“I know how to load a gun,” she protested, but sat down anyway, still dazzled. “Where in the world …”
Clem and Josh exchanged a look. “I found them,” Clem said. “Here and there.”
She gave him the benefit of a full glare. “Mm-hmm.”
Josh snickered, but she ignored him.
Clem tried his best to be diffident. “What? It isn’t like having the revolvers, at least, wasn’t useful.”
Pearl could only shake her head. She’d been beyond grateful for them, true. But to suddenly discover just how her brother had been occupying himself these past weeks …
For the next half hour, she let Josh instruct them on simply loading the revolvers and a pair of carbines, first with salvaged cartridges and then making their own loads. The latter she was only slightly less familiar with, since Pa and her brothers had made theirs as often as they’d purchased cartridges already prepared.
Mostly, however, she watched Josh converse and banter with Clem and noted the admiration that shone in her youngest brother’s eyes.
She did not know how to feel about that. It had been entirely too long since Clem had the example and guidance of a strong older man. But to rail, even inwardly, at the ease at which Josh insinuated himself with her family’s favor would be to indict herself.
He and Clem bent over one of the rifles, discussing some aspect of its works with an absorption she envied. It was tempting to simply rise and tiptoe out of the room and leave them to the task.
Josh’s head came up at that moment, his gaze meeting hers. Neither moved for a moment.
“What was your occupation before the war?” she asked without thought.
He sat back, his hand braced on the tabletop. “Oh, a little of this, a little of that. My father started out years ago as a wagonmaster and wound up a merchant in Athens, Ohio. One of my brothers worked alongside him, while another took up gunsmithing.” Josh’s mouth twisted in a rueful smile, and he looked away. “I was more drawn to gunsmithing. But I suppose it would be best if I turned my attention to something else, given present circumstances.”
He turned his hand over and tapped his knuckles on the table, among the firearms and accoutrements spread before them.
“I think,” Pearl said slowly, “you could do most anything you set your mind to.” She lifted her gaze to meet his once more. “Even given present circumstances.”
His cheeks colored, but his eyes held hers. “Thank you,” he said finally.
“So about this,” Clem said, obviously impatient with the turn of conversation, and drawing Josh’s attention once more.
Pearl took the opportunity to excuse herself and withdraw to where the air was markedly cooler and she could draw an easier breath.
How did she do that? Take all the color and life out of a room just by leaving it?
And to look at him like that, as if—as if losing a hand was merely a minor inconvenience and not something that had upended his entire world. “I think you could do most anything you set your mind to.”
Except the one thing he possibly wanted most in the moment, which was to take a certain Rebel girl in his arms and kiss her until she swooned. Because that particular Rebel girl had made it oh so clear she would have no such thing.
But then, she slipped away and left him to continue prattling on to her younger brother about the falling-block action of a Sharps rifle, which he usually would find fascinating to study and explain, when all he wanted was to run after her.
Obviously his thoughts were already gone.
“Josh.” Clem’s sober voice and expression yanked him abruptly back. “How—how does a man know which side is the right one to be fighting on?”
He opened his mouth, shut it again. Thought back on the months—no, years—before the war, of the newspaper articles, the speeches, discussions among his family. “A man has to do what he thinks is right,” Pa had said in response to Josh’s decision to run off and enlist the first chance he got. For the first time Josh wondered if that was a defense or a warning.
The boy’s blue eyes remained on him, steadily.
“I suppose … we listen to all the reasons why, and we measure it against scripture, and—we pray, of course—”
Josh wanted badly to simply say, I don’t know. It was as much a matter of where one grew up, except that he knew several of Copperhead bent who were as avid about their views as any who rose up to defend the Union, even going so far as to call for President Lincoln’s death.
He blew out a hard breath. “There’s no easy answer. I could explain all the reasons why I enlisted to fight for the Union. Why I still think it’s the right thing. Some of it, yes, is what we grow up hearing from those whose opinions we respect and trust. Some of it boils down to what President Lincoln himself said, that a house divided against itself cannot stand.”
Clem’s face twisted. “Faugh. Lincoln.”
Josh smiled a little. “And there you’re just echoing what you’ve heard others say.”
The boy couldn’t argue that but looked none too happy about it.
“Ultimately we defend that which we love,” Josh said, at last.
And was it that for himself?
Ten blue-coated men, sitting as close to upright as possible around the sitting room. Pa, in his favorite chair, seated but restless. Clem beside him, in case he grew unsteady, but equally restless. Lydia, seated in the kitchen, hushing her two, with Portius nearby, carved from obsidian. The Negro reached over and swooped Jem onto his lap and whispered something that drew a smile from the small boy, but made him instantly settle.
Pearl sat on the other side of the table, hands folded, doing her best not to stare out the window while Reverend Mason stood near it, delivering a sermon, weaving a little to the cadence of his own voice. A steady rain fell outside.
Again. As usual.
She tried to pay proper attention to Reverend Mason, but her gnawing restlessness—and dread—kept tugging her attention to the window and the cold, gray mist beyond.
It was a fitting reflection of her heart, when she should be finding herself warmed by the fire on the hearth and Reverend Mason’s discourse on scripture. Except that the smoothness of his recitation betrayed the likelihood that he’d given the same one all over the neighborhood, in similar gatherings. His visit did seem to give Pa a modicum of comfort and cheer, even if Pearl felt the minister’s prayers and exhortations seemed stiff and as rehearsed as his sermon.
Lord, what ails me? Besides the fact that it’s been two long months since Travis first dragged wretched, wounded Yankees to my door and insisted we care for them.
Her eyes drifted across the assembly. Most of the men were listening respectfully, or trying to, including Josh, across the room from her, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall. The neatness of his appearance, with hair and beard combed, and coat lying smoothly across his shoulders, still drew a flutter from her insides.
It was the only sign of life in days from her traitor heart.
She brought her wayward gaze back to Reverend Mason. The minister must have noticed her glance lingering overlong, because in the barest hesitation between words, he shot a glare at Josh, and an equally hard look at her.
Well, she could look forward to a separate sermon from him over that, she was sure.
Just one more thing to dread in an increasing array of late.
She glanced again over at Lydia and Portius. The clandestine meetings of their group of five were more difficult to arrange, but still they managed it. Things appeared increasingly grave for the Confederate side, and rumbles from over the ridge, across the mountains, grew more frequent.
Somehow Josh also managed to appear as concerned as the rest of them. And what could his true purpose possibly be in all of it? Were the Federals to break through, would they all perish in fire or be turned out destitute? Or would Josh truly try to protect them?
And could he even truly accomplish such a thing? Pearl couldn’t imagine so.
Josh was troublesome in his own ways. He’d finally regained enough strength to be up and moderately helpful again, although he moved more stiffly than before, and the bruising and abrasions on his stump remained worrisome.
Conversations were more difficult as well. He seemed distracted and tense and even more focused than before on accomplishing as many tasks as he could, alone. When they did speak, it was mostly about domestic matters … or strange, searching questions.
When the sermon was finished and Reverend Mason had completed his prayers, Pearl and Lydia both rose to get dinner laid on the table. She could feel the minister’s gaze on her periodically throughout the meal—or was that his unhappiness with the situation in general?
It was hard to say, given that she caught him casting dark looks at Lydia and Portius and the Yankees as much as herself.
Afterward, before she could even get her apron on for helping with washing up, Reverend Mason was tugging at her sleeve, quite literally. “A word with you, Miss MacFarlane.”
“Of course,” she murmured and followed him outside, wrapping herself in her shawl as she went.
“I am shocked, first of all, to find that your cousin hasn’t removed the rest of these men. They appear to be hale and hearty enough for transfer or exchange.”
She held herself still beneath his regard, though she wished fervently to fidget like one of the children. “Travis has been otherwise occupied,” she said as mildly as she could. “And most of these men are still convalescing from serious wounds.”
“One or two appear a little more solicitous than is proper,” he said.
She lifted an eyebrow.
“Very well, one in particular, and I think you know which one I mean.”
“He has been … very kind and helpful in regards to caring for the other prisoners,” Pearl said. “Not to mention, he was wounded a second time some weeks ago, while engaged in my defense.”
Reverend Mason’s eyes fairly popped, and he lowered his gaze. “Too long the fair daughters of our Southland have suffered indignity at the hands of our invaders. Something should be done.”
At that, she did shift from one foot to the other. “I believe our brave soldiers are doing as much as they can under the circumstances.”
He regarded her quietly for a moment. “And to have colored folk sitting with you during Sunday worship and dinner—”
“You yourself said it was but prayer and scripture reading, not a formal service, when you came this morning. Surely I can extend the hospitality of such to those who have served me so faithfully these last weeks, as well as to the enemy whose presence we patiently suffer.”
Reverend Mason’s face washed pale. “Those Unionists have infected you.”
Steel seemed to infuse her spine, and the words simply tumbled out. “It’s nothing to do with Union or not. You know well that we didn’t hold with owning folk long before this ridiculous war began.”
She winced inwardly. The good reverend was bound to hear only insult in her speech, since he hadn’t seen a thing wrong with owning a pair of house slaves, himself, before they’d run away six months ago. Surely enough, he drew a sharp breath, rearing back his head as if she’d struck him. “Well then. I should be taking my leave. Have a good day, Miss MacFarlane. Extend my regards to your father.”
She sketched a curtsy and barely waited for him to leave the yard before turning back toward the door. But once she’d laid her hand on the latch, she suddenly could not face the press inside. She stepped past to the edge of the porch and stood peering up at the fog-shrouded slope of the ridge.
The door opened behind her. It should have been no surprise when it was Josh who slipped through and came to her side.
Pearl could hardly breathe. If nothing else, Reverend Mason’s words brought home to her just how certain it was—and likely sooner rather than later—that their unintended guests would leave and take Josh with them.
“Pearl? Is all well?”
She could not reply. Could not even look at him other than to notice that he still wore his coat, a brighter blue than it had been when first he came, because of her ministrations. She’d managed to clean most if not all of the grime and blood, then trimmed and mended the shredded sleeve.
And he looked very well—quite well indeed—with the color providing a foil for the red of his hair and beard.
Why in the name of all that was holy did she have to keep noticing that?
He folded his arms across his chest and settled back against the porch rail. “I do not like that man,” he murmured. “I realize it’s disrespect of a man of the cloth, and that he’s a staunch Confederate, so a certain amount of hostility is to be expected, but—there it is.”
Her eyes burned, and she let out a broken laugh. “To be fair, Reverend Mason has done much good in our church body. I believe this recent unpleasantness has tried him beyond bearing, however.”
Josh’s chuckle warmed her through. “ ‘Recent unpleasantness’?”
A smile wrung her lips, despite the heaviness of her heart. “I must admit to some surprise at his lack of human feeling toward this situation.”
“I’m sure his concern for you and your family outweigh any he might have for the rest of us.”
Pearl peeked at him and saw him still smiling. “No doubt,” she said. “But he has a way of expressing said concern which grates horribly.”
“His intentions are doubtless pure.”
“Oh, doubtless.” She sighed. “He expressed surprise that you and the rest of our, ah, guests are still here.”
Josh’s smile faded. “Yes. That is … surprising, perhaps.”
He looked as if he’d like to make further comment, but the door opened again and two of the other men, Tattersall and Johnson, emerged, each carrying a chair. They both bobbed a nod at Pearl. “Miss MacFarlane. I hope you don’t mind if we sit outside and take the fresh air for a spell.”
“Not at all. I should return to washing up.” And with the barest glance toward Josh, she went back in.
Josh watched Pearl go and tried not to think about the hollowing of his middle in the wake of her words.
Or the extreme annoyance at being interrupted.
Tattersall set his chair down with a thump and dropped into it. “So,” he said very quietly. “When are we going to try to get out of here?”
Evening fell at last, hastened by rain and mist, and with it the first hint of relief Pearl had felt all day. Pa went early to bed, while their convalescents gathered around the hearth for storytelling—Pa turned a blind eye to card games, but it was Sunday after all, and with Reverend Mason having been there earlier, everyone seemed to stay mindful of that. Lydia carried a crying Sally up the stairs while Pearl puttered around the kitchen, putting away a few things that remained from the supper dishes. It was with no small startlement that she looked up to find Clem at her elbow, reaching for a dish towel and a wet platter.
“And what is it you want?” she murmured with a half smile.
He shot a glance toward the sitting room. “Pearl. Is God really on our side?”
She fumbled the bowl in her hands and nearly dropped it. “What would make you ask such a thing?”
Clem wiped the platter with slow, careful strokes. “I—just want to know. Everyone says He is. Preacher always says so. But what if we lose the war? What then? Did the older boys die for nothing?”
“Oh Clem.”
Pearl set the bowl on its shelf. What could she say, when he only echoed the unspoken questions of her heart?
“Pa and others talk about General Lee and Jackson and others, and how God must surely favor our cause because how could such fine Christian men choose the wrong side? But … Yankees believe too, at least some of ’em.”
Pearl smiled a little, hot wetness blurring her eyes. “That they do. Some of them.”
“So—who’s got the right of it? And how do we know?”
“I—” She took a breath, set both hands on the table, and leaned o
n them. “I don’t rightly know. Seems all we can do sometimes is just keep choosing whatever seems the right thing to do, right in front of us, and trust He’ll bring good of it.”
Where did all that come from? She sounded almost like Pa.
And did she truly believe it, herself?
Clem dried another dish, eyeing her, clearly unconvinced.
“Not sure I’ve anything better to give you,” she said. “I wish I did. Other than—the South is our homeland, Clem. Our country. And we best stay true to her.”
November 23, 1863
About midday, the sound of battle came again, in earnest.
They were cleaning up from lunch, and a game of chess was being organized in the sitting room, when someone lifted his head and hushed the others. “Is that thunder—or guns?”
A faint rumbling could be discerned from somewhere in the distance.
“It’s guns,” another replied, and they all scrambled outdoors to listen.
Pearl followed, dish towel still clutched in her hands, not bothering with her shawl despite the cold.
Sure enough, the grumbling that rolled from over the ridge, ebbing and flowing in a way that chilled Pearl to the bone, was too sustained to be mere thunder. She could only listen for a minute or two before heading back into the house.
Lord … oh Lord …
“What’s going on, Pearl?” Pa asked plaintively, from his chair.
She did not know how to answer.
“Pearl?”
The words clogged her throat. “There is—”
“It’s just artillery over across the mountains, sir,” came Josh’s voice, low and soothing. “Nothing to be alarmed by, here.”
“Well.” Pa scowled, clearing his throat. “They best not be spoiling my repose. Would you help me to bed, young man?”
Pearl could not even voice her gratitude at the moment as Josh slipped past her to assist Pa, as if it were his greatest honor to do so.
Lydia had already taken the children upstairs to nap, and one of them, likely Sally by the pitch of it, started to cry, followed by the sound of Lydia shushing her. Soft singing followed, and the crying subsided.
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