by Tara Johnson
His crimson-covered hands shook as he wove the needle through torn flesh.
Father, protect them. Hell is being unleashed.
Cadence cuddled with the children inside the guest bedrooms of the elderly siblings’ farmhouse as the dull thump of cannon shook the ground.
Despite their distance from the fighting, the acrid odor of smoke wafted through the air. Surely the fight wouldn’t reach them, would it? Mr. Moxley had assured them Bristoe Station was miles from the conflict.
Or perhaps the fight was just that severe.
Cadence pressed a kiss to Etta’s curly head. The toddler lay snuggled heavy against her chest. As soon as the cannon fire had sounded through the air, Etta had climbed into her lap, jammed her thumb in her mouth, and buried her face in Cadence’s neck. Poor lamb.
Penelope was curled into her other side, saying little, clutching some hidden object in her fist. Cadence alternated between running her hand over the girl’s frayed braids and massaging her back with small circular motions, but the skin beneath her freckles remained pale.
James tried harder to be brave, despite his mere eight years. He peered out the window, checking the yard for movement, his face somber. So young to wear the mantle of a man’s burden.
She observed him tenderly, even as another rumble shook the ground. “Thank you for watching over us, James.”
He swiped under his nose with his fist. “Ain’t nothin’, Miss Piper. Just doing what a man is supposed to do. Taking care of his women. That’s what Papa Gish always says.”
She smiled. “He’s a good man.”
“The best. Me and Etta was starving to death, living in an alley and hiding from paddy rollers, when Papa Gish found us. Gave us a home.” He grinned, white teeth flashing. “Another sister too.”
Penelope shifted at her side. “You’re not always happy to have me.”
He frowned. “Only when you take my best aggie.”
Cadence laughed at the sound of Penelope’s soft giggle. “How did you and Etta come to be alone?”
He looked down and picked at a thread on his trousers. “Pa and Ma escaped our master down South Carolina way. We traveled north following something Pa called the Railroad. Master caught up with us, though. Pa sent us on ahead and decided to sacrifice himself so we could have a chance of escaping.” His lips curled downward. “Something went wrong. As we was running, we heard a gunshot. I looked back and saw Pa collapse.”
Cadence’s eyes slid shut. So much horror for a little boy to witness. “I’m so sorry.”
His face was set. “Ma said real love means pain and Pa had real love for us because he gave up his life. And I know I had real love for him because it hurt so much when he died.”
Her heart twisted. “I lost my mother. I had real love for her too. It hurt. It hurts still.”
James nodded. “Ma was tough. Managed to get us all the way to Washington, but she was scared. Didn’t know where to go or who to turn to. She got bad sick and died just weeks after we arrived. It was just me and Etta left.” His face brightened. “But then Jesus sent us Papa Gish.”
Penelope giggled again. “Providence knew I needed some new aggies.”
James rolled his eyes. The pounding of cannons intensified, rumbling the floorboards and rattling the glass globe of the kerosene lamp on the desk. Etta was limp against her neck, her breathing deep. Asleep.
Penelope huffed an impatient sigh. “How long will this go on?”
Cadence smoothed her hair. “At Oak Grove it went on for seven days.”
“Seven days?”
“Yes, but in truth, it wasn’t this bad. What’s going on across the way at Bull Run—” she winced—“well, we need to pray for those men, sweetheart.”
Penelope wrinkled her nose. “It sounds like Old Scratch is loose.”
“Penelope! Where did you ever hear such a term?”
The little girl shrugged. “From Miriam. She calls the devil Old Scratch all the time.”
James burst out laughing. Cadence shook her head. “Just because Miriam says it doesn’t make it proper.”
A bone-rattling boom shook the house. Penelope squealed and curled herself into Cadence’s side. Cadence murmured a prayer for safety. She could only imagine what chaos Joshua faced in the surgical tent.
Penelope’s thumb stroked the hidden object tucked in her fist.
“What do you have, pretty Penny?”
The girl shook her head and clutched her fist to her chest. “Just something someone gave me. A lady.”
“Oh?” Her curiosity flared. “Who?”
“I don’t even know her name, but I used to wish Papa Gish would marry her.”
That comment stung far more than it should. “I see.”
Penelope looked up into her face. “Now I wish he would marry you, Miss Piper.”
Words fled. What could she say? With a startling clarity, she suddenly realized how very much she wished the same thing. She loved him. She loved him deeply.
“Would you marry him?”
James gasped. “Penelope Alice Ivy!”
She glared. “It’s only a question!”
“It ain’t a proper question.”
Cadence swallowed, keeping her voice gentle. “Don’t quarrel. It’s not really a thing to argue about, is it? He has not asked.”
“But would you accept if he did?” Penelope probed, her green eyes hopeful.
Should she answer? She could see no way around the pointed question without being deceitful. “Yes. I believe I would.”
Penelope sat back with a satisfied smile.
“But he has not asked, so you should put the idea from your head, missy.”
She burrowed deeper into Cadence’s side. “I must think of something. Anything, or I shall go mad.”
Cadence exhaled softly. “How about a story?”
The little girl nodded. “Yes, please.”
“All right. Once upon a time, there was a lonely couple who desperately wanted a child. They lived next to a walled garden belonging to an evil witch named Dame Gothel . . .”
As the pounding of cannons plunged into the abyss of night, Cadence ventured from the room. All three children were blessedly asleep, tucked close to each other, breathing deeply in their innocence.
She crept down the stairs, toward a soft glow of candlelight beckoning from the kitchen.
Moxley and Maisey sat across from each other at the simple wooden table, a Bible open before them. Their silver heads were bowed as Moxley’s deep voice murmured, “We thank thee, almighty God, for Miss Cadence and these precious children thou hast brought to our home. Bless them. Protect them. Be with dear Joshua. Guide his hands. Be our peace amid this troubled time . . .”
Cadence stilled, dropping her own head in reverence as the older man finished the prayer. At his amen, the siblings looked up with sweet smiles. Maisey’s pale-blue eyes twinkled above her round cheeks. “I was preparing to come check on you, dearie. Are you and the children settled in?”
“Yes, ma’am. The cannons bothered them for a while, but they’re sound asleep now.”
“Glad I am to hear it. Come.” She patted the chair next to hers and rose, shuffling to the stove to fetch the teakettle. “Nothing comforts the heart quite like the Good Book and a cup of tea.”
Moxley grunted. “Coffee is better.”
Maisey wrinkled her button nose. “Not if it’s chicory.”
The older man frowned before swinging his gaze to Cadence. “My sister refuses to brew chicory coffee. Near breaks my heart.” He grimaced and pointed at his half-empty cup. “Serves me this female nonsense instead.”
“Tea is just fine, and you know it. You just like to have something to grouse about.”
“At my age, I’ve got nothing better to do.” He winked and Cadence laughed. Such charming people.
Pushing back his chair with a soft scrape, he rose. “Think I’ll check around the house. Sounds like the fighting has quieted some. Might as well make sure the ba
rn critters aren’t too riled either.”
“Thank you, Brother.” Maisey placed a steaming cup of tea before Cadence and eased back down into her chair before pushing the cream and sugar her way. “Don’t be shy now. The Almighty’s been good to us.”
The heady aroma of peppermint rose up from the curls of heat ribboning over the cup’s rim. Cadence added a splash of cream and a generous spoonful of sugar before sipping the warm brew with a murmur of satisfaction.
“Mm. Delicious.”
“Thank you. I’ve always been a bit partial to tea. My father never did let us have it much. Declared it unpatriotic, something his pa told him after the War for Independence, but my ma would sneak a tin in the house from time to time. We both had a taste for it.”
Cadence smiled at the impish gleam that filled Maisey’s twinkling eyes. “Something tells me you might have been a handful when you were little.”
The older woman chuckled. “Quite so. Not much like Moxley. He was always the obedient one. Oh, he had a way with people but was always a bit on the shy side, especially with females. Never did court a girl. He says one never caught his fancy, but I think it’s because he was always too afeared to ask.”
“And what about you? Did you have a beau?”
Maisey’s eyes drifted to a faraway place, shifting into a dreamy land of melancholy. “Oh yes. I had a beau. Sweetest boy I ever met.”
“Did you marry?”
“Yes, child. We had eight beautiful months together. Until he caught consumption and passed.”
Cadence looked down into her cup. “I’m sorry.”
Maisey patted her hand. “Don’t be. Most glorious eight months of my life. Wouldn’t wish it any different. To love and be loved that fully is a blessing. My Walter was shy. Had trouble speaking, getting out what he wanted to say. But, my, he had the heart of a lion.”
Cadence nearly dropped her cup as she leaned forward. “I struggle from the same malady.” She bit her lip, hesitant to share such intimate thoughts with a stranger. “When I was a child, a physician told me my mental capacity was impaired because of my speech.”
Maisey chuckled, her laughter like silver. “Sounds like your doctor didn’t know his Scriptures.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, Moses, of course. Do you not remember, dearie?”
Warmth flushed through Cadence’s cheeks. “I suppose not.”
Smiling, the older woman sipped. “When the Almighty told Moses to return to Egypt to set his people free, old Moses balked and said he could never stand before Pharaoh because he was slow of speech. He had trouble speaking too. Yet God refused to take no for an answer. And I think Moses did a right fine job, don’t you?”
Cadence felt her heart taking flight. “Yes, ma’am.”
“If there’s anything my Walter taught me, it’s this: just because someone talks slow, or not at all, doesn’t mean they’re deficient.”
Cadence sighed and took a sip of the peppermint tea, relishing its minty warmth. “I wish everyone shared your view.”
Maisey leaned back in her chair, her work-worn fingers curled around her cup. “Remember, sweetie, a lie is only harmful if you believe it. Don’t believe what others say about you. Trust what the good Lord says and all will be well. It didn’t matter a whit to me that my Walter had trouble speaking.” Her eyes danced. “And judging by the way our Joshua spoke of you, I doubt it matters a jig to him either.”
Cadence could feel the telltale blush creeping across her skin. “I pray he’s all right.”
Leaning across the table, Maisey patted her hand. “If the cannons have stopped completely on the morrow, I’ll have Moxley take you to him.”
Chapter 24
CADENCE CLUTCHED Moxley’s calloused hand as she descended from the rickety wagon, releasing him once her boot sank into the earth.
Her eyes scanned the horizon and her breath fled as she drank in the sight of the valley below. She remained standing though her knees weakened at the images emblazoned against the reddening sky.
Thousands. Thousands upon thousands slain. Mangled corpses. Dead horses and snapped trees. Bodies were three feet deep in places. Ruddy pools of blood amid churned earth. A haze of blue smoke lay heavy, like the hand of death itself was ashamed to reveal the carnage.
“Dear God . . .”
The stench of smoke and decay rose up in a thickening fog. Moxley looked around at the devastation, eyes filled with sorrow, and shook his head. “You sure about this, missy?”
“I’m positive. The surgeons and nurses will need all the help they can get.”
“Truer words were never spoken.”
She turned to him, her brows pinched. “Are you sure it’s not an imposition to leave the children with you for the day?”
“Nah. ’Course not. Maisey will be in heaven. And if their jawing gets to bothering me, I’ll just hie myself to the barn.” He winked. “I’m partial to children. Don’t see near enough of them. If you see our Joshua, tell him I’m praying for him.” He reached behind himself and pulled out a wrapped parcel, thrusting it into her hands. “This is from Maisey to him. She says he must eat it all.”
The aroma of Maisey’s biscuits wafted through the bundle, along with, perhaps, the spicy scent of ham. She slipped it into her pocket. “Thank you, Moxley. I’ll make sure he obeys.”
Nodding, he clicked his tongue and urged the horses forward. The wagon lurched into motion, leaving her alone in a field of thousands.
She turned in a slow circle. Corpses. Blood. Hands reaching out for mercy. Ambulance runners walking between bodies with stretchers, combing the scorched landscape for life.
There are so many, Lord. So many.
Acrid smoke stung her nose, smothering what once was clean air. Twigs and rocks crunched beneath her feet as her weight shifted.
Their moans rose up like a cacophony of diseased specters. Wailing. Crying for relief. For water. For death. The longer she stood, the louder they seemed. She shivered and covered her ears, trying to push out the sounds, but they crowded in, intensifying with every breath she took. How many were wounded?
Her knees weakened. It was too much. Too much to be done. Too many who needed help. Heavens, she couldn’t even take a deep breath for the stench.
She slammed her eyes shut, gasping.
“Just do the next thing.”
The next thing. That was all she could do. One thing at a time.
Blinking, she turned again. Focusing. The white canvas of the surgical tents shone just ahead. Her breath caught when the morning light revealed hundreds of wounded piled around the structures. Tears pricked her eyes. So many. As she approached, a moan sent shivers down her spine.
“Help me! Please! Don’t pass me by . . .”
“Don’t pass me by.”
She froze. The drifting memory of Fanny Crosby and her recollection of the prisoner begging to be noticed assaulted Cadence like a slap. It didn’t matter what she had been asked to do. She could not turn away from these men. The need was too great. Their suffering incomprehensible.
She knelt at the man’s side before grasping his dirt-crusted fingers. Blood and mud coated his neck and torso.
“I’m here, sir. I’ll not pass you by.”
He wheezed, his face contorting in pain. “Water.”
“I’ll find some and return. I promise.”
As the morning crept along, the mournful howls of the dying continued. Cadence walked from soldier to soldier offering a cup of water and praying, asking each man his name.
One soldier grabbed her wrist, his blackened fingers curling around her hand, causing her to spill the cup of water across his chest. His eyes were wide and panicked. “I ain’t ready. I’m dying and I ain’t ready.”
She kept her voice calm. “Do you believe Jesus is God’s Son? That he died for you and rose again?”
The soldier’s eyes searched the sky, his throat convulsing. “I believe. I cast my soul on his mercy.”
“T
hen go in peace.”
A single tear trickled from his eye and slid into his beard. He coughed violently and curled into a ball. She held his hands, murmuring, “Jesus, be with him. Have mercy.”
His body suddenly relaxed. A shadow passed over his face as his breath left him. Bowing her head, she sat back on her heels and rubbed her palms against her gritty eyes.
She turned slowly. Farther up the hill, a man sat outside the surgical tent, his head in his hands. Weariness weighted his broad shoulders.
Joshua.
She trudged toward him. Either he did not hear her approach or was too weary to care. She rested her hand on his shoulder. He didn’t look up.
“There are too many, Cadence.”
“I know.”
He lifted his head. Heavy lines ringed his eyes. “Is it worth it?”
“What?”
“The price of freedom.” He waved his hand over the valley. “Is it worth all this?”
She knelt at his feet and looked into his shadowed features. “Picture James or Etta and ask the question again. Is it worth it?”
His jaw firmed. “Yes.” He drew his hand over his face. “I just feel helpless. I don’t know how to help them all. I can’t.”
She sighed. “No, you can’t.”
He looked at her.
“You help one at a time and leave them all in the hands of the Almighty.”
His hand lifted and grazed her cheek. He pulled her close and pressed his lips to her forehead. His breath hovered warm near her skin as he pulled away, his eyes dark. “Thank you.”
Her throat was dry.
“Are the children managing?”
She swallowed. “Yes.”
“That’s good.”
He had yet to remove his hand from her cheek. His thumb stroked her jaw and she feared she might collapse under his touch. What was it about this man that he could so completely undo her with the slightest brush?