Northern Light

by Annette O'Hare

  Thoughts of the war brought her back to the current disaster…the one headed toward her home. She pushed up off the ground and thought about the calamity her mama and papa were bringing on their family.

  She rubbed sandy palms on her filthy skirt and finished filling the pail with oysters. Someone with common sense needed to be present when her parents arrived with the Union sailor. And if that was her…then so be it.

  4

  Thomas Murphy lifted his head and tried to focus. He was on a boat surrounded by a dense layer of fog. At least he thought it was a boat. Why else would he feel the waves and swells tossing around?

  The image finally became clear…yes…there was a lighthouse in the distance. He could discern only the long golden beam stretching out across the water. The longer he gazed at the beacon, the clearer it became. Wait…he wasn’t in a boat; it was a soft bed. The lighthouse was only a painting. The intense throbbing in his head was the source of the waves and swells. He dropped back onto the soft pillow.

  He raised his hand to his forehead and felt a large bandage covering the warm, sensitive area. Pain in his shoulder forced his hand back down from his bandaged forehead. He rolled to his side and looked around the room. It didn’t appear to be a hospital. He tried to remember what happened. Think, Thomas, think. Where could ye be?

  Shadowy memories of burning hot ordinance, the smell of smoke, and a sense of falling swam through his mind. The room swirled, making him want to retch. He’d been in enemy territory. He reached under the sheet to check for his weapon but only felt the bare flesh of his thigh. Someone had stripped off his clothes and bandaged his wounds. Seething pain overcame him. The fog returned, and then the room grew dark.

  ~*~

  Margaret slipped inside the front bedroom and inched toward the bed where the sailor slept.

  Mama had kept him knocked out with laudanum because with all the thrashing about he did, she didn’t want him busting open the stitches.

  The even rise and fall of his ribcage told Margaret he was still alive. It was inappropriate for her to tarry alone in the room, but she had good reason. Anything that could be used as a weapon needed to be removed. She touched a lace doily and looked at the sailor. “No, I suppose you can’t hurt us with a doily.” She replaced the hand-crocheted decoration and then moved to the dressing table. There was a comb, a brush, a mirror…and a letter opener. “You won’t be stabbing any of us with this, sir.” She slid the thin sliver of silver inside the pocket of her apron.

  Margaret scowled at the man, resenting how peaceful he looked asleep on some of their best sheets. She moved closer to the bed. “Well, Mr. Yankee sailor, I guess you think everything is going your way, don’t you? Get yourself shot up and just happen to land in the home of some honest, God-fearing people who patch you up and let you recover in one of their bedrooms. Well, guess what?”

  The sailor stirred and moaned.

  Margaret froze. He waved his arm back and forth and mumbled something she couldn’t understand. She had spoken too loudly.

  He sighed and settled back into sleep.

  She released the breath she’d been holding and clutched her chest, willing her heart to stop pounding. She took one last quick survey of the room, put her hand against the letter opener in her apron pocket, and headed for the door.

  The last thing she wanted was for her face to be the first thing the sailor saw when he finally opened his eyes.

  But feeling as guilty as Lot’s wife, she glanced back at the bed for one more look.

  ~*~

  “Would you like some tea, Thomas?”

  The dark-haired beauty stood beside his bed, ready to tend to his every need. “Why, thank ye, lass. That would be wonderful.”

  She leaned close and stroked his cheek, genuine concern shining in her eyes. “You poor thing, you’re badly injured. Why would anyone want to hurt you?”

  Thomas reached for her hand, but now she was holding a tray of tea and biscuits. “Aye, lass, but that’s how it goes in war, I suppose.”

  She seemed to float to his bedside. She smelled of roses and fresh country air.

  “The angels must be smiling on me today. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve having such a gorgeous woman by my side.”

  The beautiful apparition with the coal-colored hair floated toward the door without serving him tea. The door creaked when she opened it.

  As Thomas woke, pain covered him like a blanket…it had all been a dream.

  ~*~

  Someone watched him from the crack in the door.

  Thomas tried to focus, but the stupor he was in made it difficult. He tensed, searching for a weapon. The tiny round face only reached up to the doorknob, so whoever was looking at him must not be very old. “Hello there, wee one.” His voice sounded hoarse and raspy. He cleared his throat.

  The eyes doubled in size and the door slammed shut.

  “Mama, Mama, the Yankee is alive!” A little girl’s voice rose outside the room. “And he talks funny too!”

  Thomas chuckled, which sent a surge of pain through his torso. He sobered. There was no denying who he was to those who had apparently saved his life.

  As he lay in the darkened bedroom, footsteps approached the room.

  He covered what he could of his body with the soft, clean bed sheets.

  The door swung open, and a woman stepped through holding a tray. Her face was gaunt, causing her cheekbones to protrude in much the same way his own mam’s had. Even her arms looked slender but muscular. Bright red hair sprinkled with strands of silver was pulled into a knot at the nape of her neck. She appeared to have been a strong, hearty woman at one time. But the war had probably done its part to beat her down, as it had with everyone else. She didn’t look dangerous. “Well, I see you’ve decided to join the living, Van Winkle. My name is Caroline Logan…and what is your name?”

  “Thomas, ma’am, T-Thomas Murphy.” He pulled the quilt up to his neck, despite the action causing him a great amount of pain.

  “You needn’t be afraid, Mr. Murphy. We don’t intend to hurt you.”

  “But ye must know I’m a Union sailor, ma’am. Yer young girl seemed to know.” Thomas remained on guard, despite the fact he had nothing with which to defend himself.

  “My, but you do have quite the accent.” Caroline Logan smiled and moved fspoaher into the room. She placed the tray of food on a chest at the foot of the bed and stood with her hands on her hips. “Where exactly is it that you are from, Mr. Murphy?”

  Thomas tried to clear his throat but decided against it as the pain was unbearable. “Originally from Ireland, ma’am, but I suppose now I’m from New York.”

  A tiny pair of eyes once again appeared beside the doorjamb. Another small face appeared below the first one—this one looked even younger.

  “We have company, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Logan whipped around toward the door. “June, Jeremiah, you may come in now. They’ve been chompin’ at the bit to meet you since we brought you here.”

  Thomas was set at ease by the angelic faces of the little girl and boy. He pondered how their chubby-cheeked smiles could seem so normal and happy when the country they lived in was being torn apart by war.

  Mrs. Logan gathered the children to her. “Mr. Thomas Murphy, this is June and Jeremiah Logan, my two youngest children.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Murphy.” The little girl extended her tiny hand.

  Thomas leaned forward to accept it. A terrific pain shot through his side. He emitted a low, guttural cry as he grasped for the area.

  Jeremiah’s eyes grew wide with fear, and the child fled from the room crying.

  June drew back her hand and buried her face in her mama’s skirt.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry to have frightened yer wee boy, ma’am. I seem to have found a new source of pain.” Thomas fell back. He clutched at his bandaged side and slowly breathed in and out, willing the pain to go away.

  “That’s quite all right, Thomas. I suspect yo
u’re feeling your stitches. I sewed up a mighty big gash on your side there. Oh, and I also dug a slug out of your shoulder. It’s a good thing it wasn’t an artillery ball or else you might have lost the arm. You’re blessed that I had a full bottle of laudanum on hand.”

  “Are ye a doctor, Mrs. Logan?”

  “No…but my father was. And I’ve had quite a bit of nursing training.”

  “So, ye been plying me with opium, have ye? And how long have I been here, ma’am?” Thomas lifted up again and then pulled on his beard growth to determine how long he’d been incapacitated.

  Mrs. Logan removed her daughter from within the folds of her skirt, and the little girl left the room.

  Caroline picked up another pillow and stuffed it behind Thomas’s back. “You’ve been here three days, Mr. Murphy. And you should be glad I had that medicine.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Heavens…it took most of the family just to hold you down while I patched up your wounds.” The woman sounded somewhat vexed. “It would have been nice if I had access to those mineral springs we passed back in the town of High Island when we moved out here. You’d be fit as a fiddle if you could soak your body in those hot springs. But I did the best I could with what I had.”

  “And indeed, I am thankful to ye, ma’am. I’m supposing I wouldn’t be alive now without ye.” He relaxed against the plush pillows, comfortable in the thought she mustn’t want him dead since she’d gone to such lengths to keep him alive. “Ma’am, if ye don’t mind me askin’, will ye tell me why ye decided to save me life? I am the enemy, after all.”

  Mrs. Logan paused from puttering around the room. She appeared to be deep in thought. “Well, Mr. Murphy, I suppose it was the Christian thing to do. What kind of people would we be if we just left you there to die?”

  “Now yer sounding like my mam.” Thomas smiled at her.

  “Ah, is she living back in New York?”

  “No, ma’am, she’s dead.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Murphy.”

  “Don’t ye worry about it none. She’s been gone for some time now.” Thomas paused and felt himself being pulled into the painting on the wall—effects of the opium, he suspected. The painful thought of his mother’s death was one of dozens of memories he’d just as well forget. He turned his attention back to the woman and changed the subject directly. “And is there a Mr. Logan about?”

  “Yes, there is. My husband, Jebediah, is working in the field picking cotton.”

  “Cotton, eh? And do ye gin it yerself, ma’am?”

  “No, there’s no gin on the peninsula that I know of, but we do use a bit of it here. You’re resting your back on some right now.”

  “Very nice indeed. And what do ye do with the rest of it? After all, the Union navy has most of this area under tight blockade.” His own weakly spoken words brought back a fleeting memory of what he’d been doing before he was shot.

  Caroline picked up the tray. “That’s true, but we still have our ways of getting it to the mainland.” She gingerly placed the tray on his lap. “The cotton is taken to the state penitentiary up in Huntsville for processing.” She paused a moment. “Since you’re awake, you might want to try eating something. Some folks around here have expressed they are mighty tired of feeding you.”

  “I understand and can’t say that I blame them.” Thomas picked up the spoon.

  Caroline started for the door.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but would ye mind telling me if there are others who live here? I seem to have recollection of a dark-haired young woman floating around in my mind.” Thomas stuck the spoon into the bowl and stirred it. “Aye, perhaps it was an angel I seen.” He began to laugh, but a streak of pain shot all the way from the slash in his side to the deep hole in his shoulder. Thomas cried out in pain and grabbed the blanket, almost overturning the food on his lap.

  Caroline rushed over to steady him. “N-now don’t you start laughing or else you might bust open your stitches.” Her hands and her voice trembled. “Try to eat some soup and cornbread and keep quiet.” The woman gave a small smile. “You must be having memories of my eldest daughter, Margaret. She’s the one who found you half-dead on the beach. Would you like to meet the two older children?”

  “Indeed I would, ma’am. I’d like to thank Miss Margaret.” Thomas lifted a spoonful of the steaming broth. The warm liquid soothed as it went down. He took a few more spoonfuls before his head fell to the side. Fog enveloped his brain as he relaxed against the pillows.

  Caroline moved toward the door. “Margaret, Elizabeth, would you please come to the front bedroom?”

  Her loud words jarred Thomas back to consciousness.

  “I believe they are out in the kitchen fixin’ up a batch of cookies to go along with the evening meal tonight.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “They better not burn them. We’re down to the last of the sugar and there’s no more to be found.”

  “Aye, but I shall be a lucky man if yer daughters can cook half as good as ye have prepared this soup, Mrs. Logan.”

  “I didn’t cook the soup…my daughter Margaret did.” After a moment, Caroline called for the girls again. “Margaret, Elizabeth, come now, please.”

  The two girls scurried into the front bedroom.

  “Mr. Murphy, these are my two eldest daughters, Margaret and Elizabeth. Girls, this is Mr. Thomas Murphy.”

  The younger of the two had brownish hair tied up in bows like a schoolgirl. Her yellow dress fit snug around her girlish, plump frame. She swayed as she stood with her hands clasped behind her skirt. Her face was dusted with flour, and her cheeks seemed to glow in the dimly lit room as she smiled.

  He smiled back at her.

  The other one stood silent. She didn’t look at Thomas, then her sister elbowed her in the side, and a hint of anger etched her face. Eyes the color of violets met his own. His mouth became dry and he groped for the glass of water on the tray. He attempted to speak. “I’m…I’m pleased to meet ye, ladies. What a coincidence—I had a sister named Elizabeth too.” He managed to get the words out before wiping his face with the napkin.

  The younger girl curtsied, lifting her skirt out at the sides. “It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Mr. Murphy.”

  The older girl narrowed her gaze at her sister and rolled those violet eyes before turning her glare toward Thomas. She folded her arms and stood, silent.

  Her mother nudged her crossed arms. “Margaret.”

  The young woman dropped her arms, let out a huge sigh, and dipped her head. “Mr. Murphy.”

  Thomas needed to catch his breath. The girl was beautiful with the coal-colored hair of his dreams. Her skin looked soft as satin and smooth as porcelain china. “Miss Margaret, I understand yer the one who came to my rescue. I’m much obliged to ye, ma’am.”

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Murphy. I hope you understand that I don’t make it a general rule to go saving the lives of blue-bellied Yankee sailors, but according to my mama and papa, it was the right thing to do. Now if you don’t mind, I have cookies to bake. Good day, sir.” The words were spoken in a lovely, melodious voice. His stunning savior whirled around, her skirt flaring wide at the bottom as she rushed from the room.

  Her mother and younger sister gasped in unified disbelief.

  “I am so sorry about Margaret’s rudeness,” Mrs. Logan apologized.

  Mother and daughter abruptly left the room. Mrs. Logan was obviously angry.

  The gorgeous young lady’s words were definitely some of the harshest Thomas had ever heard, and yet he longed to hear her beautiful voice speak them once again.

  5

  Margaret slammed a huge ball of dough onto the kitchen counter and a cloud of flour exploded from beneath it. Thomas Murphy…so that’s his name. She picked up Mama’s rolling pin and hammered the crushed ball before rolling it flat as a piece of paper. Mr. Murphy, shall I go fetch the authorities so it will be easier for you to turn us all in for treason?

  Little June pushed one of the kitchen chairs t
o the counter, climbed up, and watched her big sister. “Can I throw the dough ball, Margaret? I wanna make flour go everywhere too!”

  “No! Now get down from that chair before you fall and hurt yourself.” Margaret scraped up the flattened-out dough and rolled it back into a ball. She grabbed a handful of flour and threw it onto the counter in a huge white puff.

  “Do it again, sissy! Make the flour go way up in the air!” June waved her hands above her head.

  Heavy footsteps came up behind Margaret. Mama and Elizabeth would be hot on her heels…primed for an ambush. She pelted the counter with the ball of dough again.

  Her little sister clapped her hands together and squealed with glee.

  Mama stepped up behind June and lifted her out of the chair. She pulled it back to the kitchen table and patted her on the behind. “June, go to the front room with your brother.”

  “But, Mama, I wanna see sissy make more flour clouds.”

  “You heard me, now go!”

  June poked out her bottom lip, crossed her arms, and stomped out of the room.

  Margaret cast an uncaring but cautionary glance to her other side.

  Elizabeth stood with hands on her hips, an imposing look on her face. She tapped her foot as though she had some kind of power over Margaret.

  Margaret glared and the haughty look melted from Elizabeth’s face.

  Mama twirled Margaret around and pointed a finger squarely in her face.

  Margaret grabbed hold of the counter she was backed up against. Childlike fear welled up inside.

  “Margaret Frances Logan, I don’t ever want to hear you talk to a guest in our home like that again, no matter who they are. Do you understand me?”

  Papa chose that very instant to come through the back door. He took one look at the situation, shook his head, and headed straight for his chair and the newspaper he’d read at least a half-dozen times.

  Mama made eye contact with Papa and then removed her finger from Margaret’s face. She backed away and released a long, huffy breath.