Grace of a Hawk

by Abbie Williams

  Take it off, I heard someone behind me mutter. In the distance was the sound of a regiment settling in for the night, men murmuring, the clanking of tin cups, here and there a low laugh and the notes of a harmonica. The field doc insisted, Gotta come off or you’ll lose the leg, son.

  This here’ll make an even thirty for the day, sir, the doc’s assistant said, spitting a neat stream of tobacco. He nodded and offered me a grin, teeth smeared with brown juice. I been keepin’ a tally.

  I reached for my pistol before recalling it wasn’t strapped on my hip as usual.

  You ain’t taking my leg. You’ll have to kill me, first.

  Suit yourself, soldier, the doc said, wiping his hands on a length of red-streaked toweling as he walked away, his assistant trailing like a favored dog. No more than a few steps later their outlines blurred and became part of the darkness. I squinted, straining to see where they’d gone.

  After a time the pain was so bad the only way I could figure lessening it was to sing to the tune of my fiddle. Cracked, I’d become. Tetched as the old woman from Suttonville who sat on her porch smoking her corncob pipe all the livelong day, anchoring it with the stubs of her remaining teeth; we’d called her a witch, though never in our folks’ hearing, and sure as hell never in hers. She’d have cursed us stone-dead we believed back then; slumped here in the Territory before a sputtering fire I wondered if perhaps the old witch had cursed us after all, my brothers and me, mayhap the entire Carter family. Likely she’d heard Beau or me snicker as we walked past her ramshackle porch, swinging the saplings we’d whittled for fishing. She’d muttered, Alone an’ in pain, that’s how you’s gonna die, young Carter.

  Is this my time of dying?

  I always figured I’d know it.

  Please God, give me the grace to bear it, if this is my time of dying.

  Hymns rolled from my tongue as if no time had passed since standing near my brothers in the Suttonville church, Reverend Wheeler leading the singing. I truly believed I was playing my fiddle; my bowing arm kept smooth pace with the singing. The kindling ran out and the pain in my leg overtook all else. My awareness grew muddled. My hands seemed to swell before my eyes, fingers bloating like the exposed guts of a dead horse, cumbersome and useless; I could not grasp hold of the water tin. My bad leg went next, growing round and full as a tree trunk, heavy as Howitzer shot; I watched through a threadbare red cloak as it seemed to expand to twice the size of my other leg. I played songs of Christmastide. I spoke to my mama, begging her for a taste of water. Nearby, whiskey gurgled from a bottle as Daddy poured a glass and raised it to his nose, inhaling the fumes with heartfelt appreciation.

  I need to lie down, I told my folks. Let me rest by the hearth. I ain’t been rested in so long.

  I lay on my side and the smolder of dying embers was but inches from my face. The beating of my blood seemed centered not in my chest but instead my leg; every breath was an agony. I closed my eyes and drifted. I thought I was walking, and after a spell I came to the mouth of the small cave in the holler of my youth, the one we’d played in as boys, the selfsame place where Sawyer once lost his boot. I blinked, feeling the damp chill of the familiar cave reach out and crawl wetly along my skin. I put my right hand on the edge of the opening, the rock face rough, crumbling into little grains against my palm. It was late afternoon by now – or maybe it’s tomorrow, or maybe the day after that, I ain’t sure no more – the heavens murky with clouds and the air humid; cold sweat greased my spine. Farther inside the cave, where there should have been nothing but darkness, I caught sight of a patch of light. An opening, deep in there where I knew there wasn’t one. I squinted, wondering at it; I took a step inside.

  No!

  I hesitated at this cry, the single word resounding between my ears. The patch seemed brighter than before, and I was right curious.

  Where does it lead? Why’s there light back there?

  I took another two steps and stood fully inside the cave.

  Boyd!

  Boyd Carter!

  Her voice was behind me, out in the holler, and at this sharp summoning, the desperation in her tone, I knew at once I should proceed no further in the direction of that strange light. I ran my hands over the rock face on either side. But what is it…there shouldn’t be light back there…it’s kinda pretty…

  Boyd Brandon Carter! You wake up, do you hear me?

  Wake up!

  Wake up this very minute!

  I jerked to awareness, abruptly returned to the October dusk on the Territory prairie, and the fullness of pain. A sickly fear rolled across my gut. Where in the hell had I been? My heart slammed a frightened rhythm. Rebecca’s voice had been so close I expected her to be kneeling alongside me; of course she wasn’t, and bitter disappointment sank its teeth.

  You ain’t ever gonna see her again, not if you don’t get your ass up. Get up right now, you hear me? G’on now!

  I can’t get up. I ain’t got the strength. It hurts too goddamn much.

  Boyd! Rebecca’s voice was in my ear, unrelenting as a buzzing hornet; I understood it was nothing more than the depth of my longing for her creating this sense that she spoke to me now, but I welcomed it. If I’d lost my mind, at least she was here with me in the losing of it. She poked my shoulder with an extended finger, persisting, Get up, build up that fire! You shall freeze!

  There ain’t no more kindling. My voice was petulant as a little boy’s.

  The wagon, she pressed, now shaking my shoulder as my eyes tried to close. The wagon is made of wood. Do you hear me?

  It began to snow.

  THIS NIGHT THE sun had set upon the last day of 1868.

  Boyd and Malcolm had been missing for months and we could hardly bear the daily strain, poised now on the precipice of a new year, which should have allowed for unparalleled celebration, the promise of a fulfilling set of months to come – and yet we would continue to shoulder the burden of the unknown, as this granted a certain reprieve, a chance to hope that word of their survival would still reach us.

  “1868 has been a year of change,” Tilson said earlier, at this evening’s dinner table, directing at each of us in turn his somber gaze, stern in its desire to convey the sincerity of his words. He continued, “Let us believe 1869 will bring good news.”

  Tilson was correct in his statement, as 1868 proved a year of significant change for the country; November beheld the country’s first presidential election since Reunification. General Ulysses Grant would now preside as the nation’s leader, come his formal inauguration in March, three months from this bitter-cold December night on the last day of the old year. Back in July, Secretary of State Seward announced the Fourteenth Amendment ratified, granting citizenship to former slaves, while Congress declared the formation of Wyoming Territory. Word reached us most often in the form of newspaper articles; thusly, we had learned of the large earthquake which struck the state of California in October, and of the fierce fighting between General Custer and the Indian people in the Territories south of Kansas.

  And but a week ago, on Christmas Day, President Johnson, despite apparent bitter opposition, had granted unconditional pardon to all persons involved in the Southern Rebellion.

  “Our first Christmas together,” Sawyer had whispered that night, as we curled together atop our feather tick clad in flannel nightclothes; the chill weather did not allow for a continuation of sleeping skin to skin. Sawyer was warm as the woodstove, his arms anchoring me to all that was good and true in the world; more than ever, the two of us had relied upon each other in these past dark months. We were together, and safe, and for that the both of us remained steadfastly grateful. I could not ask for more than the gift of my husband, the abundant reassurance of his presence, his kindness and gentle humor, however muted now that our worry flowed so close to the surface. I recognized I could bear any agony so long as Sawyer remained at my side. Wrapped together in our shanty cabin as Christmas Day faded to deepest night, Sawyer’s hands formed a perfectly-molde
d cup about the swelling curve of our growing child.

  At his quiet observation, warm tears streaked along the bridge of my nose. Unable to answer, I fit my hands over his; in the past few weeks, the child had begun moving within me, pressing outward with tiny hands and knees, elbows and feet, allowing for moments of irreplaceable joy. Sawyer was fond of pressing his lips to the small hills thusly created by our child’s movements, speaking to her with his mouth upon my bare skin in the singular privacy of our cabin, firelight streaking over us, his profile casting shadows across my belly. I had dreamed of the child on more than one occasion, and though would not be proven correct until the day of her birth, believed her to be a girl.

  “Mo mhuirnín milis,” Sawyer whispered, cradling us, our child and me, in the protection of his arms. “There will be word, I believe this.” As was his habit each night, the words now imbued with the quality of a ritual, he said, “They are alive.”

  I nodded my unfailing agreement, turning so I was able to rest my nose to his neck, inhaling his familiar scent until I felt capable of speech. I whispered, “Yes.”

  The land office in St. Paul yielded no answers; Boyd had not filed for a homestead claim in either his own, Malcolm’s, or Sawyer’s name, leaving us no proof that they had ever reached the town. As unfathomable though it may be, all evidence we possessed suggested they had disappeared somewhere between Iowa City and St. Paul. Upon another visit in early November, Charley Rawley relayed to us that no sign of Fallon or his father had been discovered, either.

  “I believe Thomas to be in hiding,” Charley said on that visit. “Fannie and I surmise Fallon found him and the two of them have holed up together, awaiting God only knows what circumstance for reappearance. The marshal’s office has no information, and I trust they would not attempt to keep news of relevance from me, in light of the situation at hand.”

  “Do you believe Fallon capable of pursuing Boyd and Malcolm over a significant distance?” Sawyer asked; we’d related to Charley our suspicions concerning the notion. “That the boy might take it upon himself to enact what he perceived as revenge?”

  “Fallon is an uncommon child, far more ambitious than Dredd,” Charley allowed. “As a father of five sons, I could well imagine any one of them daring to take action in my stead, as much as I would disapprove of such a bold and dangerous endeavor. It would depend upon whether young Malcolm’s shot struck Yancy that night.”

  “Yancy was not kilt, much as I would wish otherwise,” Tilson said, speaking around his pipe stem. “And since he wasn’t kilt, we must suppose he was injured, perhaps grievously. A wound significant enough to keep him from public sight and to perhaps spur his eldest into some sort of action. Goddamn this mess.”

  “I’ve long since wired the telegraph office in St. Paul with Fallon’s description,” Charley said. “Though, the boy is unremarkable in looks, resembling a hundred other fellows his age. Unless he creates some sort of disturbance, or draws attention to himself, likely no one would take especial notice of him.”

  Bound to Iowa City for the time being, we chafed at the lack of action which could be taken in our present circumstances, the shortage of available resources. My mind became a breeding ground for terrible thoughts – those of Boyd and Malcolm pursued by a loathsome father and his frightening son, Fallon of the empty eyes – dispelled only by proximity to Sawyer and his capability of offering comfort. Jacob Miller’s correspondence grew increasingly urgent, the last letter with a promise to ride south come spring thaw, to search for his nephews until they were found. His letters, however, ceased with the advance of winter, another maddening necessity. I found myself damning the snow and its subsequent instigating of trouble; additional nightmarish thoughts circled, of Malcolm and Boyd caught in a blizzard, ice and snow burying their bodies as effectively as any gravedigger, perhaps never to be discovered…

  Such pictures plagued all of us. Though I could have wept every tear from my body, I restrained this weakness; at times, even so, the weeping came upon me without consent. Riding home from a stillbirth during early December, Tilson at my side, I’d given way to sobs with the suddenness of a gust of winter wind; Tilson remained unperturbed, simply drawing me to his side so that I might be allowed the comfort of his shoulder. I’d curled my fingers into the rough hair on the buffalo hide covering our laps that bleak afternoon, weeping abjectly, the sky overcast with a flat, unrelieved gray, unwilling to give a hint as to the actual time of day. If not for the darkening air, it might have been midmorning.

  “Let it out,” was all Tilson said, three or perhaps four times, planting a kiss on the top of my head.

  “I can’t…” I gasped, in a broken refrain. The stiff canvas of Tilson’s jacket grew slick with my tears but he paid no heed, nor did he ask for clarification of what I believed I could not do.

  “You can,” he finally murmured, easing back and withdrawing his arm from my shoulders, resuming a two-hand grip on the reins. His Tennessee drawl further served to offer me reassurance, as it brought to mind a faint echo of my daddy’s voice. He insisted, “You more than can, Lorie.”

  I scrubbed at my wet face, chilled by the December air. I hissed, “I despise this goddamned cold weather.”

  Tilson drew the lap blanket more securely about us, flicking a light rein over Pete’s gray hide; the sturdy mule obediently increased our pace, the flatbed rumbling over the road from town. Fixing my gaze straight ahead, I saw not the grim colorlessness of the late-autumn prairie but instead Malcolm’s dear face, his earnest eyes and overgrown hair, the way he burrowed into my embrace and held fast. I beheld Boyd’s countenance next, observed the stubborn set of his shoulders and chin, the kindness in his dark eyes and how they lit with the joy of teasing or telling a tale, of drawing forth music from his fiddle. And then I saw again the ashen, immobile features of the dead child pushed from its mother’s womb, the small, stiff boy warmed only from his passage through her body, already growing cold in Tilson’s hands. The mother’s wailing cry wrapped around my heart as would a binding of steel bands; I knew I would never drive it fully from my memory. The boy would have been her third child.

  “It ain’t any easier than the first stillbirth I witnessed. I wish I could tell you it was,” Tilson said at last, maintaining honesty with me, for which I found room to be grateful. He did not spare my feelings when it came to my training, pointing out missteps with all the stringency of the sternest schoolmaster; I would have been offended if he attempted to treat me with delicacy. His high expectations spoke of his respect for my capability. He sighed. “It’s the worst lesson to be learned at the birthing bed, honey, that of dealing with the loss of the infant, or its mother.”

  “She was…so sad,” I choked out, pressing my knuckles to my lips to hold back a sob. “How can she…bear it?”

  Tilson remained silent for a time, gathering his thoughts. Finally he asked, “How do you bear the sadnesses you’ve encountered?”

  I’d not expected him to counter my question, which had been rhetorical, with a query of his own. As he’d intended, the consideration of an answer staved off my tears and allowed my troubled mind a new path of thought. I felt my eyelids sink shut as I whispered, “There were many times when I did not want to bear my sadness a single breath longer, and would have died to end the pain of being alone.”

  Tilson waited, patient and somber, without further prompting.

  I opened my eyes to the ashen light of stark afternoon. “But of course I did not take my life. It was only a desperate fantasy. I was so young, and had no context for suffering. And then came the War. And…Ginny’s.”

  With a note of gentle chiding, Tilson murmured, “You are young yet, Lorie.”

  “I lost a child.” A soft exhalation of breath accompanied the words. The admission flowed forth from deep inside my heart, the urge to speak and thereby perhaps cast out the lingering horror of miscarriage, both my own and the one from which we’d only just come; if I remained silent, the memory would take root. I w
as no fool ignorant to the realities of childbirth; hadn’t I witnessed an expectant mother die before my eyes, my sweet Deirdre passing from life in the upper hallway of Ginny Hossiter’s whorehouse? I’d bled out on the Missouri prairie in the confines of Sam Rainey’s dirty tent, my body releasing the child Gus had perhaps planted within me the night we met, in my room in St. Louis. The guilt over this had indeed lessened its grip upon my soul with the passage of time but would never completely take its leave. I admitted, “I was not so far along as Mrs. McGiver. There was no body to speak of, only blood.”

  Tilson was unflappable, and I loved him for it; besides Sawyer, I could conceive of speaking to no other man of these things. But Tilson shared his vast collection of knowledge with me, passed along his medical expertise, trusting me with the care and administration of these techniques as he would any apprentice demonstrating a talent for the trade. I confided in him because I understood he would refrain from judgment. He would only listen. He knew I’d worked as a whore, he knew what I’d been, and yet he did not allow these truths to color his opinion of me. In his eyes, I was worthy. Despite the negative opinion harbored not-so-secretly amongst many of the town’s members, I no longer believed myself disreputable; Tilson and Rebecca, and their unfailing support, were in no small way responsible for this.