Resignedly he decided to open his eyes and try to sit up, for he was uncomfortable lying on the rocky ground. He opened his eyes. At least, he thought he had opened his eyes. But he saw nothing at all but featureless black, no shadows, no murky outlines of trees and boulders. He squeezed his eyes shut, which felt like an explosion in his head, then opened them again. Still nothing.
Panicky now, he scrabbled with his feet and pushed up with his hands until he was kneeling. He reached up to feel his eyelids, frantically thinking that they would not open, and his fingers gouged right into his eyeballs.
His eyes were wide open, and he was blind.
For an eternity, it seemed, he knelt there, his eyes straining and popping out of his head. He swiveled his head around in a futile effort to see. His brain said, “You’re blind,” but his body fought it. Every muscle was as rigid as stone, his mind was a single energy screaming a single word over and over: “See! See! See!”
But the strain overtaxed Morgan’s shocked system, and he grew weak and limp, and his thoughts became thick and murky. He drew in a deep shuddering breath and began to feel again the horrendous pain in his head. He put his shaking hands to his temples, then slowly his fingers went to his eyes, and he deliberately closed his eyelids. With a jaw-hardening effort of will, he made himself calm down and concentrate.
Morgan had always been a man of action, but in different ways than that term usually denotes. He was a fixer. If he faced a problem, he formulated a plan then went to work and fixed the problem. If he had a monumental project, he broke it down into manageable steps and worked until he had finished completely. He could not bear passivity. To him it was the same as stagnation, and he must always be moving forward to accomplish the task in front of him. That was why, with no combat experience and no natural aggressiveness to speak of, he had instantly attacked the Union soldiers the moment he saw them. They were a problem, and he fixed it.
As these thoughts slowly plodded through his mind, Morgan decided to shift into a more comfortable sitting position, and he put his hands down to steady himself. His hands rested on a man’s chest.
Morgan shot up and took a step backward, tripped over a rock, and fell sprawling on his back. It knocked the breath out of him, and again he panicked as he struggled to pull air into his chest. But as he started breathing the panic subsided. I killed him, Morgan thought with a strange indifference. He’s dead. I killed him.
And now Morgan’s tidy, efficient mind simply took over and compartmentalized all the jumbled thoughts and shocking images and deep fears, even the pain. It was as if a shutter closed, hiding all the confusion in another part of his brain, leaving him in a small, tightly controlled and clear and logical place.
He sat up and felt around him for a support, but there was nothing but small rocks and ground-covering vines surrounding him. He crossed his legs and thought, I’m in the Wilderness. I was scouting for the pickets, and I came upon those two soldiers. He could remember hitting the one and hearing his head crack savagely on a rock. But he remembered little after that. He wondered why the other soldier hadn’t killed him. Then he wondered if he had killed the other soldier, too, but he wasn’t about to go crawling around, feeling his way, trying to find another dead body. It wouldn’t help anything. He was alive, and he was alone in the Wilderness.
He thought of Vulcan, but after considering it, he wasn’t at all surprised that the horse had bolted. Vulcan was high-strung, but he was smart, and after all, they were only about three miles from Rapidan Run.
That thought took Morgan’s breath away even quicker than his headlong fall had done.
Only three miles. Only three miles! It might as well be three hundred, or three thousand! I am blind. I cannot find my way home!
Perilous weakness hit him again, his head felt as if it were splitting into little jagged pieces, and he was nauseated. Trembling, he got to his hands and knees, crawled a couple of feet, and vomited. And then he was sick again and again until he knew his system was completely empty.
He half-fell as he turned away, then went down and crawled on his belly a few feet. Letting his head fall into his hands, he thought with anguish, I always did something. I always figured out how to make things right, how to make them work, how to accomplish everything I set out to do. But now my worst fears have come to me, I’m helpless. Utterly, completely helpless.
Morgan wandered in the darkness, both physical and spiritual, for a long time. He found himself praying with a desperation he had never known. Oh God, what can I do? Please, please, tell me. Show me something, anything! Please, let me see a way out!
Very gently, as if God had barely touched his shoulder, Morgan felt the answer. There was no task he could accomplish. There was no way out. There was nothing he could do.
Nothing except surrender. For the first time in his life, scalding tears sprang to his sightless eyes and fell into his hands as they cupped his face. It was the hardest thing he had ever done, to do nothing. Calmly now he prayed, I am in Your hands, Lord. Thy will be done.
Morgan marveled at the feeling of the presence of God, a sharper, more vivid sense than sight alone could ever give. He rested and meditated and prayed and was completely at ease.
Only a few miles away, he heard the opening salvo of big guns and the sharp constant crackle of musket fire began. Abruptly Morgan remembered that he was in the Wilderness, and probably less than a mile to his left was the flank of a force of about seventy-five thousand Yankees. It was daytime, he suddenly realized. Because he saw only darkness, he had, quite naturally he supposed, assumed it was still night. I may not be able to see where they are, but I can sure run away from the sound of the guns.
But no, he couldn’t run anywhere, he would surely fall with each step. Morgan could find his way in the dark, certainly, but only if he was walking or on horseback, scanning the entire scene in view. He didn’t know every rock and ravine in the Wilderness.
In another reluctant surrender, he thought, I guess it would only be sensible to sit here and hope I don’t get shot and let the Yanks take me prisoner. But on reflection he saw that would not be a sensible course at all. Coming from the east, assuming that the battle even swung this far over, the Union soldiers would see their dead comrade first, and there would be Morgan, sitting placidly by, an easy target for a soldier in heated battle mode. “The term ‘sitting duck’ comes to mind,” Morgan said ruefully to himself. Aside from that, it went utterly against Morgan’s every instinct to let himself be taken prisoner.
I know, Lord, that I can’t solve this situation, that by myself I can’t fix this. But I don’t think You just want me to sit here and die. Isn’t there some way, something You could do to help me?
This humble plea was much more heartfelt than his indignant demands to God before. But there was still no answer. Morgan decided to crawl. He got up on his hands and knees, turned so that he was facing away from the nearby battle din, and began. He cut his hand on the first rock, but he kept crawling. He knew he was moving so slowly that it was just about hopeless, but doggedly he kept on.
Morgan was already aware that his hearing had sharpened since he couldn’t see, and he heard the soft tread of a shoed horse. Then a warm muzzle hit him on the shoulder so hard he fell over. Lying on the rocks, he murmured, “Vulcan? Is that you?”
Vulcan answered with a sarcastic snort and another blow to the shoulder. “Okay, okay,” Morgan muttered, “take it easy. I’m blind, you know. It’s not going to do you any good to knock me around.”
Vulcan shifted his front hooves and impatiently bobbed his head. Morgan could hear the jingle of the bridle rings and the creaks of the leather very close to his ear. “Don’t step on me, you big ninny. Let me think.” Morgan pictured himself standing up, feeling for the stirrup, and swinging up into the saddle. And then he would be sitting there on a feisty horse, blind. That was crazy.
But it was better than crawling.
He pushed Vulcan’s insistent nose away then, teetering a li
ttle, managed to stand up. He reached out with both hands and felt the horse’s hot, muscular shoulder. He kept on. He felt the stirrup strap. In a move he had done thousands of times, he grabbed the saddle horn, put his left foot in the stirrup, kicked up and over with his right foot, and he was on horseback.
The minute he was sitting up there he felt horribly vulnerable, not only to bullets but to low tree branches and overhanging rocks. Helplessly he bent over and clasped his arms around Vulcan’s strong neck. “I can’t do it, boy. You’re going to have to do this by yourself. Please just take me somewhere, away from here.”
Vulcan started walking slowly along, picking his way. Morgan’s head began to pound again, and the sickening rolling of his stomach started up. He felt as if his whole body was spinning around, like a child’s top, and vaguely he thought how odd it was that being dizzy felt so different when he couldn’t see. The whirling sensation grew stronger, and Morgan fell unconscious again. This time he welcomed it.
CHAPTER TWENTY–FOUR
Morgan opened his eyes and said sadly, “Still nighttime…”
A low-timbred, rich voice answered, “Yes, it is.” He felt a cool, soft hand smooth back his hair and smelled a faint, poignantly familiar scent of chamomile.
“Am I dead?” he asked curiously.
“No, no, no, Morgan, you’re not dead. You’re just injured.”
He digested this for a while. “Are you Jolie?” he finally asked.
“What?” she exclaimed, though she kept her voice low and calm. “Of course it’s Jolie. Don’t you recognize me, Morgan dear?”
“I can’t see you,” he said quietly. “I’m blind.”
The hand stroking his forehead stopped for only a moment then resumed. “I didn’t know,” she said simply. “You’ve been unconscious since you got here. This is the first time you’ve opened your eyes.”
“Since I got here…You mean Vulcan brought me home?” he said, weakly incredulous.
“Yes, he did. And I cannot imagine how you stayed in the saddle. You were collapsed over his neck, arms hanging down. He must have come very slowly and carefully from wherever you were.”
“We were in the Wilderness,” he said wearily. “What day is it?”
“It’s Thursday,” she answered. Then seeing that it meant nothing to him, she added, “It’s May 5th. The battle in the Wilderness started this morning and went on all day long until about an hour ago. It’s about nine o’clock at night now.”
“May 4th,” he said, “that night. That’s when we rode into the Wilderness, and I—there were some Yankees, and—something happened. I can’t remember—”
“Ssshh, don’t worry about that right now,” Jolie said. “You’ll remember in time.”
“My head hurts,” he said, reaching up and feeling the enormous swelling on the left side of his head.
Jolie took his hand in both of hers, settled it onto his chest, and patted it. “I’m going to get you some medicine.”
He heard the tinkling of a glass and smelled it even before she pressed the glass to his lips. “Laudanum,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “Don’t we have any brandy left?”
“No, I’m sorry, we don’t,” she said. The two bottles of brandy that Jolie had stored away in the pantry had disappeared back in December, the day the Bledsoes left Rapidan Run. “But laudanum is better for severe pain, anyway. Drink it, please, Morgan. You’ll rest, and that’s what you need.”
Obediently he took two gulps of the strong medicine. With a heavy sigh he lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes. His right hand groped for her, and Jolie took it and held it. “I’m so tired,” he murmured.
“I know. You just relax and sleep, Morgan dear. You’re home now, and you’re safe.”
This time, when the blackness overtook him, it brought a peaceful rest.
Jolie held his hand until he was taking long even breaths and his grip on her hand relaxed. Silently she rose and went downstairs, leaving Morgan’s bedroom door open.
Amon, Evetta, Ketura, Rosh, and Santo all sat at the dining room table, waiting.
When she entered, she put her finger to her lips to stop the questions she saw coming. “He’s sleeping, and I left the door open so we can hear if he wakes up.” She slid into her chair and stared down at the table. “He doesn’t remember what happened. He just said that he was in the Wilderness last night.”
“Last night?” Amon echoed. “Oh, ain’t no tellin’ about him. But Evetta says he wasn’t shot or anything.” Evetta and Jolie had taken off his filthy clothes, quickly bathed him, and put him in a comfortable, light linen nightshirt. His hands and knees were scratched and scraped, but other than the appalling bruise on his head, he didn’t appear to be seriously injured.
“No, he wasn’t shot,” Jolie said. “But obviously something, or someone, hit his head hard. It’s swelling up and turning bluer every minute. And—and—” She swallowed hard then continued, “He’s blind.”
A stunned silence lay heavy on the room.
Evetta said, “We gotta get a doctor.”
“There’s no doctor,” Jolie said painfully. “There won’t be any doctor, except in the field hospitals and then in Fredericksburg, or wherever the army ends up after this battle.”
“Then what are we gonna do?” Amon asked worriedly.
“There’s nothing we can do, except watch him and give him laudanum to help him rest so he can recover,” Jolie said firmly.
No one said it, but the thought was almost tangible and audible in the quiet room: If he recovers.
Jolie and Ketura took turns sitting with Morgan throughout the night. Evetta was willing, but all three of the women decided that it would be best for Jolie and Ketura to take care of Morgan.
Evetta was a magnificent cook, but she was a dismal nurse. In her kitchen she moved quickly and purposefully without a wasted moment or movement. In the sickroom she fumbled and ran into the bed and almost hit Morgan’s ear when she was adjusting his pillow. Gladly she banished herself to the kitchen.
At about three o’clock in the morning, Jolie was sitting in the easy chair Amon had moved upstairs to Morgan’s bedside. It was a tattered old armchair that had been in the corner of the study, unused except when Jolie wanted to snuggle up in it on winter nights. But it was soft and comfortable, the contours of her body well worn into it, and she could sleep in it.
Now she awoke from a light doze and stared at Morgan. All through the night he had been sleeping so heavily that she began to worry that he was unconscious again. She tensed up because she wanted to shake him awake, but then she realized how foolish that was. If he woke up, he woke up. If he was unconscious, shaking him wouldn’t do any good anyway. After a while she dozed again, uneasily.
At four o’clock, Ketura came in and whispered, “I’ll sit with him now, Jolie. Go get some good sleep.”
Morgan still slept soundly. He hadn’t even moved.
Jolie was still worried, but she knew she would have to get some sleep if she was going to be able to take good care of Morgan, so she went to bed.
Just an hour later, the roar of cannon shattered the quiet sunrise. Jolie jumped up and ran to Morgan’s room without even pulling on her dressing gown.
Ketura, too, had stood up in alarm at the sudden crashing booms. “That’s closer than yesterday,” she said, her eyes big and round.
Morgan turned his head toward the west and the Wilderness. His eyes opened, but it was obvious from their emptiness that he wasn’t seeing. “Artillery,” he murmured dully.
Ketura went across the room to look out the window, but it faced north. Even if it had faced west, she couldn’t have seen anything except a dingy gray smoke from the cannon rising.
Jolie hurried to his bedside and, seeing the condition of his face, didn’t want to even touch his forehead. She took his hand and stroked it. It felt cold, and Jolie herself felt a chill, for it was a warm morning. “Yes, it’s sunrise, Morgan. It’s begun again.”
He licked his dry
, swollen lips.
Jolie berated herself, for he obviously had a raging thirst. Quickly she poured him a glass of water then gingerly slipped her hand behind his neck. “If you can raise your head just a little, I have some water,”
“It hurts so badly,” he whispered, but he did manage, with Jolie’s help, to get up just enough to drink.
“Small sips, Morgan. Don’t gulp,” she warned him.
But it was too late. Jolie grabbed the basin just in time for Morgan to be helplessly sick.
Ketura rushed back but then stood there, unable to do anything.
“He’s falling, help me,” Jolie grunted, pushing on Morgan’s shoulder.
He had leaned over the bed when he knew he was going to throw up, and he was so weak he was sliding out of the bed head-first.
Ketura grabbed his other shoulder, and between them they managed to push him back onto the bed.
“So…so sorry,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut.
“No,” Jolie said firmly. “No. Don’t be sorry. Don’t ever apologize. Now I want you to just lie back and relax, Morgan. Try to make yourself relax.” She sat down in the chair and took his hand, then began lightly stroking it and murmuring softly to him, “It’s me, Jolie, dear Morgan. You’re home, and we’re all going to take very good care of you. Just be calm, clear your mind, take nice even breaths….” She kept up the soothing undertones until it seemed that he slept. But now it was different from the night before. He twitched, and he frowned. She saw his eyes moving erratically underneath his eyelids. “Oh, Morgan,” she whispered to herself with anguish.
Jolie had forgotten about Ketura, but now the girl touched her shoulder lightly and bent down to whisper, “Jolie, you slept less than an hour before the cannon woke you up. Go on, go back to bed and at least get another hour or two of sleep. Go on, you’re still in your nightdress.”
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