“It’s better than the hotel in Lefsburg,” Creede said.
She shuddered. “Don’t remind me.”
She sank onto the bed and her encounter with the crippled young man at the livery came back to haunt her.
“You should lie down,” Creede suggested. “You look like you’re going to swoon.”
“I’ve never swooned in my life,” she tossed back, but without any weight.
Seb looked around like he didn’t know what to do.
“You can sit down,” Laurel said gently.
After a moment, Seb sank down onto the floor.
“You don’t have to sit on the floor.”
Seb shrugged and curled up on the rug, his eyes closing.
Before Laurel could say something more, Creede said, “Leave him be. This is all new to him.”
Laurel studied the boy for a minute, then nodded. “I guess it’s better than the ground.”
“Why don’t you rest, too?” Creede suggested softly.
She thought she should argue since it was only late afternoon, but she was tired. She lay back on the bed and closed her eyes. Horrific images from the hospital camps and the amputation tents ambushed her and her eyes flashed open, her heart pounding.
“What is it?”
She focused on Creede, who was studying her with concern. “Nothing.”
His lips curled into a scowl, obviously recognizing her lie. “The boy at the livery brought back memories.”
She glanced at him, not surprised he’d guessed. “Too many.”
His irritation gone, he swept back a strand of hair from her damp forehead and his fingers brushed her brow. Awareness rippled through her.
“But he’s alive,” Creede said.
“He’s bitter. A lot of them were.” The ghosts scuttled closer, pressing against her.
“You aren’t to blame for that. A person makes his own decisions.”
“Most of them weren’t given the chance to decide if they wanted to lose a limb.”
Creede bent closer. “Stop it, Laurel. You didn’t force a gun into their hands and make them fight.”
How many times had she been told that by other nurses, doctors, and even herself?
“I’m tired. I think I will take a nap.” She knew she was taking the coward’s way out, but at the moment all she wanted was to be alone.
Creede sighed. “I think I’ll look around the town. What’s the name of the folks you’re looking for?”
Laurel struggled to remember, even though she’d just read the journal entry the night before. “Smith. Their son was Nathan.”
“I’ll see what I can find out. You get some rest.”
“Thank you.” She turned her head, fearful of what she’d see in his eyes.
But more fearful of what he’d see in hers.
Creede kicked a stone and watched it skitter into the street. He glanced back at the rooming house, torn between staying close to Laurel and giving her the time she needed to gather her composure. The urge to wrap her in his arms and comfort her still gnawed at him. He wanted to take away some of her pain, but understood how some hurt was just too deep to make go away with an embrace and some soothing words.
Uncertain where to go, he just started walking and found himself back at the livery. Robbie and the older man were back to their checkers game.
“Come to check on your horses?” the older man asked in between puffs on a corncob pipe.
“Just stretching my legs. Name’s Creede Forrester.”
“Bill Cutter, and this here’s my nephew Robbie,” the old man introduced.
Creede shook Bill’s hand, but Robbie didn’t offer his.
“Mary rent you a room?” Bill asked.
Creede grinned wryly. “After I pointed out she would be losing money if she turned us away.”
“Don’t be too hard on her. Son was killed in the War.”
Although Creede couldn’t excuse her intolerance, he empathized with her loss. “Quiet little town you have.”
“Wasn’t as quiet afore the War. Lost about two dozen men.” Bill motioned to his nephew with his pipe stem. “But Robbie here made it back.”
“I’m a damned cripple,” Robbie said bitterly.
“You’re alive,” Creede said.
Robbie glared at him. “What the hell do you know, mister?”
“I know that if my son had come back with one leg, I’d be thanking God.”
Bill’s eyes harrowed. “You lose your boy?”
Creede swallowed hard and looked away. “Sixteen years old.”
“Well maybe he wouldn’t a been very happy ’bout comin’ back less than a man,” Robbie snarled.
“Maybe, maybe not. But I wouldn’t have let him sit around feeling sorry for himself.”
Robbie launched himself at Creede, knocking him down and falling on top of him. The boy swung his fist but Creede stuck up his arm, blocking his punch. He didn’t want to hurt Robbie, but he wasn’t afraid to defend himself either.
“Hold your horses there, boy,” Bill ordered, pulling Robbie up by the back of his shirt. “Forrester was just talkin’. No need for you to be gettin’ all riled up.”
Creede pushed himself to his feet and held up his hands. “Your uncle’s right. I didn’t mean anything.”
Robbie’s eyes blazed with anger. “Don’t you be tellin’ me how I should be feelin’. You got two good legs.”
“Go find someplace to get rid of your mad, Robbie.” Bill handed his nephew his crutch.
The boy snatched it from him and hobbled away.
“Sorry ’bout that, Forrester. He always was a prideful boy. It don’t set right with him that he only got one leg now.”
“Laurel was a nurse,” Creede said. “She said she saw a lot of boys like him.”
Bill shoved his hands in his pockets. “Wanna play some checkers?”
“Sure.”
He took Robbie’s former place and Bill relit his pipe.
“You got black. Your turn,” Bill said.
Creede studied the pieces a minute before making his move. “Where’d Robbie lose his leg?”
“Shiloh, back in ’62. He was only eighteen. Only been in the army three months. What about your son?”
“Petersburg, Virginia. March of this year. I didn’t find out until June.” Creede kept his voice steady.
“You fight?”
Creede glanced up, expecting to see censure, but there was only curiosity. “No. Didn’t believe in it.”
“S’prised you admitted it.”
“What about you?”
“Too old. They wouldn’t take me.”
“You were lucky.”
“Didn’t think so then, but after seein’ Robbie I figured maybe I was.” Bill puffed on his pipe and took his turn. “I’m right sorry Robbie upset your wife.”
Creede shifted, uncomfortable with lying to the older man but not wanting to hurt Laurel’s reputation. “She’ll be all right.”
“Where’d the darkie come from?”
“We found Seb this morning.” Creede didn’t figure Bill needed to know the circumstances. “He was by himself. No family, no one to look out for him.”
“What do you figger on doin’ with him?”
Irritation prickled Creede. “We told him we’d try to find someone to take him in, but he’s free to leave whenever he wants.”
Bill merely grunted. It was obvious he didn’t share Laurel and Creede’s view of former slaves.
He jumped one of Bill’s checkers and picked it up.
“So where you headed?” Bill asked.
“Texas.”
“I figured you was from there. The missus, too?”
“No. She’s delivering some last words from soldiers she was with at the end.”
“Don’t seem like somethin’ many folks would do.”
“Laurel isn’t like most folks. Say, you wouldn’t happen to know a family by the name of Smith, would you?”
“More’n one.”
“They
had a son named Nathan.”
Bill’s eyes widened. “He and Robbie joined up together. He leave some last words?”
Creede nodded. “Laurel wants to give them to his folks.”
He rubbed his grizzled jaw. “Nathan’s pa’s heart gave out when they got the news he was killed in the War. His ma runs the roomin’ house you’re stayin’ in.”
Startled, Creede frowned. “I’d best let Laurel know. Will Robbie be all right?”
Bill shrugged and sadness shadowed his creased face. “Don’t know if he ever will be.”
Creede didn’t know how to answer so he merely nodded and headed back to the rooming house. He didn’t want Laurel finding out from the landlady that she was Nathan Smith’s mother.
FIFTEEN
May 11, 1864. Private Nathan Smith from Rounder, Mississippi. Mortally wounded at Yellow Tavern. Twenty years old. Cause of death: saber through his chest. “Tell my folks I didn’t mean to be contrary, but I did what I had to do. Just like I done when I climbed that apple tree and broke my arm. Just had to do it.”
To divert her downward spiraling thoughts, Laurel focused on Seb, who was snoring quietly. The boy had to have followed them the day after he’d stolen the biscuits and pork, and they’d traveled a good thirty miles that day, half of it in the rain. It was no wonder Seb was tired. Laurel hoped he didn’t get sick on top of his exhaustion.
Unable to sleep, she sat up, careful to remain quiet lest she waken him. Studying the boy, she figured he wasn’t much more than eight or nine years old. The leathery soles of his feet told her he’d rarely, if ever, worn shoes. One of his hands was outstretched and calluses covered his fingertips and some of his small palm. Although she’d known children were also slaves, the evidence of Seb’s labor brought home the reality of that fact.
An invisible band constricted her chest. She’d nursed the soldiers who’d fought to keep children like Seb bound as slaves. She’d justified her actions by telling herself most of the soldiers were poor and didn’t own slaves, and they’d fought for other reasons. Yet that wouldn’t have made a difference if the South had won. Seb and all the children like him would’ve never known freedom.
Restlessness seized her and she stood, impatient to do something, anything to make her mind stop swirling. But she wouldn’t leave Seb here alone, especially with a landlady who’d made her repugnance of “darkies” clear.
The door opened and Laurel’s gaze leaped to Creede. His gaze lit on her then moved over to Seb. With deliberate stealth, he entered the room and crossed to Laurel.
“I found out where Nathan Smith’s mother lives,” he said in a low voice. Before Laurel could ask, Creede continued. “She owns this rooming house.”
Laurel’s anxiety was quickly masked by disappointment.
“It explains why she doesn’t like Seb,” Creede said.
She scowled and shook her head. “No, it doesn’t. You lost your son and you don’t take it out on innocents.”
“She grew up in the South. I didn’t.”
“Don’t make excuses for her.” Laurel’s irritation for all those like Mrs. Smith fanned her temper.
Creede studied her with an unfathomable expression. “So you aren’t going to deliver her son’s message because you don’t agree with her?”
She flinched as if struck. Would she withhold Nathan Smith’s last words because she didn’t like who was to receive the message? She’d made a promise to Nathan and all the others and that vow couldn’t be altered by her personal biases. It wasn’t her place to judge, only to bear witness to the words left behind. “I didn’t say that.” She stiffened her spine, suddenly eager to fulfill her obligation. “I’m going to tell her now.”
“Maybe you should wait until the morning when you’re more rested.”
Laurel shook her head, stubbornness dousing her earlier tiredness. “I won’t feel right if I wait.”
Creede searched her eyes and he must’ve seen her determination. “All right, but I’m going with you.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but he held up his hand.
“Please, Laurel.”
Bewildered, she asked, “Why?”
“You have to be strong for them. Let me be strong for you.” His solemn eyes held empathy.
A lump the size of an apple filled her throat and tears burned her eyes. A chaotic mix of gratitude, relief, and some unnamable emotion rocked through her. Unable to speak, she nodded.
Creede motioned to the loveseat. “I’ll wait until you’re ready.”
He’d been with her long enough to know she spent some time organizing her thoughts and preparing for her visits to the surviving families. While he waited, she retrieved her journal and sat on the edge of the bed to re-read the entry from Nathan Smith. One hand curled into a fist as her thoughts traveled back to Nathan’s death, just as she recalled each and every soldier before passing on their final message. The saber had gone clear through his chest, from front to back. He’d lived less than two hours after he’d been brought to the hospital. It was a miracle he’d been coherent enough to give her a message for his family.
She could envision the scene so clearly. The sun had been merciless that day, heating the tent’s interior and exacerbating the stench of blood and excrement. There was the never-ending sound of men in pain—moans, crying, and sometimes screams. Nathan was one of those who’d occasionally scream.
Her brow grew damp with sweat and her stomach churned, as if smelling those same odors and feeling that same heat all over again. Her ears rang with the sounds of battle and the overflowing tent hospital. She stood abruptly, intent on escaping the sensory assault.
“Laurel,” Creede said.
She blinked his concerned features into focus and she realized she’d had another waking nightmare. Hiding her panic, she said, “Yes?”
“What were you saying?”
She’d been talking aloud? A cold chill swept through her at another sign of her weakening mind. “It was nothing.”
She set the journal on the bed and poured some water from the pitcher into the basin. Cupping water into her hands, she splashed it on her face, removing the sweat and too-real memories.
After drying herself, she picked up her journal and hugged it to her chest to cover the remnants of her trembling. “I’m ready. Will Seb be all right?”
“He looks like he’d sleep through a locomotive whistle.” Creede swept a tendril of hair back from her brow. “It’s you I’m worried about.”
She fought the urge to lean against him. “There’s no need to worry about me. We’ll probably find Mrs. Smith in the kitchen this time of day.”
They left the room, shutting the door softly behind them. Laurel, her knees shaky, led the way to the kitchen where Mrs. Smith was bustling around the hot stove. Creede stayed near the doorway, leaning against the jamb with his hat in hand.
“Meal won’t be ready for another hour,” the woman said curtly.
Laurel glanced at Creede, who gave her a nod of encouragement. Suddenly nervous, she wished she hadn’t agreed to Creede’s presence. The messages represented her failures—her failure to save another life. Nobody but the families had ever heard them. Yet as much as she wanted Creede gone, she wanted his solid presence even more.
“We’re not here about dinner,” she began. “We didn’t introduce ourselves earlier. This is Creede Forrester and I’m Laurel. I was a nurse with the Confederate army.”
Mrs. Smith froze in mid-stir and turned around slowly. Her lips compressed in a thin line and her eyes narrowed. “I’m Mrs. Mary Smith.”
“Yes, I know.” Laurel licked her dry lips. “I have a message from your son.”
The older woman’s pink cheeks paled but anger flared in her eyes. “My son is dead.”
Laurel took a step closer to her. “I was with him when he died. Maybe you should sit down.”
Mrs. Smith turned back to the pots on the stove. “I have work to do. Jus’ tell me.”
Laurel could feel Cr
eede’s sympathetic gaze on her back but refused to look at him. She would handle this like she’d handled all the other messages—alone.
She opened the journal, noting her hands were amazingly steady. Moving aside the blue ribbon that marked her entry, she cleared her throat. “From Private Nathan Smith, who was mortally wounded at Yellow Tavern on May 11, 1864. ‘Tell my folks I didn’t mean to be contrary, but I did what I had to do. Just like I done when I climbed that apple tree and broke my arm. Just had to do it.’”
Mrs. Smith didn’t pause in her cooking tasks. “You come all this way for that?” Derision resonated in her voice.
Shocked, Laurel nodded then realized Mrs. Smith couldn’t see her. “Yes, that’s all.”
“You done your good deed, now leave me be.”
She didn’t like Mrs. Smith, but she’d believed the woman would have some maternal feelings toward her son. “Are you all right?”
Mrs. Smith turned around. Her eyes were dry and a fierce frown tugged at her thin lips. The truth was there in her expression—her son’s words hadn’t even stirred her.
“Nathan never was real bright. He died a fool and killed his own pa as sure as if he shot him dead. Now I ain’t got no one and nothin’ ’cept this here place, so don’t be judgin’ me for not fallin’ down and thankin’ you for bringin’ me Nathan’s last words.” Resentment burned in her eyes.
Angered by the woman’s callousness, Laurel raised her chin. “The last hour of your son’s life, the pain was so intense he cried out for you. At the time, I would’ve given anything to be able to give him his mother but now I’m glad you weren’t there.”
Mrs. Smith’s nostrils flared and she raised her hand. But before she could strike, Creede caught her arm. The woman stared at Laurel, hatred flashing in her narrowed eyes. Finally, she blinked and he released her. Mrs. Smith returned to her cooking.
Laurel felt a warm hand at her back.
“Come on,” Creede said.
She allowed him to steer her out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Halfway back to the room, the headache struck. Sharp pain stabbed her temples and she gasped. Although she was growing accustomed to the headaches, this one was the worst. Her stomach tossed and she had to squint against the light coming in the windows.
A Reason To Live (The Forrester Brothers) Page 18