The Seeker

by Ann H. Gabhart

  A young reporter, who had latched on to Adam as a battle-savvy veteran and was dogging his steps, watched the scene below for a few minutes before he yawned and lay back in the dry grass. “Ain’t it just like the army. Chase the enemy clear across to tomorrow, and then nobody wants to fire the first salvo.” He plopped his hat over his face. “Wake me when they’re ready.”

  For lack of anything better to do Adam drew his picture. The kid was covering his first battle. That was why he could sleep. He had no idea of what was coming the way Adam did. Adam didn’t want to think about it as the minutes ticked by. Eventually the artillery would begin firing and the battle would be engaged, but now peace still reigned in the scene spread out below them. Crows cawed as they flew in and out of the cornfield. The soft coo of a mourning dove was almost drowned out by the chirr of grasshoppers in the parched pastures around the cornfield. Adam didn’t see the first cow. No doubt the farmers had hidden their stock when they heard the armies were coming to keep the soldiers from having chunks of beef roasting on spits over their fires.

  As the sun rose higher in the sky, the reporter continued to snooze while Adam felt the tension growing inside him. He wished he were anywhere other than on that knoll waiting for another battle to begin. He calculated the miles to Harmony Hill and how long it would take him to ride there. He sketched a garden full of roses and then drew Charlotte in the midst of it.

  He stared at the sketch a long time and wondered why he hadn’t left room for himself beside her. He had never put his image in any of the many sketches he’d done of Charlotte. Was that because he knew in his heart that his dream of holding her in his arms again was just that—a dream that would never come true? Perhaps he was only in love with a woman his imagination had created to be drawn by his pen. Perhaps she was nothing as he remembered and it was only the drums of war that made him wish for love just as Jake had wished for his lost love before he died. To leave something of himself behind even if it was only his memory in the heart of someone who had loved him no matter how briefly.

  Maybe the best thing to do instead of calculating the miles to Harmony Hill would be to forget the kisses in the garden. To leave her in the peace of the Shakers or perhaps rebuilding her Grayson. But then he touched his pocket where he carried the last letter he had received from her, the one he’d read while Jake was in the hospital. It held no words of love. He knew enough about the Shakers to know such would not be allowed by them, but yet she always mentioned the garden. In those words he sought the flowering of love even as his love for her had grown in his heart. He would not forget. He could not forget.

  The Rebels fired their first artillery piece when the sun was directly overhead. The young reporter sat up, startled by the noise. But then eagerness lit up his face as he jumped to his feet to get a better view.

  “It’s started,” he said.

  “It has,” Adam agreed as he turned his sketchbook back to the peaceful pasture scene to begin drawing in the scenes of death.

  “How come there aren’t any soldiers charging across the field?” the reporter asked.

  “They will. The artillery always gets things under way.”

  Adam tried to recall what the kid had said his name was. Max, maybe. Or Mike. That was it. Mike Putnam. Adam had told him to write his name on a piece of paper and put it in his pocket. A lot of the soldiers had started doing that so their remains could be identified even if they got hit by a shell that blew away their faces. Adam had his name in his pocket on Charlotte’s letter. Not that he was worried about his remains. He wasn’t one of the green troops about to be ordered to take up positions on the field. He was safe on his knoll.

  Mike was on his feet, standing on his tiptoes as if that extra inch would show him even more. “Maybe we should move closer to the action.”

  “We’re close enough.” Adam kept his eyes on his sketch.

  “But we can’t see much from here. How are we going to know who’s winning?”

  “We’ll get the word eventually. Especially if you see the men retreating. Besides, if you think you can’t tell much about what’s happening up here, believe me, it’s ten times worse down there.”

  “Worse? How could it be worse? That’s where it’s happening.”

  “Down there each soldier is standing in one little pocket of what’s happening. At least that’s what the men I’ve talked to tell me. Down there in the heat of battle you’re as likely to get shot by your own side as the other side if you’re in the wrong spot. Better to be up here out of range.”

  “But . . .” The kid let the word hang in the air between them.

  Adam sighed. The last thing he wanted to do was babysit a green newsman. But when he looked up at the kid, Adam saw Jake as he’d been the year before when they marched out to that first battle at Bull Run. Eagerness and fear mixed. At least this kid wouldn’t have to run into a barrage of bullets. He could be an observer like Adam.

  But the kid couldn’t settle down. He kept hopping up at every boom of artillery and then when at last the sound of musket fire signaled the battle had commenced, he couldn’t stand it. He looked at Adam and said, “I’ve got to be down there. I’ve got to know what it feels like to write about it, don’t I?”

  “Don’t be stupid, Mike. You’re not a soldier. You don’t even have a gun,” Adam said.

  “I’m not planning to shoot anybody, just report on what it’s like.”

  Short of tackling him and tying him to a tree, there was no way Adam could keep him up on the knoll out of artillery range. He watched the kid pick his way down the hill toward the cornfield where most of the action seemed to be going on. Cornstalks were flying up in the air as artillery shells dug deep furrows in the ground. Trees on both ends of the cornfield were exploding in splinters from the hits. And the shells kept screaming through the air, killing without partiality.

  He saw the kid fall backward when the bullet hit him. Adam wanted to turn his eyes away, wash his hands of the crazy kid, but he couldn’t. He saw him turn and begin to crawl. He’d seen dozens of men fall and not ventured into the battle to pull any of them to safety, but he couldn’t leave the boy there. It would be like leaving Jake to die again.

  Adam closed his sketchpad and looked over his shoulder toward his horse still tied to a tree. The horse had his head up and nostrils flared at the noise of battle, but he was there. If Adam could get the kid back up to the top of the knoll, then he could load him on the horse to take him to a field hospital at the back of the lines.

  Adam moved as quickly as he could. There was no need trying to dodge the gunfire because there was no way to know where the next bullet might be. Adam cringed when a bullet whistled past his head, but then he remembered an old soldier telling him once that hearing the bullet was good. That meant the bullet had missed and was seeking out another target. But the one chasing it might be trouble.

  The kid had taken a hit to the leg, the minié ball had torn half his calf away, and blood was soaking his britches. Adam put his arm around him to lift him up off the ground as he said, “You’re going to have to help.”

  The kid looked dazed, but he nodded and leaned on Adam as they made their slow progress away from the field of battle. Exploding shells rocked the ground like a volcano about to break through the crust of the earth to add to the destruction. Adam shut his mind to the bullets. He didn’t think about the artillery shells. He just thought about putting one foot in front of the other and getting the young reporter to safety. He hadn’t been able to save his brother, but he could save this kid. Please, Lord.

  The prayer rose unbidden in his thoughts almost at the same instant the shell exploded overhead. Fragments rained down to their left, but missed them. They were making it, moving out of range. A few more steps. Adam could hear the horse whinnying. He didn’t know how with the crash of the guns all around, but he did. Please, Lord. A few more steps. He didn’t hear the bullet that hit the arm he had wrapped around the kid’s waist. He just felt the thud as it
knocked both of them forward. The kid cried out, but he didn’t stop breathing, so Adam kept moving. He didn’t even look at his arm until he was up on the horse with the boy in front of him. Blood was streaming down his hand. His right hand. His drawing hand.

  He stared at the wound. The bullet had glanced off the bone of his forearm above the wrist. It was a good ten seconds before he had the nerve to try to move his fingers. The first two moved; the last two didn’t. He fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and wrapped it tightly around his arm. A big chunk of his skin was gone, but he could live with that. As long as some of his fingers moved. As long as he could still hold a pen or a brush.

  The kid in front of him on the horse groaned and fell forward. Adam caught him and turned the horse away from the battle. He left the boy, still breathing, at a house the surgeons had turned into a field hospital. He didn’t let the doctor look at his arm. Waved it off as nothing serious, even though his blood had soaked the handkerchief and his shirt. He couldn’t take the chance of losing consciousness and waking up without his hand. The army surgeons were too quick with the knife and saw. He’d chance death before he chanced that.

  Please, Lord.

  34

  On October 8 the day once more dawned hot and clear at Harmony Hill. The pastures and late gardens desperately needed rain, but the air carried so little moisture that the night no longer even licked the grass with dew.

  That morning as the sisters left the Gathering Family House to go to their duties, Sister Altha paused to gaze up at the cloudless sky. After a moment she sighed and shook her head. “Not the least sign of rain. It must be the good Lord has turned his face from our village because he can’t bear to look down on the misguided soldiers passing along our road on their way to slaughter one another. How sad the sinful hearts of the world.”

  “Yea.” The sisters following her down the steps and out into the village echoed her words with obedient agreement. Charlotte spoke the word without thought.

  Sister Altha lowered her eyes from the clear sky to the women behind her. “Never fear, my sisters. In time Mother Ann will convince the Eternal Father to turn his face back to us. When we can shed this odious burden of cooking for the Southern army and can once more go forth in exercising the worship due our Mother and the Lord, laboring songs and attending to proper industry, then the gift of refreshing rain will fall upon our ground again.”

  Indeed the whole village looked trampled and weary after the onslaught of Confederate soldiers passing through in such desperate need of food and water. But on this Wednesday morning with the road mercifully empty of soldiers, the Shakers set about taking stock of the damages done to their fences and gardens by the pillaging troops.

  Charlotte hoped the Confederate soldiers would continue south and leave Kentucky behind forever. Many of the Shakers expressed that same hope as the morning passed quietly. And yet the workers seemed to be continually looking over their shoulders down the road as if fearful the peace of the day wouldn’t last.

  When Charlotte carried Sister Martha’s midday meal to her, the old sister said a messenger had come in with the report of a large army of Union troops chasing after the Confederates.

  “I hope the Rebels keep retreating to the south without stopping to engage the Northern army.” Concern wrinkled Sister Martha’s gentle face. “For if the armies meet, the encounter will surely result in a dreadful battle such as those in the East. Those illustrated in Harper’s by our artist friend. Another time of death.”

  Charlotte did pray as she walked back to the Gathering House to partake in her own midday meal. Not just that there would be no battle, although she did fervently pray that. But she also prayed for rain and that Sister Martha would have enough appetite to eat the food she’d taken her. She prayed Adam would be kept from harm wherever he was. She prayed for a clear path, to know where she needed to be.

  She wasn’t sure why she lingered with the Shakers except that she seemed reluctant to step away from the safe haven of being Sister Charlotte. And didn’t she need to stay to see to Sister Martha? And what of Aunt Tish? It was easier to simply be Sister Charlotte, one of many sisters instead of someone who had to make decisions about sifting through the ashes of Grayson and finding a way to keep her promise to Landon.

  Then there was Adam. Charlotte dreamed of looking up and seeing him at the Shaker village again as she had last summer. This time she wouldn’t run away from him. But even as she was sure of that, she wasn’t sure what she would do. Or what he would want her to do. While he had often referred to the garden in his letters, their meetings there had been fleeting. Perhaps she was imagining things to think love could have taken seed in those brief moments together. At least in his heart. She could not deny that it had flowered in her own.

  Each of his letters had been like rain and sunshine to cause her feelings for him to grow. But though she treasured every pen stroke, no one could imagine them love letters. The Shakers would have never allowed any improper words of sinful worldly love to be delivered to her eyes. Yet Sister Martha thought Adam did seek her affections. Affections that were already his if he would only come back to claim them. Then her way would be clear of doubts just as the sky had been clear of clouds for days.

  She was hurrying up the steps to keep from being late for the midday meal when a boom that sounded much like thunder rumbled in the distance. Even though she chanced being late and missing her meal, she paused to look up at the sky. The sun was shining as brightly as ever. No storm clouds gathered on the horizon.

  Another boom followed the first and then another. Charlotte shut her eyes and shuddered as she suddenly realized that instead of the welcome thunder of nature’s rain clouds, these booms were the unnatural thunder of cannon fire. Even as she stood there and listened, men were dying. Men who perhaps only the day before had eaten food she set on a table for them. Men who had smiled and laughed before they marched away to die on this day. She felt so heartsick that she no longer cared about the meal she was missing.

  As the afternoon passed, there was nothing to do but shut her ears to the distant booming reports of the cannons and try to close her mind to the image of bleeding and dying men as she worked in the garden alongside Dulcie, gathering the last of the dried bean pods from the vines. But each boom rattled her soul and made her want to put her hands over her ears. Dulcie seemed to feel the same as they picked the beans and filled their baskets without talking, each tensed waiting for the next sound of death in the air.

  As the sun began to sink toward the western horizon, the booming continued unabated. When they came out of the garden, Landon broke away from a group of boys trailing after Brother Ballard to run and wrap his arms around Charlotte’s waist.

  “Is the world coming to an end, Sister Charlotte?” he asked in a voice that trembled.

  The child looked so woebegone in his Shaker clothes and hat that Charlotte wanted to hold him tight against her, but instead she pushed him away before Brother Ballard could reprimand him. She leaned down to look directly in his face as she answered. “Nay. Has not Brother Ballard told you the sounds are from cannons?”

  “Like on pirate ships?” he asked.

  “Yea, much like that described in storybooks.”

  “But this isn’t in a storybook.” Landon looked toward the horizon.

  “Nay.”

  “Brother Landon,” Brother Ballard called to him with firm expectation in his voice. “Come back. It is not permissible to run away from the group.”

  Charlotte gave him a little push toward where Brother Ballard waited for him. “It might be easier if you pay attention to Brother Ballard’s rules,” she told him.

  “I do most of the time. But it’s a bad rule if it keeps me from talking to my sister.” He turned back to her to ask one last question as he did every time he saw her. “You won’t forget your promise?”

  “Never, my little brother,” she whispered. Only Dulcie was near enough to hear their words, and Dulcie was not a fault
finder. Besides, her mother’s heart would understand.

  After he hurried back to be the obedient Shaker boy again, Dulcie fell in beside her on the path. “Will you take him with you when you leave?”

  Charlotte quickly looked at Dulcie. She didn’t say if. She said when. “Leave?” Charlotte said. “What makes you ask that?”

  “And what keeps you from answering it?” Dulcie lowered her voice even though there was no one near them on the walkway. “Haven’t we ever spoken frankly with each other when we worked as long as we didn’t have to worry about spying eyes or listening ears?”

  “Yea, forgive me, Sister Dulcie. It is my confusion of spirit that makes the answer difficult. Not your question. But I have promised to be his sister. So either I must stay here or take him if I go.”

  “I would that I had such a choice.” Dulcie sighed.

  “Perhaps someday you will.” Charlotte’s mind raced as she wondered how she could help Dulcie. “If I—”

  With the ghost of a smile, Dulcie touched Charlotte’s arm to stop her words. “You can’t fix everything for everyone, Sister Charlotte. Even as much as you want to. You must leave some things to the Lord above.”

  “But I want you to be happy, Sister Dulcie.”

  “There are many ups and downs to happiness. I think contentedness might be a better blessing.”

  “Are you content?” Charlotte looked over at Dulcie walking beside her.

  Dulcie kept her eyes on the pathway in front of them as they moved on toward the Gathering Family house. “In time I will be. My spirit no longer struggles so actively against the boundaries here. It is not a bad place.”