A Secret Refuge [02] Sisters of the Confederacy (25 page)

Jesselynn looked to the east, following Ahab’s attention. Easy to recognize because of the spotted rump on his horse, Wolf rode with a fluid grace, he and the horse as one body. Seeing him like that brought up a thought. Why did he seem to ignore their wagon? She saw him visiting with the others as they plodded their way across the land, but other than to tip his hat to Aunt Agatha and give them instructions, he stayed away. Now he’d taken his hat off and untied the thong, letting his hair stream in the breeze, dark and thick. She’d heard two men talking about “the breed,” as they called him. Not Wagon Master Torstead, or Mr. Wolf, but the derogatory term that set her teeth on edge. She’d felt like punching them. If all Indians looked like him, they were indeed a noble race.

Patch sat up and looked back toward the wagons, a whine catching her attention. Meshach came striding across the field as if he owned the land himself.

“Go get him.” She whispered the command to Patch, and he took off as though someone had set fire to his tail.

Patch reached Meshach, ran around him yipping three times, then charged back to Jesselynn and lay panting at her side. He leaped to his feet, raced out after that same wandering ox, drove him back to the herd, and returned to drop in his place in Jesselynn’s shade.

“Brung you some dinner.” Meshach swung a sack to the ground and followed it down. “Got to shoe the red ox. Found his shoes loose dis mornin’.”

“Did some others come to have any shoeing done?”

“Did two horse, one ox. Fixed a handle on a cast-iron kettle. De folks know I can do all dat.”

“Good.” Jesselynn watched as another of the oxen lay down with a grunt. “Guess they about had enough.”

“Don’t take long wid grass good as dis.” He pulled a stalk and set to chewing the tender end. “I be gettin’ on back. Sammy fell in de water, come up laughin’, so Thaddy jump in after him. Jane Ellen haul dem out and take off dere clothes, handed dem soap.” He shook his head in gentle laughter. “Dey some boys.”

Jesselynn took two biscuits and a piece of fried rabbit out of the sack. Patch watched her every move.

“I be goin’.” Meshach stood and removed a rawhide thong from his pocket. “Since tomorrow be Sunday, we goin’ have a church service. Mr. Morgan be de preacher.”

“They should ask you.”

“A black man be de preacher?” He gave a short laugh and shook his head. “You been in de sun too long widout a hat.”

“You know your Bible better than any of them.”

He just waved and went on to tie the loop around the ox’s neck, flipped another loop around the muzzle for a halter, then headed back to camp with the ox. “I bring him back when he done.”

Jesselynn tossed the bone and half a biscuit to her watching companion and licked the grease off her fingers.

After finishing a letter to her sisters, she took out the journal and caught up the entries for the last couple of days. Describing the place where they camped made it sound like a bit of heaven. Trees along the creek, grass, cultivated fields, gentle hills bordering the wide flat valley, a creek that serpentined its way to the distant river. Sky so blue that the few puffy clouds looked painted on, and birdsong to thrill one’s soul. She glanced down to find a tiny pink flower at her feet. Heaven indeed. But black folk weren’t welcome here, and the land had a price, no longer free for the working as in Oregon.

She closed her journal with a clap and set it, along with the ink, back in the leather case. Time to work with the foals. The colt didn’t like the idea of being led around at all. Time to get over that.

“Marse Jesse! Marse Jesse!”

Jesselynn looked up to see Jane Ellen running across the field, waving at the same time.

What could be wrong now? Thaddeus?
Her heart leaped.

Richmond, Virginia

“Worryin’ sure does keep you on your knees,” Louisa said to no one in particular.

“What’s that you say, dear?” Aunt Sylvania looked up from her stitching. When no answer was forthcoming, she returned her attention to the wool jacket spread across her lap.

Louisa set her stitching off to the side and rose to wander to the window. Every day she prayed for Zachary to return. Every day for these four weeks she’d gone to bed fighting despair. Not hearing from either of the young men foremost in her life had begun to wear on her.

“Think I’ll go work in the garden.”

“That’s a good idea.” Sylvania held the jacket up, studying the sleeve cap.

Louisa wandered out the back door and across the flagstone verandah only to find two men already out there, one edging the pathways, the other tying up the sweet peas that refused to climb the trellis. There wasn’t a weed in sight, nor a dying blossom to clip off, nor a bit of mulch to be spread. Short of transplanting something that did not need transplanting, there was nothing for her to do. The garden looked better than it ever had, even when Sylvania had had a gardener with helpers.

If only she could go over to the hospital.

If only she could find Gilbert . . . and Zachary.

Lord, I’m caught in the
if only’s
, and that’s not a good place to be. How am I to be grateful for not knowing if my brother or my fiancé
—well, he wasn’t quite, but she’d come to think of Lieutenant Lessling as that—
are alive. And my biggest problem is that I am not busy enough to keep from thinking
. She had to be honest.
From worrying. And I know worrying is a lack of faith. I know that. Lord, give me something to do.

“Go sew on the jacket.”

“Is that all you can think of?” She glanced heavenward as she muttered her rejoinder.

“You need somethin’, Miss Louisa?” The taller of the two men stood a couple feet away.

“No. No thank you. Would you and Private Daniels like something cold to drink?”

“Hot maybe. ‘Specially if Abby has those molasses cookies I been smellin’. Sure makes me think of home.”

“You sit down, and I’ll bring them right out.”

“No, you don’t need to wait on us. ‘Less o’ course you might want to read while we eat?”

His hopeful look made her smile. At least here was something she could do to make someone else happy.

“Come on into the parlor, then, so the others can hear.” Two of the newer men were still bedridden and might be for some time, since her team of herself, Abby, and Reuben were still fighting the putrefaction of their war wounds.

By the time she’d read them several psalms and one act of
The Merchant of Venice
, she’d gone hoarse, and two men in bed were soundly sleeping. Since sleep brought healing, she tiptoed out of the parlor and gently closed the door behind her.

“I don’t think Corporal Downs looks very good. The fever must be back.” She stopped at her aunt’s side. “We don’t have any morphine left, do we?”

Sylvania shook her head. “A bit of laudanum is all. I thought sure we had him on the road to recovery.”

“When he wakes, I think I’ll change the bandage on his stump. No sense waiting on the doctor to tell us what we can find out for ourselves.”

But while the stump looked like only healthy healing flesh, the man had slipped into delirium. When they called the doctor, he listened to the man’s chest and shook his head. “Pneumonia. I can take him back to the hospital, or you can fight it here.”

Louisa knew their soldier had a much better chance at the house. “We’ll keep him.”

“Reuben, let’s move Jacob to Zachary’s bed. I’ll get a mustard poultice started. Abby, you make up willow-bark tea. We’ve got to get his fever down.”

They all headed for their duties, moving like a well-ordered machine, with each knowing what lay ahead. They’d been through this before—won one and lost one. Louisa hated to lose.

By the darkest hour before dawn on the second day, they had to admit defeat. The soldier’s tortuous breathing had stilled.

Tears flowed down Louisa’s face. “God, why? Didn’t you hear our prayers? We tried so hard.”

Reuben patted her shoulder. “God hear us, missy. He just say no. Dis boy now dancin’ in heaven all whole again. You want him back to dis?” His hand gestured to the world around them. “You go on now. Get some sleep so you don’t get sick.”

“I should . . .” She could barely hold her head up.

“You should go to bed.” Sylvania stood in the doorway, her dressing gown belted, her mobcap in place. “They will take care of the body.”

“Yes, Aunt.” But as Louisa pulled herself up the walnut stairs, her tired mind went to two other men. Where was Zachary? Was Gilbert still alive, and if so, where was he?
Why, God?
turned to
Where, God?
as she threw herself across the bed. “I’ll undress in a few minutes, rest first.” She wiped her tears on the pillow slip and knew no more.

Sometime later Abby came up and drew the covers over her, gently closing the door on the way out.

Dusk grayed the window when Louisa came fully awake. She lay cocooned in the warmth of her quilt and thought back to the battle. They’d done their best. She knew that. The enemy had been stronger, or their soldier had been weaker. How could he not be, with the septic wound?

“Oh, Lord, how long? How long must this war go on? Please, I beg of you, bring Zachary home again safe and sound. And if you can find it in your will, bring Gilbert also.” A vision of Gilbert in the hospital contrasted to Gilbert admitting his love for her on the front porch made her smile. He had come so far. Loving him now was easy.

Jacob was back in his bed in what used to be the dining room, and the other bed was made ready for another soldier.

She sat down at the desk and wrote a letter to the boy’s mother, telling her what a fine son she had and how he had fought hard both for the South and for his life.

He said our cook’s molasses cookies were good, but not up to those his mother made. He spoke of his home and family and how grateful he was that you raised him to know our living Lord. I know he is dancing with the angels in heaven now and wanting you to remember him strong and fine.

In the name of our risen Lord,

Louisa Highwood

She’d written to this mother before when her son first came to live with them. Return letters had been so appreciated.

She stared at the sheet of paper. If only she had Gilbert’s home address so she could write her future mother-in-law and ask if they’d heard of their son. The harder she tried not to think of him, the more he came to mind. Was he suffering somewhere? Or had someone taken him in as they were doing? That is, if he were injured.

When Zachary returned, she would implore him to inquire again about Gilbert. Perhaps someone, somewhere, knew something.
When Zachary returned
. So much seemed to hinge on when Zachary would come back.

She refused to consider the threatening thought that surfaced when she least expected it. What if Zachary never returned?

On the Oregon Trail

May 1863

“Some’uns been shot!”

“Who?”

“That man, Jones, with the big black beard.” Jane Ellen put her hand to her side and struggled to catch her breath. “’Phelia said to get you. You the best healer around.”

“You stay with the stock, then. Keep Patch with you.” Jesselynn tore off across the field, her writing case clutched in one pumping arm. She hadn’t thought to ask how bad, but at least she knew where her medical box was packed.

She shut her mind against any speculating and concentrated on breathing and not tripping on a gopher mound. “Where are they?” she asked as soon as she got to the wagon and could breathe.

Ophelia pointed to the right wagon and handed her the wooden box she’d stocked with supplies in Independence. “Dey got in a fight.”

Jesselynn took the box and headed across the inner circle of wagons. She had to keep in mind that Ophelia had been the one to call her, not Wolf or one of the other families. But then, how would they know about her training? After all, healing was woman’s work, unless there was a doctor around.

“Fools,” muttered one of the men standing near the wagon.

“What happened?” Jesselynn paused beside him to figure out how to handle this.

“Got to drinking and got into an argument over something. Most likely too stupid to matter.”

“But drinkin’ is against the train’s rules.”

“I know, but when Wolf rode off, these two hit the bottle. You can bet there’ll be a thorough inspection after this.”

Jesselynn nodded. “I better see what I can do.”

The wife of one of the men dabbed at a shoulder wound that still seeped, tears trickling down her thin cheeks. The other man sat with a makeshift bandage around his upper arm.

“I din’t mean to hurt ‘im, just scare him a mite.” Tears rolled down Rufus Jones’s cheeks.

Jesselynn dropped to her knees beside the woman. “Here, why don’t you let me see what I can do.”

“You a doctor?”

“No, but I’ve done quite a bit of treatin’ wounds and such.” She didn’t say she’d learned it all from her mother.

The woman relinquished her place but moved back only a pace. Jesselynn examined the wound and felt under his shoulder, hoping for an exit wound. No such luck. That meant the bullet had to come out or he’d die of gangrene, not that he might not anyhow.

“I’m going to have to take the bullet out.”

“I’se afeared of that.” The woman wrung her hands. “He’s not a bad man, but when he starts to drinkin’, he . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Jesselynn knew that the Jones brothers had already built themselves a reputation as cantankerous and hard to get along with. But with most of the men out of the camp and the women washing clothes, the two had time to go at it.

“I’m going to need some help holding him down.”

A snore from the wounded man released enough fumes to make her lean back. “Whew, maybe not. Go get Meshach. He’s workin’ at the forge.”

“I’se here.”

The deep voice from behind her made Jesselynn sigh with relief. Between the two of them—her cutting and Meshach holding and praying—they’d manage.

“Get us some water boiling, Mrs. Jones. We gotta get your husband cleaned up some. And is there any of that liquor left? We can use it to clean out this hole in his shoulder.”

“Waste of good liquor,” muttered the man she’d spoken with earlier.

“Be that as it may, I’ll need you to hold down his legs. Anyone else around?”

“Only the womenfolk.” His voice hardened. “And that other piece of worthless trash, his brother.”

Jesselynn looked over her shoulder. “You can lie across his legs. That shouldn’t hurt your arm any.”
And it might be good if it did
. She looked again. The low-down dog was sound asleep. She and Meshach exchanged glances. They didn’t need words. Wolf had almost turned
them
down, yet he’d taken on this heap of trouble?

Before Mrs. Jones could get the fire hot to boil the water, someone else brought a steaming kettle over and set it on the tripod. “Mrs. Jones, you found that liquor bottle yet?” She raised her voice to be heard over the snoring.

“Yes, but . . . but Tommy Joe, he might be . . .”

“Get the bottle or Tommy Joe might not live to drink anymore.”

Mrs. Jones squeaked like a mouse trapped by a cat’s paw, but the bottle showed up at Jesselynn’s side.

“Sure would be easier if he was on a table.”

“We can use the two planks from their wagon.”

Jesselynn didn’t need anyone to tell her who said that. Wolf’s voice sounded flat, like a sharp piece of shale.

“Meshach, come help me set them up.” The two men left, and Jesselynn sat back on her heels. The man she’d been working on stirred and blinked, then returned to snoring. She might have to give him a few more swigs, but, then, she’d seen men die, poisoned by the drink they craved. But other than the gaping hole in his shoulder, Tommy Joe—she shuddered at even the name—was in good shape. His color, what she could see under the matted black beard, looked good, and his breathing was steady. A belch made her blink. Her eyes watered.

When they had Jones on the makeshift table, Meshach handed her a freshly honed knife. Jesselynn washed her hands with soap and hot water, and after closing her eyes for a moment to ask for her Father’s guidance, she stepped up to the table. Wolf stood across from her, Meshach beside her, and Jones’s brother and another man at the hips.

“Ready?” They all nodded.

She barely flinched as she inserted the point of the knife into the wound to widen the hole for her fingers. Jones groaned.

“Hold him.” Using her fingers as a probe, she felt around the tissue, searching for the bullet and any pieces of bone. She felt the sharp point of bone and with thumb and forefinger wiggled it free and dropped it on the ground.

Oh, Lord, please help me
. Blood welled around her searching fingers. “Come on, come on.” More prayer than mutter, she focused only on the sphere beneath her fingertips. Something hard.

Jones groaned, gagged, and vomited, splattering the wagon. “Turn his head.” Meshach kept one hand on the man’s arm and turned his head with the other.

“Hold him.” Before she could say the words, all four men had thrown their bodies over the thrashing man on the table. In spite of the bucking, she probed and knew for sure she had the bullet. “Got it.”

She held up the smashed bit of metal. Blood welled where her fingers had been. Jones gagged and wretched again, spewing foul-smelling vomitus all over Wolf’s buckskin shirt.

The look of disgust on Wolf’s face made Jesselynn want to smile. Instead, she grabbed the bottle of whiskey and, spreading the wound wider, poured the liquid in.

Jones let out a scream that could be heard for miles. He thrashed and bucked, sending his brother flying.

“Ow, my arm,” Rufus cried.

“Pour some of that down his gullet.” Wolf gave the order but didn’t reach for the bottle. He left that to their other assistant, whose expression said what he thought of the whole thing. When their patient settled down again, Jesselynn looked to Meshach.

“You think we need to heat the knife?”

Meshach shrugged. “Might be de other enough. Him bleed good.”

Jesselynn nodded and went ahead with the bandages, wishing she had some of the healing salve her mother used to use. While she had the recipe, she’d not had all the ingredients.

“Let’s take him back to his own wagon. His wife can take care of him there.” Wolf nodded to the three men, and they did just that.

Jesselynn washed her hands and glanced down at her clothes. “Looks like I been butchering hogs.”

“Leastways with hogs, you got something good at the end.” Aunt Agatha handed Jesselynn a towel to dry her hands. “You get those clothes off, and I’ll wash the blood out before it sets up.”

“Thanks.” Jesselynn felt the quivering start in her toes and work its way up until she was shaking like she had the ague. Her knees turned to mush, and the world started to revolve.

“Sit and put your head down.” Wolf grabbed her shoulder and plunked her down on a wagon tongue.

“Let go of me.” She tried to flail at his restraining hand, but the action made her stomach roil. She kept her head down.

“Better?”

“Yes.” She’d known what to do. He’d just beat her to it. She breathed in and out, deep breaths that brought her world back to standing still. His hand on her shoulder felt warm and comforting.

“Where did you learn to operate like that?”

“From my mother, but it’s all a matter of sense.” She slowly sat upright, ready to duck her head if the world tilted. When it stayed in place, so did she.

“Well, if he makes it through without gangrene, he’ll owe you a debt.”

Jesselynn shook her head. “No, no debt. I’d just as soon no one told him who did it. But the next time he punches his wife, you better do something about it, or I will.”

“You take care of your business, and I’ll take care of mine.” The bite had returned to his voice.

So much for any moment of truce. Why couldn’t she learn to keep her mouth shut, as her mother had always recommended? Jesselynn picked up her medical box and headed back to her own wagon, where Meshach had the forge back up hot and the iron ringing on the anvil. Two oxen were lined up waiting for his attention. He glanced up when she passed him, nodded and, after raising one eyebrow, went back to work. Didn’t take much to read her thoughts, she knew. The thunder sitting on her forehead would be easy to see. Or maybe it was the lightning bolts shooting from her eyes. Shame the object of her frustration wasn’t in reach of one.

Even though Tommy Joe Jones recovered with little problems, he never did come by to say thanks. Jesselynn wasn’t surprised, but it sure sent Aunt Agatha off in a huff whenever she saw the man.

To the chagrin of the other hunting party, Benjamin returned with two deer and three prairie chickens, while the others had only a few ducks and a goose. Daniel brought back a string of catfish and bluegill, so they ate the fish and parceled the other out among the wagons.

“How’d you do that, boy?” Ambrose McPhereson, who was camped in front of them this night, asked. “I never saw nothin’ out there.”

Benjamin looked up from scaling fish with a smile that crinkled his eyes. “Think like a deer.”

“Anytime you want to give me lessons in deer thinkin’, I’ll be ready.”

“Thank you, suh.”

“Name’s Ambrose, not sir. What’s your name?”

“Benjamin Highwood, suh.”

“Well, Benjamin, how about I call you that and you call me Ambrose? Before this trip is over, we’re all goin’ to be family or foe, and I sure don’t want to be any part of the latter.”

Jesselynn watched the look on Benjamin’s face as the man walked away. That alone made the trip worthwhile.

Just before they left the campsite at Vermilion Creek, a single wagon drawn by two teams of horses pulled into the area. The man who stepped down off the wagon seat appeared to have seen better days. When he lifted his hat, wiry gray hair flew in the breeze and matching brush covered his face. Gimping on one leg, he hitched across the packed dirt until he reached the nearest wagon, the one driven by Aunt Agatha.

“Howdy, ma’am.” He touched the brim of a hat that was more slouch than firm. “Where’s yer wagon master?” He coughed at the end, as if he hadn’t done much talking of late.

Agatha nodded to where Wolf stood talking with two men. “The one in the buckskin shirt.”

“Thankee.”

Jesselynn looked back at his wagon in time to see an elder boy pop his head out and then retreat. Jane Ellen glanced at Jesselynn. “Bet that’s his grandpap.”

“You think so?” Jane Ellen had an uncanny way of picking up on things. Jesselynn had come to accept this as a gift, so she pretty much agreed.

“Looks like they come a long way.”

“Most likely. All of us have.”

“His horses need a good feedin’.”

Come on, let’s get on the road
. Jesselynn felt as if she were all dressed up for a party and nowhere to go. First time in their traveling that Wolf didn’t have them on the road by full light. She thumped a tattoo on the boot rest. “Hand me those strips of rawhide. Might as well make myself useful if we’re going to be a while.”