by Ward, Marsha
Oh Mary. He bent his head to mask his face. He missed her above all else. Even though they’d been here in the Valley since—when had it been? August? It was so hard to account for the days, let alone the months anymore. Even though the cavalry had passed through Mount Jackson what seemed like countless times, going up, going down, chasing or being chased, he had not been able to so much as rein in his horse and throw a kiss to his wife. War had robbed him of that simple pleasure. War occupied his every waking moment. Only at night could he spare Mary a thought, touch her likeness, and dream of the future. Would there be a future?
A great weariness swept him. How long had it been since he had eaten a home-cooked meal? Slept on a mattress tick filled with soft goose feathers and down? Held Mary in his arms?
He took a shallow breath, wary now of the smoke filling the countryside. He despised the mindless carnage, the cold and the heat and the dying, and being apart from his wife. He hated the war.
But much as he hated Garth Von and the war, he hated the Yankees more. They had given provocation from the first, invading his native land with their immense armies, but now their actions went beyond the pale as they proved themselves to be ravishers of the land.
As the sky brightened more, Rulon could see in the countryside below where smoke hung low over still-flickering flames. Damn Phil Sheridan! For the last three days, the Yankees had carried out their general’s orders to burn, to ruin, to destroy.
How many houses had gone up in smoke and flames? Did Mary have a place to lay her head? Anger curled up from his toes, much as the smoke curled upward from the hay stacks off to the right. Pillagers! Vandals! Whatever provisions they could not use for themselves, they were leaving in ashes so Early’s men and the Valley’s inhabitants would starve.
Rulon thought of his little boy, the son he had never met. As though it rose upward, caused by friction through resistance from his clenched muscles, white heat seared his belly. The Yankees were starving his son! Surely God did not intend for this to happen? Sheridan and his minions could only be fiends from the deepest hell.
Smoke danced before his eyes, burning them. His stomach churned with fury as he waited for Yankees to come so he could kill them. The hardship to his baby would be avenged.
~~~
The charge came suddenly, as Custer’s men, their throats raising a cry of challenge, came out of the smoke at a gallop, sabres aloft. Rulon expected the men around him to mount at any moment to counter the Yankee charge, but instead, they remained dismounted, ordered to make a stand behind this stone wall to defend the line.
Is Rosser mad to keep us dismounted? The company, indeed, the whole brigade, would be swept before the fury of Custer’s cavalry.
But the command had come down the line, and Rulon obediently shouldered his weapon. The 1st Virginia held the left flank, and if they were turned... He didn’t want to think about the consequences.
Somewhere to the front, cannon boomed. Where were their answering guns? He looked over his shoulder. The battery stood silent, men lying broken around the guns. As he turned back to the front, a cry went up at the end of the line. Custer’s troopers came on at their front, approaching with blood in their eyes, but the canny cavalier also had sent another unit to flank them. It was breaking through. It threatened what remained of the battery. It threatened them.
Rulon shivered. Fear flooded into his throat. The Yankees were in front and behind him.
A man or two threw themselves onto their mounts and rode off to the right. The bugler sounded retreat, and they kept on going. Soon, the trickle became a torrent, as the Yankees beat them back from their position.
He fought to find his horse, the nag he’d liberated after he found it chomping grass in a meadow. He reached it at last, threw himself into the saddle, and followed the others. Cannon boomed behind him and he pulled the fleeing horse to the left to avoid a shower of canister. He wondered if he would ever see Mary’s face in this life again.
“Owen! Mind your back!”
Rulon did not know who screamed the warning. Mr. Earl? He pivoted in his saddle in time to grab hold of Garth Von’s arm above the wrist with both hands before the man could stab him in the kidney.
The knife now veered toward his ribs, but Rulon jerked the arm sideways. In doing so, he unseated Von, but the man’s falling weight served to drag him off his own mount. He fell heavily onto his side, still gripping Von’s forearm. A shell ripped the air above them.
It had come to this: close combat with a supposed comrade under fire of the enemy.
He held on, struggling to best the man, sensing that if he did not come off victorious, it would mean the death of him.
Von got a foot up and kicked, aiming his holey boot at Rulon’s jaw.
He twisted away, and they rolled, fury driving both of them, fueling a desperate engagement that never should have come about. All because of a feather.
Von clawed at Rulon’s eyes with his free hand. Rulon evaded the gouging fingers and butted his forehead into the man’s breastbone, felt it give. Von howled, cursing and exerting himself to rise, hauling Rulon to his feet as well.
Hampered by the need to keep the knife away from his gizzard, Rulon attempted to swing the man, to shake him until he dropped the wicked blade. He thought he was succeeding when the world exploded into scarlet and black, reducing Von to bits while shards of metal pierced his own chest and belly in multiple places.
A massive force threw him onto his back against the unforgiving surface of the road as shattered bone splinters and gouts of blood spattered him. He thought that he clutched the man’s arm still, but its lightness refuted the notion as implausible. The knife dropped from the hand at last, and he heaved a sigh of relief, even as he slipped into the timeless world beneath the blare of battle.
~~~
Rulon — October 12, 1864
Rulon awoke with nightmares haunting his memory. Drenched in sweat, he endeavored to put the cursed visions into a deep pocket of his brain, but they escaped to torment his wakeful moments. It seemed he had been traveling in a wagon, but he wasn’t the driver. He was inside, lying down on a rough pallet of burlap, trapped within canvas sidewalls that blocked the light of the sun but encased him in heat and misery.
Other unfortunate souls lay next to him, moaning each time the wagon took a bump on what must have been a very primitive path. He was horrified to discover that the loudest voice crying out was his own as pain, no, agony thrust a thousand spears into his chest and belly with each jolt. Finally, darkness came upon him.
Later, he battled the sensation that someone took him by the feet and pulled him toward the rear of the rickety vehicle. Another person lifted his shoulders seconds before he would have fallen headfirst to the ground. The two carried him a distance while he writhed in distress.
Rulon fought to subdue remembrance of the nightmare, but it only skipped forward. He found himself half-lying in a muddy ditch. Was he dead? No. Pain refuted that notion. He moved slightly and his head slipped downward on the muck and splashed into water, which immediately entered his nose. He sputtered frantically, trying to raise his head out of the murky liquid, but seemed to have no ready muscles in his torso. That part of his body cried out to die to escape the constant attacks from sharp instruments. In a moment, he discovered that his arms were whole, and succeeded in using them to raise his face above the surface of the water.
He opened his mouth and sucked air into his lungs, greedy to prolong his life. Yes, that was it. He wanted to live. Despite the immense pain inhabiting his body, he was not ready to die.
“Mary,” he whispered. “I want to live.”
“Shush, shush,” she replied.
Stillness enveloped him at the sound of her voice. He opened his eyes to a dim space lit by one candle. Alas! He was dead after all. Mary’s shimmering face hovered over him. She must have called him to join her in death.
He struggled against the thought, the despair that encompassed him at the notion. No. T
hat wasn’t right. He’d received no word that Mary had passed to Eternity. As far as he knew, she was alive. Did that mean—?
He tried to sit, found it impossible, struggled to focus and hold on to the spot of candlelight through the great wash of pain.
A glass pressed against his lips, forcing them open. A bitter liquid assailed his tongue. He struggled against swallowing, but a soft voice whispered, “Take the laudanum, dear husband,” and a soft hand stroked his throat until he did so.
Could it be true that Mary had come here to nurse him? Where was here? How had he escaped the watery grave? Soon he felt himself slip into darkness, soothed by soft whispers of “There, there. I’ll be here when you wake.”
~~~
Mary — October 12, 1864
“Papa. We must have the small house. Rulon cannot abide all the noise here.”
“What would you have me do?” her father asked. “Boot the Yankee company out on their ears?”
“They will go soon. Everyone says they are pushing up the Valley.”
Mr. Hilbrands stroked his chin. He patted his stomach beneath his store apron. “It will be filthy.”
“I will clean it somehow. He must have quiet. Have you seen the—” She broke off, afraid she would lose her supper if she thought long upon the horrible wounds in Rulon’s body.
He patted her shoulder, nodding. “I marvel that he yet lives.”
“He came home to me.” She looked at her father, and began to shake. “I owe him a pleasant place to die.” Her voice broke. “Roddy will be fatherless! Oh Papa!”
He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight. “There now. I’m sure we can find someone to clean up the mess.” He smoothed her hair. After a while, he held her at arm’s length and peered down at her. “You go see to your husband now. He is still strong at the core. He’s Rod Owen’s son, after all.”
Mary sniffled and wiped her eyes with a soft bit of worn fabric. Yes, and Mother Owen’s as well. Perhaps she would not need to find walnut husks to dye her dress black. Perhaps she could bring him through this nightmare.
~~~
Rulon — October 15, 1864
Rulon came out of blackness and into pain. Thrashing against whatever held his wrists immobile, he opened his eyes to slits, looking about for relief.
He spied purple fabric. Maybe it was a skirt. Where had he seen it before? He thought perhaps it had something to do with his wife, but couldn’t look up far enough to see if she was encased within it.
“Rulon, husband,” he heard. “Calm yourself. Are you in pain?”
He made a noise. Was he whimpering? He closed his eyes. Dear God, he begged, don’t let me cry.
He felt a light touch on his shoulder. “I will return shortly, dear husband,” came Mary’s voice. He knew it now. How long had it been since he had heard her speak his name? Was there a burr of tears overlaying the sound?
Soon he heard a rustle of cloth. Mary must have sat beside him. She put a spoon between his lips and tilted rancid liquid into his mouth. She did it several times, and he swallowed, under the power of her urgings.
It was laudanum again. He hated the taste. At the same time, he yearned for the stupor and surcease from pain he knew would come soon. Mary took his hand, and he clung to it before the drug began its work, beset all the while by the stabbing knives of the injuries, feeling every chunk of the foreign objects lodged in his body. He recalled a moment of twilight when a surgeon had reckoned him to be a dead man and had barely closed the wounds with a score of stitches. He had not wasted a pain-killer or a slug of liquor on the patient.
Rulon remembered receiving the stitches. No man should have such a memory.
He waited to sink into the numbness of the narcotic slumber, anxious for the agony to be gone.
“Papa?”
Whose was that tiny, piping voice? It called him “Papa.” Who could it be?
“This is your son, my husband,” Mary whispered, as though she guessed his perplexity. “We call him Roddy.”
Tiny fingers touched the back of his other hand, no more than a feather’s stroke.
His boy. His son!
Rulon struggled to open his eyes. Through slits he saw him, dark curls framing his cherubic face. The wonder of creation that began so long ago. His son.
“Roddy?” he whispered, aware that moisture seeped down his cheek.
“Please Papa. You must get well,” the small voice quavered, then the boy reached up and kissed Rulon’s cheek.
“Come, child. Leave your papa to rest,” another woman’s voice said.
Someone in a brown dress took the lad by the hand and led him from the room.
Rulon closed his eyes. He had made that wondrous creature, he and Mary. Out of their union had come the miracle that was their son.
Would he live to take Mary into his arms again? He tried to squeeze her hand, but felt the effects of the laudanum overcoming him at last. Even as the pain faded, he felt robbed of that expression of affection between them.
Chapter 25
Ben — October 19 through 20, 1864
Why is it always my leg? Ben wondered, fighting to reach something to tie around the wound. This wasn’t like the inconsequential leg injury he had suffered before. This one was bleeding to beat the band, and he had to stop it.
He discovered his belt would do to wrap around the leg above the flow. Now he had to get out of the field before the Yankees renewed their attack, pressed forward, and captured him.
He struggled to his feet, bearing his weight upon his rifle. The leg was not broken, he was relieved to discover. He looked around him. A body or two lay in the field below, but the losses weren’t great this time. His company had left him, it appeared, as he was the only one of his fellows still here. Perhaps the shot had come from one of his own comrades?
Hunched over, he dragged his unresponsive leg and the rest of himself toward a hill covered with broken apple trees. Not the best cover, but perhaps it would serve until he located his company or someone who could take him to a surgeon to stitch him up. Once he achieved the shelter of the trees, he would allow himself to rest and survey the ground.
Fortunately, the rails of the fence surrounding the orchard were missing, so he didn’t have to make a struggle to climb over. He found a spot high on the side of the hill where he could keep watch for anyone passing, and sat down with his back against a trunk. He promptly fell asleep.
Night came before he awoke. He could see campfires of the Federal troops off to the north, but the hill impeded his sight to the south. How far could the company have retreated before it stopped to regroup?
He checked his leg by moonlight. The bleeding seemed to have ceased, and he loosened the belt so the flesh would not die. Good. The wound was crusted over, and the flow of blood did not begin anew.
Where was he? He couldn’t be far from Mount Jackson, or maybe his own home, but he had lost track of his precise location. Who still had an apple orchard that hadn’t been entirely cut down for fuel? A rich man, he presumed, with enough slave hands to keep shivering soldiers at bay.
It wasn’t possible that he was on the Allen farm, was it? What a comedown if he were to be lying in an orchard owned by his girl’s father. He sighed, turned to get a better position, and went back to sleep.
He awoke at dawn, ravenous and in pain. He wondered if he had been moaning. He hoped not. He didn’t want some darkie to come upon him and drag him to the Massa for trespassing.
He attempted to rise so he could move on south, and almost made it, but weakness and pain prevailed and he had to sit in a heap and husband his forces for another try.
Before he could do it, he heard a pistol clicking to full cock behind him.
“Do not move,” came a voice. Feminine. “I will shoot you if you do not raise your hands.”
He did so. “I’m wounded,” he ventured. “You a Yankee?”
“Damn the Yankees to hell!” the voice replied, breaking a bit on the expletive. “Who are yo
u?”
“Benjamin Owen, Company, Company.... I don’t rightly know what company I’m in anymore. Was in the 33rd Virginia Infantry Regiment, but I’ve been sent hither and yon until I give up knowin’.”
“Wait. Wait! Did you say ‘Benjamin Owen’?”
“I did.”
“From Allen’s Infantry?”
“Yes, in the beginnin’.”
“Ben?” Skirts rustled as the woman came into view. She laid the pistol down and dropped to her knees. “Ben?” she shrieked. “Oh, my Benjamin.”
She was crying now, but underneath the mob cap, Ben recognized the gaunt features of Miss Ella Ruth Allen.
~~~
Ben — October 20, 1864
“Jerusalem crickets!” he said as she fell upon him. “I scarce can believe it.”
She held him tightly, rocking him back and forth, crooning his name.
“Mind the leg,” he petitioned as her knee slid across his thigh. He gritted his teeth to avoid crying out.
She pulled back. “You are hurt? My poor Benjamin. Let me look.”
“I’d druther you didn’t,” he said. “I told you I was wounded at the outset. Get me to a surgeon.”
“I do not know where one is to be found who is not engaged in treating others,” she said. “However, I have worked at the hospital under my uncle’s eye. I can help you.”
He wilted under the force of her assurances, and the pain, besides. “Go ahead. I can’t bear the pain much longer.”
Ella Ruth began by trying to open the hole in his trousers that had been cut by the Yankee ball sufficiently wide enough to assess the wound, but could not get a good look.
