Sanders Cross

by Stephy Smith

  The gray uniform he wore was tattered, covered with mud and mixed with the blood of his comrades in arms. He eased the injured into the bottom of the trench despite their deafening screams for mercy. He closed his ears to their prayers to end their lives and rid them of the agony caused by bullets that had ripped through their bodies.

  He pushed away from the incline and sank to the trench floor. Elbows resting on his knees, hands covering his ears, he closed his eyes, determined to shut out the devastation. Every battle he’d fought since the beginning of the war seemed the same. The non-stop agony, death and fierce weather followed them to every battle.

  Just make it stop. Dear lord, make it stop! I’ve been hurled into the fiery depths of hell with no escape. Either pull me out and send me home or kill me off. I’m no longer hard to please about the outcome. Just take me away from this place.

  In all the years of writing home, he’d lied about the war. Pretending things were fine when they weren’t, describing the beautiful hills and valleys but leaving out the part where the earth was littered with blood, bodies, and the smell of death and gunpowder. Or how he’d had to leave men fatally wounded and screaming on the battlefield to march on to the next battle. Each time that happened, it had ripped at the hardened souls of his entire unit, himself included.

  No one on earth should have to experience war in any form. He’d seen too many nightmares that he couldn’t share with anyone other than fellow comrades in battle. Civilians wouldn’t understand the turmoil and bitterness burning within the minds of soldiers. Horror and constant fear were their only companions.

  Chapter Fourteen

  November 22, 1865

  Izella

  Izella rose earlier than usual. She walked outside to the turkey pen and caught the large beast. After a quick swing of the hatchet, the turkey was ready for plucking. She prepared the bird in the dimness of the candle perched on the wooden block. She carried the turkey into the house and plopped it in the large pot. A stir of the orange embers glowed as she tossed a few logs in the belly of the stove. She shoved the pot to the back and returned to the garden kitchen just outside the back door.

  Her basket set beside the door on a stump. She filled it with onions, green beans, a pumpkin and beets. She looked to the fading stars.

  “Oh Lord, help me make it through this day. I have yet to spend a Thanksgiving without Lewis. It just doesn’t feel right celebrating anything without him. If it is your will, I can do nothing to fight my own outcome. I do thank you for the years you gave us together, the children you helped us raise and the girls I have with me. You have rendered me a good life and many wonderful memories. Bless the families who sacrificed their loved ones with a beautiful day of thanksgiving.”

  The basket handle strained and she shifted a hand to the bottom. She reached the door and carried the basket into the kitchen. Turning it upside down, she emptied the contents on the table and settled down in a chair to prepare the vegetables for the feast. With all the pots simmering on the stove, she turned to make the trip to the root cellar and grab a few jars of cranberries.

  Her mind wandered. She knew Lewis and her boys wouldn’t get a good meal this Thanksgiving Day. From the letters Lewis had sent they were lucky if they got a meal at all. He told her of his concerns for the boys and the rapid deterioration of the men marching with him. She shivered and tried to tuck the horrors of war from her mind.

  The church bells chimed just as they always did when one of the neighbor men returned home from the war.

  She dropped her knife on the wooden table. The war had ended months ago and yet none of her men had come home. Her heart lurched.

  The church bells failed to ring as often as they did when the war ended. Now, another lucky family would welcome their loved ones into their arms to celebrate a joyous reunion of the best kind. She ran to the front porch and stepped out into the fresh air.

  ****

  Maggie

  Maggie, Grace and Mittie met their mother on the front porch. She was drying her hands on her apron. “Do pray it’s them, Mother.” Maggie draped her arm over her mother’s shoulders.

  Mittie ran down the lane and peered toward the ringing church bells. Maggie held her breath, afraid to look in the direction from whence the men would come marching home. But she was more afraid of not looking.

  They all stood frozen on the porch until Mittie stomped back towards them. Izella’s shoulders slumped with despair. She let out a long sigh, and then Maggie dropped her arms to her sides.

  Grace stomped her foot. “I do not understand. Everyday more men return home. Where are ours? Why don’t they come home to us? I hate this and we need to face the fact…our men simply are not going to return to us.”

  Mittie came to a stop before Grace. Maggie cringed at the stare Mittie gave her sister. “Are you telling us you have given up hope? Mother and Maggie need us to stay strong in our faith in Father and the boys. You want to bury their bodies and we don’t even have proof they are dead!”

  “Now girls, stop it!” Izella pasted a look of warning on her face. “I will not have this kind of banter on this Thanksgiving Day.”

  “Grace is right. Why should we torture ourselves every day when those church bells ring? The only thing they serve is disappointment when Robert, Father and the boys do not return. I cannot take this anymore.” Maggie gazed at her sisters and mother through tear-filled eyes.

  Mittie took Maggie’s hands in her own. “You must snap out of this, Magdalene! Do not let Grace discourage you. We need to adhere to our belief that the men will one-day return. Maybe they need a little time to adjust. They will find their way home someday. You just wait and see. I will not give up hope that they are alive.”

  “Just because our men haven’t returned to us does not give us reason to disregard rejoicing with the other families whose men made it home.” Izella’s voice cracked, and then faded. She dragged her feet to the door and disappeared inside. “Always remember, girls, When the bells ring, the angels sing.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lewis, Robert, William, Samuel and Thomas exited the train from separate cars. Lewis peered around the crowd standing on the platform to welcome the soldiers home. His heart sank when he didn’t spot Izella and the girls. He couldn’t blame them. Izella would take her stance at the house and wait impatiently for his return. He wondered how many times they loaded the wagon and made the journey to town only to be disappointed when he and the boys hadn’t returned.

  “Pa!” A tearful voice twirled him around to face Thomas and William. He ran to them despite the pain in his swollen feet, and pulled them to his chest. His body shook with sobs. The unbelievable feeling of love released stress he was unaware of until the moment he laid eyes on the two.

  A few townsfolk and neighbors stood in line to shake the hands of Lewis and his sons. More stood in the background calling over shoulders, asking if there was any news of their loved ones still missing. With each negative response he couldn’t help the sinking of his own heart as shoulders slumped and eyes dulled.

  “Thomas, William?” A familiar voice called over the mass of passersby. Lewis stretched to see the hobbling Samuel come forward, pushing his way through the crowd. Close behind him was Robert’s lanky and trembling form. The poor man was nothing but skin and bones. His heart lurched and he closed the distance between them to assist Robert.

  “Thank you for bringing us all together, Lord.” His tears stained his face as he clutched his sons and son-in-law. The bittersweet reunion weighed heavily on his soul. He had changed. Even admitting his true turmoil to his boys who returned as men became impossible.

  Their weathered, tired faces ripped at his heart. Their words were guarded—it wasn’t what they said, but what they didn’t say, that creased his brow. Even he refused to bring up the war. Deep inside he prayed that if the words were never spoken the horrors of war didn’t exist. Yet, in all reality, he knew it had. He seen it and so had his sons. The one regret he would have
to accept as part of his life forever.

  “Shall we start home, men?” His voiced choked with fear and anticipation.

  All heads nodded, sad smiles crossed their faces, and they leaned on one another as they hobbled towards Sanders Cross.

  Robert’s starved body nauseated him. The last time he had seen him, his broad shoulders, straight back and well-muscled frame were strong and healthy. Maggie would have a long battle to build the man back into the man who left. If anyone other than Izella could put meat on his bones, it was Maggie.

  His gaze fell to William. Although he fared better than the others, there was still an unease about his appearance. The hair on his cheek split with a scar running from the corner of his lip to his ear. Lewis assumed it was from a bayonet battle, even though William never said anything about it.

  Samuel talked wildly about everything except the war. His unsteady gaze bounced from one clump of grass to another. His words were carefully spoken, as if to not reveal something he didn’t want the rest of them to be privy to. The realization clouded Lewis’s mind. He prayed that one day his son would be able to get past the war and continue to lead a somewhat normal life. He shook the last thought from his mind, knowing they would never be able to return to what they had before the war.

  Thomas leaned on two crutches and had a bandage wrapped around his head. His eyes were sunken into their sockets. He stopped to hold his chest while he coughed. Samuel stopped beside him and rubbed his back while softly speaking close to Thomas’s ear. Thomas closed his eyes and his shoulders slumped as the coughing spell eased then disappeared.

  “I’m ready for one of Izella’s home-cooked meals.” Robert waddled along beside Lewis.

  “Me too. I can’t wait to hold her in my arms. It’s been far too long for me to be away from her. I sure could have used her a time or two.” His eyes fell to the ground.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Amanda—ever so bright at three—sat at the long table. “Can I say the blessing?”

  The women nodded in affirmation.

  “God, can you bless Grandma? She cries at night when no one is watching. I see her sometimes hugging that wood box to her chest and it’s got to hurt. I’m afraid she’s going to bruise herself. She talks to the window and says things about trying to drown her fears. Well, I don’t know what fears are, but if I have to get some I don’t want to have to drown them. While you’re handing out blessings, Mama sure could use a new picture frame ‘cause she runs her fingers over the old one of Daddy so much that I just know she’ll wear a hole in it. And please heal Aunt Grace of the poly-ticks that get under her skin and run down her spine! Those poly-ticks are the worst kind of ticks. They could send me into one of them—what do you call it, Mama? An itching frenzy? Mittie, all she wants is the man of her dreams. Now I don’t ‘xactly know what kind of man that is, but she wants one real bad. You could use my blessings ‘cause I don’t need them. That way you could send them to Grandpa, Daddy and my uncles. They’re in the war, you know, and they need your help. A—men.”

  A loud thud in the foyer snapped Amanda’s head around. Frozen to her seat, her heart pounded in her chest. The clump mixed with thuds coming from the other room sent her body into spasms. She covered her mouth with both hands.

  The doors to the dining room swung wide and in stepped five men. Gazes fixed on the women, tears streamed down tired and dirty cheeks. For a second, the room stood silent, heavy and penetrating as if the world had stopped. She slid from her chair to hide under the table.

  The men were weather-beaten and bandaged, their clothes soaked in blood. Torn uniforms and battered hats moved closer. Amanda’s breath caught in her throat.

  In a flurry of motion, the crutches crashed to the floor. Her mama and grandmother along with her aunts scuffled from the chairs. As their feet disappeared from under the table, Amanda peered at the strangers with hairy faces. Her little heart set to racing faster with each step bringing the men and women closer together. Tears stung her eyes and she screamed until her voice cracked.

  Her mother, grandmother and aunts fiercely clutched to the men’s necks. Tears slid down the men’s faces, and became buried in the women’s now mussed hair.

  Amanda continued to scream, hoping to draw the men away from biting the women. On her hands and knees she crawled across the floor and grabbed one of the crutches. She reared back, and her little arms waited. The men and women were hopping in circles. Muffled cries came from both sides.

  “Amanda! What are you doing?” Her mother’s voice penetrated the group. The chaos stopped. All eyes fixed on her.

  “I’m going to save you, Mama.” Her voice broke.

  “There is no need to save us. This is your father, grandfather and uncles. They’re on our side.” Izella bent over and removed the crutch from her hand.

  Amanda stomped her foot and crossed her arms over her chest. “Then why were you trying to strangle them?”

  The group gathered around her. Lifting her eyes to the men, a pair of calloused, cracked hands reached for her. A deep voice flowed softly from his mouth and moisture pooled in his eyes. “I’m your daddy, Amanda. I’m your daddy.”

  Maggie nodded her head and Amanda ran into the man’s arms. He showered her cheeks with kisses and pulled her tight against his chest. Laughter mixed with strained voices and, she knew there was no reason to be afraid. Her mama and the others had waited all her life for these men.

  ****

  From that day forward her life had changed. The women’s sobs had stopped. She was now permitted to play outside without an adult to watch over her. She returned with her parents to the plantation house they lived in before the war began.

  She glanced at the two-story house with the winding stairways leading to the second floor gallery. “What do you think we should call our home, Amanda?”

  She crinkled her nose at her daddy. “Gentry’s Gallery of Angels, of course. If Grandmother hadn’t had that cross in her yard, the angels wouldn’t have known where you could find me.”

  About the Author

  Stephy Smith was born and raised in the Northwest Texas Panhandle. She owns and operates her own ranch and is the sole caretaker of her mother. Stephy loves to write historical romance claiming the land she lives on is more in tune with the 1800 vast prairie lands than with the 2000 updates. Most of her inspiration comes from the weather, wildlife and imagination from country living. In her spare time, she loves to read, ride horses, watch rodeos and paint.

  Also by Stephy Smith:

  Many times her mother had warned about coming to the mountain in a blizzard. The complex domain could bring down even the most experienced men, and she didn’t want to be the next life claimed.

  Pushing her mother’s words aside, she led the horse to the man and reached for the frozen body. A heart-stopping jolt knocked her on her backside when the man’s hand shot up to grab her. Her vision blurred as she glanced at his mouth. His blue lips moved, but no words came out. Running to the horse, she grabbed the fur wrapped canteen and gave him a sip of cold water.

  “I’m gonna pull you to the travois and get you off this mountain. If I don’t, you’ll end up like your friends there.” Lizzie nodded to the dead bodies. Waves of guilt spread through her for a second. Then, she set back to work.

  A strange prickle spread over her at the discovery of two and a half frozen men. No matter how many bodies were found, the ghostly images always stuck in her mind. Visions seemed to dance around longer than necessary just to torment her winter wonderland. She loaded the man between his companions and placed her rabbit skin scarf over his head and face.

  She led the horses down the mountain trail. Glancing back to the cold campsite, she mounted the horse in hopes another body did not appear. If one did, he had to have walked in since there weren’t enough horses. A tug on the reins twirled the stallion toward the warmth and safety of the log cabin. Her mind concentrated on the men.

  Their tattered, thin uniforms told the story of the har
dships they’d endured from the war. Times when they would pray things would end, maybe praying for their own safety or life to end to escape the horrid scenes surrounding them. With no more than what they had with them, she wondered if every winter for the last four years had been brutal.

  She envisioned the men on their knees asking for mercy, to be relieved from the hands of the enemy, or the nightmarish howls of the wounded men that echoed through the air. No matter where they were, the harshness would burn into their minds like the brand on the hide of cattle.

  How could she even think her life had been rough? Look at the things these men had endured for four long years, and she doubted they would complain about the life they had been dealt. How could she have been so selfish to think she was the only person on this earth who endured a pain so deep she never wanted to return to society? She was happier living with the spirits on the mountain.

  How had they come to be on the mountain? Unless the new man survived, she would never know the answer to that question. She only wished she had known they were there earlier. Maybe she could have helped, or at least taken them to her cabin out of the vicious winter storm.

  A frigid wind whipped up the side of the mountain. Lizzie’s eyes burned against the glitter of whiteness. Her lips threatened to crack with each minute it took to escape the sleepy slope. One last glance at the men rendered a need to coax the horses to move faster.

  “If the man wasn’t still alive, I would be wrapped in the warm rabbit fur scarf placed over his face. He is a lot colder than I am, and closer to death.” Guilt swam around in her mind, twisting and turning her torrential flood of emotions up a notch.

  For the first time, she was burdened with the life of another human. Fierce determination to save the man hit hard on her soul.