“No,” the man insisted, shaking his arm. “Open your eyes. The building is gone.”
Squinting against the smoke and heat, Jeffrey opened his eyes. And watched the building cave. If they were inside, they were lost.
Jeffrey dropped to his knees. “No. No,” he pleaded, his eyes closed again. Not Claire. He’d waited his entire life to find her. Now, just like that, she was gone.
People moved all around him. He didn’t know which ones were setting the fires and which ones were trying to put them out.
It didn’t matter anyway.
Nothing mattered.
Claire was gone.
Claire tapped her fingers on the table. What was wrong with them? Men were all talk and no action. They should be out there now. Looking for Jeffrey. Not sitting here sipping… whatever that was.
“Who do you think took him?” Grandpa asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” Claire interjected. “If we don’t hurry, he’ll be too far gone.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” Allen said. “Depending on who took him, we have to figure out how to get him back.”
Claire shook her head, but bit her tongue. There was no arguing with men when it came to matters of war and fighting.
A commotion outside caught her attention. Claire got up and went to the door. A Yankee on horseback had stopped a few feet from the inn. After a quick look behind him, he turned his horse, swept his gaze around to the inn.
“Miss,” he said, taking a step forward on his horse. “You’ve got to get out of here.”
Claire glanced back at Gramps and Allen. They paid her no heed. Still deep in their speculations about who had taken Jeffrey and why.
“Why?” she asked. The soldier was young. He looked trustworthy and… afraid?
“Is anyone else inside?” he asked.
“Yes, my grandfather and…”
The soldier groaned and slid off his horse.
He took the reins and held them out to her.
Claire looked askance at him. “I don’t… care for horses.”
“I’m not asking you to care for him. I’m giving him to you.”
“What?”
Other riders were approaching from the river. These were loud riders whooping and yelling.
Then she saw the smoke. “What’s going on?”
As she watched the smoke from the burning building, the soldier closed the distance between them, unceremoniously grabbed her up, and placed her on the back of the horse.
“But my grandfather!”
“I’ll get him out. Trust me. But you can’t be found here. It’s not safe. Go.” He tossed the reins to her. “Go as far as you can.”
“I won’t leave him,” she said.
Gramps was at the door then, Allen behind him. “What’s going on?” he asked to no one in particular, his eyes on the burning buildings.
“You have to get out of here,” the young soldier told him.
Gramps noticed Claire then, atop the horse. He looked back toward the riders approaching. “Go,” he said. “I’ll find you at Aunt Becky’s house.”
The younger soldier slapped the rear end of the horse and sent it into a run.
Claire held onto the reins, the leather digging into her fingers. She’d ridden before, but it had been so long ago. Martin O’Donnel’s son, Tommy, had taught her to ride. They’d been teenagers at the time.
That was before the war. Tommy had been killed at the Battle of Bull Run. Just as the war had barely gotten started. She’d considered Tommy a friend.
Claire clung to the horses’ reins as all hell broke loose behind her.
The Yankees were burning down the whole community.
She could go back for Gramps.
The horse went to the top of the bluff. Concealed behind a grove of pine trees, she could barely make out the commotion below.
Even up here, the smoke burned her eyes.
She watched as Grandpa got into the back of a wagon with other civilians and headed out of town. One of the Yankees grabbed a young woman who had been left behind and pulled her onto the horse in front of him. She screamed and fought to get down, but he held onto her and galloped out of sight
Claire shuddered. Grandpa was safe for the moment.
But the young soldier had been right. She would not have been safe had she stayed.
The young soldier had saved her life.
Chapter Thirteen
Remembering everything Tommy had taught her about horse riding, Claire guided the horse in a southern direction. She had to get to Aunt Becky’s house.
Aunt Becky was Grandpa’s brother’s wife. She owned a boarding house in Natchitoches. At least she had, before the war.
As far as Claire knew, Grandpa hadn’t heard anything from her in several years.
As she rode through the trees, the air was heavy with smoke. The Yankees were burning everything in their path.
She passed by a farm and saw a farmer setting fire to his own bales of cotton.
Claire knew exactly what he was doing. He was burning his cotton to keep the Yankees from getting it. The northerners needed their cotton. But they wouldn’t be getting any cotton if the southerners had anything to do with it.
She was far enough away that she could no longer hear the commotion from the fires.
But there were fires everywhere. She coughed and swept an ember from her sleeve. Were the Yankees burning the whole world?
This was most definitely a problem.
Claire, however, had a much bigger problem at the moment.
She was lost.
Now that some of her initial trepidation about managing the horse was subsiding, she looked around to try and get her bearings.
Claire had never been this far away from home alone. She had certainly never been off the road, except of course, to hunt in the area behind her house.
Something rustled in the leaves and she jerked the reins. The horse skittered to the side. Claire cooed to the horse, attempted to avoid being thrown.
This was a soldier’s horse, doubtless, nothing like the gentle creature Tommy had taught her to ride.
She took a deep, steadying breath.
I can do this. I can figure this out.
She considering approaching the farmer setting fire to his cotton, but she really wanted to stay as far away from that as possible.
She searched her mind for things Gramps had taught her about the outdoors.
Moss always grows on the north side of trees.
Maybe it was the east.
Glancing around, there was no moss to be seen.
Oh bother.
Claire was an indoor girl. Only outside when planting in her garden or watching the sunset. Not trying to find her way out of the forest.
She felt behind her. The soldier had left his saddle bags. Perhaps there was food. Eventually she would come to something.
A road. A house. A path.
The country was civilized, after all.
Picking her way through the brush, her optimism lagged.
Keeping the sun to her left, she traveled south.
Aunt Becky lived in Natchitoches which was south of Grand Ecore, at least what was left of it.
Besides, she wanted to keep the fighting and burning behind her.
The Yankee soldiers.
The very reason she was in this predicament.
Rogue Yankee soldiers.
She shuddered.
Yankees were bad enough without going rogue. Truly, the same could be said of Southern soldiers.
Claire grew tired as the sun reached midday. She chewed her bottom lip as she considered how she would get back on the horse if she got down to rest for a few minutes.
No matter, she thought, needing to relieve herself.
After gently urging the horse to stop, she slid off its back, landing heavily and unceremoniously on her feet.
Leading the horse to a low branch, she tied him up and, after taking care of her business, examined the Yankee’s belongings. He had a
tent and a blanket. And a canteen full of water which she drank greedily. Then she dug into the soldier’s saddle bag. The northerners certainly had it better. He had salt pork, peas, and some dried fruit, along with a couple of biscuits. There was hardtack too, but Claire had a particular distaste for that. She sat on the ground and ate until she was full—which didn’t take long, considering her recent lack of food.
She gathered everything back up and wiped her hands on her skirts.
She heard voices. Men’s voices. Laughter? And singing. Actually more like chanting.
Her heart in her throat, she untied the horse, and led him behind a fallen tree. Crouching low, she watched for movement in the direction of the voices.
A sea of blue approached only a few yards away.
Had she been that close to the road, after all?
She held her breath as they passed. Please don’t let them see the horse. Please. Please. Please.
As they passed, she squeezed her eyes tightly closed and waited as the dust nearly made her cough.
Waited until she could hear them no more. And the dust settled.
Then waited some more.
When the birds began to sing again, she took a deep breath, and stood up.
Looked up at the horse’s saddle.
She put one foot in the stirrup and, grabbing the saddle horn with both hands, pulled herself up and sat astride the horse.
She heaved a sigh of relief and started to pick her way toward the road.
As she approached the road, she was confronted with a decision. A crossroads of sorts. To turn back towards Grand Ecore and look for Jeffrey or turn left and make her way to Aunt Becky’s house to wait for her grandfather.
Her heart yearned for Jeffrey, but she was no match for the soldiers that stood between them. The soldier who had given her his horse had known that doubtlessly better than she could begin to imagine.
She didn’t know his name and it was not likely that she would be able to return the horse which was the property, she supposed, of the U.S. Army. Unlike southern boys who brought their own horses to the war with them, northern boys had been issued their horses, much like one would issue a rifle and rations.
In that way, the war was much different for the two sides.
She wondered what Jeffrey thought about being in the south. Where he had come from. Where he was now.
Was he safe, at least?
Her heart ached to think that she might never see him again.
Her grandfather’s house had burned down and he didn’t know about Aunt Becky.
He would not know where to begin to look for her, nor she him.
Tears welled in her eyes at the overwhelming sense of loss. And it occurred to her that she had fallen in love with him.
She had fallen in love with the enemy. And now he was lost to her.
She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hands. She wasn’t sure which one was worse. It was quite a combination. Her enemy. Her lost love.
Reaching the edge of the road, she pulled on the reins. Listened to the silence and the stillness.
Then guided the horse to the south.
She would find Aunt Becky and wait there for her until Gramps found her.
The horse’s hooves striking the ground comforted her. Made her feel less alone.
The scent of smoke, again, became heavy on the air. Either the Yankees were setting fire to everything in their wake, or the southerners were doing it for them.
The destruction weighed heavy on her heart.
She passed by a plantation engulfed in flames. Holding the horse back, she watched the grand columns as they fell like broken kindling and were gobbled up by the fire.
She hoped the plantation was deserted. No one attempted to save it. Perhaps they had done as she and Gramps had done. Just let it be. They had had an excuse though with the Yankees all around them.
Claire traveled until her eyes grew heavy. The sun was setting and the night was growing chilly.
Guiding the horse far enough off the road so as to not be visible, she slid from its back. She tied the horse to a tree and it found some green grass to nibble on. Shivering, she pulled the blanket from the horse and, after finding enough to eat to quiet her rumbling stomach, wrapped the blanket around herself and lay down.
She thought about all the food she had carefully stored for them to eat—potatoes, flour, peas. All burned in the fire.
Her bed. She especially missed her bed at the moment. Claire had never slept outside in her whole life.
She should have been to Aunt Becky’s by now. She must be on the wrong road. She resolved to stop at the first house she came to tomorrow and ask for directions into Natchitoches.
A wolf howled in the not so far enough distance. She got up, pulled a pistol she had come in the saddlebags and lay back down. Stared at the ground.
Watched for slithery things and listened for wild animals until she couldn’t keep her eyes open another moment.
She woke with a start.
Where was she?
She had no pocket watch, so she could only guess that it was in the dead of night. And there were no stars out tonight.
Lying perfectly still, barely daring to breathe, she wrapped her fingers around the pistol.
Ever so slowly, she sat up and, reaching out her hand, touched the horse’s leg. The horse stepped away from her, but at least it offered some vague sense of companionship in this darkness.
Taking her blanket, she found a tree that she remembered being nearby and sat against it. Wrapped the blanket around herself and nodded back to sleep.
When she woke again to enough light to see, at least vague outlines, a raindrop splashed against her hand.
She groaned. And the splash of rain became a steady downpour.
She gathered up the blanket and pulled herself back onto the horse.
Better to be moving than sitting still.
By the time she made it back to the road, she was drenched. And could barely see through the torrents running down her face.
I wanted a bath, she thought wryly.
And… at least the road was deserted. Who wanted to get out and travel in this kind of weather when they didn’t have to? Probably not even soldiers.
The first house she passed was still in darkness so she didn’t disturb them. The second house, a few yards further, glowed with a light from the window. She guided the horse toward the house and, again, slipped from its back.
Shivering, she walked through mud puddles to the door.
She must look a sight. Bloody, soaked dress, muddy shoes. A person would have to be out of their mind to open their door to her, much less let her inside their house.
She turned, deciding at the last minute to let the people inside be.
The door opened and she turned back around, her feet frozen, whether from the mud or indecision, she didn’t know.
She squinted, but couldn’t tell who stood in the doorway. It, in fact, appeared to be two people, but she could barely see through the rain.
“Come in, out of the rain, child,” a kindly woman said.
Claire felt tears mingling with the rain at the kind invitation.
“Get out there and take her horse to the barn,” the woman said.
A child ran out into the rain and took the reins from her.
“Get in here,” the woman insisted, coming out on the porch.
Claire went up the stairs out of the rain.
“How in the world did you end up out here?” the elderly woman asked. “Never you mind. We’ll get you dried off and into some dry clothes.”
“I don’t want to track up your house,” Claire said, looking inside at the cozy, clean house.
“Don’t you mind that.”
Claire stepped inside the little house out of the rain, and if she hadn’t been soaked, would have hugged the woman. “Thank you so much for your kindness.”
The boy who had taken her horse came back into the house.
“Danie
l, go to the well and bring in some water. We’re gonna fill up the tub.”
Daniel dashed back out. The woman stoked the fire and hung a large kettle over the fire.
“My name is Hazel Ketchins,” the woman told her. “What is your name, dear?”
“Claire Whitman.”
Hazel paused, turned, and studied Claire. “Let me get you a blanket while the water heat,” she said. “The house is small, but it has a good design. My husband, God rest his soul, knew how much I loved my bath and he had a real nice tub brought in for me. Even made room in the bedroom to keep it.” She talked as she opened a trunk and took out a large blanket and wrapped it around Claire.
Claire shivered as she buried herself in the warmth of the blanket. “You’re so very kind,” she said again.
Hazel chattered nonstop as the water was heated and poured into the claw-foot tub in the main bedroom.
Once she deemed the bath ready, though, she left Claire alone, and went back into the kitchen.
The rain had stopped and the sun was up enough now that Daniel was outside doing other chores. She heard Hazel moving about silently in the kitchen.
Claire lowered herself into the hot water and settled back into the tub. Sighed with bliss and closed her eyes. What must it be like to have a bathtub in the house all the time? What a luxury. Grandpa and Grandma had had a wooden tub that hung on the side of the house. It was something of an ordeal to get it down and bring it inside the house for a bath. Mostly, Claire just used a cloth to wipe herself clean. Although she did that every night before going to bed, nothing compared to a full bath.
Relaxed now, and warm, Claire opened her eyes and studied her surroundings. The house appeared to be of moderate size. The bedroom was at least twice the size of the bedrooms of her old house.
A long curtain created a private bathing area on one side of the bedroom. A chamber pot stood in the corner.
The house was clean and well-kept. There was no clutter and very little decorations. In times of war, this was not uncommon. Many people sold off luxury items to buy necessities. Claire had even read in one of the newspapers about a family melting down their silverware to make bullets.
“Knock, knock.”
Claire sat up, sloshing war over the edge. “I’m sorry. I’m still in the tub.”
Hearts Under Fire Page 14
