Walk by Faith

by Rosanne Bittner

  They walked across the marble floor toward the courthouse entrance, literally having to stop and dodge people who swarmed inside the busy lobby. The Homestead Act had created quite a commotion this year and last. People were excited about free land, theirs to keep as long as they farmed or ranched it and made it worth something. The government was aiming to settle and build the West, Indians or not, and there were plenty of people ready to help, especially since the war was escalating.

  Already many had lost their farms and large plantations. Men were dying by the thousands, and homeless people filled St. Louis, many of whom were the ones most willing to head west to start over.

  Clarissa kept hold of Sophie’s hand so she wouldn’t lose her among the throngs. She thought about the note from Chad that accompanied the divorce papers, saying he hoped she would sign them quickly and not prolong the matter. Such a cold, unfeeling letter. He’d not even asked about Sophie, but he made sure to tell her that the store had already been sold and the new owner would be showing up soon to get the keys from her.

  She was almost glad Chad had been so coldhearted. That made it easier for her to stop caring about him. She knelt down to help Sophie put on her little woolen coat. Early April had brought a damp cold that seemed to go to the bone, and Clarissa was anxious for the warmer weather that should come very soon now. She buttoned up Sophie’s coat and tied a wool scarf around her head, then stood up and retied her own wool cape, pulling up the hood.

  She took Sophie’s hand, and they slowly walked down the courthouse steps, Sophie insisting on jumping down one step at a time. The girl’s sweet nature made it easy for Clarissa to be patient with her. Always all smiles, Sophie found excitement in the smallest of things. She seldom asked about her missing father anymore, which made Clarissa both sad and relieved.

  Once they reached the bottom of the steps, Sophie suddenly tore away from Clarissa, squealing something about a kitten.

  “Sophie!” Before Clarissa could react in any way, she watched a man wearing a dark blue duster and black, wide-brimmed hat scoop up Sophie with one arm just in time to keep her from being hit by a team of horses pulling a wagon. However, he didn’t get out of the way in time to keep a wagon wheel from catching one leg and knocking him down. He cried out as he rolled out of the way, still clinging to Sophie and keeping her wrapped safely in his arms.

  The wagon driver shouted “Whoa!” and looked back with terrified eyes as the stranger holding Sophie got to his knees. “You all right, mister? Is the little girl okay?”

  “She’s fine.” The stranger waved the man off. “Go on. I’ll be all right.”

  The wagon driver shook his head and drove off.

  “Sophie!” Clarissa ran to the site, kneeling down to take Sophie from the stranger’s arms. “Look what you’ve done because you let go of Mommy’s hand! This poor man is hurt now!”

  Sophie began crying, and the man who’d saved her got to a sitting position. “Don’t do that!” he told Clarissa rather gruffly. “Don’t blame the child. An accident is an accident.”

  “I’m so sorry!” Clarissa told him. “And it is Sophie’s fault!”

  A man passing by stopped to help the stranger up, and the man limped to a street lamp where he grabbed hold for support.

  “You are hurt!” Clarissa said, setting Sophie on her feet and ordering the still-crying girl to stay put.

  “It’s just a war wound that’s not quite healed,” he said.

  “Let me get a cab and take you to the hospital.”

  “Never mind. My horse isn’t far. Besides, I just got out of the hospital a few days ago.”

  Clarissa could see the pain in his eyes. “Please.”

  He shook his head. “No. No more hospitals.”

  “Then tell me where your horse is. I’ll go get it for you and call a cab to take you to the house where I stay. Sophie can ride with you and I’ll follow on your horse. It isn’t far. I’m a nurse. My name is Clarissa Graham. I can take a look at your leg and rebandage it, or whatever else it needs.”

  Clarissa could tell by the way the man closed his eyes and sighed that he was embarrassed at his condition. He stood a good six feet tall and had a rugged look that told her he preferred to fend for himself. Under his Union blue greatcoat she saw scarlet trim on a short jacket, which she knew meant he was part of an artillery unit and probably an officer, although because he wore a plain black hat rather than the common small kepi with an insignia on it, she couldn’t be sure what his station might be.

  “Please let me help you,” she urged again. “It’s the least I can do after what’s happened.”

  He met her gaze, and a quick surge of something unexplainable swept through Clarissa, something she hadn’t felt since the first time she looked into Chad Graham’s unnerving green eyes. This man’s were a striking blue, almost too dark, as though some kind of cloud hung somewhere behind them. She’d not realized until just now how handsome he was, in spite of several days growth of beard.

  “I’ll let you help me if you promise to tell that little girl what happened was not her fault,” he told her. “I can’t tolerate a child being blamed for an accident.”

  Clarissa thought what a strange request that was. “All right.” She knelt down to Sophie and wiped tears from her pudgy cheeks. “It’s all right, darling. You just scared Mommy, that’s all. Sometimes when we’re scared we yell and say the wrong things.” She kissed her cheek. “Just tell this man you’re sorry you ran into the street without looking.”

  Sniffing, Sophie craned her neck to look up at the tall stranger. “I’m sowwy, Mistoo,” she told him, still having trouble with her r’s.

  He managed a smile. “It’s okay, honey. What’s your name?”

  “Sophie. What’s yours?”

  The man looked from her to Clarissa. “Dawson Clements—Lieutenant Dawson Clements—of the Second Illinois Light Artillery Battery, now retired from the army. I, uh, I really don’t want to put you out—”

  “Nonsense. It’s the least I can do.”

  “Well, ma’am, I’m afraid I’ll take you up on the offer. The leg is hurting pretty good.”

  “Wait right here then.” Clarissa looked at Sophie. “And you stay right here by Mr. Clements.” She stepped off the curb and waved down a one-horse cab coming toward them from farther up the street, hoping Carolyn and Michael wouldn’t mind her bringing home a stranger.

  Chapter Four

  Carolyn and Michael appeared almost comical as they scurried around the house following Clarissa’s orders after she arrived with a limping Dawson Clements. Because the fair-haired, brown-eyed Carolyn was actually taller and more robust than Michael, a short, slender, quiet man with black hair and deep brown eyes, they seemed mismatched physically, but Clarissa could think of no other couple more devoted to each other than these friends who’d been so good to her, especially since her divorce. If only her own marriage could have been so happy and perfect.

  Little Lena, one year older than Sophie, had her father’s dark hair and eyes, quite the contrast to Sophie’s orange-red hair and pale blue eyes. The current excitement in the house kept the girls glued nearby, staring at the tall stranger who’d come unexpectedly into their midst.

  Carolyn gave Michael orders for towels and whiskey and hot water while Dawson sat down in a kitchen chair. He winced with pain as he obeyed Clarissa’s order and let her help put his wounded right leg up on an opposite chair. She pushed up his pant leg to see the entire calf of his leg was wrapped in bandages showing stains from both old and fresh blood.

  “Oh, my!” She looked at Dawson with a frown. “How long has it been since this was changed?”

  He shrugged. “Five, six days, something like that.”

  “Didn’t they tell you how important it was to keep the wound clean? If it gets infected, you could lose your leg.”

  He sighed. “I am well aware of that. I’ve seen piles of legs and arms lying outside of hospital tents at a friendly battleground called Shiloh.�
�

  They all gasped. “We’ve heard about Shiloh,” Carolyn said with an air of sad respect.

  “Nevertheless, why haven’t you kept treating this wound?” Clarissa asked.

  “Look, Mrs.—Graham, did you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re the one who insisted I come here. Don’t be scolding me for not changing this thing. I don’t have a friend or relative to my name, so there’s no one to care whether I lose a leg or not. I was told at the hospital that they’d done all they could do and that it should be all right, so what more could I do? I’ve been traveling through the camps outside of town talking to families who’ve lost their homes because of this senseless war and I haven’t had time to tend to the leg. I haven’t even had a bath or a shave for days. Just clean it up if you must and I’ll be on my way.”

  His abruptness made Clarissa bristle. “I don’t know of one person, man or woman, who wouldn’t do everything they possibly could to keep from losing a limb, so don’t try to tell me you don’t care. Whatever you’re angry about, you needn’t take it out on me.” She began cutting off the bandages with scissors Michael handed her.

  “Here’s some hot water,” Carolyn said, bringing over a pan of water. “Michael, did you get those towels?”

  “Right now, dear.” Michael hurried into a back room and emerged seconds later with several towels and washrags.

  “I’ll get some clean bandages,” Carolyn told Clarissa.

  Clarissa glanced at Sophie and Lena. “You girls had better go and play.”

  Sophie’s eyes were teared. “Did I make it bleed?” she asked.

  Clarissa glanced at Dawson, remembering his deal—she was not to blame Sophie for any of this. He gave her a warning look, and Clarissa turned to Sophie. “No, Sophie. His leg was already wounded from the war. This is not your fault. Now run and play.”

  “Can I give him a hug?”

  Clarissa had to smile, then. “After I fix his leg, okay?”

  “Okay.” Sophie grabbed Lena’s hand and the two girls ran up the narrow, enclosed stairway to Lena’s room upstairs, closing the stairwell door behind them.

  For the next few moments no one spoke as Clarissa peeled off the bandages. She could see Dawson’s calf muscle tighten and knew the leg was hurting him, but he made no sound. “Set a bucket under his leg, Michael, will you? I have to wash this off and water and blood will drip.”

  “Sure thing,” Michael answered, hurrying to the kitchen.

  Clarissa looked up at Dawson. “Bullet wound?” she asked.

  “Shrapnel.”

  Michael returned with a bucket, and Clarissa began washing the blood off Dawson’s leg. “You said you’re retired from the army?”

  “My time was up just a few days after I was wounded, during Grant’s campaign to free up the Mississippi to Union control. After sixteen years of fighting Indians and then seeing the horrific things I’ve seen in this war, I decided not to re-up. I’m doubting that decision, since the army is all I’ve ever known since I was thirteen years old.”

  “Thirteen!” Michael had drawn up a chair beside Clarissa to see if there was anything he could do to help. Carolyn sat down across the table from them. “You’ve been in the army since you were thirteen years old?”

  Dawson grinned, then suddenly winced and grunted when Clarissa got close to the still-festered wound. “They thought I was sixteen.”

  Michael chuckled. “Well, considering your size, I can understand that.”

  “I’m going to have to douse this with whiskey, Mr. Clements,” Clarissa told him.

  “So be it.”

  Clarissa uncorked the small bottle Carolyn handed to her and took a deep breath before splashing some into the wound. Dawson grunted and jerked his leg, then cursed.

  “I’ll not have such language in my house, Mr. Clements, although I can understand why you want to use it,” Michael told him. “This is a Christian home.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Harvey.” He grunted again with another douse of whiskey. “But maybe if I’d been allowed to drink some of that liquor before Mrs. Graham here poured it on my wound, I wouldn’t have felt it quite so much.”

  “We don’t allow drinking in our home, either,” Carolyn told him.

  “Well, then, by the time this nice lady is through cleaning up this wound, I’ll have to be leaving,” Dawson answered. “Right now a good, stiff drink sounds pretty good.”

  Clarissa inspected the wound. “You’re lucky, Mr. Clements. It’s slightly festered, but if you keep whiskey on it and keep the bandages changed, I don’t think it will be that bad. We have caught this in time to keep it from getting worse.” She looked up at him. “I’ll wrap it for you and give you clean bandages to take with you. Please promise me that you will change them at least every other day, and that you’ll pour whiskey on the wound as often. Just buy extra when you’re sitting in a saloon drinking,” she added in a tone of chastisement.

  Dawson actually chuckled. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Their gazes held, and again Clarissa was struck by the handsome man she could see behind the scrubby beard and long hair. For one quick moment she thought he might have read her thoughts, and she quickly looked away and began wrapping fresh bandages around his leg. “So, what will you do now, Mr. Clements?” she asked, anxious to get a conversation going again. “You said something about visiting the camps of the homeless.”

  “I was thinking about heading back out west,” he answered. “I served in the west most of my army years. It’s beautiful country. Figured maybe I could make a little money by guiding some of those displaced folks who’ve decided to also head west under the Homestead Act. The West and Indians are things I’m familiar with, so I figure I could do a pretty good job of it. Once I get there, I’ll probably look for gold. Or maybe I can work for one of the mines as a guard or something.”

  “We’re headed west, too!” Michael told him. “Me and the wife and Clarissa here.”

  “That so? You’ve no husband, Mrs. Graham?”

  Clarissa glanced at Carolyn before answering. “No,” she said, adding no explanation.

  “Killed in the war?”

  Clarissa wrapped his leg quietly for a few seconds. “No,” she said again. “Nothing quite that honorable, Mr. Clements. And I don’t wish to talk further about it with a stranger.”

  The room hung silent for several awkward seconds. “Fine with me,” Dawson finally answered. “Mind if I ask if you work at City Hospital? I don’t remember seeing you there.”

  “I did work there, but I…I quit in order to get ready for our trip west,” she lied. How could she tell him she was fired because she was a divorced woman? “We’ll be leaving in a month or less. In fact, I just today received my very own deed to one-hundred-sixty acres in Montana.” She tied off the gauze and looked up at him, putting on a brighter look. “That’s why I was coming from the courthouse when this accident happened.”

  “I see.” Dawson leaned over and checked out the dressing. “Nice job. I’m sure your services would be needed more than once on a trip west. All kinds of things can happen. Men who seldom use guns end up buying them and then shooting themselves in the foot. People get sick, a lot of them die. There’s snakebites, bad food, sometimes bad water, Indian attacks, women having babies, kids getting hurt, toothaches, blistered feet, sunburn, you name it—it will happen on a trip west, mark my word. I hope you folks are truly prepared for what you’re about to do.”

  “We’re ready,” Carolyn answered. “This is a dream for us. My husband has lost his job and we’re about to lose this house, too. Thank goodness we had a fine piano and some good horses to sell, as well as some genuine silverware my grandmother gave me and a real fine buggy. And all our furniture was paid for, so we’re selling that, too. And the parishioners from my husband’s church actually collected some money and gave it to us. That was so kind of them.”

  Clarissa was surprised at the sudden scowl on Dawson Clements’s face at the mention of chu
rch. He looked at Michael.

  “You’re a preacher?”

  “Yes, I am. Started my own church a few months ago. We meet right here at the house. I intend to start another parish when we reach Montana.”

  Dawson looked him over with an odd air of mistrust. He straightened then and put his leg down, pulling down his pant leg.

  “Do you have something against preachers, Mr. Clements?” Clarissa asked.

  “You might say so,” he answered, still looking down. He finally looked at Michael. “Just those who don’t really practice what they preach. I suspect you do, so take no offense, Mr. Harvey. I just don’t have much use for preachers or God or any of those things. Neither one ever did me any good.”

  Carolyn actually gasped. “Mr. Clements! You’re coming close to blasphemy!”

  He waved her off. “Sorry I mentioned it. And I don’t know any of you well enough to go into all the reasons, nor do we have the time. I will take myself off your hands now, and I do thank you for your hospitality.” Dawson picked up his hat from the kitchen table and put it back on, nodding to all of them. “Good luck on your trip. Maybe we’ll meet along the way, or you can ask around about me if you’re wanting a good guide for your journey. I’ll be at Independence in about two weeks. I won’t be able to leave for another couple of weeks after that. The ground would be too soft and the rivers too high. At any rate, look me up if you’ve a mind to.” He turned to Michael. “Unless you don’t want a heathen leading you west,” he finished with a wink and a hint of a smile.

  Michael put out his hand, and Clarissa noticed he held on to Dawson Clements’s hand extra long as he replied. “Something tells me you’re no heathen at all, Mr. Clements. In the meantime, I will pray for your safe journey, and for your soul. Christ will find his way back into your life somehow.”

  Dawson pulled his hand away, looking very uncomfortable at the remark. “Save your prayers for those who deserve them, Mr. Harvey.” He turned to Clarissa, looking her over in a way that told her he appreciated her figure. “Thank you for your good nursing skills, ma’am. I have business to tend to, so I’ll be going.”