Papa furrowed his eyebrows and shook his head. “No, June, I’m not planning to shoot anyone. I just want to be cautious and make sure everyone is safe, that’s all.”
“But you might shoot him, right, Papa?”
“All right now, run along and get the rifle and powder flask.” Papa turned to Mama. “Caroline, go in the house and tend to Margaret’s arm. While you’re in there, gather some extra bandages. Sounds like we might need them.” He handed the hammer to his middle daughter. “Put this away in the shed, Elizabeth. I also need you to haul in those cotton sacks from the field. I’m guessing we’re done pulling for today. And when you get done with that, meet me out by the pen; I need a hand hitching the mule to the wagon.”
~*~
Mama slung Jeremiah over her hip and helped Margaret into the house, even though she didn’t really need help. The trip to the kitchen was made even more difficult with June helpfully pushing her from the rear. Mama and June eased her into a chair. She didn’t squelch their doting; she didn’t have the energy.
Mama set Jeremiah down and collected a bowl of water and a rag to clean Margaret’s wound.
The little boy held out his arms for Margaret to pick him up. She instinctively pulled him onto her lap, forgetting the pain from the gash.
Little June’s eyes grew at the sight of her baby brother climbing on her injured sister. Tiny hands gripped her hips. “Jer’miah, you get down off her right this instant!”
Jeremiah buried his face in Margaret’s chest at June’s scolding.
Mama pursed her lips. “Let him be, June. He’s worried about Margaret, and it’s time for his nap.” Mama rummaged around in the cabinet where their meager medical supplies were kept. The roll of gauze was almost gone. Between the four kids and Papa, Mama had doctored more scrapes and cuts than should be allowed.
Mama took down the bottle of laudanum and slipped it into her apron pocket.
“The cut isn’t that bad. I don’t need the laudanum.”
Mama dipped the rag into the water and then washed blood and sand from the jagged wound.
Margaret pressed her baby brother to her chest and winced at the pain.
“I know, Margaret. It’s not for you. Now come with me into the bedroom so I can see what we have in the rag basket.” Mama turned to June, who watched with great interest. “Young lady, your papa told you to do something. Now you’d better get to it.”
“Oops…I forgot.” June’s eyes widened and she ran from the room.
Margaret followed Mama into the bedroom. She held tight to Jeremiah with her good arm and kept the injured arm close to her chest. Mama sat in front of the rag basket and Margaret sat on the floor beside her.
Jeremiah crawled out of her lap and laid his head on Mama’s legs. He rubbed his eyes while chanting the name he called her, “Ma, Ma, Ma, Ma.” Finally, he slept.
Mama firmly tied strips of a discarded pillowcase around her arm. When the wound was properly covered, she went to work tearing rags into bandages, handing some to Margaret too. It goaded her to think the precious strips of cloth would soon be used to doctor the Yankee sailor.
“So how bad did he look?” Mama’s voice was soft as she glanced at Jeremiah.
Margaret squinted at the memory of what she’d seen. “He looked pretty bad to me, all bloody and shot up.”
Little June came into the room and wiped her brow. “Whew, that rifle is mighty heavy.” She brushed off her hands on her skirt. “Can I go see the Yankee, Mama?”
Mama tilted her head to look at her youngest daughter. “No, I need you to stay here with Jeremiah while I go with Papa and Margaret to see what we can do.”
“But, Mama, I ain’t never seen no Yankee before.” The little girl whined and puffed out her bottom lip.
“Oh, my goodness, is that proper English, young lady?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Now say it the right way.”
Margaret turned away so June wouldn’t see her smile.
June frowned and crossed her arms. “OK. I have never seen a Yankee before.” Her arms dropped down to her sides as she jutted her chin out. “Mama, why am I the only one in this house who has to use proper English?”
“Every one of my children is taught proper English…it’s up to them to use it. And thank you. That was much better,” Mama said.
Margaret made eye contact with Mama, knowing she was probably fighting back a smile too.
June’s eyes grew wide. “So can I go? I really want to see what he looks like, Mama!”
“Not this time. Stay here and keep an eye on Jeremiah until Elizabeth finishes her chores. Besides, you’ll probably be seeing him before you know it.”
Mama can’t really be thinking about bringing him here! Margaret ripped the old sheet into strips. The ragged fabric would make fine bandages…even if they might be used on that stinking Yankee.
June plopped down beside her sleeping brother. “Dumb ol’ baby.”
Mama took a quilt from the bed and spread it over Jeremiah. “Now that will be enough of that, young lady, you hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am.” June lay on the floor next to her brother.
“We’ll send Elizabeth in directly. Come on, Margaret. If he’s as bad as you say, then we better hurry.”
Margaret helped gather the scraps of cloth and then followed Mama outside.
~*~
Margaret watched Papa and Elizabeth attempt to attach the harness to the wagon. The mule brayed and kicked. It had been a while since the old girl had been hooked up to a harness, and she’d never liked it too much.
“Come on, Celia girl, you’re going to ruin my wagon if you kick it too many more times.” Papa talked to the animal as though she was another one of his daughters.
Margaret chuckled at the way her father dealt with the stubborn animal. “I think that’s her intent, Papa.”
Elizabeth held tight to the mule’s harness. “Margaret, we really don’t need any of your remarks right now!”
“Well, pardon me.” The tension between Margaret and her sister grew with every passing day.
“All right, girls, that’s enough of your bickering.” Mama placed the supplies in the small cart.
Elizabeth released her hold on Celia. “Papa, I hauled in the cotton sacks, and I hung them on the hooks like you asked. So can I go to the bay with you?”
Margaret thought it a good idea. Anything to keep her from having to look at the horrible, bloody body of that Yankee would suit her just fine.
Papa was about to answer when Mama interceded. “No, I need you inside the house to watch over your sister and brother. Who knows how long we’ll be gone.”
Elizabeth’s mouth drew up tight. “That’s not fair, Mama! I did what Papa told me as fast as I could. Why does Margaret get to do everything, and I never get to do anything?”
Margaret gave her sister a warning look. It was never a good idea to argue with Mama.
Mama turned to Elizabeth. “And just what is it that Margaret gets to do that you don’t? Collect oysters? Haul water for laundry? Because if it’s more chores you want, I’ll be more than happy to assign them to you. Is that what you want?”
Elizabeth hung her head. “No, ma’am.”
“Mama, why don’t you let Elizabeth go? I’ll watch the little ones. Besides, I have no desire to take another look at that nasty, bloody Yankee.” Margaret attempted to break the tension.
“Mama, can Margaret watch over June and Jeremiah instead of me?” Elizabeth looked at her. Tears coursed down her cheeks.
Mama took the bottle of laudanum and placed it atop the bundle of bandages already in the wagon. “No…Margaret is the one who knows where the man is, and she is the one who’s going with us to the bay. Now, I told you what I need you to do. I suggest you get to it.”
Elizabeth looked defeated. She turned to her father. “Papa?” Elizabeth whined and pleaded with outstretched arms, tears still flowing.
“Do what your mama says, Liz.” Papa
turned away and slapped Celia on the rump. “Come on, girl.”
“We’ll be back as soon as we can.” Margaret spoke.
Elizabeth lifted her apron and scrubbed the tears from her face. She stomped into the house without another word.
Margaret ached for her rebellious sister.
Elizabeth’s defiance had become a constant source of pain. Twice in one day she’d complained of unfair treatment. Mama would probably give her a lesson on what was fair and what was not. Margaret turned to follow Mama and Papa. They were already halfway up the trail. Gathering her skirt, she hurried along to catch up with them. A chill ran down her spine at the thought that the man might have a gun. What would happen if they arrived to find a detachment of Union soldiers had arrived to collect their dead? Why couldn’t Mama just leave well enough alone? Didn’t their family have ample problems already without running to the rescue of a Yankee sailor? As far as Margaret was concerned, the Confederates had already decided this sailor’s fate and it wasn’t their business to meddle in their affairs.
The farther they went down the trail, the more Margaret wanted to run in the opposite direction. The image of the sailor’s body caused bile to rise in her throat, but then, his smoky blue eyes found their way into her imagination. How she longed for him to still be alive so she might have the chance to see his beautiful eyes once again. She shook her head to remove the image and chastised herself for harboring such a thought about a Yankee.
3
Mama urged them to hurry and get to the sailor. Margaret would have rather stopped to enjoy the beautiful setting sun. But that wasn’t going to happen. Just one more thing she could blame that Yankee for.
Papa led Celia through the tall grass until they reached the dunes. He pulled on the mule’s harness. “Margaret, come up front so you can tell us which way to go.”
She scanned the water’s edge and noticed her pail shining in the setting sun. His body had to be nearby…she remembered dropping the pail. It didn’t seem that he had been so far away when she found him earlier. It was no wonder she was so out of breath when she arrived back at the house.
She pointed out the direction to Papa, and he nudged the old mule forward, her bray indicating her opposition to the idea. “I’m sorry, girl; I know you don’t like walking on the sand. Just a little further now.” Her papa was sweet to everyone…even an ornery old mule.
The man was still half out of the water.
“Be careful, Mama. He grabbed my wrist.” Margaret kept her distance. “And he might have a gun too.”
Mama knelt by his side, inspecting his wounds. Margaret kept her distance after the scare he gave her earlier. At the frightful memory she crossed her arms tightly around her waist. Her wrist stung with her tight grip. “And remember…he might have a gun too.”
Mama reared back and gasped as a fiddler crab ran across the sailor’s torso.
Papa knelt in the sand on the other side of the body. He brushed the little crab off the man’s chest with a chuckle and searched his clothing. “Don’t worry. He’s unarmed.” Papa looked up at her. “He was probably sent ashore to look for food and this happened.” Papa stood guard, rifle in hand.
Mama knew a lot about medicine because her papa, Grandpa Brannon, had been a doctor. She had even trained to become a nurse until she met Papa and everything changed…the first time she looked into Papa’s eyes. She’d told the story often enough to her daughters.
“Is he alive?” Margaret asked.
Mama lowered her head to the man’s face, and then looked at Papa. “He’s still breathing, but not very strong. These wounds are pretty bad, Jeb. It’s hard to tell how much blood he’s lost with him being in the water. I’m not sure he’ll make it.” Mama looked at the man. “So young too.”
Margaret found it difficult to care whether the man lived or died. What if this Yankee was the one who killed her Jeffrey? Why should her parents risk their lives and the lives of their children to help a blue belly? Sometimes her folks did things she couldn’t for the life of her understand. And this was one of those times.
Papa lifted the man and dragged him out of the water.
“Be careful, Jeb. He’s starting to come around.”
From the agonizing groans, his pain must have been excruciating. She turned away, disgusted by the blood oozing from his wounds, mixing with the wet sand.
“Margaret, come give us a hand. I don’t think me and Papa can lift him by ourselves.”
She whipped her head around and glared at Mama. What could the woman possibly be thinking? “I’m not going to touch that filthy Yankee!”
“Margaret Frances Logan…get your hind end over here and help us load this young man into the wagon. If we don’t get him back to the house, he has about as much chance as a candle in a windstorm of surviving.”
Margaret felt the blood leave her face. “You’re taking him to our home?”
“Well, what on earth did you think we would do with him?” Mama looked at Margaret as if she’d grown an extra head.
“I don’t know, bandage him up…leave him here…take him to Fort Greene. But take him to our house? Please, Papa!”
Her papa stood but remained silent. He wasn’t likely to take her side. Meddling in the affairs of women isn’t a pastime smart men partake in.
She heard his all-too-familiar words in her mind.
“If we leave him here, he’s sure to die. If we take him to the fort, they will probably put a bullet in his head,” Mama said. “The Christian thing to do is take him home and patch him up.”
Margaret’s hands shook, she was so angry. She crossed her arms to steady herself. “So that’s it…you care more about this dirty, rotten Yankee than you do your own flesh and blood?”
Mama stood, hands on her hips. “Margaret, why did Jesus tell the story about the good Samaritan?”
“Mama, this isn’t the time or the place to talk about Bible stories.” Margaret raised her eyebrows and twisted her mouth to the side, satisfied she had the upper hand on her mama.
“Well, I think it’s the perfect time, young lady.”
Now both were standing face to face.
“You’d better answer your mama.” Papa moved the rifle to the far side of the wagon and covered it with a cotton sack.
“I guess He told the story because He wanted us to know how we should treat people.” Margaret huffed out her breath. Her shoulders sagged. Mama had won this round. “But that has nothing to do with us…a poor southern family helping a dirty…murderin’…Union sailor. Surely there are some things even God doesn’t expect us to do. We can’t all be Samaritans.”
“The meaning is the same, dear. God wants all of His people to act like that Samaritan.” She touched Margaret’s arm. “What if we were from the North and it was Jeffrey laying there dying?” Mama’s voice turned syrupy. “Wouldn’t you want some godly person to help him?”
Margaret’s bottom lip quivered. How could Mama stoop so low as to bring Jeffrey into the conversation? “That is a mean thing to say, Mama. My Jeffrey is dead and nobody was there to save him…nobody!” Tears began to flow.
“I know that, baby girl, but now we have the opportunity to do something right for one of God’s creatures, in spite of this horrible war.” Mama put her arms around Margaret and squeezed tight.
Mama’s words hurt, but still, Margaret knew what her mama said was true. If the North and South would learn to get along, then this horrific war could be over sooner. Margaret joined her parents in lifting the Yankee into the wagon. As they maneuvered him on the buckboard, she averted her eyes. Mama was sure to stretch her sparse medical knowledge to its limit with this patient.
Mama crawled inside and went to work, tearing open his already shredded jacket to reveal his injuries. With the thick strips of cloth, she wrapped the flesh wounds on his broad forearms. Her hand disappeared in the man’s overgrown, thick black hair. His eyes fluttered as she put the laudanum elixir to his mouth.
His face, the one
Margaret had felt so compelled to touch only hours earlier, seemed pale against his dark facial hair. She turned away and scolded herself for having the gall to look on the face of that Yankee when her Jeffrey lay cold in his grave.
“Come on, Jeb, we need to get going before nightfall.” Thankfully, Mama broke into Margaret’s thoughts.
“Um-hmm.” Papa nodded his head. “We don’t want to be caught with a Union sailor come time for the foot patrols to start their evening rounds.”
Margaret struggled to breathe when she heard her father’s words…something she hadn’t even considered. They could all be killed if the Rebels caught them giving aid to a Union sailor. Before she could utter her complaint, Mama looked straight at her.
“Gather up your pail and continue collecting oysters for supper. We still need to eat. You can catch up to us on the trail.” Mama’s matter-of-fact way of speaking suggested no questions were needed.
Margaret didn’t voice the opinion that screamed through her mind. An extra mouth to feed! She didn’t deem it wise since Mama sounded so annoyed with her following their confrontation, but she was more than happy to finish the chore rather than accompany her parents back to the house…especially with that Yankee in tow.
Papa nudged Celia toward the trail. “Come on, girl. Let’s get this boy back to the house before it’s too late.” The mule complied with a bit of coaxing.
Margaret gathered the spilled oysters. The huge shell that caught her attention previously found its way back into her hand. Thoughts of the Mardi Gras and home brought on an overwhelming sadness. She sank to her knees. Her skirt caught on Papa’s boot and ripped off part of the bottom ruffle. The blood-stained frock was already destined for the rag basket, and there certainly weren’t any ball gowns in her future. She might never be able to return to her beloved New Orleans.
The newspaper account of the fall of New Orleans reached them long ago. Papa figured Captain Farragut must have arrived shortly after they had left. The women of the family all cried as he read the news. Margaret stroked the rough shell and allowed her mind to wander—New Orleans, her beautiful pearl, was gone. Even if they could go home, would there be anything left? She threw the big oyster shell as far as she could.
Northern Light Page 2
