Dr. Hardin said, “Miss Chantel, I know that Lieutenant Tremayne is your special friend.”
“Yes,” Chantel said. “We’ve known each other a long time, you may say.”
“I’ve talked to his family, and they’ve begged him. And if you’re his friend, maybe you can talk some sense into him.”
“I doubt it,” Chantel said under her breath, but the doctor was still talking, glowering like an angry bulldog.
“The fool just will not let us take that arm off! He acts like he’s the only man who ever lost a limb. I know that gangrene is setting in—by now I can tell it a mile away. What I think is we ought to dope him up, and then when he’s unconscious, take the arm. He’ll be angry when he wakes up, but he’ll live. If we don’t, then we’re going to lose him.”
“You can’t do that,” Chantel said dully. “He may be a fool, but he is a man, and he has made this decision. But I’ll try, Doctor. I’ll try to talk to him again, me.”
Chantel went to Clay then, and he was already angry and upset.
“I saw you talking to Dr. Hardin, and I know what he said. He’s already been here nagging me. Once and for all, I say no. I won’t do it. Don’t talk about it anymore, Chantel.”
Chantel had left the hospital soon after talking to Clay, for Jacob was moving the wagon to be closer to General Stuart’s headquarters, at his invitation. Chantel helped him lash down all the supplies and pack up their camp.
When they reached their new campsite, as always, Chantel unpacked the big sutler’s tent and began to put it up. But by now all of the men knew her and Jacob, and she wasn’t allowed to lift a finger. The soldiers put up the tent and helped Chantel and Jacob stock it.
Most of them, by now, had no money at all, but Jacob still gave them things—buttons, needles and thread, wool socks, shoes, warm undershirts. He gave away so much that for the dozenth time Chantel wondered how they ever kept a stock at all.
Then she stayed in camp, talking for hours with the soldiers and to Jacob, who was still rejoicing with her. It was late in the evening when she returned to the hospital.
The slow hours passed, and Chantel knew that it was past midnight. How far past she didn’t know. She had prayed until her mind was numb. Clay had fallen into a restless sleep, and she had watched him for a couple of hours, moving restlessly and muttering, his forehead wet with perspiration. Over and over she sponged him with a cool damp cloth, but it seemed that nothing could soothe him.
Finally she leaned forward, folded her hands on his bed, and laid her head down. Her fingers barely touched his side. She began to pray aloud, though in the quietness of the ward she kept her voice to a soft whisper. She whispered, “Oh God, I ask You to help Clay.” She waited, for her mind felt strangely blank. She found that it was much harder to pray aloud than in the privacy of one’s own heart.
But then thoughts, and the words, came to her. “I was unfair to him. He would never have hurt me, not intentionally. I just had so much anger inside me, Lord, and I couldn’t let go of it, and I blamed him for something that maybe, deep down, I wanted him to do. Because I know now that I love him, Lord. Maybe I always have. But now, here we are, we two! Finally I let You save me, and he can’t find his way to You. And now he may die. Please, please, have mercy on him, Lord Jesus. Don’t make this his last chance.”
For a while she was quiet, merely resting, her fingers lightly touching him, and she remembered how she had touched his face that time he had kissed her. She had loved his touch then, even though she had so cruelly pushed him away and made him feel guilty. She sat up then lightly laid her hand on his arm. It felt hot and was stiff with the thick bandages.
Bowing her head, she whispered, “Lord, I don’t know much about You, but I know Jacob has read to me that You will heal people. I know there’s no hope for Clay in doctors and medicine. But Jacob says nothing is impossible with You, so I’m asking You to heal Clay’s arm.”
She went on praying for a long time, until she grew so weary she could hardly stay awake. She finally left, still not knowing any answer from God. She felt sadness, but as Jacob had always said, still she knew joy deep in her heart.
Clay had not been asleep the entire time Chantel had been there. He wandered in a dim haze, his mind coming up to half consciousness at times. He had heard some of Chantel’s prayers, and they had moved him. Dimly he thought, Lord, I don’t know what to say to You. I don’t know You. I don’t understand anything about You. But I’m glad Chantel has found You. And about this healing business, You know I couldn’t ask You for that. I’ve no right. But I’m so grateful that she did.
He knew he had fever, and he was having trouble thinking clearly. Chantel loves me, he thought with wonder. Or was I just dreaming? That is a wonderful, blissful dream…but no, I heard her. I know I did. And he knew at that moment, as hurt as he was, and as hopeless as life seemed to be, he loved her. And like Chantel told You, Lord…I think I always have.
Clay woke up, and the first thing that he was aware of was that the excruciating pain in his arm had subsided. Then he knew that his fever had passed, for he came instantly, fully awake.
One of the medics had come to change the bandage on his arm. He was a tall, thin man with a good bushy growth of whiskers. His name was Grady Wynn, and he was one of those men who had a great compassion for sick and injured men, a naturally good caregiver.
“Good morning, Lieutenant,” Wynn said. “Sorry to wake you up, but it’s time to change this bandage. How about, while I’m at it, we get the doctor and let him take this thing off?” he finished brightly.
“No,” Clay said automatically, watching him with a newfound alertness.
“Thought not, but it never hurts to—what? What’s this?” Wynn said in a shocked voice.
Clay looked at his arm curiously, but Wynn laid the last layer of bandage back on it and said, “Don’t move, and for once do what I say, Lieutenant Tremayne. I’ll be back.”
Wynn moved quickly, and in only a few moments came hurrying back with Dr. Hardin. “Look at that arm, Dr. Hardin,” Wynn said. “Just look at it.”
The doctor stared at Wynn then stepped forward and lifted the bandages. Clay was watching his face, and he saw the doctor’s eyes fly open wide with astonishment.
“Will someone tell me what’s going on?” Clay demanded.
“Your arm. It’s healing,” Dr. Hardin said in a mystified voice.
“Huh?” Clay said, lifting his head up with some effort to look at his arm.
Wynn said, “But I thought gangrene wouldn’t heal.”
“No. It usually doesn’t.” Dr. Hardin poked at Clay’s forearm then pinched it hard. “You feel that?”
“Yes, it hurts.”
Dr. Hardin stared at him. “I pinched you yesterday, and you didn’t feel anything.”
Hope began to rise in Clay Tremayne. “What are you saying, Doctor?”
Dr. Hardin was a tough man. He had to be. He dealt with death and terrible wounds constantly, every day since the war had begun. His face was a study, and finally he said, “I have no explanation for this, but your arm is healing. Unless I’m mistaken—and I don’t think I am—you should be all right, Lieutenant Tremayne.”
Clay felt numb, in an odd sort of way. There was a seed of hope and of joy deep inside him, but for a long time he couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. All he could think of was the prayer that Chantel had prayed for him.
All day he lay there, feeling alternately stunned and deliriously glad. Dr. Hardin came back by several times to lift the now-loose bandage and peer at Clay’s arm. He went away shaking his head.
The men heard of it, and they talked among themselves, but they didn’t bother Clay. He just stared into space, sometimes smiling, rarely speaking to the doctors and medics. Sometimes he lifted the bandages himself and stared at his arm in disbelief.
Late that afternoon Chantel came. Even before they had said hello, Clay asked, “Have you talked to Dr. Hardin?”
“Yes,” she
said, and her eyes were glowing. “He says your arm is healed.”
“He says he doesn’t know how it happened, but I know, Chantel. I was awake, sometimes, when you prayed for me last night. I know this is God’s answer to your prayer.”
“He really is the good God, Clay.” She reached out to take his hand—his right hand, now cool and not at all swollen—and tears showed in her eyes. “I’m so happy for you.”
Lifting her hand, he kissed it and said, “Thank you, Chantel, for not giving up on me.”
“I wouldn’t give up on you, Clay. I never could.” She bowed her head slightly and asked so softly that Clay could barely hear her, “And did you hear all my prayers, so?”
“Most of them,” he answered. “I think, Chantel, that you are a very wise woman. I think you know that I care for you, that I’ve cared for you ever since I first saw your face, my angel in that dark time. And I would beg you to have me, right now…but I know this—I know that now you’ll only have a man of God. And I’m not a man of God. So I won’t try to push you, Chantel, as I did once before. I’ll never make that mistake again.”
Chantel looked up, smiled, and gently smoothed his hair back from his forehead. “God has healed you. You may not know it now, but you already belong to Him. You owe Him a great debt, Clay Tremayne, and once you told me that you are a man that always pays his debts. Oh yes, you owe God now. And one day, like me, you will learn to love Him.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Flora watched her husband and son as they played. Long ago she had given up trying to tell Jeb not to toss the child around as if he were a kitten. As she thought this, she was reminded of those long-ago days, when Ruby had said exactly the same thing to her. For Jeb was like a very large friendly dog, and he played rough. But little Jimmy was like his father. He dearly loved to play “throw.”
Jeb was lying flat on his back. Little Jimmy was on his stomach, and as his father held him high, he would laugh and swing his arms as if he were trying to fly. Even though Jimmy had grown, Jeb still tossed him up in the air, over and over again.
Sitting in the rocking chair, Flora watched them, a smile on her face. But then, though she tried to fight it, a nagging worry came to her, as it so often did. She thought about the vulnerability of Jeb on the battlefield. She had heard his men talk about his absolute disregard for danger. It was even in the newspapers that they reveled in stories of General Stuart’s fearlessness. He seemed to court it, his horsemen said, riding to the sounds of the guns, waving his saber and laughing as if he were going to a party.
Flora’s worry was as unfriendly and persistent as a wound, and there was nothing, it seemed, that she could do to stop it. She had learned to live with it, as women had, both North and South. They sat at home, waiting, hoping for the war to end and their men to return for good—and dreading and fearing the message that they were dead or wounded.
She had been the daughter of an army officer for her first twenty years, but only a few scattered battle actions against the hostile Indians had broken the peace. They had not been serious, and her father had never been wounded. Though of course she had worried about her father, it was nothing like the painful constant thoughts that she could be a widow.
Shaking off her fears, Flora said, “You know, Jeb, I was thinking of taking a walk and going over to see Mr. Steiner and Chantel. I’ve been hungry for a chocolate cake, and I don’t think there’s one bit of chocolate in any store in Richmond. But if there is any in this city, Jacob Steiner will have it.”
“Throw,” Jimmy sternly ordered, and Jeb tossed him high, then caught him and set him on his feet.
“We better escort your pretty mama to the sutler’s, or some soldier’s likely to snatch her up and keep her,” he said, rising quickly. For such a bulky man, he moved swiftly and surely.
“That would never happen, Jeb,” Flora said, secretly pleased.
He came to her, grabbed her around the waist, and swung her around, grinning as she protested.
“You put me down right now, Jeb.”
“No, I won’t do it. I guess I’m just too much in love with you to keep my hands off of you.”
In spite of herself, she laughed, and she was almost dizzy when he finally put her down.
Swooping little Jimmy up, he took her arm. “I’d like to see Mr. Steiner, too, and thank him. He’s been so good to my men. I don’t know how he ever makes a cent. He gives away more than he ever sells, I think.”
They went out into the August evening. It was still hot and sultry, but Flora found the evening air pleasant. The light scent of jasmine was carried on a light evening breeze. “I can’t imagine where he’s getting his supplies, either,” she said. “He never seems to run out of anything. Somehow I can’t imagine Mr. Steiner as a daring blockade runner.”
Jeb laughed, a rich joyous sound that Flora never tired of hearing. “I think he’s like Elijah, and that sutler’s wagon is his cruse of oil. I think every night God just restocks it for him.”
They walked through the forest of tents, the camp of Jeb’s 1st Virginia Cavalry. The men stood stiffly and saluted him, and usually Jeb returned it with a joke or a question about them, their supplies, their sweethearts, their ailments.
Jeb put little Jimmy down and let him run around, for he was a favorite among the soldiers. Flora and Jeb walked slowly to let the men see their son, ruffle his thick hair, pick him up and hold him, and tease him about riding out with them on patrol.
Flora’s eyes shadowed a little. “Your men—they’re such good men. They’d follow you anywhere, Jeb, even to the death.”
“I know,” he said quietly. “They’ve done it, time and time again. I’m grateful to God to have such men, to have the honor of fighting alongside them.” He glanced at Flora then added awkwardly, “Please don’t trouble yourself too much, Flora. You know that all we can do is ask God to give us strength and courage. We’re all in God’s hands.”
She sighed heavily. “I know, Jeb, and I do try. But I can’t help worrying about you.”
Flora realized Stuart was well aware of her concerns for him, he knew her as she knew him, but like other soldiers, he avoided making any promises he might not be able to keep. Despite what people said about her husband’s eagerness for battle and the strange moods that seemed to strike him when the guns sounded and the bugles rang out the charge, she knew he was not unaware of the dangers. He had said once, “All I ask of life is that if I have to die, I do it in a cavalry charge.” He was a simple man, no deep thinker, but an excellent officer and leader of men. And a wonderful husband and father.
Now he laughed, as he often did when trying to allay her fears. “I’m too tough to kill, Flora. And even if they did kill me, they couldn’t kill me but once. Don’t worry. Put it all out of your head.”
She knew that her fears were a burden to her husband, and she had to be strong and not add to his cares. She managed to smile up at him. “I can do that, husband, for you. Now, you’d better go get Jimmy. I declare, I think that boy is actually going to set him up on that enormous horse.”
Jeb went over to the group of men standing around a big chestnut gelding. Flora watched, and even though she knew what was going to happen, she still rolled her eyes when Jeb swung Jimmy up high and set him on the horse. All the men laughed, and the young man who had been holding Jimmy yelled, “Charge!”
When they reached the sutler’s tent, a gentle twilight was cooling down the air.
Jacob and Chantel sat around a small campfire. One of the men had made Jacob a little table out of some spare lumber, and a bright lantern sat on it, bright enough so that he could read.
They greeted the Stuarts happily, and Chantel immediately scooped up little Jimmy. “You’ve grown, you! Soon you’ll pick me up, no?”
He giggled and said, “Throw!”
“I think I’ll leave that to your father,” Chantel said.
Jacob asked them to stay for a while, but Jeb said, “No, thank you, sir, we won’t be staying. We
just came out for a short walk. My wife is on a search for chocolate, and since she mentioned it, my mouth’s been watering for one of her chocolate cakes. Would you have any such thing in that tent?”
“Oh yes, I believe we do,” Jacob said. “Chantel, you know where everything is. Won’t you take Miss Flora and give her all the chocolate she needs?”
Chantel and Flora went into the big tent, where goods were stacked all over four long tables that Jacob had bought when they made their semi-permanent camp. “Here’s the chocolate, Miss Flora. Powdered or bars.”
She still held little Jimmy, whose eyes lit up when he saw some hard candy wrapped in shiny red paper. “Mine,” he said, pointing a stubby little finger.
“Jimmy, no, not yours,” Flora said firmly.
“Oh, can’t he have just one piece, Miss Flora?” Chantel pleaded. “If it’s all right with you, of course.”
“Well, just one,” Flora relented. “And you must add it to the bill. I’ll have the bar chocolate, please, and a sack of sugar. What a pleasure, to just walk in and be able to buy them. Jeb and I were saying how hard it is to find even meat and bread these days, much less such luxuries as chocolate and sugar.”
“Ma grandpere, he’s a good scrounger, the soldiers say,” Chantel said proudly.
Flora smiled. “Jeb says he’s like Elijah. We think God just restocks your wagon every night.”
“I don’t know Elijah yet, me,” Chantel said, her brow furrowing. “It’s going to take a long time to learn all the Bible.”
“I don’t know of anyone that knows all of it,” Flora said lightly, “except for maybe your grandfather. Other than that, how is your new life, Chantel?”
“Good, ver’ good,” she answered with satisfaction. “I feel so much better now in the hospital with the soldiers. I can talk to them about the Lord, instead of running like a little rabbit for Grandpere.”
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