Laura Abbot

by Into the Wilderness

  The major handed Caleb his cup, but before he could sit down, a knock sounded at the door. While Hurlburt went to answer, Effie said delightedly, “This will be the Misses Kellogg. Regrettably their father, our post surgeon, has duties which prevent him from joining us.”

  Feminine chatter filled the entry hall as the major took the ladies’ cloaks. A sturdily built young woman with pale skin and freckles entered the parlor first. “Permit me to introduce Miss Rose Kellogg,” the major said before turning to the second woman. “And her sister, Lily.”

  From her erect posture and demeanor, Caleb recognized Lily immediately—the woman in the cemetery. Close up, her flawless skin, the thick blond hair coiled on her head and her wide blue eyes rendered him tongue-tied. When had he last seen such a lovely female? Then, recovering his voice, he said, “Miss Rose, Miss Lily, the pleasure is mine.”

  Was it his imagination, or did a faint blush suffuse the latter’s face? Before he could make that determination, the major seated the ladies and offered them tea.

  Effie motioned for Caleb to sit beside her while the major served the Kellogg sisters. “Tell us, Captain, what brings you to Fort Larned?”

  Although Caleb was certain she already knew, he briefly recounted his experience subduing marauding Indian tribes.

  Rose leaned forward. “Did you also see service in the recent war?”

  “I did, miss.” He had no desire to elaborate.

  Lily, apparently sensing his discomfort, deftly changed the subject. “That’s history. I am interested in your opinion of Fort Larned.”

  Until they adjourned to the dining room, he offered his initial impressions of the place and then listened as the others told him about the recent rebuilding. Effie, in particular, put everyone at ease with her gently humorous comments and informality. Clearly the major was satisfied to let her hold sway at home, just as he controlled the fort.

  At dinner, Caleb had the good fortune to be seated directly across from Lily Kellogg. He hoped his perusal of her wasn’t too obvious, but it was difficult to keep his eyes averted. The delicacy of her features was at odds with the self-composed figure he’d seen in the cemetery. She was both dazzling and enigmatic.

  Effie seemed determined to direct questions to him, but he noticed her slyly studying Lily while he answered. He had a familiar sinking sensation. He was in the hands of a skillful matchmaker. If he wasn’t bound by social niceties, he could save Effie Hurlburt the trouble. Looking at Lily Kellogg was one thing; entanglement, quite another. He had learned that lesson from bitter experience.

  Buttering a slice of bread, the major commented that he was sorry about Ezra Kellogg’s absence from the table. “A fine doctor he is. During the outbreak of typhus late last fall, he performed valiantly, keeping our mortality rate low.”

  “He’s very skilled,” Effie agreed. “As is his most proficient nurse.” She smiled at Lily, who bowed her head modestly.

  “I do what I can.”

  “Sister, you are a marvel,” Rose said. “Few of us could do what you do.”

  Lily looked up. “When you find something interesting and fulfilling, it isn’t work.” Caleb watched her eyes light up. “Learning about the human body and how to control and treat disease is fascinating. If only...” Her voice trailed off.

  Caleb suspected she’d been about to say “If only women could be doctors,” but no one else picked up on the thought. To spare her the awkward moment, Caleb said, “May I ask how you began nursing?”

  The young woman set down her fork. “Before she died, my mother attended women in childbirth. I was curious, and she began to teach me. Then when she was ill, we—” she nodded at her sister “—helped nurse her, and I discovered I had a gift. Our father is often shorthanded or in the process of training inexperienced enlisted men, so I assist him as I can.”

  “A regular Florence Nightingale she is,” Effie said, beaming approval.

  “Miss Nightingale is an idol of mine, but I would never venture to compare myself to her.”

  “The nurses I observed during the war performed invaluable services,” Caleb said, recalling painfully the field hospitals he had visited. “It is important work, and I commend you.”

  The conversation then turned to the latest rumors about a railroad to be built to replace the Santa Fe Trail. “The railroad is only the beginning of a new era, I suspect,” the major observed. “With such progress, we will no doubt experience many changes.”

  “Not the least of which is moving to the parlor for coffee.” The major’s wife rose to her feet. “And perhaps Miss Lily will honor us with a selection on the pianoforte.”

  Caleb smiled inwardly. Miss Lily Kellogg seemed to be a woman of myriad and contradictory talents. He didn’t want to be intrigued by her, but even fatigued as he was, the prospect of learning more about her kept him alert. A half hour later, after further conversation and two pleasing piano pieces, the major asked him to escort the Kellogg sisters home.

  Outside, clouds played tag with a nearly full moon. The light-colored stones of the buildings shifted and glowed as shadows came and went. From the enlisted men’s barracks came sounds of revelry. It was nearly time for taps, so as they proceeded across the parade ground, the noises gradually subsided. At the door of the small house adjoining the hospital, Caleb took each of the ladies’ hands by turn. “Miss Rose, Miss Lily. Good night.” His gaze caught Lily’s. “Thank you for an evening I will long remember.”

  “Good night, Captain,” the women said in unison before disappearing inside.

  Caleb strolled back across the parade ground, reaching his quarters just as the bugler sounded taps. As they often did, the haunting notes recalled other nights, other encampments. Deeply moved, he lingered on the porch, taking in the fort, the surrounding countryside, the limitless sky. Feelings he hadn’t experienced in a long time, if ever, came over him. Part longing, part mystery, part promise—all centered in the disturbing sense that it wasn’t by accident God had put Lily Kellogg in his path.

  Sighing wearily, he regained control of his thoughts. He would need to be on his guard. A woman had hurt him once, and he never wanted to feel that vulnerable again. No matter the provocation.

  Chapter Two

  Sunlight filtering through the windows of the post hospital the next morning brought an illusion of cheer to the convalescing patients. Lily moved among the beds, changing a bandage here and wiping a fevered brow there. Only after she had checked all the patients did she pause at the bedside of a young man who had been kicked by a horse, suffering painful bruises and a concussion. Taking his hand, she gently called his name.

  The man stirred, then groaned. Lily spoke louder. “Benjamin, tell me where you are.”

  His eyes fluttered before focusing on her. “In heaven?”

  “Try again. Where are you?”

  The hint of a smile teased his lips. “Just joshin,’ Miss Lily. Hospital. I’m in the hospital.” Then just before he fell back to sleep, he mumbled, “Clumsy nag of a horse.”

  Across the room lay a cook, scalded by a pot of boiling soup, his hands mittened in gauze. She made her way to him. “I have time now, Timothy, to write that letter for you.”

  She retrieved paper, pen and the lap board and listened as he dictated his message. “Tell me mum I am dandy. Say I had a bit of an accident, but that I’ll be cooking again before she even gets this letter. Ask her to write.”

  Lily had seen the burns on his hands and doubted he’d be cooking anytime soon. She prayed he would be spared infection, so common with burns. “I will post your letter this afternoon.”

  “Thank you, miss,” he whispered, tears flooding his eyes. She turned away to spare him embarrassment.

  When she had finished her duties, she stepped into the small surgeon’s office where her father was working on his weekly medical report. “Do you need me further, Papa?”

  Ezra Kellogg looked up, his blue eyes gentle behind his spectacles. “You’re a godsend, daughter, but we�
��ll manage for the rest of the day.”

  Lily studied his pale face and stooped shoulders. There was an air of resignation or...a lack of vigor...something that had diminished him. It was as if when his wife’s life drained away, his spirit had ebbed, as well. She and Rose did what they could to lighten his heart, but, in truth, all of them sorely missed Mathilda. Only after her death had Lily realized the extent to which her mother had been the family’s anchor.

  Not quite six years before, a similar shadow had passed over the family and forever changed them. During the war she, Rose and her mother had prayed unceasingly for the safety of her father and brother, David. Lily’s chest tightened, as if a claw gripped her heart. David. So amiable and strong. It had been natural to idolize the big brother whose hearty laugh had charmed them all. In her innocence, she had thought him invincible. Until that awful news. The telegram from the War Department had stated in cold, impersonal terms that their beloved David had been killed in the Battle of Lookout Mountain.

  She remembered the sickening feeling she’d experienced with the realization that he had been dead for many days before they received word. Days when he had still lived in her imagination—eating, laughing, singing and...fighting. That blow had been especially cruel since they had no efficient way to communicate with Ezra. Their father’s return following the war, though a cause for celebration, was a somber occasion, the four of them grieving for the son and brother who would never again grace their family circle. Recalling past family dinners where there was always one empty place at the table, she was reminded of last night’s meal.

  “Papa, we missed you at the Hurlburts’ dinner.”

  “I hope you and Rose enjoyed it.”

  “We did. The new captain dined with us.”

  “What did you make of him?”

  “He seemed pleasant enough.”

  Her father rose to his feet and laid a hand on her shoulder. “I worry about you girls being in this place. There are good men here, but others...” He grimaced. “Others you shouldn’t even have to see, much less come into contact with.”

  “Captain Montgomery is no cause for alarm.”

  He kissed her forehead. “I probably shouldn’t have brought you here with me, but we had been so long apart during the conflict that I—” his voice cracked “—needed you.”

  “And we needed you, do need you.” She patted his arm. “Never blame yourself for our circumstances. Rose and I are fine, and, after all, we are a military family. Women do their duty, too, you know.” Then, to emphasize her point, she saluted airily and took her leave.

  As Lily made her customary way from the hospital to the cemetery, the breeze carried a tantalizing hint of spring. Full sun warmed her back as she stood before her mother’s grave, pondering the exchange she’d had with her father. Finally she spoke. “Mama, we miss you so. Papa is lost without you.” She closed her eyes, picturing her parents embracing. “How he must have loved you. And you? How sad to die in a harsh place like this so far from the home you loved.”

  Turning to leave, she glanced in the direction where yesterday she’d seen the new cavalry troops arrive, led by Caleb Montgomery. He had none of the arrogance of George Custer, who had been stationed at Fort Larned a few months ago, nor the affected dandyism of some of the others. Montgomery seemed...was solid the word for which she searched? Yes, that, but more. Dependable? Trustworthy?

  She chided herself for attempting to pigeonhole the dashing captain. His essence would not be captured, even as she ruefully admitted thoughts of him had captured her, despite her best efforts to will them away.

  * * *

  Although it had been a week since his arrival at Fort Larned, Caleb had slept poorly, troubled by disturbing dreams. Awake before reveille, he dressed quickly and stepped onto the front porch to watch the sunrise. Smoke rose from the mess hall kitchen, and in the distance a horse whinnied. After a few minutes, he made out the form of the bugler, who sounded notes that brought the fort from quiet to bustling activity. Lantern light flared in the barracks, and he heard the raucous shouts of prompt risers rousing the slugabeds.

  From inside, the lieutenant with whom he shared quarters grunted and coughed. Will Creekmore, a fellow from Wisconsin, began every day with prayer. While Caleb found the practice laudable, he wondered how it had served the man on the battlefield. He himself had struggled to find God in the chaos of armed conflict, finally latching onto the instinct for sacrifice, even love, that he observed in the way men in extremity cared for their brothers in arms. He had concluded that just as evil existed and tempted men to war, so was mercy present in the myriad selfless acts he’d witnessed. That thought was all that made his duties bearable. Yet his uneasy truce with God had suffered a significant setback at the Washita River.

  He would go to his grave with the horrors of November 27, 1868. On that wintry dawn, he had led his troop to a rendezvous point above the Washita River where they waited in hushed darkness for Lt. Col. George Custer’s command to attack the camp of Chief Black Kettle and roughly two-hundred-fifty vulnerable Cheyenne. A survivor of the infamous 1864 Sand Creek Massacre, Black Kettle had negotiated for peace, but had been unable to control younger, more belligerent warriors, engaging in raids against white settlers.

  Swallowing sourly with the memory, Caleb saw it once again in his mind’s eye. Their orders were to take woman and children hostage, but to kill anyone who fired on them and destroy the enemy’s horses. When the first rays of the sun illumined the horizon, the command came, bugles blew and the cavalry charged down on the sleeping village. It took only one shot from a single hapless Cheyenne to incite a frenzy of fighting. Screaming women clutching their children ran for the river, old people fell in their tracks, and bodies littered the snow.

  In his nightmares he would forever see the little girl holding a cornhusk doll, a bullet hole through her chest and the lifeless body of a woman cradling beneath her a piteously mewling infant.

  He had experienced horrific combat in the War between the States; however, that cause was justified and didn’t involve women and children on the battlefield. But the engagement on the Washita? That was different. It was a massacre. To his eternal shame, he had been unable to prevent it. No wonder he had lost his zest for soldiering. It was even difficult to believe himself worthy as a man.

  The orange ball of the sun brought light into his dark thoughts. “God,” he whispered, “help me to understand. Why? Why?” Scraping a hand across his beard, he paused as if waiting for an answer, and then went back into his quarters to shave.

  After breakfast, Major Hurlburt gathered the officers for a briefing. Spring wagon trains setting out for Santa Fe would soon be passing their way along with the usual supply wagons. Roving bands of Kiowas, Pawnees and Arapahos, angered by the white man’s usurpation of their tribal lands and hungry after a long winter of deprivation, were on the prowl. Scouts had already located Kiowas camped along the Pawnee Fork. Caleb and his sergeant were ordered to accompany a seasoned troop the following day to deal with the situation and familiarize themselves with the immediate territory.

  That evening, keyed up in anticipation of action, Caleb sought the quiet of the post library. Before the war, he had entertained thoughts of studying at university, but now that was a distant dream. However, he reckoned the lack of formal education needn’t keep him from learning.

  In a somber mood, he pulled a volume of Tennyson’s poems from the shelves. The book fell open to “The Charge of the Light Brigade,” and Caleb was transported instantly to the suicidal attack in the Crimean War. “Into the valley of Death / Rode the six hundred.” He looked up from the page, grimacing at the image of men riding to certain doom. Did mankind ever learn? Such atrocities were no different from what his own army had inflicted on the peace-seeking Indians massacred at Sand Creek and the shameful Battle of the Washita.

  He closed the book, rubbing his eyes, gritty with the need for sleep. Crimea. Unwittingly, Florence Nightingale came to mind, her lant
ern bringing hope to the wounded and dying there. How incongruous that the lovely Lily Kellogg could also be engaged in such grisly hospital work. Yet her name had surfaced again and again in the conversations of men at Fort Larned. Although she brooked no nonsense, they said, she had a fearless and compassionate heart, and sometimes their healing had depended as much on that as on any medicines or procedures.

  As if he had conjured her, the door opened and Lily entered, her attention fixed on the stack of books she carried. When she saw him, she uttered a startled “Oh” and dropped her armload on the floor. He hastened to her side, where they both knelt to gather the volumes.

  “I didn’t mean to alarm you,” he assured her.

  At that same moment she was saying, “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

  In the lantern light, her hair cast a golden glow, and he found himself at a loss for words, finally managing, “Do you come here often?”

  “It’s my favorite place,” she murmured.

  He assisted her to her feet and then gathered the books and laid them on a shelf. “Mine, too. No matter the post to which I’m assigned.”

  Looking over his shoulder, she noted his book, abandoned on the chair. “What were you reading when I disturbed you?”

  “First of all, you didn’t disturb me. Besides, Tennyson’s ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’ is rather gloomy. In truth, I was daydreaming rather than reading.”

  She crossed the room, picked up the poetry collection and skimmed it. “I do so admire his work. ‘Flower in the Crannied Wall’ is one of my favorites.” She closed her eyes and recited, “‘Little flower—but if I could understand / What you are, root and all, and all in all, / I should know what God and man is.’”

  “A big if. Can we ever know about God and man? Would we even want to? Man has a habit of mucking up things.”