Divided Nation, United Hearts

by Yolanda Wallace

  “How long have you two been lurking outside this door?”

  “We only came when we heard the moaning.” Percy peeked into the room. “It sounded like you were killing him. Is he going to make it?”

  Clara made sure to use the expected pronoun, not the one she had taken to using in her head.

  “Once he sleeps off that hangover, I think he’ll be fine.”

  “Can we sit with him for a spell?” Abram asked.

  “He drank nearly half a jug of Myron Chamblee’s most potent moonshine. You can sit with him if you like, but I doubt he’s going to be too talkative for a while.”

  “But he might be scared if he comes to all alone and doesn’t know where he is. You don’t think he’d mind if we kept him company, do you?”

  Clara’s heart warmed at the concern she saw on her brother’s face. At the compassion she heard in his voice.

  “No, I don’t think he’d mind at all.”

  Abram and Percy grabbed two chairs and placed one on each side of the bed.

  “You boys were awful brave tonight,” she said as they began their silent vigil. “I’m proud of you. Fetch me from the kitchen if he wakes up.”

  “We will.”

  She watched them a moment longer, then slowly walked up the hall. She was so tired all of a sudden. Whether from exhaustion or relief, she didn’t know. But she couldn’t rest now. There was still too much work to do.

  She washed the blood out of the small piece of cloth she had fished out of the bullet hole, then found a needle and thread and sewed the tiny swatch back into place. When she was done, she held up the coat to inspect her handiwork. The dark blue wool had soaked up so much blood the material looked almost black. She didn’t know if she would be able to get it clean, but she had to try.

  She patted the pockets to make sure Wil hadn’t left anything inside them. She always wound up with a treasure trove each time she washed Abram’s and Percy’s dirty overalls. You never knew what you might find when you started cleaning up after men. She laughed when she remembered Wil wasn’t a man at all, but a woman pretending to be one.

  She couldn’t wrap her head around it. Why was Wil dressing contrary to her sex? Why was she off fighting a war when she could have been safe at home with her family? And why had touching her, even under such unpleasant circumstances, felt so good?

  When she reached into the inside pocket of Wil’s coat, she found a wrinkled envelope and an even more wrinkled photograph. The woman in the picture was beautiful beyond measure. She had long, wavy hair, bright eyes, and a dazzling smile. The dress she was wearing looked to be made of pure silk, the gloves on her hands sewn of the finest lace.

  There was something written on the front of the photograph. The ink was so badly faded, Clara could barely make out the words.

  “To My Dearest Wil,” she read, bringing the photograph closer to the candlelight. “With Love, Libby.”

  The envelope was addressed from Elizabeth Reynolds to Wil Fredericks. The pages inside were perfumed with a mixture of Wil’s natural scent and the artificial kind that came from a fancy bottle.

  Clara wanted to read the letter but stopped herself from unfolding it. She set the photograph and envelope aside. Once Wil’s coat dried, she would return them where she had found them. Because some secrets weren’t hers to share.

  She filled a washtub with water and let Wil’s clothes soak for a while. After the material had gotten good and wet and the dried-on blood had started to loosen up, she lathered the clothes with lye soap and scrubbed them against a corrugated washboard. She was so lost in thought, she left most of the skin on her knuckles behind.

  She ran the clothes through a hand-turned wringer to get most of the water out, then hung them in the kitchen to dry. She hated getting the floor wet, but she didn’t want to risk having someone see Wil’s uniform hanging on the clothesline.

  If Wil’s heart belonged to another, she thought as she regarded the picture and envelope she had found in Wil’s pocket, so be it. What did it matter to her, anyway?

  Who was she trying to fool? There was a woman lying in her bed and, God help her, she didn’t want her to leave.

  “But soldiers leave. That’s what they do.”

  And woman or not, Wil was a soldier. Duty-bound to follow orders, not her heart.

  She heard Wil cry out and hurried down the hall to check on her. When she got there, Wil was sleeping peacefully and Abram and Percy were still sitting by her side.

  “He’s all right,” Abram said. “He was having a bad dream is all, but he’s settled back down. Go back to what you were doing. Percy and I will look after him for you.”

  Clara cocked her head.

  “I thought you hated Yankees.”

  “Wil’s not like the other ones.”

  “How many other Yankees have you met?”

  Abram’s ears turned as red as his hair.

  “Aw, you know what I mean. Wil’s…nice. He was good to us last night when he didn’t have to be. He could have sided with that other Yankee against us out of spite, but he didn’t. Plus he’s sweet on you, and I think you might be a little bit sweet on him, too.”

  “So what’s eating you?”

  Abram picked at the covers with a grubby fingernail.

  “Just because he’s backing the wrong side in the war, does that give Solomon reason enough to shoot him?”

  Clara’s blood ran cold at the thought that her own brother might have fired the bullet that had almost taken Wil’s life.

  “What makes you think Solomon did this?”

  “Because Percy and I saw him do it.”

  “Is that true, Percy?”

  “Yes.”

  She kneeled next to his chair.

  “Then why did you tell me you found Wil while you and Abram were tracking a deer?”

  Percy hung his head, disconsolate.

  “Because I didn’t want to get Solomon in trouble.”

  “What happened in those woods tonight, Abram? I want the truth this time.”

  Abram shifted in his seat.

  “Percy and I went out hunting, sure enough, but we didn’t see any deer or anything else because of all the shooting during the battle today. We were about to give up and come home when we heard voices a few feet from where we were. I recognized Solomon’s voice right away, but it took me a while to catch on to Wil’s. Percy started to say something to them, but I told him to hush up so we could listen.”

  “What were they talking about?”

  “Solomon asked Wil if he was alone. Then he started asking him about his friends and where they were. Wil said one was shot for deserting, but the other one was still alive. The men they were talking about were the same ones Solomon said were on the train with him and Papa. The ones that tried to haul them off to jail.”

  “Why were they talking about those men?”

  “Because I think Wil was one of them. When Solomon asked him where Papa was buried, Wil knew the answer.”

  Clara choked up at the confirmation of Papa’s death. Even though Solomon had told her not to hold out hope, she hadn’t been able to let it go. Until now. Had Wil played a hand in Papa’s death, or had she only borne witness?

  “Where is Papa?”

  “Buried at the prison in Kentucky, but Wil said we could move him down here after the war ends. He even offered to show Solomon the grave so he could pay his respects.”

  “What happened after that?”

  Abram frowned as he struggled to remember.

  “Wil said something like he didn’t want to do it, but he had to take Solomon into camp with him because he was still a prisoner of war.”

  “He offered to put in a good word for Solomon and everything,” Percy said. “He was real fair, but—”

  Abram cut in, obviously anxious to be the one to tell the story.

  “But Solomon wouldn’t let Wil take him in. He shot him in cold blood, Clara. Wil didn’t have his gun pointed at him or anything.”

&nb
sp; “Did Solomon see you?” Clara asked.

  “No. After he shot Wil, he said he had one more to get. Then he ran off and didn’t look back.”

  “But once he finds out Wil’s still alive,” Percy said, “he may try to finish the job.”

  Clara looked at Wil lying helpless on the bed. If Wil couldn’t defend herself, who would? The woman in the picture? She was hundreds of miles away and looked like the type who would probably burst into tears if someone looked at her cross-eyed. Wil didn’t need someone who would run. She needed someone who would stand her ground.

  Clara picked up the pearl-handled pistol.

  “Abram, I think it’s high time you taught me how to shoot this thing.”

  “Whose side are you going to take?” Abram asked. “Solomon’s or Wil’s? Papa said family’s always supposed to stick together.”

  “I know he did, but family ain’t always right.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Wilhelmina didn’t know where she was when she woke up, but the pain soon reminded her. She had survived two days of fierce fighting on the battlefields of Shiloh, Tennessee, only to be shot after the contest had been won. She had been so surprised to hear Solomon call her name. She had been even more surprised when he had pointed his rifle at her and pulled the trigger. She had let her guard down just for a moment, and she had very nearly paid the ultimate price for her mistake.

  She didn’t know which hurt worse, the ache in her chest or the one in her head. Her chest throbbed in conjunction with the rhythm of her heartbeat. Her head, on the other hand, pounded nonstop.

  She tried to push herself into a seated position. Searing pain shot through the left side of her chest, the muscles rebelling as soon as she tried to use them. Her head swam, and she didn’t feel strong enough to lift a cup of tea, let alone her own body weight. She felt like she was reliving her first day of training. Only ten times worse. Because this time she didn’t have Erwin to offer her the encouragement she needed to keep going. This time, she had to do it herself.

  She hoped Erwin wasn’t too worried about her being gone. And she hoped even more that he was still alive so she could make amends to him when she returned to camp. If any Confederates who still might be in the area didn’t shoot her first.

  She settled back on the pillows and looked around to get her bearings. The room she was in was austere. A nightstand sat next to the bed. A small dresser was across the room. A washbasin and chamber pot were tucked into a corner, a nearby folding screen stood waiting to be positioned for privacy.

  Two wooden chairs flanked the bed. Her uniform, laundered and neatly folded, rested in one chair. The other chair was occupied by a young boy with red hair and freckles. The boy, who looked to be about eight or nine years old, was whittling on a piece of wood. Based on the pile of shavings at his feet, he had been at the chore for a while.

  “You’re awake,” the boy said, putting his knife away as he rose from his seat and approached the bed. “You don’t know me, Mr. Wil, but my name’s Percy. I was hiding in the house the night you met Clara and Abram. They’re my sister and brother. They’re off helping the Braggs tend to their fields. Clara wanted to stay and watch over you, but she thought Mrs. Enid would get suspicious if she didn’t show up at her place like she always does, so she asked me to look after you in her stead. If anyone asks, I’m supposed to be sick in bed with a cold, but I don’t really have one. Abram’s the one who usually gets the sniffles, not me. Clara will be back directly. If you want something to eat, she left you some food in the stove. If you want some water, I’ll have to pump you some from the well. I can fetch the chamber pot if you have to go too bad to make it to the privy, but you’ll have to take care of business on your own.”

  Wilhelmina laughed when Percy finally stopped talking long enough to take a breath, but she immediately wished she hadn’t. The action caused renewed pain in her chest. She cautiously peeked inside the nightshirt someone had put on her. A dressing had been applied to her wound, and fresh bandages were wrapped around her breasts, making her chest look as flat as a man’s. Clara. No one else could have possibly been responsible for the handiwork. Wilhelmina was touched Clara had decided to help maintain her ruse instead of seeking to destroy it.

  Memories of the night before came back to her in a rush. She remembered coming to on Clara’s bed. She remembered Clara undressing her. Revealing her layer by layer until she discovered her secret, then touching her most private part to confirm that what she was seeing was true.

  Wilhelmina had felt an indescribable thrill when Clara had touched her. It was like being struck by lightning. Hot and cold at the same time. The recollection made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. She ached to feel Clara’s touch again, but reality intruded on her fantasy before it could form.

  “What time is it?” she asked after she noticed the beams of bright light seeping through the drawn curtains. “I’ve got to get back to my unit before roll call. If I don’t, I’ll be written off as a deserter.”

  “Here’s your uniform, Mr. Wil.” Percy picked up the folded parcel of clothes and set it on the bed. “Clara washed it last night and ironed it this morning. The creases in the pants are so sharp you might cut yourself if you aren’t careful. She got most of the blood out and fixed the hole in the coat for you, too. It’s almost as good as new.”

  Wilhelmina felt the inside pocket of her coat. Libby’s picture and letter were where she had left them. Both seemed to be none the worse for wear, which meant Clara must have removed them before she laundered the clothes and replaced them after she was done. Had Clara read the letter before she returned it to his hiding place? Had she been so shocked by what Libby had written that she hadn’t been able to face her today?

  “She’s a good cook, too,” Percy said, continuing to sing Clara’s praises. “She’ll make some man a real fine wife someday. And I’m not just saying that because she’s my sister. I’m saying it because it’s true. You’re not married, are you, Mr. Wil?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  Her prospects hadn’t been very good before she left Philadelphia. They would surely prove even worse if she were to return.

  “But you got a girl back home, don’t you?” Percy asked.

  Wilhelmina thought of Libby as she pulled on her socks, but she quickly banished the images of her from her mind.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because no one will have me.”

  “Why do you say that? You’re kinda skinny, but you ain’t bad-looking.”

  “I’m glad you think so, Percy, but no one else seems to.”

  “Then that’s their loss.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it.”

  Ignoring the ache in her chest and the pounding in her head, she reached for her Army-issue underwear and tried to stand. The room began to spin before she made it halfway off the mattress. She sat on the bed and waited for the wave of nausea to pass.

  “Hold on,” she said after Percy grabbed her clothes and carried them across the room. “Where are you going with my uniform?”

  “I’m putting it where you can’t get to it.” He set her uniform on the dresser and turned to face her, his expression earnest. “I know you want to, but you can’t fight, Mr. Wil. You ain’t got the strength. You shouldn’t be trying to go nowhere except back to bed. Get some rest until Clara comes back. If I let you try to walk out of here looking this poorly, she’ll have my hide for sure.”

  “If you don’t let me leave, my commanding officer will have mine.” She swayed when she finally managed to drag herself to her feet. “Now give me back my pants.”

  “Trust me.” Percy took her arm and led her back to the bed. “You’d be better off on the Army’s bad side than Clara’s. Ask Jedediah Ogletree. He’ll tell you.”

  “Who’s Jedediah Ogletree?”

  “A fella who keeps asking Clara to marry him.” Percy held the covers up so she could slide her feet between them. “Sh
e keeps saying no, but he keeps right on asking. He’s stubborn like that.”

  “Do you think she’ll give in?”

  Libby had turned Stephen down the first two times he’d proposed, but she had only been biding her time to make sure he was truly as interested in her as he said he was. Wilhelmina couldn’t imagine someone as kind as Clara appeared to be toying with someone’s emotions that way, but how well could she truly know someone else’s heart? She had known Libby for years and had never dreamed Libby would completely reject her without even attempting to understand her point of view. Her way of life.

  “She might say yes if you were doing the asking,” Percy said, “but she’ll never say yes to Jedediah. Even if his daddy is the richest man in the county.”

  “What makes me a viable alternative?”

  “What now?” Percy scratched his head. “You talk so funny I don’t understand half the things you say, Mr. Wil.”

  Wilhelmina could have said the same about him. He spoke slower than most of the people she knew, but that didn’t mean she comprehended everything he said.

  “What makes me a better choice than Jedediah Ogletree?” she asked, simplifying her question.

  “Oh. Well, why didn’t you say that in the first place? Jedediah’s meaner than a two-headed snake, but that ain’t the only reason Clara would choose you over him.”

  He leaned over and fluffed her pillow. The jostling made her feel sick again, but Percy’s words made her feel even worse.

  “Clara feels grateful to you for helping her out the way you did the other night. More than that, though, she feels beholden to you on account it was our brother that shot you.”

  Wilhelmina grabbed Percy’s arm to put an end to his “ministrations” since they were making her feel worse instead of better.

  “How do you know who shot me?” she asked when what she really wanted to know was if guilt and gratitude were the only reasons Clara had shown an interest in her.

  Percy sat in his chair and resumed whittling on the dwindling piece of oak.