed in gold was pressed to his lips, and soft arms held him up to drink.
“Thought you were a goner. What’s your name, mister?”
“Skeeter, let him rest.”
Joseph struggled to form the words to his name. “Joseph Scriven.”
“I’m sorry we have to keep you tied up, Mister Scriven, but you wouldn’t stop fighting and trying to get up.”
It took a moment before Joseph realized she was calling him Mr. Scriven. No one addressed him as mister. His commanding officer had always said Private Scriven. “It’s Joseph. Who are you? Where am I?”
“I’m Sarah Blessing. And this is my brother Skeeter. You’re in Paradise Springs, in our home.”
“I’m grateful, Miss Blessing.”
She smiled. “Sarah, if you please. I’ll untie you, but you have to be absolutely still, or you’ll bust open the stitches and unset your leg.”
“I promise.”
The young woman reached to free his hands, her brown curls brushing his arm. The fragrance of lilacs filled the air. Her hands felt silky soft against the roughness of his arms. Dressed in pink satin with white lace trim, he thought her close to his own age.
Perhaps time still held a little more life after all. He settled under the blankets, the rich sleep of the living overtaking his mind. His leg and body would mend in this tranquil refuge. Given time, maybe his soul would also find peace.
Christmas and New Year’s arrived and departed without fanfare. The days seemed only a faded memory. Had time really passed? Reason told him it had.
Before he knew it, Sarah had turned the calendar to February. In March he managed to walk without assistance, though he hadn’t yet been allowed out of this single room. Whenever his caretakers had brought him a meal, they relocked the door. Mostly mended, the endless trek of the clock’s hands stirred within him a new restlessness.
Behind him, the key clicked in the lock. Sarah appeared, a biscuit and fruit laden tray in her hands. Since his rescue, he’d grown almost two inches. His shirt struggled to properly clothe him. At this rate, his head would brush the ceiling by fall, though inside a skinny boy with stilts for legs still lurked.
A warm smile crossed his benefactress’s face. “Good morning, Joseph. I trust you slept well.”
He sniffed at the offered feast. “Fine, thank you. Do you think I might be allowed outside today? There’s barely a wind, and the sun is bright.” Though she tried to hide it, Joseph saw a cloud in his guardian angel’s eyes.
A quick smile chased away the flicker of darkness. “If you promise to do exactly as I say, and when I say it’s time to come in, you’ll do so without question. And you’ll not leave the veranda.”
After this lengthy convalescence, he’d have consented to climb a tree feet first. “Agreed, Miss Sarah.” He watched her cheeks redden when he squeezed her hand. He’d grown fond of her. She was, so he’d discovered from Skeeter, only a year his junior. No doubt the war prevented suitable gentlemen callers. Perhaps her parents didn’t think her old enough. Maybe he’d ask permission himself, if he ever met them.
“I’ll fetch Skeeter.” She left, the door ajar behind her.
Something itched in the back of his mind at the thought of the whereabouts of the elusive Mr. and Mrs. Blessing. Why hadn’t they come to see what kept their children occupied? Sarah had mentioned it was to keep any visitors from discovering the room harbored a Yankee. Perhaps they worked clandestinely for the North, or ran an underground railroad.
Sarah’s voice jarred him from his thoughts. “Are you ready?” She handed him an overcoat, which smelled of old wood smoke.
With Skeeter in front and Sarah at his side, he took the stairs down one at a time then stepped outside. Fresh, new air assailed his nose. Full of questions, he eased onto the wooden porch swing. “How come you haven’t been burned out, or this home seized? How do you get those lilacs to bloom so early? Do you mind that I’m a Yankee?”
Sarah’s laughter resonated from deep within. “The lilacs bloom because it’s their time. And as to why we haven’t been burned out, well, I suppose it’s because the road through Paradise Springs travels a different path. As to your being a Yankee, it’s what lives in a man’s heart that defines his life.”
Joseph rested his arm on the back of the swing and gazed at the ripening fields and summer garden. Behind the north cornfield, he spotted a white picket fence. “What’s there?”
Biting her lip, Sarah turned away. “It’s time to go inside.”
“But we just got here,” he protested. Then recalling his promise, he stood, offering his hand. “Maybe again tomorrow.”
They entered through the library doors, Sarah leading. “You’ll stay in here now. Father will be away for another month, and he hoped Dickens and perhaps the works of Shakespeare would keep your mind occupied.”
After several weeks, even David Copperfield couldn’t ease the insatiable itch to roam past the railed veranda. The war needed able-bodied men, even if they were all of seventeen and an Army private. He should see about rejoining his unit.
Today, though, he ventured to the fully tasseled field of corn, plucked a single ear, shucked, and sunk his teeth into juicy yellow kernels. Still following his feet, he wandered toward the white picket fence.
One foot through the whitewashed gate, he heard a storm rumble in the distance. A glance at blue skies told him it was not rain. He raced back to the house.
“Sarah, Skeeter! The war! I hear it! Get in the root cellar!” Once inside, he pounded on the library doors and twisted the knob. As usual, they were locked.
“What’s the matter, Joseph?” asked Sarah who sudde
nly appeared behind him, Skeeter skidding to a stop on her heels.
Spinning, he gripped her arms. “I heard it! The war! Quantrill! You have to hide.”
“And what will you do?”
What had he planned to do? Hold off the entire South by himself? A boy who’d only recently found a reason to use a razor on his face?
Taking his hand, Sarah led him onto the veranda. “I don’t hear anything.”
Cocking his head to the side, Joseph listened to the silence. “I know I heard large artillery, three pounders.”
Outside, Joseph saw the ear of corn that he’d dropped. Shame of betrayal of her trust blazed on his face.
Without the expected scolding, she pointed him back to the library. “I think supper is ready. War’s an ugly thing to listen to anyway.”
Sarah served up a pile of mashed potatoes with butter, fried chicken enough to feed a dozen hungry soldiers, and pie. Instead of leaving him to eat by himself, she joined him in the library.
“That was excellent, my regards to the cook. If we had a little music we could dance.” Joseph laid his fork where the cherry pie had been.
A dimple appeared in his companion’s left cheek. She thrust the key in the door’s lock. “Skeeter! Get your strings! There’s dancing to be done.”
As if he’d been waiting the call, her brother appeared, fiddle in hand.
“A waltz, please, young man,” Joseph said, offering Sarah his arm.
The fiddling wasn’t quite a symphony, but it matched the dancers perfectly as they stepped and stumbled over each other’s feet.
Giving up the dance before he broke his other leg, the two of them flopped onto the settee. Joseph glanced at Skeeter. “Thank you.”
The boy blushed. His freckles accented the carrot color of his hair. “Thank you, sir.”
“Sir?” Joseph asked. “I’m only five years older than you.”
“It fits.” Skeeter gestured toward a mirror then ducked through the library doors.
Joseph studied his reflection. Well, there were quite a few more hairs on his chin, and he’d put on a few pounds, grown a couple of inches, but those were on the outside. Inside he didn’t feel like a man. At the moment, he felt like his family nickname Pup-jup.
The glow of the dance still burning, Joseph took Sarah’s hands in his and pulled her to her feet. “This has been the most wonderful day of my life. Thank you.” He kissed her on the cheek. “I’d like to come back after the war. I mean if your father would allow. I mean, would you wait for me?” The words tumbled from his mouth.
A smile trembled on the young woman’s lips. “I’ll never leave Paradise Springs. But now it’s time to rest, and the hour is late.” She brushed his face with her fingertips then scurried through the doors, locking them behind her.
Curious answer, he thought while stretching arms and legs over the settee. Maybe that was a southern way of saying yes. A content smile on his face, he slumbered.
He’d been asleep for what seemed like only a minute when an explosion rocked the house, throwing him to the floor. Arms flailing, he struggled to stand. He couldn’t breath. Smoke choked his throat, burning his eyes.
Suddenly, a dozen hands pulled on him. “Sir, you gotta get out of here! The fire!”
Joseph swung his fists and kicked his feet. “No! Sarah! Save Sarah!” Smoke robbing him of his last breath, he fell into the arms of the rescuers.
A single pair of hands shook his arm. “Sir, please wake up. You’re scaring the whole camp.”
Joseph’s eyes popped open, and he found a boy, younger than Skeeter, peering down at him. Joseph bolted off the cot and grabbed the child’s arms. “Did you save them? Sarah and Skeeter. Did they get out?”
The boy winced as Joseph’s fingers dug into his flesh. “I don’t know no Sarah or Skeeter, sir. Maybe Colonel Siegel does.” No sooner had Joseph turned loose, the boy lit out of there as though he’d seen the devil.
Determined to find answers, Joseph followed and burst into another tent. The man at the table glanced up.
“Glad to have you back, Lieutenant Scriven. Thought that fever was going to be the last of you.”
Lieutenant? Only then did Joseph notice his clothes, discovering he wore an officer’s uniform with a single bar on the shoulder strap. This was not right!
Joseph opened his hands. “Lieutenant? Sir? I’m where? How? The fire?” He stood there; face as blank as new paper.
The colonel motioned toward a crate. “Sit down, son, before you fall over and hurt yourself. Can’t have you snap your neck now that your fever’s finally broke.”
Remembering the bullet he’d taken, Joseph reached for his side. “I had a fever, and my leg was broken, but…?”
“Well, don’t know about the leg but it was one haystack of a fever. Felt like a fire, doc said. Never saw a rabid dog fight as hard as you did last night. Got the whole camp riled. Who’s Sarah?”
The colonel didn’t wait for an answer. “None of my nevermind. You can write her later. Right now, I want you to get yourself put together and meet me at the west edge of camp. Dismissed.”
Still mystified and uncertain he was awake, Joseph returned to the other tent. There, he found a small basin of water.
Face scrubbed and coat buttoned, Joseph gazed long and hard at himself in the mirror. Holding it closely, he recognized his eyes but when he pulled it farther away, it seemed as though he’d been slipped into the skin of his father. And when had he grown a beard?
The officer’s uniform. It fit as though it’d been made for his now six-foot frame. Certain the word “private” had been written on his enlistment papers, he squeezed closed his eyes, trying to visualize the word. His mind saw only illegible squiggles of ink.
With memories dashing madly through his head feeling as though they belonged to someone else, he wandered to the edge of camp. Enlisted men saluted him. Uneasily, he returned each gesture.
A half hour later, the colonel met him in front of a couple dozen ragtag men bunched on the ground. “Lieutenant Scriven, these are prisoners of the United States of America. You’re to see that they are properly treated and not allowed to escape until such time as we can figure out what to do with them. Sergeants Linn and Tiswell are at your command. Any questions?” Again, the colonel didn’t wait for any.
“Understood, sir.” Though he had questions and didn’t know where to begin, Joseph saluted. How had he gotten here? Wherever here was.
“I think he’s plumb crazy,” whispered one of the prisoners. “Did you hear all that screaming last night? Heard it was him.”
“We won’t last a week,” said an anonymous voice.
“Be lucky to get a day.”
Surveying his new command, Joseph counted forty-nine men, give or take. Hogs wouldn’t wallow with them they were so filthy. Sergeant Tiswell waved him over.
“Them two yonder is sick. Want me to get rid of ’em?”
Joseph focused on the two. True, they both had a cough but it had been raining. Raining? No, the day had been sunny when he walked through the field. And what’d happened to all the leaves on the trees? Sarah had just yesterday turned the calendar to April…?
“No. Feed them,” Joseph said.
Tiswell raised both eyebrows. “Sir?”
“You heard me. Have the cook bring them food.”
Tiswell brushed a half salute to his head. “Yeah, suhr. Anything else, suhr? Cup of hot coffee?”
Joseph refused to return the disrespectful salute or acknowledge the sergeant’s ugly remark. Instead, he walked away. He needed time…to think…to remember.
Nothing made sense. Not the uniform, nor the smoke, nor this colonel and most of all, Sarah. He continued to walk, searching for answers that wouldn’t come.
Full darkness descended, and the answers were more elusive than ever. His own men echoed the hushed whispers of the prisoners. Nothing seemed right yet nothing seemed unduly wrong except…
He heard a cry, like the howl of a wild creatu
re found only in nightmares. Had the company been attacked by wolves? He hurried to the yowl.
Back at the prisoners, Joseph saw Sergeant Tiswell snap a horsewhip, raising another red welt across the back of one of the Confederates. Another, smaller, young lad, was being restrained by other Rebels, a boy who couldn’t be more than twelve at most—Skeeter’s age. Was the South so desperate that Lee allowed children to take up arms?
Tiswell laid another blow. “That’ll teach you to steal food! That bread belonged to Mr. Lincoln, you slime dog reb.”
The lad raised his arms toward Joseph. “Please, Lieutenant, make them stop! I took the bread. Don’t let it end this way!”
Memories flooded Joseph as he recognized the boy’s words. Hadn’t he himself said the same thing when he’d stood at death’s door? He’d spent all night wandering in this new wilderness of war. Just as the sun cast its first warming rays over the horizon, he knew the answer to one of the millions of questions roaming in his head.
Walking as though he’d been born to the rank, Lieutenant Scriven snatched the whip. “Enough,” he said, his voice resonant with the authority of command.
Tiswell rounded on the lieutenant spraying spittle. “Says who?”
Joseph went toe to toe with Tiswell and found that he towered over the little man. “Tiswell, are you refusing an order?”
“You ain’t no officer. There’s somethin’ not right about you.”
“Sergeant!” Joseph barked, gripping the attention of both friend and foe. “You will never mistreat a prisoner.”
“Yes, sir!” The man growled the words, his eyes blazing the fires of hell.
Just then, a cook arrived with food for the two sergeants, along with a half dozen soldiers who came to witness the ruckus.
Tiswell reached for his breakfast. Joseph blocked the way. “The good Sergeant has decided to give his food to the prisoners. And you, Linn, will see that he does or join him in his fast. The rest of you lollygaggers,” Joseph glared, “will also surrender your breakfast if you aren’t out of here in five seconds.” He turned to the prisoners of war. “And you. I promise that as long as I’m in charge, you will not be abused or mistreated. But, if you try to escape, you will be hanged. Is that clear?”
Ghost Towns Page 14
