A Dangerous Promise

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  "But my leg—"

  "Listen to me, Mike," Corey said. "I've got to take you to where you'll get care."

  "Then take me to my own company."

  "No chance in the world for that. Your Federals were retreatin' fast. By this time, they've reached Springfield and then some. With our army on their tail, they'll have to keep movin'. No telling where they'll run to."

  Without Todd. Without me. The last bit of Mike's resolve melted, and he burst into tears.

  Corey was silent for a few moments, then touched Mike's shoulder. "You're no older than my brother Ezra. I don't know what gave you the notion to join the army, but you did, so you gotta get yourself in hand now. You done me some favors by carryin' my notes to Marta, so I promise I'll see you get care, Mike, and I'll do whatever I can to keep you from losin' your leg."

  Mike struggled to get himself under control. He rubbed the tears from his eyes with the back of one hand and looked up at Corey. "Thanks, Corey," he said.

  Corey's smile was brief. "I'm gonna have to carry you up this slope and out of here," he said. "I won't try to fool you, Mike. Afore I get you to the hospital that's been set up at the farmhouse, your leg's gonna hurt somethin' awful."

  Mike nodded. "I understand."

  "Okay," Corey said. "Reach up and grab me around the neck."

  Mike did, and Corey swung him upward and over one shoulder.

  "Don't worry if you can't hang on," Corey said. "I've got a good hold on you."

  Pain streaked through Mike's entire body. This time he didn't try to fight it. Gratefully, he slipped back into the darkness.

  Mike awoke to find himself lying on the ground in the shade of the white farmhouse he'd spotted from the ridge on the hill. Around him were other wounded men. Some lay still, eyes closed, wrapped in blankets, while others cried out in agony. A man crawled over Mike's feet. "Oooh!" Mike yelled, but the man didn't hear. Moaning, talking to himself in delirium, he crawled on, sprawling over the bloody blanket of the man who lay next to Mike.

  "Did he hurt you?" Mike asked as he twisted toward the injured soldier.

  The man didn't answer. His half-lidded eyes were dull, his jaw slack. The soldier was dead.

  An officer, his clothes stained with blood, approached the row of wounded where Mike lay. Following the officer was an orderly with a sheaf of papers on which were printed large numbers. As the officer examined each injured man, he spoke to the orderly, and the orderly tied one of the papers to each one's coat buttons.

  This must be the company surgeon, Mike thought, and he was so frightened, he found it hard to breathe.

  The doctor spent only a moment looking at Mike's

  wound. "Infection's already set in," he said to the orderly. "We'll have to cut it off."

  "No!" Mike yelled.

  The doctor took a good look at Mike and the grubby clothes he was wearing. "A Yank, are you? Well, sorry, son, but it's the best we can do for you. Most of the men injured here will soon die of infection. Wouldn't you rather give up your leg and save your life?"

  Mike struggled to regain his composure so he could tell the doctor that the bones in the leg weren't broken and that he was sure the wound could heal with proper care, but the officer didn't wait for an answer. "Remove the dead man for burial," he instructed. An instant later, he began examining the next patient.

  As a group of soldiers approached, Mike stiffened. He'd put up a fight, he would! No one was going to cut off his leg!

  But while two of the soldiers picked up the dead man, it was Corey who bent over Mike.

  "Close your eyes," Corey whispered. "Let your jaw drop, and whatever you do, don't let anybody see you breathe!"

  Corey shouted to another soldier in the detail, "This one died on us, too. He's small enough. I'll carry him myself."

  Despite his terrible pain, Mike didn't flinch as Corey moved him. He hung limply in Corey's arms, until they had left the farmhouse far behind and entered a cool grove of trees. Mike could hear water lapping and splashing over rocks nearby.

  Barely opening his eyes, Mike glimpsed a sturdy, middle-aged woman standing by the bank of the wide creek, waiting for them.

  "Where are we? What are you doing?" Mike whispered to Corey.

  Corey gently put Mike down next to the creek bank. "Miz Ray, this is my friend Mike I told you about," he said. "Mike, this is the lady whose family lives in the white farmhouse." Corey turned back to Mrs. Ray. "The surgeon wants to take

  Mike's leg, but he's just a boy. What do you think? Will the infection kill him, or could we save his leg?"

  Mike stared off in the distance as Mrs. Ray knelt beside him and examined his leg. The answer would depend on this woman.

  "Mike," Mrs. Ray Iftnally told him, "look at me." When he did, she asked, "How old are you, son?"

  "Close to thirteen," he answered truthfully.

  Mrs. Ray sighed. "I've got a boy who'll soon be your age." She paused, then looked up at Corey. "I've seen wounds worse than this heal, with the right kind of care. I'll take him into the house and put him in John Wesley's bed. But first we've got to get Mike clean. I've brought kerosene for the lice in his hair, strong lye soap and a brush to get rid of the dirt, and alcohol to cleanse the wound, once the rest is accomplished. Will you remove his clothes, please?"

  "Ma'am!" Mike gasped. "You can't! I mean, / can't! That is—"

  "Nonsense," Mrs. Ray said. "I'm a mother, and I'm going to be your nurse. I don't think you want us to take you back to the surgeon, Mike."

  "No," Mike whispered, but he squeezed his eyes shut and burned with embarrassment.

  "We'll be as gentle as we can, Michael, but there will be some pain, and you'll have to be brave." She took his hand. "I would rather no one from the army detachment knew we were here."

  Mike just nodded. He didn't—couldn't—open his eyes.

  The acrid smells of kerosene and soap he could stand. He didn't even mind when Mrs. Ray scrubbed his skin until it seemed to be on fire. But when she began to clean his wound, he had to shove his fist into his mouth and bite his knuckles to keep from crying out.

  Finally, when Mike thought he couldn't stand the pain another minute, Mrs. Ray murmured, "You're a good boy.

  Mike," and began to wrap his leg tightly with strips of clean white cloth.

  Corey slipped a soft nightshirt over Mike's head, awkwardly trying to poke Mike's hands and arms into the sleeves. Finally, Corey once again lifted him in his arms.

  "Now," Mrs. Ray said in a businesslike manner as she picked up her tools, "what you need, Mike, is sleep."

  "I have to rejoin my company," Mike said. "I have to report."

  "Not until you're well enough to travel," Mrs. Ray said firmly. "Come along, Corey. We'll put Mike to bed."

  As they approached the Rays' farmhouse, Mike could see across the valley to the crushed stalks of the cornfields, where a detail of Confederates were collecting and burying the dead bodies of men from both armies. The dead horses remained, for now, sprawled out in the fields, their stinking, decaying flesh swelling in the heat.

  As they silently passed through the yard and entered the house, Mike flinched at the moans of the wounded men who covered the nearby ground and the Rays' front porch.

  Corey brought Mike to an upstairs bedroom. The bed— one of four in the room—was soft and clean, and Mike sank into it gratefully. "Thanks, Mrs. Ray. Thanks, Corey," he murmured. But his head still throbbed, and his leg still ached. Even sleep failed to relieve his pain. In his dreams he was burning. He cried out for Todd, he called for Ma.

  "He isn't going to live through the fever," he heard a woman say.

  But Mrs. Ray answered, "We'll do our best."

  Hands bathed him with water so cold that Mike shook. For a short while the heat slipped away, and he slept. But before long the feverish pain swept through his body again. "Ma! Help me. Ma," Mike murmured. The cooling hands bathed him again and again.

  The fiery dreams slowly trailed away, like smoke from a long s
moldering campfire, and Mike awoke to find a tall

  black woman cradling his shoulders. She smiled and lifted him into a sitting position, then held a spoonful of broth to his mouth. "Mrs. Ray says it's time to get some nourishment into you."

  "The battle," Mike mumbled, for that was all he could remember. Where was he now? And who was Mrs. Ray? "Yesterday . . ."

  "It wasn't yesterday," the woman said with a chuckle. "It's been near a week since you got here."

  "I had fever." Mike shuddered as he remembered his dreams.

  "Yes, you did, Michael. I, for one, didn't think you'd survive, but Mrs. Ray is a good nurse. She brought you through it."

  Mike sighed as the full memory of what had happened came back to him. "I'm tired," he said. "I just want to sleep."

  "Eat the soup, and I'll let you go back to sleep."

  Mike obediently gulped the broth from the spoon she held to his lips. When the bowl was empty, the woman gently laid Mike back against the pillows. "Thank you," he said, "Mrs. . . . Miss . . . ?"

  "I'm called Aunt Rhoda," she said with a smile, and plumped Mike's pillows.

  He looked up at her. "Are you a slave?"

  "Never mind about that now," she said. She smoothed Mike's blanket with one hand while she balanced his soup bowl and spoon with the other.

  "Are the Rays southern sympathizers?" he asked.

  Aunt Rhoda was firm. "The Rays are Federal. They have to be because Mr. Ray is the postmaster for these parts. He'd lose his job if he wasn't Federal."

  "How can they be Federal and still have slaves?"

  "Hush, now. It's best for you if you get some sleep."

  But Mike couldn't give up. "You could be free in Kansas."

  "Kansas?" Aunt Rhoda shook her head as she walked to the door, where she paused to look at Mike. "Me and my

  husband Wiley and our four children live in a nice little house behind the Rays' farmhouse. Maybe sometime, when this war is over, we'll be free, but we've got no cause to leave here—especially now, when no one knows what's gonna happen next."

  "Aunt Rhoda ..." Mike began, but she had shut the door.

  Weariness overcame him, and he settled back against the pillows, immediately falling asleep. He dreamed of Todd as he had laughed and conspired with Mike to run away and join the Union Army. In the dream Todd's mother was calling her son's name, over and over again. "Answer her," Todd told Mike. "She doesn't know that I can't." Mike tried, but he couldn't form the words. The sounds that came from his mouth were sobs, and Mike awoke to find that his pillow was wet.

  During the late afternoon, Mike occasionally heard the creak of the bedroom door opening. He'd open his eyes in time to see a face peeking in at him and quickly disappearing. Each face was different. How many children did Mr. and Mrs. Ray have?

  A boy entered the bedroom, firmly shutting the door behind him. "I'm John Wesley," he said. "I'm supposed to help you with the chamber pot." He slid the pot out from its place under the bed.

  Mike's face grew hot. "I can do it myself," he said. But as he tried to climb out of bed, a strong wave of pain pushed him back against the pillows.

  "Around here we do what Ma says whether we like it or not." John Wesley made a face as he proceeded to help Mike. "You don't look old enough to be in the army," he said. "Did you carry a gim? Did you shoot any Confederate soldiers?"

  "I'm not old enough to be a soldier," Mike admitted. "I'm a drummer—a company musician." He pulled the blanket

  up and tried to ignore the chamber pot, upon which John Wesley had slapped a lid, ready to take it outside to empty.

  "I know that drummers have an important job in relaying orders to the soldiers," John Wesley said. "Pa told me. And he told me that drummers get shot at just like regular soldiers."

  "That's what happened to me," Mike said.

  John Wesley studied Mike with respect. "You have to be very brave to be a drummer."

  Mike didn't answer. There was a time—it seemed like years and years ago—that he'd thought he was very brave. But he'd never been so scared in his whole life as when he went into battle.

  A firm voice called from downstairs, "John Wesley Ray! What's keeping you?"

  "I'll be back later," John Wesley said. He hurried out, leaving the door ajar.

  Mike lay back against his pillows, deliberately and painfully reviewing the battle in his mind. Captain Dawes had been killed, as had Ben, but what about Sergeant Gridley? And Harley? And Billy? Mike could see the faces of some of the other men in his company. What had happened to them? Where were they now?

  A man's gruff voice, coming from somewhere downstairs, broke into his thoughts: "Ma'am, I've heard that you're harborin' a Union soldier under your roof."

  Mrs. Ray's voice was every bit as firm and clear. "Whether we are or not makes no difference. Captain. Your General McCuUoch issued an order that said that prisoners would be released and allowed to return to their friends."

  "That order is about to be countermanded, ma'am. General Price has a different idea about prisoners, and he's about to issue a statement to the populace of Missouri." After a pause and a rustle of paper, the captain said, "Here . . . I'll read you that part." Raising his voice, he continued, " 'I warn all evil-disposed persons, who may support the

  usurpations of anyone claiming to be provisional or temporary governor of Missouri, or who shall in any other way give aid or comfort to the enemy, that they will be held as enemies, and treated accordingly.' And now, ma'am, with or without your permission, I'm going upstairs to see if you're hiding a Yankee soldier."

  Mike clutched the edge of the blanket, barely able to breathe, as he heard the officer's heavy footsteps thumping up the stairs.

  As THE CAPTAIN appeared in the doorway, children of all ages scooted in and around him. Some of the children were almost as tall as the captain, some barely higher than his knees. Mike stared, wide-eyed.

  John Wesley pushed to the forefront. "Don't worry," he said to the captain. "We don't think our brother's contagious."

  "Contagious?" The captain hesitated.

  Rolling his eyes, John Wesley lowered his voice to almost a whisper. "And we're almost sure it isn't smallpox."

  John Wesley crossed his eyes and began scratching his arms and chest. Two of the smaller children immediately copied him. The captain nervously backed away from the doorway, bumping into Mrs. Ray, who had just joined the group. "Has the company doctor seen your son who's ill, ma'am?" he asked.

  "My son?" Mrs. Ray's eyes widened, but she quickly re-

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  covered. "As you can see, your company doctor has his hands full. Michael is recuperating and will soon be well."

  One of the younger children stepped on the captain's toes as she shoved her way out the door. Pain lined his face as he dodged her path. "How many children do you have, ma'am?" he asked Mrs. Ray.

  "Mr. Ray and I have been blessed with quite a large family," Mrs. Ray said. She put her hand to the forehead of a little girl who was scratching vigorously. "What's the matter, Livonia?" she asked. "Are you not feeling well?"

  "Mrs. Ray," the captain told her, "I would Uke to search the rest of your house."

  "Do whatever you must do," Mrs. Ray answered. "The children will accompany you."

  "That's not necessary," the captain barked, and his footsteps beat a swift tattoo as he strode down the hallway, most of the children on his heels.

  John Wesley looked up at his mother. "I wasn't fibbing— well, not exactly."

  Smiling, Mrs. Ray put a hand on her son's shoulder, then turned to Mike. "Mr. Ray and I have taught our children that when a law is terribly unjust, then it is wrong to obey it," she said. "To take you as a prisoner at this time, Mike, would surely mean your death."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Ray," Mike mumbled.

  Yet he wondered: Mrs. Ray was a good, kind woman who taught her children to be just—yet she owned slaves. How could anyone believe that slavery was just?

  "Sleep well," Mrs. Ray said. "Most o
f the troops have gone north to occupy Springfield. The others will soon leave. You're a part of our family for the present. You'll be safe here with us."

  But it wasn't long before Mike had another visitor. Corey came to Mike's bedside and smiled down at him. "You look a lot better than you did, Mike Kelly."

  "Thanks to you," Mike said.

  "And to Mrs. Ray. She'll take good care of you."

  "Do you know what happened to my company? Where they went?" Mike asked.

  Corey shrugged. "Last I heard, your Major Sturgis was still leading his army northeast. Someone said the Yanks were headed for RoUa, as far as they could get from us Confederates." He blustered a bit as he added, "They may have to run all the way to St. Louis."

  Mike didn't want to hear Corey brag about the Union Army's defeat. Besides, there was something important he had to discuss with Corey. "Your friend Jiri—" Mike began, but Corey interrupted.

  "Jiri Logan's no friend of mine."

  Mike got right to the point. "He stole my friend's pocket watch."

  "I know that," Corey answered.

  When Corey didn't say anything else, Mike burst out, "Todd's father gave him that watch, and Todd wanted it to go to his sister Emily, if he was killed. I promised to take it to her. Jiri has to give me the watch!"

  "No, he doesn't. Jiri took the watch off one of the enemy. Sorry—off your friend. If Jiri hadn't taken the watch, somebody else would have. You didn't see, but all the camp followers were goin' through the pockets of the dead and wounded."

  "Corey," Mike insisted, "I've got to get that watch." And Fve got to get Jiri, he thought, fighting to control his rage.

  "You're in no shape to take it away from him." Corey couldn't help smiling. "And I'm not about to get in the middle of a fight over a plain ol' watch that could be bought in any general store in Missouri, so don't ask me to do the job for you."

  Mike exploded, "It's not fair!"

  "Who said war was fair?" Corey reached down to give a rough pat to Mike's shoulder. "Good-bye, Mike Kelly. I hope we never meet up on a battlefield again."