The Liberator Series Box Set: Christian Historical Civil War Novels

by Stephenia H. McGee

  “Come, I need to see to your wound. I fear the fever has returned, and that is not a good sign.”

  He shook his head. “It does not matter. We must deliver the message.”

  “We cannot deliver anything, or hope to travel, with you in this condition. We should turn around and return to Rosswood.”

  The muscles in his jaw worked, and she knew he understood the truth in her words, no matter how they annoyed him. “You take the horse and finish riding into town. Leave me here in the wagon to rest for a while. See if you can find out where the nearest Confederate encampment is located, and we will simply deliver my message there. They will also have a messenger you can send with a missive to your uncle.”

  “But what about….”

  “Just go.” He growled. “I need the rest. Surely you are capable of riding into town on your own. Or do you need me for that as well?”

  Annabelle clenched her teeth. “Fine,” she snapped. Let him sleep off this sour mood. She could check his wound when she returned.

  She unhitched Homer, and Monroe climbed over the bench to lie down in the rear of the buckboard. She shook her head but let him be. Now, how to get on the horse unassisted? She led him over to the crumbling fence, found a fairly stable place, and hoisted herself up on a cross piece. It gave a little but held her weight. Thankfully, the old gelding seemed to sense what she intended and swung his body around next to her.

  She gave his bare back a pat. “Thank you, old friend,” she whispered. With a bit of a struggle, she managed to balance herself on Homer’s back, both legs hanging off to one side. Too bad she didn’t have a riding habit to cover her feet. She might be bareback, but she certainly couldn’t ride into town astride with her ankles exposed to the world. She’d just have to maintain her balance without the aid of her lady’s saddle. “Well, I suppose this will just have to do. Come on, boy, let’s go.”

  Homer moved forward, and they returned to the road at a slow walk. She turned to look back at the wagon but could barely make out the shape behind the towering magnolias. How far was she from Lorman? From what she could remember, she was probably more than halfway there. It would take around three hours with Homer at a leisurely walk.

  At least Monroe should be able to rest without anyone happening upon him. She hated to leave him alone, but perhaps she would be able to get some bandages from town.

  Annabelle rode for what she judged to be three quarters of an hour without incident and began to pass the outlying farms. A few moments later, she crossed into Lorman and wondered if anyone would even pay her any mind. She drew Homer up in front of the general store and slid down the horse’s side, her skirts raising nearly to her knees before her feet touched the earth. Humiliated, she quickly smoothed the fraying wool down and looked around, but no one seemed to have noticed. She tied Homer to the hitching post and patted his neck before turning to the store.

  People hurried along the walk, their gazes fixed on the ground before them. Had so much changed? The people appeared frightened, or at the very least too preoccupied with their own affairs to offer their neighbors even a cursory greeting.

  She stepped into the store and suddenly realized the reason for the worried looks and shuffling feet. Two Union soldiers stood at the counter, talking to the shop owner. So, Lorman would soon be occupied as well. As far as she could tell, it would likely be a good thing. The Union troops could bring much-needed supplies. Perhaps she could learn something valuable from these two.

  “I’ve asked you twice, and will not again,” one of the men in blue said, his face reddening.

  Annabelle slipped behind a shelf containing a few sacks of flour and other limited supplies and turned her ear in their direction. Perhaps if she stood unseen, they would not curtail their talk of important matters as men often did whenever a lady approached. Thankfully, it seemed they made no effort to keep their conversation private, and she could hear every word without needing to strain. She could simply appear to be interested in the exorbitantly priced items in front of her.

  “And I’ve answered you twice as well, sir,” the shopkeeper said.

  “You mean you haven’t seen the first Rebel gray come in here?” the soldier said, his tone thick with annoyance.

  Annabelle frowned and rubbed her hands together to return some warmth to her fingers. The shop owner, whom she’d spoken to on several occasions earlier her life, answered in a clipped tone uncustomary for him. “As I already told you, no.”

  The soldier tapped his foot on the wooden floor. “We have word some of General Forrest’s men broke off and are camped near this town.”

  Annabelle twisted so she could peek around the edge of the case, which stood taller than she. The two soldiers were staring hard at Mr. Black, but he did not appear to be concerned. “Well,” he drawled out, “seems like you fellows already have more information that I do. But if I see any boys in gray come by here, I’ll be sure to tell them you are looking for them.”

  The red-faced soldier slammed his fist down on the counter, but the other man grabbed his arm. “Let’s go. We won’t get any more out of him.”

  Finally, the older of the two nodded and turned on his heel. He stalked out the door. The other, a handsome youth with dark hair, gave Mr. Black a shrug and followed his companion. As soon as the door slammed behind him, Mr. Black’s shoulders slumped.

  Annabelle hurried from her hiding place and up to the counter. Mr. Black’s eyes widened. “Miss Ross? Is that you?”

  She dipped her chin. “Good day, Mr. Black. I didn’t think you would recognize me. It’s been several years since we’ve spoken.”

  He glanced back at the door and gave a small nod. “Indeed. But you look the very image of your mother.” Before Annabelle could respond to the compliment, he frowned at her. “A summer bonnet? In this weather?”

  She blinked at him, incredulous. Were there not more important matters than her style of head covering? She lifted her shoulders and gave an apologetic smile. “It is the only one I have left.”

  He gave her a look of pity, and she thought perhaps he might be willing to lend aid. She leaned close, her voice a small whisper. “Mr. Black, I fear I am in need of some assistance, and I wonder if you might be able to help me.”

  “I will do my best,” he said, glancing around the store.

  “I heard what they said. Is there really a Confederate camp nearby?”

  He frowned, leaning back away from her. “Why would a lady need to know something like that? Your Grandfather wouldn’t approve of you getting into any trouble.” He looked closely at her, and his mouth turned down. “Is all going well out there? Since I heard your father passed….”

  She straightened herself and held up her hand, trying to look more like a confident lady than a scared girl trembling in her slippers. “Mr. Black, I am in need of assistance, though I am afraid I can’t give you any details as to why. However, I need to get a message out to my father’s brother, which can most quickly be done with an army message runner. I also need help with arranging transportation.”

  He crossed his arms over his full-length apron, which was covered in all manner of dust. “Now, I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t think it would be wise for you to –”

  She leaned forward, stopping him mid-sentence, and lowered her voice. “You know I have been caring for wounded at Rosswood.”

  He shook his head. “I thought all had moved on from there.”

  “Most have. In one way or another.” She waved her hand. “But, that is not the issue. I have one soldier who wants to join back up with the army as soon as possible, and one other who has lost an arm and a foot. He needs to be sent back to the Delta. I just thought you might know something that can help me find places for them to go. I can no longer care for them.” She took a long breath and let some of her desperation show in her eyes.

  An expression she couldn’t quite grasp crossed over Mr. Black’s face. “You poor child. You should have never….” He shook his head
. “There is a camp. I had an officer come in yesterday. I don’t know where they are exactly, but I believe they are somewhere just north of town. Perhaps they can send your message as well as relieve you of the wounded in your care. If not, I will see if I can find someone who is willing to take the man north with them, should they be traveling. Enough folks come in here. Surely I can find someone.”

  Annabelle offered him a tired smile. “Thank you, Mr. Black.” She turned to leave.

  “Wait. I am concerned for you, Miss Ross.” He looked closer at her, his eyes narrowing. “Your face….”

  She half-turned, angling away the cheek with the skin still tinged yellow from the fading bruise caused by Grandfather’s hand. “If you could find a way to get a telegraph to Lieutenant Michael Ross with the Northern Virginian, I would be most appreciative. Tell him my father’s wishes concerning Rosswood are in danger. He must come quickly. I fear he doesn’t even know Father is dead.”

  She could likely trust Mr. Black, but if word got out that there might not be a firm hold on the plantation…well, she had heard of enough property being stolen out from underneath widows and families without male protection. She didn’t need anyone challenging Grandfather in his state. Better to deal with this marriage problem on her own than risk losing it all to a stranger.

  Mr. Black looked at her with concern and nodded. “I will try my best to assist you, miss. If you require more, please, let me know.”

  “I thank you. I must go now.” She hurried out the door and unwrapped Homer’s reins. Where would she find a mounting block?

  “Might I help you, miss?”

  She looked up to see one of the Union soldiers who had been in the store. It was the younger one who had restrained the other with the hot temper. “Oh, I, um….”

  “I don’t mean you any harm, Miss.” He held up his hands, palms out. “Just because I wear the wrong color doesn’t make me an indecent man.” He gave her a disarming grin.

  She couldn’t help the nervous laugh that bubbled up. “Yes, yes. Forgive me. I do fear I could use some assistance.” She looked up at the horse’s bare back and could not fathom a proper excuse for it. Thankfully, he didn’t appear to be inclined to ask for one, as his stare had not yet left her face.

  He smiled and stepped closer. He couldn’t be more than a few years older than she. Then his brows pulled together. “Where is your saddle, miss?”

  Drat. He’d noticed after all. She smiled, trying to appear as though a woman riding without proper tack was a usual occurrence. “I don’t have one.”

  He appeared as if he expected further information, but she did not give it. They looked at each other for another moment. Then he simply laced his fingers together, and she stepped up on them. With a quick bounce, he hefted her up, and she clamped onto Homer’s mane to stabilize herself. Thankfully, she didn’t topple from the other side. She looked down at the face of the young man, who seemed kind and appeared to have the spirits of one not too long burdened with the horrors of battle.

  Once again, words tumbled from her mouth without proper restraint. “How long have you been in this war?” she asked.

  He shrugged, appearing unconcerned. “Long enough.”

  He seemed no more inclined to explanation or exposition than she, which was likely for the best. She twisted the long reins into her ungloved palms and nudged Homer back a step. “Well, sir, I thank you for your assistance.”

  His lips curved slightly, and he nodded, his mouth opening to say more, but she pulled on the reins and turned Homer around. “I must get back now. My father is waiting on me.”

  He lifted a hand, and she walked off, not turning to look at him again. The lie had slipped easily from her lips, and she wondered why she’d used it. Pretending Monroe was her father had been necessary before, but why would she choose to do it now? The sad truth settled on her. It had felt good to say—to pretend, if only for a moment, that Father really was nearby, waiting on her to come show him her newest hair ribbons.

  Unexpected tears gathered in her eyes, and she blinked them away. Now was not the time for sentiment. She urged Homer along the lonely road and tried not to think too much on her situation. She’d made it within sight of the magnolias when she remembered the bandages she’d wanted to get for Monroe. Oh, well; it was not if she had the funds for them anyway.

  Annabelle found Monroe sleeping just as she’d left him, his face slick with sweat. She tried twice to rouse him, but he merely groaned and turned his head. Not sure what else to do, she began unbuttoning his uniform. Underneath the shirt, the bandage appeared dry. She frowned. If it were no longer bleeding, then why had the fever returned?

  She tugged at the wrapping, doing the best she could to free the bindings without causing him pain. When she finally succeeded in removing them, what she saw made her heart sink. Amid the white pus, blackened flesh had begun to rot, putting forth a pungent odor. She placed a hand over her nose. The smell was worse than the sight, and she was suddenly glad she’d not eaten today.

  She sat back on her heels. If gangrene had set in… oh, what was she to do? She’d seen enough of it to know there was little she could do for him now. She put her head in her hands and began to pray.

  “I would like to trust him, but dare not.”

  Matthew watched the sun dip down to the top of the trees and dreaded the thought of losing what little warmth it provided. He inspected the wrap around his leg. He didn’t trust the doctors here…or anyone who claimed to be one. It seemed too many had done little more than read a surgeon’s manual and then take up a bone saw.

  He’d once seen them remove pus from one man’s wound and transfer it to another man’s wound. They said the ooze indicated a lesion was properly healing, but Matthew couldn’t fathom that something that smelled rotten could be anything good. The man who’d received the pus had seemed to be recovering, only to plummet after they’d smeared him with the foul substance. Both of the men ended up dead, and Matthew hadn’t trusted a doctor since.

  He’d survived one gunshot—well perhaps it was more of a graze—by using his father’s principles for horse care. When one of the mares suffered bites or other marks from the stallion, Matthew’s father insisted the stable boys kept it washed and packed with poultice. Matthew had not paid attention to the ingredients of the poultice and doubted he could have scavenged them anyway, but the principle of often washing his injury had proven its merit. Where others had suffered fever and the dreaded gangrene, his wound had scarred over cleanly. He hoped the hole in his leg would do the same.

  Matthew pulled the dressing free and inspected his ragged flesh. If the bullet hadn’t passed all the way through, he would likely now be sitting in the medical tent without a leg. He tilted his canteen and let the cool water fill the bloody hole, clenching his teeth against the pain.

  “Why you doing that, Captain?” said a voice behind him.

  Matthew turned to see Private Gregory Holt, cousin to the deadpan Captain Holt who had provided him with the proper countersign two nights past. He gave a grunt. “I’m keeping it clean.”

  Holt knelt beside him and scratched his scruffy beard. “I don’t know how clean that water is, seeing as how half of my company died from distemper after drinking from a stream a couple of months ago.”

  Matthew grinned up at him, a little of his good humor returning. “Good thing I wasn’t drinking it, then, huh?”

  Holt frowned. “You ain’t been drinking any water?”

  Matthew grew serious again. “You know, Private, if a man pays attention, he can discover certain things that just might let him survive this level of Hades.”

  Holt’s eyes rounded. “Like what?”

  “Well, you seem clever enough. You noticed that drinking right from a stream made men sick, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah. Ain’t that hard to figure out.”

  “Ever notice a man losing his gut after drinking tea? Or coffee?”

  Holt scratched his head. “I don’t reckon I’ve n
oticed that, no.”

  Matthew shrugged. “Me, either. So I’ve tried keeping to coffee and tea.”

  “How would you manage that? Y’all must have been rationed a lot more coffee than we were.”

  “No, I’ve just had to stretch it.”

  Holt looked at him with a blank expression, so he continued. “Well, I noticed that even just a tiny bit seems to do the trick. So, I take a pot of water and boil it with just one tea leaf at a time, or a few coffee beans, if I have them. Then I put it in my canteen. Makes that pond water taste a mite better, and it seems to keep away the trots.”

  Holt rocked back on his heels. “Huh. I wonder why that is.”

  Matthew rinsed his bandage cloth and wrapped it back around his calf, ignoring the chill. “I don’t know. But I’ve been doing it for three years now, and I’ve not heaved up any of my meals.”

  “Well, who woulda thought of that?”

  Matthew winked. “Me.”

  Holt slapped him on the back. “Sure enough. You got any other ideas?”

  “Just keeping wounds clean like my father always did the cuts on his horses.”

  Holt still looked skeptical, but he nodded. “Well, anyway, I came down your way to make sure you were all right to stay on shift.”

  “I’m not getting a relief?”

  Holt shook his head. “Not anytime soon. We’re thin on men. The general says we don’t have enough for regular on and off now that we lost fourteen to fever, so each man who’s healthy enough stays out until about half-night, then gets his rest until dawn. The other shift will run from half-night until about midday.”

  Matthew stretched his shoulders and tried not to think of how nice it would be to lie down for a few hours. “Very well.”

  Holt slapped him on the shoulder again and sat next to him. “I’m supposed to sit here with you, seeing as you’ve never been on the line through the night before.”

  Glad for the company, Matthew smiled. “That sounds mighty nice.”