Raiding Party
“Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break. - Shakespeare
It was mid-March and Chris had been working hard, preparing the beds for planting. The last frost date was a month or so away, not much different than it was in Chris’s hometown, but there was much to do beforehand. He had climbed onto the roof of the barn and fixed the areas torn loose in a winter storm. It had, for a period of time, rendered one of the stalls unusable and they had moved Ichabod to a smaller stall until the hole could be mended. Chris had thrown himself into his work, stopping only for a bite of bread and cheese at lunch. These days he barely ate at all, and usually fell asleep early, holding Carrie close in his arms through the night.
A fog of grief had descended upon the Perdue farm. They had buried the baby as soon as Carrie was well enough to be carried to the small cemetery on the farm’s southeast corner. The Perdue farm had been in the family for five generations and consequently it had its own private plot 100 yards due south of the original homestead.
Mrs. Jennings attended, along with the Carter-Owens family, and John Carter gently took the small coffin from Fenton. Fenton looked as if he hadn’t slept a wink in three days and his eyes were rimmed in red. Chris insisted on lifting Carrie, still weak and listless, and he refused all offers of help as he held his wife close and carried her to the family cemetery.
The plot was of decent size, perhaps twenty feet by thirty. Along the south fence were the Fenton’s grandparents and parents. In the middle of the plot were the graves of his great-grandparents. There were also three small headstones next to his great-grandmother’s headstone that were obviously those babies who had not survived to adulthood. Chris remembered Fenton mentioning that his grandfather had been the only child to survive, just as Fenton had been an only child, and Isaac after him.
On the north fence was Molly, with an open spot in the northwest corner for Fenton. Beside Molly’s grave rested Isaac’s. Isaac’s wife Amy was the most recent addition. John had come early that morning to help dig the hole for the baby while Abigail made breakfast. She had given her son Carl a light push in Liza’s direction and motioned for him to take her for a walk. In the small cemetery, Chris had pointed to where the other children’s markers were and asked Fenton if it would be all right to bury her there. It seemed right somehow, that she should be close to other children, even if their little girl hadn’t gotten a chance to be a child. The old man had just nodded and walked away, moving slow and looking as if every step, every breath was an agony.
The past few days had aged him.
Reverend Thomas, along with a small group of Tiptonville residents that Chris knew only in passing showed up by mid-morning and the funeral was subdued. Carrie made no sound, didn’t cry at all, until the coffin was placed in the ground and the dirt began to be shoveled over it. She had insisted on standing as Reverend Thomas read the benediction and the Lord’s Prayer and when they had begun to cover the tiny coffin she had collapsed on the ground, sobbing. Those who hadn’t had tears in their eyes did at the sight of her sobbing, heartbroken, in Chris’s arms.
In the weeks since, the cohesiveness of the family had been tested. Fenton had always insisted that the family gather for every meal. But Carrie stayed in bed and often refused to eat. She had grown gaunt and hollow-eyed. Liza was subdued, a stark contrast from her ebullient, energetic self, and she would disappear into the forest alone and walk to the old homestead or to the cemetery. Sometimes she would be gone for most of the day, slipping in only when the sun had set and the night shadows had stolen across the farm. Lunch as a family was nearly non-existent and breakfast and dinner were dismal, silent affairs.
The breaking point came at breakfast on a cool, crisp Sunday morning. Liza had slipped out before dawn and had not returned to make breakfast, a responsibility that she and Carrie shared, but one which she had shouldered entirely in recent weeks. Without his coffee, which was really a mix of chicory and coffee (heavy on the chicory), Fenton was not one to be trifled with. In fact, he was looking rather ticked off. Chris had been making the morning rounds of the livestock and had seen Liza slipping around the pond, heading towards the old homestead.
She’d taken the loss of the baby as hard as he and Carrie had. He suspected she felt responsible somehow, although he couldn’t imagine how. Sometimes babies came early. If it was anyone’s fault, it was his.
He shouldn’t have gotten Carrie pregnant. She was too young to be having a baby. He remembered the ‘family planning’ classes in high school that had preached abstinence as their main theme. His teacher had explained that a woman’s body wasn’t fully developed until she is around twenty, and that carrying a child puts a lot of strain on any woman’s body. She had even explained that teens had an increased chance of a premature birth and a host of other problems.
Dad had sat him down long before that class and explained to him in detail what sex meant. He had squirmed and wished he could shut off his ears. It is one thing to look at a pretty girl and let your imagination run wild. It is another to hear your parent remind you that sex is how you came into existence. The thought of his parents doing that still made him a bit nauseous and that was an image he didn’t need.
Michael Aaronson had laughed at the expression on his son’s face and said, “Just think of it like this, son – every time you think of actually having sex, imagine that you will be making a baby with that girl. If you just ‘sort of’ like her, what’s having a baby and having to raise a child for the next twenty years with her going to be like?”
Michael Aaronson had been pretty laid back. The only son of two hippies who had met and fell in love while attending college at UC Berkeley, he had spent the early years of his life in EastWind, an ‘intentional community’ located in a remote area of Missouri.
He and his parents had left there and moved to Kansas City after an upheaval within the membership when he was twelve. His memories of the place had been rich and he had shared many stories of growing up on the property – canoeing, exploring caves, and running through the fields and extensive gardens.
Fenton’s bellow shook Chris from his reverie, “Where the Sam Hill is that girl?” He had been so lost in his thoughts that Fenton had called out twice before bellowing in frustration.
Chris snapped to attention, “Sir?”
Fenton frowned at him, looking irritated, “Stop callin’ me that, boy.”
“Yes, sir,” Chris winced, “I mean...Gramps.”
Fenton just rolled his eyes in exasperation and asked again, “Where’s Liza?”
“I saw her heading around the pond a few minutes ago,” Chris answered.
At that moment a scream came echoing from the trees. Both men reacted instantly, Chris dropped the bucket of water and began running through the open barn door. Fenton was right on his heels as he hung a sharp right and began to run along the path at the pond’s edge. Some geese had nested for the evening by the pond edge and began to scatter as the men ran through them, honking loudly as they took to the air or waddled out of range flapping their wings in distress.
There was one more scream, which added wings to Chris’s feet. Already Fenton was dropping behind, struggling to move his old bones faster.
Ahead of him a shot cracked off and Fenton bellowed and fell to the ground. Chris twisted in the air and threw himself to the ground as another shot came whistling by. It had been so close he had felt it zip by him in the air.
Here by the pond was cover of sorts, the dead grass and weeds were still tall, undisturbed. He turned and crawled on his belly back to Fenton, trying to move the old man off of the clear path and into the weeds. He quickly examined Fenton’s left shoulder, which now had a hole punched in it. He’d been lucky, a few more inches down and it would have hit his left lung, but it looked as if the projectile had passed straight through. He was bleeding and wheezing in pain. Holding on to Chris with his right hand he crawled into the brush as
another bullet whizzed by overhead.
“You armed, son?” Fenton whispered behind clenched teeth, his shoulder was on fire.
“Yes sir, always.” Chris had not forgotten the chaos of Belton. It had haunted him how easily the town had been taken, how easy it had been for the soldiers to round so many up. “I’ve got the .45, but just one clip. You?”
Fenton winced as Chris bumped his shoulder and pulled the gun out and into ready position, “I forgot mine. We’re in a bad spot here and we got Carrie and Joseph in the house.” His mind was spinning, working strategy.
Chris took the safety off and handed the .45 to Fenton. “I can crawl back, go ‘round the barn and use the yard for cover and get back to the house and get more firepower. I’m just scared one of us will hit Liza if we shoot blind.”
Fenton shook his head, “You need to get us some help. Get back to the barn, saddle the horse and ride to town.”
“Sir, you’re hurt. You go into shock and they’ve got Liza and an open shot at the house and our livestock with nothing to stop them.” Chris knew Carrie and Joseph had heard the screams and shots. It was quiet out here, sound carried well. Right now, Carrie was probably arming herself to the teeth and keeping a close eye on Joseph. Another shot whizzed by and they could hear muted sounds of a struggle. Liza was fighting them tooth and nail, from the sound of it. But she was a slip of a thing compared to a full grown man. There was no way she would be able to win a fight like that. He thought about Jess and burned inside.
What had it been like for her in that awful place? How long had she fought before being kicked and punched into submission? They had to get her back and defend the farm. If those raiders moved in they would strip their stores bare, kill Chris, Fenton and Joseph, and then kill Carrie and Liza after violating them in terrible ways.
There had been months of silence since the raids in late fall. Were these men new to the area? Or were they the same ones, returned for more looting and murder?
“Send Joseph,” The old man’s voice was unsteady, probably shock.
“Send Joseph on Ichabod and get us some help. The Austins must be dead, ‘cause that stand of trees backs up to their property and we hadn’t heard a peep all winter. Town is our only hope of getting extra firepower.”
Time was of the essence. Chris knew Fenton would hold on as long as he could, but the man was no spring chicken and he was going into shock. Chris turned and began to crawl through the grass, moving as quickly as he could and ignoring the mass of goose crap that decorated the ground and oozed between his fingers. Several large ganders were still in the vicinity and they honked menacingly as he moved through.
He froze as one approached, its head low and wings spread, ready to attack. The shot that hit the gander was undoubtedly meant for him. With that shot, and the strangled squawk the goose gave out as it died, the rest of the flock rose into the air, honking and cartwheeling through the sky. Chris used the distraction to jump to his feet and race the final few yards to the shelter of the barn.
He could hear Fenton fire off one shot and a second as he raced to saddle Ichabod, the horse snorting and pawing the ground nervously. Chris figured it would be easier to ride out himself, and get help and get back here as quick as he could. He was so involved in getting Ichabod ready to go that he nearly jumped out of his shoes when a tiny hand tugged on his pant legs. “Jesus Christ on a stick!” Joseph jumped and cowered and Chris grabbed him and pulled him close, “Joseph, what are you doing out here?”
“I followed Gramps, and I was standin’ there when Liza screamed,” the boy looked scared and Chris realized Joseph thought he was in trouble. He hugged the boy.
“Joseph, you are going to get help for us. Can you do that for me, Joseph?” The boy nodded eagerly and Chris lifted him up to Ichabod as a third shot rang out from the pond and two shots sounded back.
“I’m going to send you out the back way. You stay down, keep close to the horse and go to the sentry towers. Tell them we need help right away. Can you do that, Joseph?”
The boy nodded again, looking scared and determined and Chris led the horse to the back end of the barn. The raiders would be watching the entrance and not expecting the barn had a back exit. He slapped Ichabod hard on the rump and the horse whinnied and bolted forward down the drive, Joseph flattened against the horse, past the house and into the distance. Chris dashed to the house.
It was a straight shot for him, just fifty feet and much of that obscured by the barn, and a line of fruit trees that lined the west edge of the garden. He flew up the steps, safe now from view and crashed into the front door. Seconds later, Carrie undid the bolt and pulled him inside, her delicate fingers running over him, checking him for bullet holes.
“Fenton’s still out there. He’s been hit and we need to get back to him.” Chris’s words tumbled out as he reached for the rifle Carrie had in her hand. He had to try and come up with a plan to get back to Fenton, rescue Liza, and stop the raiders in their tracks.
Carrie had already pulled every weapon she could find from the gun safe and other locations. She was half-dressed, just jeans pulled on under her pajama top and a windbreaker over that. Her hair was tangled and she was barefoot. There hadn’t been any more gunshots since he had run for the barn. Silence had fallen, except for the occasional outraged honk of the geese. Chris ran and peered out of one of the windows. He could just barely make out Fenton’s boot sticking out of the tall weeds. “I’ve got to get out there. I sent Joseph for help and they should be here soon. You stay in the house.”
“The hell I will! That’s my Gramps and sister out there!” Carrie snarled as she loaded Fenton’s prize shotgun, grabbed some extra shells and shoved them in her pockets. Her face was gaunt and there were circles under her eyes. But to Chris she looked more alive than she had in weeks. She headed for the door, turned and looked at him, “Well?”
“Shoes,” he said pointing to her feet, “And we need Liza’s med kit.” Carrie glared at him, and ran down the hall to get the kit and shoes.
Chris listened carefully, peering out of the windows towards the stand of trees and trying desperately to see something, anything of the men who had been firing on the farm. Seconds later, Carrie re-appeared, shoes on her feet and the medical kit in one hand.
“I can’t carry the kit and still shoot,” she said, tossing it towards him.
“And I’m the better shot, so, here you go.”
It was true; she was dead accurate in her aim. It was a fact he had been made painfully aware of a few months back when the raids had been making everyone twitchy and Fenton had insisted that everyone except for Joseph improve their aim with a little bit of target practice. Carrie had been a crack shot and he’d been horribly jealous of the ease in which she handled everything from a revolver to shotgun.
His parents hadn’t owned guns and he was never trusted with one as a conscript. Carrie had better aim than him with her eyes blindfolded.
“Back of the garden, around the barn.”
“Yeah, that’s the way you need to go.” She buckled a revolver on her holster. “I’m heading around to the north. I’ll use the cornfield as cover and come in from that direction.”
“Shit. At least wait for the militia to arrive!” Why oh why had they not had a plan in place for this?
“Get Gramps fixed up. Stop the bleeding and make sure he’s okay.” Chris started to object but the look on Carrie’s face stopped him,
“Please Chris, help Gramps. I’ve got to get to Liza before they hurt her.” She pulled him close and kissed him. “Please, Chris?” All objections melted in the face of her pained face.
As they exited the front door, each diving in opposite directions and running as fast as their legs could carry, there was silence except for their own feet running. Chris ran full out, behind the raised beds and cover of trees and to the edge of the barn. He peered around it, saw nothing and dropped to a crouch and ran the rest of the way, sliding to a stop on his belly next to Fenton who was
still watching the tree line, his face chalk white and sweating. “I think they’ve taken off. I heard a truck start up, some ways off. That there engine don’t sound too good, sounded rough.” Fenton winced as Chris pushed a fold of thick gauze against the bleeding wound. “Damn that hurts!” He pushed at Chris,
“Why the dickens you’re worryin’ over an old codger like me, I’ll never know. Y’all need to be taking off after Liza and those men. I’ll be fine.”
Chris put his hand back against the wound earning a bark of pain from the old man. “Carrie’s headin’ their way, armed to the teeth.”
“What?! Why in the Sam Hill would you let her do that?”
Chris eyed him, his mouth tipping into a lopsided grin.
“She’s a Perdue, there wasn’t any letting on my part. Besides, she’s a better shot and even more stubborn than you. There wasn’t any asking, there was only telling. She told me and that was that.” He grabbed at the wound and the old man let out a sharp bark of pain. “Now if you would stop fighting me I might be able to stop this bleeding!”
Behind them came the sound of horses. Behind the horses came the welcome sound of a truck. The truck screeched to a halt on the far side of the truck and Chris heard the door slam. Men on horseback were out of sight, but definitely there, he could hear the whuffing of the horses who’d just been ridden a half mile in a hot hurry.
“Fenton!” A voice called out, Chris waved his hand up out of the grass and sat up. He felt a flash of anger. Well, didn’t it just figure it would be Wes Perkins come to the rescue? The man barely spared him a glance as he ran up at a crouch, keeping his eyes fixed in the direction of the old homestead.
“They’ve got Liza. I heard ‘em take off maybe three minutes ago.” The old man swayed dizzily as they pulled him to his feet. “Chris says Carrie’s headin’ round the other side so’s don’t you shoot her when she pops out of the cornfield. They ain’t gotten much of a headstart, so if you’s think you can catch them in that rickety old truck,”
The Storm: War's End, #1 Page 28
