He stepped aside so she could see.
The breath left her in a soft “oh” sound.
“I’m so sorry, Caroline,” he said as she dropped to her knees. He bent to help her, but she made no effort to stand.
“No,” she whispered. “Oh, no, Johann—”
She reached out to the wooden marker, letting her fingers touch the name:
Pvt. William T. Holt
5th North Carolina Regiment
Company “K”
Pennsylvania Campaign
She hardly remembered the walk back to the clergyman’s house. She was aware on some level that the sun was still hot and glaring and that the streets were crowded and she was jostled again and again as Johann moved her along. She didn’t object when he insisted that she come with him. She didn’t object to anything except William’s death.
Little brother, she kept thinking. Little brother—
He’s just a boy!
Oh, William, how can I bear to never see your face again?
She let herself be delivered into the capable hands of the clergyman’s wife, oblivious to the German words that the woman and Johann exchanged. She drank the glass of amber liquid that was offered her, and she lay down on the little alcove bed as she was bidden to do. She even slept for a time, waking in the early dawn, not knowing where she was.
But then it all came rushing back to her, and she lay there, the tears quietly spilling down her cheeks until the sun came up.
Had Frederich been with William when he—when they both were wounded? Had William suffered? She needed to know these things and that was yet another reason she had to find Frederich.
The house was very quiet when she finally arose. She tried to maintain the quietness as she came downstairs to the kitchen, her sadness weighing so heavily upon her that she felt years older than she had just yesterday morning. Her hands shook. She was glad that there was no one about. She helped herself to a piece of corn bread that sat on the back of the kitchen stove and filled a tin cup with water from the bucket on the small table by the back door. She ate her meager fare because she needed it and not because she was hungry. She had to return to Winder today. There were still the other wards to search and the rest of the cemetery.
After a time she became aware of the murmur of voices-two people speaking in German somewhere. Johann? she wondered as she listened. She needed to talk to him and she got up to go find him.
The voices came from a room down the hallway and on the opposite side. She knocked quietly on the door, and there was a long moment before she was bidden to enter. When she opened the door, she saw the clergyman’s plump wife—then her husband. The woman immediately stood up, and Caroline couldn’t begin to follow whatever she was saying.
“Excuse me—I don’t understand—”
“Bitte,” the woman insisted, taking Caroline into the hall. She grabbed Caroline’s bonnet from the hall tree, then her own, then her husband’s wide-brimmed straw “preacher’s" hat.
Caroline put the bonnet on, because there seemed no way to do otherwise, and she let herself be rushed out the door, the clergyman taking one arm and his wife the other.
“Beeilin Sie sich!” the woman urged her as they hurried along the street.
“Oh, what’s wrong?” Caroline said more to herself than to them.
They both answered her in a jumble of incomprehensible German.
Their destination was a small house on a back street several blocks away—too far away to be rushing so in this heat. She could only guess that something had gone wrong with the lodging arrangements and she was being relocated elsewhere—in which case she should have brought her valise— or something had gone wrong with Johann. What if he was ill or injured? she thought. He was so absentminded and the opportunity abounded at every turn to be run over by some kind of military wagon.
But he was not ill or injured. He stood waiting on the shaded front porch, and he came immediately down the steps to meet her.
“Caroline,” he said. “I have found him, I have found him. He is here in this house—”
“Frederich?” she dared to ask.
“Yes, of course—didn’t I say that? The family here—the mother is German and she has taken him in—arrangements were made—”
“Johann, I want to see him! Does he know I’m here?”
“I don’t know—she says he isn’t awake much of the time. You must prepare yourself, Caroline. I believe he is very badly hurt—”
“Johann—”
The clergyman’s wife said something in German, and Johann put his hand on Caroline’s shoulder.
“She says that you must forgive them for their haste in getting you here, Caroline,” he said quietly, looking directly into her eyes to see if she truly understood.
She took a long, shaky breath, then nodded.
Before it was too late—as it had been with William.
He released her then, and she followed him up the steps and into the cool, dark hallway of the house. A young girl waited just inside, her hair in long braids that had been pinned on top of her head.
“My mother is done washing him,” she said. “She says you can come up now.”
“I will wait here,” Johann said.
Caroline looked back at him once as she mounted the stairs. She meant to say thank-you, to tell him how much she appreciated his efforts, but she couldn’t manage it. Her knees were trembling, her heart pounding.
He is very badly hurt…
The lady of the house waited at the top of the stairs with her arms full of bed linens.
“Your man knows you are coming,” she said to Caroline in heavily accented English, and she caught the young girl’s sleeve when she would have continued down the hall. “That door at the end—he is there.”
“Thank you,” Caroline said. “Thank you for all you’ve done.”
“Nein,” the woman said. “You don’t thank me for my charity when there is none. I am a poor widow. I must make money however I can. I was paid for his care.”
“Paid?”
“Go now,” she said. “While he is awake. He is very tired. It is hard for him to wait for you—”
Caroline hesitated a moment, then walked quickly on. She took a deep breath before she pushed open the door the woman had indicated. The room was located on the corner and very small, but it had two windows, both of which had been opened to give cross ventilation. A maple tree shaded one of the windows, leaving a patch of mottled sunlight on the floor, the leaves rustling in a random breeze and scattering the sunlight from time to time.
There was nothing in the room but a rocking chair and a small table with an oil lamp, and a waist-high four-poster bed. She walked quietly forward, moving so she could see Frederich’s face. His eyes were closed. He wore no night-shirt, and he was covered with a freshly ironed sheet, one heavily bandaged arm and leg exposed. And he had so many small wounds, scraped and nicked places on his face and hands and arms as if he had been dragged for a long distance. She could smell the wood ash scent of the strong soap he’d been bathed in, see that his hair was wet and neatly combed.
She stood by the bed, watching him closely, not knowing if she should disturb him. After a moment, she took off her bonnet and hung it by the ribbons on the back of the rocking chair. When she turned back to the bed, he was waiting.
“Frederich…” she whispered, leaning toward him, but he held up his uninjured hand.
His eyes searched hers for a moment, eyes that were fever-bright and full of pain. He licked his lips and attempted to speak. She leaned closer, intently aware of the monumental effort he was making.
He closed his eyes briefly, then tried again. “You are…not a widow…yet,” he whispered.
“Don’t!” she said, reaching out to touch him. He visibly winced, expecting her to cause him more pain. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly, drawing her hand back. “Frederich—”
“What will you do…for me?” he asked.
She didn’t un
derstand, and she stared at him without answering.
“Tell me,” he whispered. “What will…you do?”
“Anything,” she said, hoping that was the answer he wanted and that she could oblige him.
“Then get me…out of here.”
She hesitated. She had heard him perfectly, but in these past few days she had learned only too well how precious a decent bed for a wounded soldier could be.
“When you’re able—” she qualified.
“No! Now! You take me—out of here. I won’t abide his charity—”
“Frederich, I don’t understand. Whose—?”
“I can’t bear it! Get me out, Caroline. Get me home. I want to see my—children before I die—”
“Frederich—”
He reached out to grab her arm. She could feel his fever through her sleeve. “Will you—honor—none of your marriage—vows then?”
I don’t deserve that! she almost said. But perhaps she did. She had locked her door against him. She had never obeyed him. And she had only come to him now because she feared he was dead.
“Frederich, you aren’t able to travel—”
“No? You should have—seen me when I got here. I am going to die anyway, Caroline—”
“No,” she said. “You aren’t going to die.” She stepped closer so that she could look into his eyes. “You aren’t going to die—but if you are determined to get home, I will help you.”
“You—swear it?”
“Yes.”
“Say it—”
“I swear. I will do everything I can to get you home.”
She took his hand, and he relaxed visibly, his eyes closing as he gave a long sigh. She stood there for a long while— until she was certain that he slept. Then and only then did she finally let go.
Chapter Twenty-One
Is she crying?
Frederich couldn’t tell in the darkness. She was sitting by the open window. He could see her profile every time the lightning flashed. He could hear the rain falling steadily on the windowsill.
He had awakened abruptly at the storm’s height, thinking he was back at Gettysburg and hearing the heavy guns.
Oh, the guns!
There had been a time in his life when he had come to love a summer storm, and by that he had known that his conversion from a disgraced German Soldat to a North Carolina farmer had been complete. But would he ever hear the sound of thunder again and not remember the fighting at Gettysburg?
He drew a deep breath.
Yes, she was crying.
Don’t, damn it! Don’t!
It made him angry that she cried. It made him angry that she hid it from him. If she would just do as he asked and get him away from here! He stirred restlessly and the movement made him moan. She was immediately by his side, ever mindful of his needs. But she asked him no questions. He hated questions; she had learned that the first day. She wiped his face with a cool wet cloth without his leave. He was burning up—it felt wonderful.
I can’t remember, he thought, knowing all the while that it was more that he wouldn’t. He recalled the wide, open field—the blazing hot sun—men throwing off their piecemeal jackets and rolling up their shirtsleeves—the wild artillerymen with no shirts at all. That terrible sense of urgency—trying to get the cartridge boxes distributed— trying to find water to fill the canteens. Hurry! Hurry!
William taking his shoes off.
Get those shoes back on, boy!
Aw, Frederich—the damn things hurt!
Get them on! If we have to run back across this field, there will be too many things you won’t want to step in.
Avery and Kader Gerhardt at it again—Avery pelting the pompous schoolmaster in the back of the head with a green apple just for the fun of it.
And all the while, he, Frederich, doing his duty, forcing himself not to think about her. He had been certain that he would die. What if I never see you again!
But he hadn’t died. He was here, hanging on, and William, that gentle, laughing boy, was in his grave. Did Caroline know?
I don’t want to tell her. I had to tell her about the child— I can’t tell her about William, too. Oh, God, I hurt so!
There was never any respite from the pain. Even his eyes hurt—no, the sun was up.
Too bright in here—what happened to the night? What happened to the storm?
“Drink this, Frederich,” someone said—Caroline?
“Why are we still here?” he muttered, turning his head away. “I want to be gone from this place—”
“Drink,” she said again, catching him so he couldn’t turn his head away. “I know it tastes bad, but it will help the pain—”
“No—”
“Yes,” she countered, always herself no matter what. She forced the liquid into his mouth, overwhelming him with it so that he had to swallow or choke.
“Again,” she said.
“No—”
“Yes.”
“Leave me—alone—”
“Drink it!”
He drank deeply. It was the only way to get rid of her. But when she moved away from the bed, he immediately found that he didn’t want to be rid of her after all.
“Caroline-!”
“I’m here, Frederich.”
“Caroline—why? Tell—me—”
“I don’t know what you’re asking me, Frederich.”
“Why?”
“Shhh,” she soothed him, wiping his face again with the cool cloth.
“Where are my children?” he asked abruptly. “Where are Lise and Mary Louise?”
“At home, Frederich. With Beata.”
“I want to see them—”
“I know. You will see them. As soon as I can find us a way to get there.”
“No doctors, you understand that? No—doctors—”
“Frederich—”
“Promise me. I will keep my arm and my leg or—I willdie. Promise me!”
“Yes, all right. I promise you—sleep now. Sleep—”
The guns!
No. No, it’s thunder. A storm—I remember—
Caroline by the window—is she there?
He turned his head. There was no window.
Where am I? What is this place? The storm—it must be still the same storm—or is it another one?
“Are you here?” he asked abruptly, startling himself with the sound of his own voice.
“I’m here, Frederich,” she said immediately from somewhere he couldn’t see.
“What is this place?”
“It’s an empty warehouse. It’s where we have to wait until the train comes.”
“Is it night? I can’t see you.”
“Yes.”
“Then why aren’t you—sleeping?”
“Because Trudy says the thunder makes you have nightmares and I thought you might wake and not know where you were.”
“Trudy?”
“The woman who was taking care of you.”
Yes, he thought. He remembered Trudy. A soft woman with big breasts. She spoke to him in his own language—the kind of woman he might have wanted if he hadn’t been so besotted with Caroline Holt, the kind of woman who would take money from Eli to let him stay in her house.
“Stop crying,” he said.
“I’m not crying.”
“I—heard you—when the rain was coming down. You thought I couldn’t hear—”
“That was before—when we were still in Trudy’s house-several nights—a week ago, not now.”
“Caroline, I want to know why you are crying.”
“I’m not—”
“I can hear you—”
“William is dead, Frederich! He’s dead—”
The memory suddenly rained down upon him—all disconnected—in bits and pieces. But he remembered.
Oh, God!
Lying on the ground—the hot July sun beating down on him, his eyes, his mouth full of dirt. Blood—everywhere. He couldn’t move his arm and leg. Men—things—l
ying on top of him. A canteen—close—close—he couldn’t reach it no matter how hard he tried. He was so thirsty! His eyes burning and burning. His face scraped and burning. He could hear the wind high in the trees at the edge of the field. There was shade there—a cool breeze and shade—
It hurts—who is that moaning so?
William? Caroline, I’m sorry!
So thirsty…
The pain!
I hurt so bad!
Dead and dying. Dead and dying everywhere!
Caroline!
Someone turning him over, making him scream in pain.
Who are you? Where is William! Don’t leave the boy here! No! Don’t leave the boy here!
Someone speaking to him in German, dragging him up off the ground.
He is too far gone, Frederich. We have to hurry—their soldiers are coming—
Then leave us both, damn you!
The jarring farm wagon. William crying and crying in the rain.
Geben Sie ihm etwas! Give him something! But there was nothing anyone could give him.
Don’t cry, William. Please—please!
Who is there? Who—?
Hands lifting him, giving him food and drink, binding up his wounds, covering him against the rain.
Why have you come? I want nothing from you!
It doesn’t matter what you want, Frederich. I will do my penance for Anna—
He lay in the dark for a long time. He realized now that they were not alone. He could hear the stirrings of other soldiers around him, wounded men who moaned in pain— or was it he who did so?
“Caroline—”
“What?” she answered immediately.
When he didn’t say anything else, she came closer to him.
He stared up at her, trying to see her face in the darkness and thanking God that she could see his. “He…didn’t suffer, Caroline. William didn’t suffer.”
She made a small sound and bowed her head. He reached out with his good hand to pull her forward until she had to kneel down beside him. She turned her face away from him, but he kept pulling. He could feel her trembling.
“Come here,” he said.
“No. No—there are people here—”
“Come—Caroline—”
“I—am supposed to—take care of you—”
“Caroline, come here.”
Cheryl Reavis Page 28