by Kim Bowman
I was sitting on my log, pondering my options when a large owl¯unusual during the daylight hours¯flew from the nearby pine. It startled me so badly I fell right off my perch. I was righting myself when I heard the sound of approaching boot steps.
My first thought was absolute joy and relief. The soldier has come back! A second thought ran right behind that, warning me to be careful. What if it wasn’t the soldier? I hesitated in rising, peering over the fallen tree that protected me. I grabbed a three foot branch, ready to brandish it at anyone who threatened our safety.
The boot steps sounded louder and I knew the intruder was almost upon us. I shook so badly I feared I would drop my makeshift weapon. I sensed him getting closer, his footsteps echoing the beat of my heart.
“Olivia?” Amelia tugged on my skirt, her sleep disturbed by the owl’s sudden flight. I hushed her and she sat up, eyes widening. What’s happening? she mouthed at me, shaking from excitement.
I shook my head at her and motioned her to stay down behind me. I was looking at her when the soldier called my name.
The relief I felt was so great that my eyes filled with tears. It was not until that moment that I realized I had doubted he would return. He must have been itching to rejoin his men, after all. He must have resented us; I knew I would, if our positions were reversed.
He came more fully into the little clearing, and I dropped my stick, rushing to his side. Somehow, since leaving me several hours earlier he had been in an altercation. The left side of his face sported a two-inch cut on his high cheekbone. It was crusted with drying blood. The eye above it was swollen almost shut, with a horrific purple bruise ringing it.
What had happened to him? Had he managed to get the supplies he had went after? His arms were barren and my stomach rumbled in empty protest. I was famished but I said nothing for I knew he too must be hungry.
“What happened?” I dabbed at the bloody cut on his cheek¯only mildly squeamish this time ¯ with the handkerchief my sister had passed me.
“Nothing to worry about. Someone just didn’t like the way I talk.” I hadn’t thought of that. What would we do? If it became suspected that a Rebel was traveling through, townspeople would be forming lynch mobs. He covered my hand with his own, reminding me that I was touching him as if I had every right.
I dropped my hand, feeling the heat of shame hit my cheeks. What was I doing? What must he think of me? I didn’t want him to think me a woman of loose character, free with the first man to come around.
“Thank you.” He took the handkerchief from me, pressing it to his most recent injury.
Poor man. He hadn’t had sufficient time to heal from the wound that had brought him to me in the first place, and here he was with bruising from fighting my uncle and now being attacked for trying to buy food! Yet he wasn’t complaining one bit.
I suddenly felt horrible ¯ sitting there for several hours doubting him while he was off hunting supplies. He should have been lying somewhere resting, allowing his injuries to heal. “You should rest.” I motioned him to the log I had just vacated.
“So should you, Livy.” Amelia was watching me, fascinated by my discourse with the soldier.
“There’s no time. We’re too close to the town of Salem. They were hit by Morgan’s men and don’t take kindly to outsiders. Saddle up, I want to put some miles between us and any men who decide to investigate the man with the southern accent up close-like.”
I was exhausted but knew better than to argue ¯ what if someone had followed the soldier? We were tired and weaponless, a wounded man, a woman, and a half-grown girl. We wouldn’t have even a fighting chance against a lynch mob.
I had heard of Morgan’s attacks, of course. Salem and Corydon had both been ravaged. Though I had never been to either of the two towns, my uncle’s farm was within a day’s ride of both. The Rebels had passed so close to my uncle’s place that we had been forced to hide in the root cellar until all the troops had passed. My uncle had even provided two farm hands to Hobson’s forces when they were trailing Morgan. The Loftons had lost seven fine horses to the raiders. I could well understand the townspeople’s animosity. I had been terrified and when I had learned of the destruction wrought, I had given thanks that my uncle had had the presence of mind to hide us in the cellar.
I saddled Fran, grateful she was such a steady, placid animal¯maybe I would have a small chance of staying on her back. I led her over to the fallen log, using it as a step up to mount. The soldier lifted Amelia into her saddle and mounted General and all at once it occurred to me that the soldier was now a horse thief. My uncle would be within his rights to shoot the soldier on sight if he caught up with us. I urged Fran forward, following behind the soldier and my sister. I glanced over my shoulder frequently, fearing being followed, as we traversed the hard, dirt packed road leading away from Salem.
I relaxed somewhat after about an hour or so ¯ mostly because I was struggling to keep myself erect in Fran’s saddle. The soldier seemed to be having little difficulty remaining awake as he explained to my sister how we met. Nearing mid afternoon I began to falter. I couldn’t stay awake any longer, I just knew I couldn’t.
I felt myself sliding out of the saddle when the soldier stopped his horse beside me. “Take your feet out of the stirrups, lady.”
Too tired to wonder why, I did as he ordered. He pulled me across Fran’s back and onto the General’s much higher one. I was unclear on what he intended as he turned me in his arms but I cooperated as much as I could. I was so tired I could hardly move my arms when he directed. Pretty soon my head rested against his uninjured shoulder, my legs dangling with no modesty over his. I didn’t care; all that mattered to me right then was that I was safe and that I could rest. I felt the warm spring sun against my scalp, lulling me into a deep sleep, cradled in his arms. The last sound I heard was that of Amelia giggling at something the soldier said.
I awoke to hear my little sister speaking. “Please, sir, the buttons are all we have left of my father.” What was Amelia speaking of? What buttons? Who was she talking to? I was still cradled in front of the soldier, and Amelia was not speaking to him, was she?
I opened my eyes partially, trying to see where we were. A man stood near General and Amelia was beside him. The man held an older rifle, obviously debating whether to sell it.
“The buttons are sterling silver. Worth more than any greenback or paper bill.” The soldier stated and I felt his chest rumble as he spoke. His hand came to rest over my stomach, holding me in place and keeping me from speaking. I didn’t know if he realized I had awakened. “I don’t feel safe, having my wife and her sister out here without a weapon. We were set upon by a band of deserters near the Louisville crossing, and they took my guns, all our money, and most of our food. They even struck my wife when she went to help me.”
His wife? What was going on? What scheme had he involved my sister in and what part was I supposed to play? Confused, I decided to feign sleep a little longer, hoping it would become clearer. I listened as the man haggled for three of the silver buttons, instead of the two the soldier had offered him. I once again wondered what buttons he was speaking of, and then it occurred to me. The buttons on the soldier’s Confederate uniform could have been made of silver, though they had been severely tarnished. Was he trading his buttons?
“Throw in three pounds of flour and you have a deal, sir.” Amelia stated, and I nearly forgot to feign slumber. When had my sister gotten so forward? The flour was an excellent idea ¯ with it I could make biscuits for our meals.
They haggled for a moment more, the man, the soldier and my sister until the man finally agreed on Amelia’s original request plus a battered copper pan. I was grateful for both the rifle and the flour, and the pan was an asset as well. With the flour and pan I could cook some simple biscuits, and with the rifle the soldier might be able to find some meat for us along the trail.
I had no idea how long I had slept, laying across the soldier’s thighs. I was sinkin
g into looseness of morals rapidly since discovering the soldier and I was quite ashamed of my behavior. What would my mother have thought¯seeing her eldest daughter behaving this way with a man?
I risked a glance at his face through my eyelashes. He was turned, pointing to a beautiful pair of cardinals nesting in a large sycamore. He was explaining to my sister how the birds cared for their young. He had a beautiful voice and I closed my eyes again, listening to the rich timbre of it.
An insane part of my being wanted to stay held to his chest forever, but the rational side of me demanded I return to my own horse. Before I could voice this request the soldier reined the horse to a stop.
He shook my shoulder, asserting that I was alert. He gave me a helping hand off the tall horse, saying nothing. I was glad for his silence because I knew not what to say. What do you say after sleeping on a man?
I unsaddled Fran as the soldier and Amelia tended to their own mounts, talking as they did. Amelia had formed a fast friendship with the man and I didn’t know how I felt about that. We would never see the soldier again, and I didn’t want Amelia to get hurt.
The soldier told me to set up camp, and said he was going hunting. I could see the exhaustion hugging his shoulders and once again felt guilty for forcing our presence on him. I cleared a patch of ground for a fire, mindful to scrape the leaves and grass back to expose some fresh earth. To Amelia, I gave the task of gathering firewood, while I searched the ground for a piece of flint rock to start the blaze. I wanted to have everything set up before the soldier returned ¯ proving to him and myself that I was not as incompetent as I felt. I was struggling with the sparks when the soldier returned.
“Grayson! What did you find?” Amelia jumped up from the log she was sitting on and skipped to the edge of our little camp where the soldier was standing, holding two small carcasses, spoils from his hunt.
Grayson? I wondered if this was his first name or his last, for he had never introduced himself to me. The name fit him; it evoked an image in my mind of a strong warrior, tall and handsome. He handed me his catch and I managed just barely to refrain from heaving. I hated seeing an animal like this, though I knew it was a necessary evil. Any fresh game my uncle or cousins had caught, they skinned on their own. I glanced up and found the soldier looking at me. I blushed and glanced away, well aware that I was an utter mess. I had no comb or tooth powder and my dress was horribly wrinkled ¯ though I knew it shouldn’t matter. The soldier was just as wrinkled and disheveled, and most likely in need of a good bath.
Amelia took the soldier’s kills from me and with the knife he handed her, immediately set about the distasteful chore. She did it rather skillfully as well. Where she had acquired such skill baffled me for she had never been on a hunt before.
“Amy, where did you learn to do that?” I asked, averting my gaze from the bloody sight.
“Mr. H.” Amelia told me as she handed me the freshly filleted squirrel meat. I began to cook the meat over the fire while mixing the water and flour for some plain biscuits.
“Mr. H? Who is that?” I had never heard of a Mr. H, and certainly didn’t condone my sister spending time with someone I did not know.
“Mr. Lofton, you know—” Amelia was intent on turning the meat with a sharp stick the soldier had whittled and missed my surprised look. “Gideon’s dad. Me and Rachel would go there all the time. He’d show me whenever Matthew would bring in a catch.”
Matthew was Gideon’s elder brother, a man three years my senior. He and four of his brothers had joined the fighting less than a week after Rachel, Amelia, and I had arrived in Indiana. Matthew, so they say in town, had fought fiercely and bravely, but was wounded in the leg at Bull Run. Rumor had it that the man had then spent six months in a Confederate prison camp down in Georgia, and had escaped only to take another bullet in the same leg. He’d made it to a Union camp and had been discharged after his leg healed up enough to sit a horse. He was a bitter man now, angry at the loss of his mobility, and changed from his prison experience. The few times I had seen him limping around town, I was careful to avoid him. I did not know what to say to him, or if it would even matter. I started to ask Amelia why she and Rachel had went to the Lofton farm but found that it didn’t matter now. If my sisters had enjoyed themselves then who was I to say anything?
The meat was the best I had tasted, though that could have been attributed to the fact that we hadn’t eaten in almost a full day. After the meal, and the cleaning of the one pan we had, the soldier stoked the fire and motioned to Amelia, telling her she would be sleeping closest to the embers’ warmth. He handed us each one of the blankets I had given him. My sister, drooping from exhaustion, merely nodded, displaying none of her usual exuberance, and rolled herself in the thick blanket I’d packed in the linen case for Grayson, pillowing her head on the faded red saddle blanket that had covered her horse mere hours before.
I became nervous, wondering where the soldier intended that I should sleep. I watched him as he pulled the black blanket my uncle used to cover the General and spread it on the ground. Though it was nearing late spring, the Indiana weather could prove to be capricious¯changing suddenly from summer-like heat to a cold that could chill the bones. I pulled my own woolen blanket around my shoulders, placing myself on the hardened earth a yard from my sister. I lay awake for some time listening to the sounds of the forest and the softer sounds of Grayson and Amelia as they slept before I drifted off, hazily aware of my sister as she rolled closer to my side, seeking my warmth as the last of the fire’s glow faded.
When I awoke the next morning I found myself bundled between Amelia and Grayson. He had rolled in my direction seeking warmth. Somehow his larger horse blanket had been thrown over me and I was curled into his chest, with Amelia spooned against my back. The blankets smelled like horses and I uncovered my head, removing it from its nesting place under his chin. When I rose, groaning at the ache in my back, neither Grayson nor Amelia stirred.
Thankful, I took the opportunity to make my way to the large creek, less than two hundred feet from our camp, which Grayson had discovered during his hunting excursion last evening. Before, I had used the water for the making of our biscuits and to clean the pan when we were finished. Now I had a much more personal reason for seeking out the clear, cave-fed water. After quickly taking care of my necessary business, I removed my outer garments. I gave a nervous glance over my shoulder, just knowing the soldier would catch me shamelessly undressing. When I neither saw nor heard any sign that Grayson was awake, I waded into the creek, shivering from the frigidity of the clear water.
I could not stay in long or I courted frostbite. I stepped back out and stopped along the bank, keeping my clothing within easy reach.
Before bathing I washed my gown — leaving only my shift for modesty — beating it against rocks to remove any built up dust and dirt. I scraped it with a sharp stone of medium size, wishing longingly for a bar of soap. Ringing it as dry as I could, I lay it over a nearby lilac bush to finish drying in the early morning sun. I waded several feet north, searching for a deeper cove in the stream before submerging myself, anxious to finally, at last, rinse the grime from my hair. Though I knew it wouldn’t be as effective as the longed-for soap, I used several handfuls of river sand to scrub my skin, then rinsed clean. Though the water was shockingly cool when I first entered, to be clean once again was glorious and I laughed. I stopped when I heard a soft sound.
Grayson stood on the bank, minus his own shirt. The bandage I had so painstakingly placed over his bayonet wound so many hours ago was now filthy and blood-soaked again. His eyes gleamed with appreciation as he strolled closer to me, splashing through the shallow water near the banks as if the icy water soaking his trousers mattered little. I wondered just how long he had been there watching me.
“What are you doing?” I stared at him, praying my uncoiled hair provided some coverage for my body.
“Bathing,” He came closer, was now less than ten feet from me, and the water
was up well past his knees. His unclothed chest ¯ even with the bandage ¯ looked far different in the daylight than it had that night in Farmer Mills’ barn. Most of the settlers in our part of the state were of German descent and most were blond and fair ¯ Grayson was not. And though his ribs showed, attesting to the poor rations facing a Confederate soldier, his chest was lined with strong muscles. I had not known a grown man had hair on his torso until him, and now I could see that it trailed down past his navel as well. Thankfully, he hadn’t removed his trousers, though the damp fabric hid little.
“Could you not wait, until, until I was finished?” I tried to cover my own chest with my hands, drawing his gaze to that region. My damp underclothes provided little to no covering, and I was well aware of it. I could tell, could just sense, that the soldier was well aware of it too. “I thought Southern soldiers were supposed to be gentlemen!”
The soldier was moving ever closer. I held up a hand. He ignored it, stopping within half a foot of my body. After regaining my sense of composure, and my breath, I looked into his face. I opened my mouth to explain to him that I was no loose woman, when we heard footsteps coming from the campsite. Amelia was calling my name, and when I didn’t answer, she began to call for Grayson. I didn’t want my sister to find me nearly naked and almost in the soldier’s arms so I quickly waded up onto the shore. I was thankful Amelia had distracted the soldier from whatever his intent had been. I dressed as quickly as I could, calling to Amelia to stay where she was and not to come to the creek.
Chapter Four
