The Wounded Yankee

by Gilbert, Morris

  “What kind is it—Baptist?”

  “Got no idea. Whatever kind it is, with a man like Pfouts running it, it’s got to be good.” He cleared his throat and said casually, “By the way, Pfouts told me about a place might be good for you.”

  Buck’s face hardened. “What kind of place?”

  “Oh, just a family you could stay with. Name is Mize. Let’s check into it.”

  The Oriental wasn’t difficult to find, and at the end of the street Zack saw a small boy and a girl even smaller playing in front of a building next to an alley. It looked like an old store with windows boarded up and smoke coming out of a smoke stack sticking out of the window on the alley side. Zack stopped and looked down at the boy in front of the saloon. “Your name Mize?”

  “Uh huh.” Dark eyes below a thatch of black hair peered up at Zack. The little girl had the same coloring. She shyly moved to stand against the building, sucking her thumb.

  “Guess this is it.” Zack knocked on the front door and waited.

  Finally it swung open and a young girl, no more than fourteen or fifteen, stood framed in the doorway, looking at them suspiciously. She had the same black hair and dark eyes as the two children, but the thin dress she wore revealed her growing womanhood. Already she would have difficulty hiding her shapely form—if she wanted to. There was a boldness in her stare and provocative curve to her full lips as she examined them. Finally Zack said, “We’re looking for the Mizes.”

  The girl shrugged and stepped back. “Come on in.” She shut the door and walked to the door in the center of the back wall, calling out, “Ma! Somebody’s here!” Then she returned, put her hands behind her back and stood watching them, never taking her eyes off the visitors.

  The shabby room had been some kind of shop at one time. The walls were lined with old newspapers, peeling free. One table with four mismatched chairs, a black cookstove, some wooden boxes nailed to the wall with a few groceries inside, and a battered couch with springs punching through completed the furnishings. Large cockroaches darted from refuse in one corner. The smell of unwashed bodies and stale food permeated the place. Zack’s heart sank.

  When Mrs. Mize appeared, Zack was even more disappointed. The thin, sickly looking woman whined, “Yeah? What’cha want?”

  “We’d like to see your husband,” Zack said.

  “He ain’t here,” she replied, scrutinizing them. “What’cha want with ’im?”

  “Just a business matter,” Zack said. “Know where we might find him?”

  “Down to the Oriental Saloon, drunk I guess.”

  “I’ll take you,” the girl said, pulling a flimsy sweater from a nail. As she left, her mother yelled, “Lil, you try to git ’im to come on home, ya hear?”

  Zack and Buck followed the girl, who made her way up the street. “Pa won’t come home—not as long as he’s got the price of a drink,” she laughed shortly. When they reached the saloon, a man leaning against the wall saw her and grinned. “Hi, Lil.”

  She was instantly transformed, running a hand over her long curly hair and flashing him a bright smile. “Hello, Harry.”

  “Got that bracelet you admired,” he said as they passed. “See you later.”

  “All right, Harry.”

  They entered the Oriental and the girl headed straight for a back table where a large man was playing cards. He looked up and cursed, “What’cha doin’ in here, Lil? Didn’t I tell you I’d take a strap to you if I caught you in here?”

  The girl showed a trace of fear. “Somebody wants to see you, Pa.”

  Mize looked at Zack and Buck, then said to his daughter, “Git home, you hear me—and don’t take no shortcuts.”

  “Yes, Pa,” she said, hurrying out.

  “My name’s Winslow. Pfouts talk to you about taking this young fellow in for a spell?”

  Mize spoke slowly, obviously trying to control his speech. “Yeah, I ’member he said something ’bout it.” He looked at Buck, studying him. “Boy, I don’t stand for no sass, you unnerstand?”

  Buck just nodded, but his eyes were angry.

  “An’ you stay ’way from Lil or I’ll bust you up,” Mize ordered. He turned to the man across from him, “You hear ’bout how I busted Ad Cantrell up, Clyde?”

  “I did.” The man was short and squat, with hard eyes and a tight mouth. “That wasn’t too smart, Emmet. Now you’ll have to watch out for him. He’ll backshoot you if he gets the chance.”

  “Naw, he ain’t got the nerve,” Mize spat out.

  “Ought to keep the girl home if you don’t want men chasing after her,” the saloon owner said. “Not safe for a pretty one like that.”

  Mize didn’t answer, but turned to Buck. “You do your work an’ don’t give me no sass, an’ you can stay.” He threw Winslow a look. “You the guy who lives way back in the hills—the hermit?”

  “That’s me, I guess,” Winslow said, then nodded, “We’ll let you know.”

  “Let me know?” Mize’s brutal face flushed with anger, and he lurched to his feet. “You talk like we ain’t good enough for this punk to stay with!”

  “You’re drunk, Mize,” Zack said, and turned to go. He never saw the blow that caught him on the side of the head and drove him headlong to the floor. Catlike, he rolled over and sprang to his feet. Mize started after him, but stopped when Foster cried, “Cut it out, Emmet!”

  All three stared at Zack, expecting him to take up the fight, but he had no inclination for a brawl with a drunk, so he said, “Let’s go, Buck.”

  Back on the street, they saw no sign of the girl or the man named Harry. Went to get her bracelet, he thought sourly. He walked rapidly, getting control of his anger, for the blow had aroused him. Was I afraid of that man? he wondered, then dismissed the idea, realizing he was getting older. Mize was big, but slow, and very drunk. It would have been no victory to have fought. He could have cut the man to pieces.

  He glanced at Buck, who was looking at him with a peculiar expression. Expected me to fight, Zack thought. Probably thinks I’m a coward. That bothered him, but he knew more about his courage than Buck, and had no desire to prove it.

  By the time they got to the wagon, he had made up his mind. “Buck, you can’t stay with Mize,” he said, and noted that a swift flood of relief washed across the boy’s face. “Tell you what, you come out to my place. I got lots of work to do. I can’t pay you much, but you’ll have a place to stay and you can bunk in the loft with me.”

  Buck was struggling with his feelings, and though he was desperately relieved that he didn’t have to stay with Mize, he had been hurt too often to allow himself to show any feeling—or so he thought.

  “Well—I got to work long enough to pay for these clothes,” he said, trying to speak from deep in his chest. “Guess it’ll be all right.”

  “Be a help to me,” Zack said. He was not happy about taking in another stray, but thought that Pfouts would find something for Buck soon. “Let’s get on back to the place.”

  He stopped to tell Pfouts what he’d done. “It’s just for a little while,” Zack said loudly. “You try to find him a place, Parris. I got to get rid of all these strays as soon as I can!”

  Pfouts nodded, suppressing a smile. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  When they got back to the cabin, Buck said, “I can unhitch the team.” He took the lines from Zack, and struggled to say something, but nothing came.

  Zack started toward the cabin just as Choiya opened the door, holding both babies. She saw Buck unhitching the team, and murmured, “You brought him back?”

  The question, she saw, irritated Zack. He nodded shortly, then looked at her and the two babies, then toward Buck.

  “He can stay until I find a place for him—and that’s all!” He saw her soft lips curve upward at the corners in a knowing smile. Flustered, he took off his derby and turned it around in his hands, then with a sudden flash of disgust, threw it against the wall, and walked inside without a word.

  Choiya knew B
uck had watched the action. She looked down at the hat, the smile still on her face. Then she shifted Hawk from her left arm, and, holding both babies in her right, bent down in one graceful movement and picked up the hat. She looked at it carefully, and gave Buck a smile before she turned and entered the cabin.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A COMMITTEE OF THREE

  Captain Nels Swenson carefully guided the Harvest Moon to the dock, raising his voice once to warn the Bos’n: “Careful there! Hard over!” He would have been more profane in his command, but just as he spoke he saw his only female passenger standing on the foredeck with a hand on the capstan’s bar.

  The captain had protested vociferously against bringing a woman on board. “It’s a rough enough trip around the Horn,” he’d warned the owner. “And a woman is bad luck on a ship—and she’ll have the men all stirred up.” But the owner of the Harvest Moon had been adamant. “This one will give you no trouble, Captain Swenson. She’s different!”

  Now six months out of Southampton, Swenson had to admit that the owner had been right. As he moved down the deck to where Bronwen Morgan stood looking at the outline of Portland, he thought of the first time he’d seen her. She’d come aboard the night before sailing, and he’d gone to her cabin to lay down some hard and fast rules. At his knock, she’d opened the door, and the sight of her hardened his resolve, for she was not a dried-up old maid as he’d hoped, but one of the most beautiful young women he’d ever seen.

  He remembered standing in the middle of her tiny room, looking down at her. She was twenty-five, had fiery-red hair, and green eyes that examined him warmly while he blustered about having no nonsense. “I’ll tell you straight, Miss Morgan,” he had warned her as he noted the light dusting of freckles across her nose, uncomfortably aware of her deep-bodied, well-proportioned figure, “my men are a rough lot. They can’t change their way of speaking to please you. If you want fine manners, I’d advise you to get a berth on a clipper ship.” Her smile irritated him, and he’d added bluntly, “I don’t have time to waste, so if any of the men make a remark to you, or try to romance you, don’t come crying to me.”

  “I promise not to do that, Captain,” she said.

  Now as he took his place beside her at the rail, he thought how well she’d handled herself on the long cruise. She’s been no trouble at all. I wouldn’t have believed a woman could have tamed this rough crew.

  “You’ll be rid of me tomorrow, Captain,” Bronwen said, turning to face him, a smile lighting her countenance. “You’ve been a very good host—and I’ve been a great trouble to you.”

  “That you haven’t,” Swenson protested, pulling at his droopy mustache. Then he grinned down at her. “Good thing we got here today, Miss Morgan. Another week at sea and you’d have turned the Harvest Moon into a floating Methodist church.” He was referring to the services she had held on deck every Sunday morning since the ship sailed. At first she was totally alone, standing beside the rail, singing hymns, then reading from her Bible as though she had a congregation of a hundred. On the second Sunday, after a week at sea, she’d made two converts, Ernest Hill and Lars Johnson. The pair had joined her, in spite of the jeers from their shipmates. Give in to a woman preacher? Never! But the next week, the trio had swelled to seven; and on the previous day, the captain had stood there with practically every seaman not needed to sail the ship, singing with the rest, and listening as Bronwen balanced herself against the roll of the Harvest Moon, reading the scripture and preaching.

  “I’m afraid some of your converts will backslide when you leave the ship,” Swenson said. “Not to be impolite, Miss Morgan, but I’m afraid some of them came to services because they were fascinated by the sight of a beautiful lady preacher.” His white teeth flashed under his mustache as he grinned. “That’s why I joined you, I’m afraid.”

  “The Lord’s Word will not return to Him void,” she said, lifting her heart-shaped face to study the seaman. “You will find God, Captain. Jesus Christ is on your trail, and He’ll capture you in the end.”

  Morgan’s direct approach had fascinated both the captain and crew. Several of the men had spoken to her roughly to frighten her, but were unsuccessful. Swenson thought uncomfortably of his own indiscretion. He had found her alone on deck, and made advances. Instantly she had put him in his place. “You have a wife, Captain, and two children. What of your wedding vow?” Her words had cut deeply into Swenson’s pride, but in the following days she had never indicated by word or attitude any recollection of the incident.

  He nodded toward the streaky glow of Portland’s water-front lights. “Your young man is there, you say?”

  “Yes.” A smile played around the edges of her mouth, and she touched her cheek gently, her eyes shining with anticipation. “We’ll be married this week.”

  “And then off to preach to the Indians,” Swenson said, shaking his head in wonder. “That won’t be easy.”

  “Jesus didn’t save me for an easy life. He said, ‘Take up your cross and follow me.’ ” Her lips firmed as she spoke.

  “What’s the young man’s name? I forget.”

  “Owen Griffeth.”

  Many times they had talked on the long voyage about her plans. Now he said slowly, “I don’t understand, Miss Morgan. I’ve gone to church off and on most of my life, but God never told me anything. How do you and Griffeth know you’re supposed to preach to the Indians?” Skepticism surfaced as he went on. “Did you actually hear God’s voice?”

  “It came through the Spirit, Captain Swenson,” Bronwen replied. “Owen and I were saved in the revival that swept across Wales two years ago. We began to read the Scriptures and to ask God to instruct us in His will for our lives.”

  “Don’t they need preachers in Wales? Why not serve God there?”

  “We did think of that, but soon we felt God wanted something else.” She looked up, laughter dancing in her eyes. “Captain, don’t you sometimes know a storm is coming before there’s any sign of it?” He nodded and she continued. “If you tried to tell me how you knew that, you wouldn’t be able to make me understand. You’ve spent your life at sea, watching it, thinking about it. You’ve learned there’s something in the smell of the air, the shape of the clouds. But even if you couldn’t explain that to a landlubber like me—you know in your spirit that it’s going to storm.”

  “Why, that’s so!”

  She nodded. “That’s what Owen and I did. We prayed and fasted and read the Word. We talked about the will of God—we sought for it! And it came. Not in one day,” she added quickly. “It was just an idea, and I laughed. Me, going to the Indians in America! But it kept returning.”

  “What about Griffeth? Did you tell him?”

  “No. He’d asked me to marry him, and I put him off.” She grew pensive, looking out across the bay, and her voice grew softer. “But finally I knew I had to come to America, so I went to Griffeth and told him about my call. He said God had spoken to him as well. But I was afraid we wouldn’t be called to the same place, so I said, ‘Write down the name of the place God has called you to.’ I did the same, and we stood holding the slips, afraid to look.”

  “And I take it, his slip said the same as yours—America?” he asked, his voice doubtful.

  “You find that hard to believe, Captain Swenson?” She put her hand on his arm impulsively. “Why would it be difficult for God? He made this earth and all the universe. Couldn’t He whisper into the hearts of two people?”

  “I don’t know about these things.”

  Bronwen’s grip tightened on his arms. She said softly, “I have prayed about your son. God has told me he will be well by the time you get home.”

  “My Karl?” he whispered.

  “Yes,” she said, speaking with conviction.

  Swenson had two sons. The older, Peter, was healthy, but the four-year-old had been sickly since birth—little strength in his legs and slow in other ways. Captain Swenson had lain awake many nights on the ship worrying about the
child, for he had seemed worse just before the Harvest Moon had sailed.

  “God has touched him, Captain,” she went on. “When you get home you will find him as well as your other son.” She examined his face carefully. “Do you believe that?”

  Swenson had been at sea since he was fourteen, and life had hardened him. To him religion was for landsmen, and though he had gone to church to please his wife, he had never felt a need for God.

  Now the image of his afflicted son came to him—twisted legs and pain-filled face. He struggled with his doubt as Bronwen waited. Astonishingly, another picture flashed before him—his son running across the green grassy yard, his legs straight and strong, his face filled with health and joy as he rushed to his returning father with outstretched arms, crying, “Papa—Papa!”

  Swenson’s eyes misted, his throat constricted, for he was not an emotional man. He swallowed and said thickly, “Yes!” and turned away lest she see, then wheeled and cried, “Yes—I do believe it!”

  He spent a restless night, calling himself a fool many times—but the vision of his son did not fade. The next morning when he stood beside the gangplank to say goodbye, his face was pale but peaceful.

  As the crew filed by, she called every man by his name and gave each a personal word: “Keep taking that medicine, Charles . . .” “I’ll be praying for your wife, Little . . .” Even the most hardened, Swenson noted, were gloomy as they shook hands and said goodbye.

  When the last farewell was said, the captain walked ashore with Bronwen. “Miss Morgan,” he said, doffing his hat, “I’m not a Christian man. But,” he paused, searching for words, “I believe what you said is true.” He told her about his experience and the vision of his son healthy and strong. Taking her hand, he said, “I don’t know much about prayer—but I will ask God to be with you. Goodbye and God bless you!”

  “Thank you, Captain,” she replied with a smile. “And I will pray for you.” Then she laughed happily and shook her head, the morning sun catching the fiery red hair. “But Christians never say goodbye—for if we don’t meet in this world, we’re sure to meet on the other side!” She gripped his hand firmly, then disappeared around the corner.