“But if we don’t tell anyone else, how are we going to get him home?”
Rachel knew that Charlotte was right; she knew that she wasn’t strong enough to take the stranger back to the boardinghouse on her own. In his weakened condition, there was no way she could hope for him to help.
But then she was struck with a bold idea. There might be one other person that they could trust, someone who might not ask any questions. This person just might be able to get the man back to the boardinghouse.
If he wasn’t too drunk…
“I know what we need to do,” Rachel said.
“What’s that?”
“Let’s get Uncle Otis.”
Otis stood just inside the shack’s door, his hands on his knees, breathing as heavily as a mule that had just been forced to plow a hundred acres. Rivulets of sweat poured down his round face, and his skin was flushed a bright red. The front of his shirt was soaked through and his hands, as they fished a small flask of whiskey from his pocket, were damp.
“Now… this here… is just what… a fella needs,” he panted, unscrewing the lid and bringing the liquor to his lips. Straightening his stooped back, he drank greedily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he finished. “That’s more than a bit better!”
Rachel paid her uncle little notice. As soon as she was back inside the shack, she hurried over to where Charlotte still knelt by the sick man. Touching his forehead with her hand, she frowned; his skin was still incredibly hot even though he seemed to be shivering in his sleep, both sure signs that his illness was getting worse.
“Did he wake up at all?” Rachel asked her niece.
“Not once,” the girl answered with a shake of her blonde braids. “He moaned a bit one time, but his eyes never opened.”
“Shoot and tarnation, Rachel,” Otis exclaimed as he waddled over to the makeshift bed and looked down. He took another swig of drink before adding, “You didn’t say nothin’ ’bout me comin’ all the way out here to dig a grave!”
The truth was that Rachel hadn’t told Otis much of anything. She’d discounted the idea of concocting a lie when she had raced back to the boardinghouse; even though he was a drunk, her uncle had a way of knowing when people weren’t being honest. Instead, she’d kept things vague, telling him only that she was in a spot of trouble and that he was the only person who could possibly help her. The small bit of flattery had worked much better than any lie or, for that matter, the truth.
Though Otis had complained about the quick pace Rachel had kept while hurrying back to the shack, he had done his best to keep up with her. Occasionally he’d asked what the trouble was, or why she needed him, but she’d remained silent and gone even faster. Now that he knew why she had brought him out into the woods, Rachel could only hope he would do as she intended.
“Who in the hell is that fella?” Otis asked.
“I don’t know,” Charlotte answered simply, just as she had been instructed. Before she left the shack, Rachel had taken pains to make it clear to the girl that she should tell Otis as little as possible about the man. Charlotte truthfully didn’t know much, but the last thing they needed was for her to tell her uncle that the man had called her by Alice’s name.
No one can find out until I know the truth…
“He’s just a stranger,” Rachel added. “Charlotte found him here.”
“Then why should we be helpin’ him?”
“Are we supposed to just let him die?” she asked her uncle. “He’s sick, terribly sick, and he needs to be cared for.”
“If he’s as sick as he looks, then we should be gettin’ the doctor. The only thing you know ’bout medicine is birthin’ babies, and he sure don’t look pregnant to me.” The heavyset man guffawed. “As for me, all I know is what my grandpappy taught me ’bout sick cows, and even if he’s on death’s door, he ain’t gonna take too kindly to me stickin’ my hand up his backside!”
“Dr. Clark is still out of town,” Rachel answered, ignoring her uncle’s attempt at humor, “and it might be too late by the time he returns. Besides, the nights are getting much colder now, and in this shack, we can’t be certain this man will survive until morning.”
“So what do you reckon we’re supposed to do?”
“We need to take him back to the boardinghouse.”
“Please, Uncle Otis,” Charlotte added.
Otis seemed to be weighing all the things they had told him, looking from each face to the other, and then back again. He brought the flask of whiskey back to his lips, but before he could take a drink, he thought better of it and screwed the lid back on. With a sigh and then a chuckle, he said, “Sure don’t look like he’s gonna be able to pay for a room.”
“When he gets better he can,” Charlotte suggested.
“Do you think you’ll be able to help me get him back?” Rachel inquired.
“Shoot, darlin’, this old fella might not be much to look at,” Otis explained, with an odd sense of pride, patting his enormous stomach, “but I still got a fair share of fire in this here belly!”
Instead of trying to fashion a makeshift travois out of two long sticks and the blankets Charlotte had taken, a method once used by local Indians to transport their sick and wounded, they settled upon simply carrying the sick stranger back as best they could. Otis felt confident that with Rachel’s help he would be able to manage the difficult task, provided that they were able to stop once in a while so that he could wet his whistle. If they didn’t have too many obstacles, they would be back at the boardinghouse by dusk.
With a groan, Otis leaned the man forward at the waist and, with one limp arm slung over his shoulder, heaved the stranger from the floor. Rachel immediately took the other arm and they soon steadied themselves. Charlotte retrieved the blankets, pillow, and other things she had brought in order to care for the sick man, as well as the worn satchel that seemed to be the man’s only possession, and they were off.
They had no more than shuffled outside the shack when Jasper began to dance around them, barking playfully; clearly, the sight of the stranger being carried unconsciously along excited him.
“You hush!” Charlotte scolded him. “We don’t need any of that!”
With Charlotte leading the way, they traveled in a different direction than the one Rachel had taken on either of her earlier treks to the shack; it was obvious that the girl had spent a great deal of time in the woods and knew her way around. After a difficult passage through a clump of honeysuckle bushes, they found themselves on a worn, rocky path that skirted around the western shore of the lake.
Even on the path, the going was harder than Rachel had expected. Since he wasn’t awake and able to help them, the stranger’s limp body felt as heavy as a load of bricks. Occasionally, she or Otis would stumble under their burden, tripping over a rock or a gnarled tree root and threatening to fall, but they never did. Charlotte stayed ahead of them, moving any fallen branches she could manage to lift out of their way or warning them about upcoming areas of standing water or mud.
After her turbulent thoughts back in the shack, it was strange for Rachel to be so close to the sick man. Part of her discomfort was from his smell; his body odor was that of a man who had spent a great deal of time away from a washbasin and a bar of soap. But the sound of his moans, a weak mewling escaping through his slack lips, tugged at her heart, something that surprised even her. Once again, she couldn’t help but wonder if she were mistaken, if this man was Mason Tucker or not.
How can it be possible?
“I wonder what your mother is going to think of such a mess,” Otis said.
“We can’t say a word about this,” she answered quickly.
“Why in the hell not?”
Panic gripped Rachel’s heart at her uncle’s pointed question. This was just what she had worried about from the moment she had decided to take the stranger back to the boardinghouse; how to keep Otis from telling his sister what was taking place.
“You know how Mothe
r is,” she explained carefully, weighing every word. “She already is nervous about all of the other boarders. If we were to tell her we had brought a sick vagrant back to the house, she’d be liable to be up half the night with worry that he had some terrible disease, or that once he got better he’d steal her good silver.”
“He isn’t gonna do either of them things, is he?” Otis asked.
“No, he’s not,” she answered with certainty. “But that won’t stop her from worrying herself into a tizzy.”
“Yer right ’bout that,” he agreed. “And I reckon she won’t never know nothin’ ’bout it unless we say somethin’. After all, it ain’t like she’s gonna come on out of her room to help us haul him up the steps!”
“You can’t say a word to her about him,” Rachel pressed again.
As they continued walking, Otis looked across the stranger’s still unconscious face at his niece and gave her a wink. “You ain’t gonna have to be worryin’ ’bout your Uncle Otis flappin’ his gums.” He chuckled. “This here secret’s safe with me, long as you don’t mind me slippin’ out back of the house once in a while to take a pull or two off of my flask. A fella my age gets thirsty every now and again!”
Rachel gave him an easy smile. Until she found out the truth, until she figured out why this man had called Charlotte by her mother’s name, she would be happy to look the other way.
It was nearly dusk by the time they reached the boardinghouse. The sun hung low and orange on the horizon, its heat having long since left the day. Rachel rubbed her free hand against her arm for warmth; she couldn’t imagine how the strange man had spent so many of these October nights outdoors.
Taking the back door, they cut through the kitchen and then up the long flight of stairs to the second floor. On the way, they had decided to put the sick man in the room directly at the head of the staircase; while it was the easiest to reach from downstairs, it had the added bonus of being as far from Eliza’s room as possible.
Gently as they could manage, they put the man into the bed, making sure he was well covered with blankets. While Rachel pulled down the curtains on the setting sun, Otis lit an oil-burning lamp, and the flickering flame sent shadows dancing across the walls. With the man safely in bed, Rachel knew there was nothing more they could do but let him sleep.
“Let him get his rest,” she said to Charlotte, shooing her toward the door.
“But I want to watch him,” the girl protested.
“You can watch him tomorrow.”
Just as she was about to close the door behind her, Rachel stopped and looked back into the room. She held the sleeping man’s profile in her gaze, wondering for the hundredth time if he was who she thought he might be. Was it truly possible that this man was Mason Tucker? How could he have survived the war? If he had, why had it taken so many years for him to return to Carlson? The questions she had to ask seemed never to end, racing through her mind like comets across the sky.
Once you are better, all of these questions will have answers.
Unknowingly safe, Mason twitched and turned in his bed, sweat glistening on his forehead, his dreams lost in a hazy memory of a time he had spent the last eight years of his life trying to forget:
THE SOMME RIVER VALLEY, FRANCE—MARCH 1918
Mason Tucker pressed his body into the wet mud at the base of the trench, his bones rattling from the force of the explosions erupting all around him. Showers of earth rained down on him as if sent from heaven above. The noise was deafening. Each blast felt nearer than the last, and he struggled to keep his rifle in his shaking hands and his helmet on his head.
Dozens of other men shared his fate, heads bowed in the hope that they would be spared the shells that had already taken the lives of so many of their fellow soldiers. Not a soul dared move an inch in the midst of the chaos. Drizzling rain fell from the ashen sky, the normal pitter-patter of its arrival lost in the grisly sounds of war. Behind the rear edge of the trench, a lone tree stood silent vigil over them, its leafless, gnarled branches pointing skyward accusingly. No bird, no rabbit, no other living thing stirred.
This is a living hell on earth!
Hardly a month had passed since Mason and the other men of his unit had first set foot on French soil. The Great War had been raging for almost four grueling years, but with the arrival of the Americans, talk had begun to suggest that the conflict would soon be over. Though he had enlisted full of equal parts daring and excitement, he had still allowed himself the hope that he would soon be able to return home to Minnesota.
The Germans had other ideas.
From the first time Mason fired his rifle in combat, any illusion he might have had was quickly proven wrong. All around him, men died. Bodies were broken as easily as if they were twigs stepped upon by a booted foot. Faces that he noticed one moment were simply gone the next. The first time he had killed a German soldier had been difficult, the second time only slightly easier. Days slowly bled into weeks. Towns and cities drifted by as if they were smoke borne upon the wind; names such as Amiens, Creil, and Beauvais were as difficult to pronounce as they were to identify. Even the weather seemed to be set against them; torrential spring rains turned the earth into an unmanageable quagmire of mud and set long trains of rats scurrying the length of the flooded trenches. When the sun did manage to shine, its meager warmth did little to assuage the chill that filled him. The food was barely tolerable and bouts of influenza stole as many lives as German bullets. Mason Tucker knew one simple truth: going off to war was nothing like what he had imagined when he enlisted.
Suddenly, the German guns fell silent. Though his heart pounded heavily in his chest, Mason couldn’t hear it over the continued ringing of his ears. He was about to move, to cautiously peer up over the lip of the trench, when the relative silence was broken by the opening up of American artillery. This was to be the opening stage in his unit’s offensive; the orders had come down for them to cross the no-man’s-land of barbed wire, shattered trees, and broken bodies in an effort to take the enemy’s position.
“It won’t be long now, lads,” Mason’s captain shouted in encouragement, his voice little more audible than a whisper over the roaring guns. “Once they’re good and softened up, then we’ll overrun the damn Huns!”
“Just like the last time, I bet,” a soldier beside him said sarcastically, though carefully out of his commanding officer’s earshot.
“They keep sayin’ that this time’ll be the one that gets the Krauts to quit, but it don’t seem to me like they’re payin’ attention,” another answered to a few sporadic fits of forced laughter.
Mason’s hand strayed to press down upon his breast pocket. Inside, tenderly wrapped among the soft folds of a handkerchief, was the letter he had just received from his wife, Alice. He’d devoured every word, reading her flowery script over and over again until he could recite it by heart. It was almost as if she were speaking to him, the sweet sound of her voice as clear to his ear as the gently lapping waters of a lake in springtime. Alice’s loving words kept him moving forward, buoying him against the horrors of the war. Without her letters, he wondered if he would have the strength to go on.
“Hope they know where they’re firin’,” another soldier said as the heavy guns continued to roar.
“If they don’t, we’re gonna know soon enough.”
“Damn machine guns’ll cut us to ribbons!”
“Not if we get them first!”
Struggling to keep his thoughts from lingering over the deadly machine guns he was about to face, Mason focused his mind on Alice. They had known each other since childhood and he couldn’t remember a day when he hadn’t been in love with her. When she had agreed to become his wife, it was as if the Good Lord had reached down and given him a star from the night sky. They had been married only five months when he enlisted, boarded a train, and left their home in Carlson, Minnesota, for the United States Army. The sight of her waving good-bye to him from the platform, her curly blonde hair blowing in the
breeze, tears running down her soft cheeks, was one that returned to him often. Though she was without him, he was thankful she had her family, particularly her younger sister, Rachel, for support.
“Damn Krauts will be waitin’ for us!”
“Then we’ll just have to show ’em what we came over here for!”
Though he had been gone for only months, Mason wondered if he wouldn’t already be unrecognizable to his young wife. Before he arrived in France, he knew that there were many who considered him to be quite handsome: a tall frame that was broad across the shoulders; piercing blue eyes he had inherited from his mother; a firm, square jaw topped by a thin nose; coal-black hair. But now, in the face of brutal conflict, he knew that he had changed: he always felt filthy, covered in mud and the blood of his fellow man; on the rare occasions he caught a glimpse of himself, his eyes looked haunted, his face an unruly mess. Would Alice be horrified to look at him? Would she recognize her husband or think him a stranger?
May the Lord help me return the man I was when I left! And return I must!
“Just a bit more!” the captain shouted above the din.
“Like he’s lookin’ forward to it,” a man joked, but this time no one laughed.
When Mason left Minnesota, he’d made a vow to Alice; he would return to her safe and sound. He’d given his word truthfully, confident in his ability to fulfill his promise. More important, Alice had believed him. Though death was all around him, he felt certain that he would escape its cold embrace; he would do his duty, but do it carefully, cautiously. After all, he and Alice had their whole future ahead of them; the joy of bringing children into the world, stepping in to take over his father’s thriving business, a life filled with love and affection. They had their entire lives…
Once again, the guns fell silent. All around Mason, men appeared to rise out of the muck and mire, edging toward the front of the trench, rifles clutched in muddy hands. Though several had joked during the thunderous firing of the artillery, now all held their tongues, their faces determined yet grim. The soldier beside Mason made the sign of the cross.
Stay a Little Longer Page 12
