by Beth Trissel
He clasped her hand. “Don’t worry. It’s probably just a neighbor with news.”
“Before sunrise, in heavy fog? Be careful.”
“Yes.” He nodded his awareness of the need for caution and pressed a quick kiss to her mouth.
If only he could linger here with her. What bliss that would be.
Loathe to part from her sweet warmth, he sat upright in bed. Accustomed to hurried dressing, he pulled on his clothes, fastened buttons, adjusted his suspenders, and tugged on his boots in rapid movements. The warrior in him conjectured where he’d left his carbine—in a slit between the stones at the base of the barn, too far for him to immediately retrieve.
He lifted the holstered revolver on his leather belt and fastened the buckle at his waist. His coat concealed the loaded gun. Uppermost in his mind, was the silent vow he’d made not to fire in this pacifist home, or on the farm, if he could possibly avoid it. Still, he had the weapon if needed. No bluecoats were taking him.
With a wistful glance at Evie, seated in bed clutching the blankets to her bare skin, he strode across the room and out the door. He encountered Mary Wenger in the dusky hall. She’d thrown a gray shawl around her plain white nightgown and wore a white cap. The candle dancing in the black iron holder she held revealed the apprehension in her lined face. The younger girls peeped anxiously from behind their mother.
Mary relaxed visibly upon seeing him. “Thank God you have come, Jack. Paul’s away and I have no notion who might be calling. We cannot be too careful with looters afoot.”
“No.” He doubted they’d knock either and patted her thin shoulder reassuringly. “Wait here.”
With the feminine household hanging on his every step, he hastened down the stairs. Keeping a hand at his waist, he crept to the door. The predawn light was dim and the mist too thick for a glance out the window to offer any insight, or forewarning, if that were wanted.
He turned the lock and cracked the door, widening it at the sight that greeted him. The young Rebel called Dunham, the signature red scarf at his neck, supported Jack’s reprobate cousin. His normally high-spirited relation sagged against the fellow guerrilla. Blood painted a path down Sam’s coat sleeve, and he clasped a crimson-stained glove to his upper arm.
“What happened, Cousin?” Jack hissed.
“Got shot, didn’t I?” he said between gritted teeth. “Yankee sentries. We strayed too close.”
A vision of mounted soldiers pounding up the lane sharpened Jack’s alarm. “Were you followed?”
“No. We escaped in the fog.”
Dunham’s brown eyes creased beneath his wide-brimmed black slouch hat. “Sam said you would be here and I should bring him. But this is a Unionist household?”
Jack bent nearer. “It makes no difference. Mennonites will help anyone in need.”
Dunham seemed dubious. “I heard something of the sort. Didn’t believe it.”
“Believe, and come in quickly, before you’re both seen.” Jack motioned them forward, stepping aside to make room. The instant they were through the door, he closed it, and turned the lock. “Where did you leave your mounts?”
“The barn.” Dunham looked none too easy about it.
“They should be all right for the moment.” Jack shifted his cousin, wincing, into his support. Like him, Sam was a lanky man, and Dunham had a slight, wiry build. The loyal friend had done a lot to support Sam this far, especially as he couldn’t bear weight on one leg.
“Why are you limping?” Jack scanned him for telltale blood.
“Twisted my ankle getting off the horse. Nothing compared to—” Sam broke off with a groan.
“Mary,” Jack summoned over his shoulder. “A bullet wound needs tending down here.”
“Ach. That is bad,” she answered from the upstairs landing.
“Could be worse. It’s his arm.”
Bullets striking the chest or abdomen nearly always proved fatal. The Minie´ balls commonly fired from rifled muskets often inflicted severe internal damage. Limbs might require amputation. Jack wasn’t certain what ball had stuck Sam and prayed he wouldn’t lose his arm. If the worse came, they would have to find a doctor. Mary couldn’t perform the gruesome surgery.
“Be aware, it’s Sam Hobbs,” he disclosed to her, and all other ears privy to their exchange.
“Ach,” she repeated, a waver in her tone.
“He’s my cousin,” Jack added.
“Ich bin om cooma.” She slipped into German in her nervousness, while declaring her intention to come.
Sam’s lamentable reputation preceded him. Even so, Jack trusted Christian charity, not the memory of his cousin’s derisive attitude and pilfering behavior, would guide Mary’s actions. She and her family were forgiving souls.
“I’m coming, too.” Hettie’s assurance carried down the steps.
“Thank you.” Jack knew she was an able nurse.
“I don’t know how much help I will be but I’m on my way,” Evie called softly.
The women’s immediate response was gratifying. “Good. We can use all the hands we can get.”
Quick footfalls followed overhead. Drawers opened and closed. A wardrobe door creaked. The household buzzed as the women and girls dressed.
What should they do with Sam? He wasn’t in a fit state to go far. Daylight would soon be upon them. Burning parties hadn’t yet reached the country west of Harrisonburg, but foragers might appear at any hour.
Jack considered the parlor. “Not the couch. We’ll stain it, and there isn’t inadequate room to work. Let’s take him to the kitchen.”
Together, he and Dunham eased the groaning man across the floor and into the coziest room in the house. Jack indicated the table, built long to seat the large family. “How about that? It’s the best makeshift spot for surgery.”
“Not there,” Sam objected.
“Sorry, Cousin. Nothing else for it.”
Dunham lent his assistance and they carefully heaved the patient onto the clean oak surface. Jack set Sam’s gray hat aside and eased a folded towel under his head.
“Stir up the fire and add kindling,” he directed Dunham. “We need warm water. That, alone, shouldn’t draw scavengers like the scent of breakfast.”
“I sure hope not. We’re sitting ducks in here.” Dunham turned his somber attention to the cast iron stove dominating that side of the room.
“There’s a hiding place in the attic if need be,” Jack divulged.
Sam’s eyes glinted in triumph. “I knew it. Not that it matters a lick now.” He’d promised Jack his days of hunting down army evaders and deserters were over.
Dunham brightened a little. “It matters if we need to scuttle up there.” He soon had wood crackling in the stove.
What a pity they didn’t dare risk cooking a proper breakfast. Jack could do with one, and imagined everyone else could, too. The guerrillas were on slim rations, unless they raided Union supplies, then they ate heartily. That’s probably what Sam and Dunham were attempting when they were detected.
Mary swept into the kitchen, seeming more confident with an injury to see to. In her arms were a gray wool blanket and strips of linen. Her gaze fell on Sam, and she pursed her lips, then shifted her focus to the newcomer at the stove.
“Mister Dunham Owens, Mrs. Mary Wenger,” Jack said, by way of introduction.
The young Rebel tipped his hat to her. “Ma’am.”
“Mister Owens.” She returned her attention to the man grimacing on the table. “We will do our best for you, Mister Hobbs. You need to get his coat and shirt off, Jack, or cut the cloth from him.”
“I hate to do that. What’s he to wear? Need your help, Dunham.” Against Sam’s cries, the two men gingerly peeled the blood-soaked garments from him and piled them on the floor.
Jack studied the ugly hole in the fleshy part of his arm below the shoulder. If he were fortunate, the bullet hadn’t fractured a bone. No fragments were visible, but it was hard to tell with the blood.
&nb
sp; Mary pressed a folded linen square to the wound to stem the flow. Tremors ran through Sam’s lean muscled form. Was he reacting to the shock of the injury or taking a chill? Or both?
The matron took charge. “Hold this, Jack.”
He slid his hand over the cloth in place of hers, and she briskly covered Sam with the blanket, leaving only his injured arm exposed. “Hettie?” she summoned.
“Here, Mama.” Her eldest daughter appeared at her elbow, blue eyes creased in concentration.
Hettie nodded at Dunham, cast a pitying glance at Sam, and gathered the stained mound of laundry. “I will put these to soak in the wash tub and get the yarrow.”
“Ya. Gut.” Mary affirmed her herb choice. “We will also steep the leaves to make medicinal water. The crushed leaves and root are used to dull pain and heal wounds, Mister Hobbs.”
“I’m beholden to you, ma’am,” he ground out. “It’s more than I deserve.”
Her steady regard did not falter. “The Lord desires mercy.”
He met her gaze through pain-glazed eyes. “Not many follow God’s wishes these days.”
“We do in this house, as best we are able.”
Jack could humbly vouch for that. His conscience smote him. How could he possibly consider a shootout of any kind on this farm? Hadn’t the Wengers taught him better? If bluecoats came, then he and the other two must hide or face capture, and execution for guerillas was more likely than imprisonment.
Mary gestured at Dunham. “Have you any spirits for Mister Hobbs?”
“Applejack brandy, ma’am.” He drew a glass flask bottle from his black coat pocket, partly filled with amber fluid. “Sam’s had a goodly draught.”
“Best give him another. The brandy will warm him, and he has need of it. We have no laudanum. I will heat the water.”
The little woman darted away like a busy wren. She took an iron kettle from the walnut cupboard bearing cups, bowls, plates, and other kitchen stuff. The best goods had been hidden but cooking day-to-day with nothing on hand was impossible. She flew out the door to the rain barrel on the stoop, reappeared almost immediately, and set the kettle on the hot stove to boil.
Evie’s warm voice carried from the parlor where Jack expected the sisters had gathered. He imagined their frightened faces, and her heartening presence. “Here you go, girls. There’s plenty for everyone, including our guests. I brought pretzels, oatmeal-nut bars, dried fruit, and chocolate—”
Small squeals of delight disrupted her. “Chocolate?” they queried in unison.
“From my generous grandmother. I have been saving it, and this is the day.”
The dear girl must have dug deep into her carpet bag. He suspected she had been reserving the food stuff for him.
“Eat up,” she encouraged. “I will make us all some instant coffee, as soon as I’m able. A special treat.”
On the tail of her joyously received gifts and promise of more, Evie sailed into the kitchen. She wore the yellow-checked gown, her bountiful hair loosely pinned on her head and tied with a yellow ribbon. She held an embroidered pillow case filled with goodies, reminiscent of Santa’s pack.
She took in the assembly and smiled at Jack, like sunshine streaming into darkness, then hastened to the table. No shyness was evident as she greeted Dunham. “Hello. I’m Evie Ramsey.”
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” He gaped at her while parting with more of his precious brandy to Sam. He supported the injured man’s head with one hand and administered sips with the other. “You say all the supplies in that bag came from your grandmother, even coffee and chocolate?”
“Yes. I also have some sugar.”
Dunham gave a low whistle. “She must be acquainted with a wily blockade runner and pay him in gold.”
“Maybe so. I took much for granted before coming here.” Evie dropped her gaze to Sam. “I’m very sorry for your injury and brought some things I hope may help.”
His lips curved in the ghost of a smile despite his gritted teeth. “Most kind, ma’am.”
“Please, call me Evie. We are family now. Besides, we met, remember?”
He coughed on a swallow. “We did, indeed.”
If Sam were his normal self, he would thoroughly enjoy this exchange. But he wasn’t. Before Evie tired him, Mary skirted to her side, a question in her brown eyes.
“What have you brought us?”
“A lot of food, and…” Evie fished in her bag and held out what appeared to be tweezers and a small metal tool with a hook on the end. “It’s a crochet hook, in case you need to probe the wound. Might these tweezers clamp the bullet?”
Wearing a perplexed expression, Mary took the items and examined them. “This may serve,” she said, referring to the crochet hook. “The tweezers are too short. I have what you call a bullet extractor.”
Jack had heard of the medical instrument found on a local battlefield and given to the prominent healer in the area.
“Wow. Okay.” Evie restored the tweezers. “I also brought some medication to lessen his pain.” She opened her palm to reveal two white pills. “This helps me when I take it.”
‘For cramps,’ she added under her breath. But he supposed pain was pain.
Mary bobbed her approval and Evie handed the medicine to Dunham. “Give him these with the brandy.”
The ready assistant gave Sam the pills.
She dipped back into her bag and removed a small, strangely marked bottle containing a foreign substance. “Hand sanitizer so we don’t spread germs to the wound.”
What on earth? Everyone, including Jack, stared at her.
“Never mind.” Her cheeks pinkened and she tucked away her offering.
Whatever it was, must remain a mystery at present. She set her bag on the dry sink attached to the cupboard. “Eat whatever you like. I brought plenty.”
Mary nodded graciously. “Most welcome.”
“A taste of glory land.” Jack’s mouth watered at a delectable sniff of the storehouse, but he stayed with Sam and the compress. “I’ll get my share in a bit, thanks.”
Dunham pocketed his depleted flask and headed toward the stash. “I’ll save you both a morsel.”
“You had better leave more than that,” Jack warned. Dunham wasn’t a big fellow, but he could put away the food.
The back door opened, and Hettie blew in with the early morning breeze. Sunshine was breaking through the mist. So much for concealment. Jack and the others must remain indoors until evening. Maybe longer.
His focus returned to the fresh-faced girl gripping a stoneware bowl the same shade as her simple brown gown. Coppery reddish hair peeked from under her white cap. An herbal pungency accompanied her entrance. Feathery green leaves and pounded root filled the vessel she set on a stool.
Taking the kettle from the stove, she poured steaming water over the aromatic plant, except for the piece of pulverized root she reserved. This, she carried to the table.
She stopped by Jack, her clear blue eyes seeking Sam.
“Yarrow root dulls the pain, sir. I will place this on your wound and leave it a while, then sponge your arm with the herbal water.”
He regarded her intently and inclined his head. “That sure sounds better than nothing to numb it.”
Dunham also seemed impressed by the herbalist. “Much,” he agreed between squelchy bites of chocolate.
“I can testify to the healing skills in this house.” Jack nodded at Hettie. “I am ready when you are.”
“Now,” she directed, and he lifted the stained cloth he’d held in place.
She spread the pounded root over the oozing hole in Sam’s upper arm, her light touch eliciting only a slight grimace. “We will wait for it to work. Please restore the cloth, Jack.” She turned enthusiastically to Evie. “I overheard the excitement in the garden. What did you bring?”
“All sorts of things. Are you hungry?”
“Oh, yes. Everyone is.”
“I can make coffee with the instant brew,” Evie offere
d. “I even have cream and sugar.”
“Your grandmother is a true saint.” Hettie waved at the kettle. “We need more boiling water.”
“I will refill the kettle.” Mary still puzzled over the crochet hook Evie had given her. “How did you know this might be useful? Have you looked on as a bullet was removed?”
“Not exactly. I have watched medical programs, like plays,” she said, the struggle to explain in her face.
Plays? People made entertainment about bullet removal? What was in this future she spoke of? Jack wondered.
He had no idea. His ears were tuned for the faintest hint of drumming hooves and boots in the yard.
Chapter Seventeen
Where was Jack? Had he run into blue-clad soldiers?
Evie’s knees ached from kneeling on the floorboards in front of the attic window. Still, she stayed and stared at the malevolent blackness blotting out the stars. Prayers for his safety repeated in her troubled mind like a soundtrack. He and Dunham had ridden off at sunset to learn news of the violent increase in smoke.
The acrid fog had worsened all day, snaking through the chinks in the house. She no longer thought of it as a whiff on the breeze. The stench dominated every breath. By late evening, an ominous black cloud had settled over the countryside. The garish red glow in the night sky emblazoned the horizon near the towns of Dayton and Bridgewater.
Was every home aflame? Each barn? Every outbuilding?
Though familiar with The Burning, she hadn’t fully comprehended the enormous impact it had on the land. Modern environmentalists would have a fit, as would anyone who loved the earth. Seeing the apocalyptic horror unfold before her was indescribable. But she would try to relate events in tonight’s journal entry. Maybe Grandma G. would see and realize how closely the flames were encroaching.
She turned from the horror beyond the window. “It’s as if the whole valley burns.”
“If Sheridan has his way, it will,” Sam muttered, from where he lay on a bed of blankets.
Hettie knelt at his side, one hand cradling his head as she held a cup of water to his lips. She paled, and her freckles stood out against the whiteness of her skin. “Has God’s wrath descended upon us?”
