The Soldier's Wife

by Cheryl Reavis

  “Not quite. I am an orphan, sir,” Jeremiah said.

  “Ah. That is a shame. You certainly seem comfortable in the role of big brother to Amity and Beatrice.”

  Sayer stood there, wanting to join the conversation, wanting to say that Jeremiah’s remark didn’t do him justice. He had a family—orphans made their own families—and that his family was every bit as real as anyone else’s was, perhaps more so because of the hard work it must take to maintain it.

  But she stayed where she was because Jeremiah suddenly looked in her direction. And it was as if no one else was there but the two of them, as if Amity and Beatrice weren’t all fidgety with the effort it was taking them not to interrupt his conversation with Preacher Tomlin; and four women weren’t headed in Sayer’s direction to speak to her now that the preacher had walked away; and poor Willard wasn’t still going back and forth carrying boxes and sacks from the wagon. And Rorie—Rorie wasn’t shamelessly admiring her fresh supply of cabbage.

  Sayer abruptly turned away. Thomas Henry was dead. It was wrong for her to feel so relieved—happy—to see Jeremiah Murphy. He was all but a stranger to her, someone she knew very little about, and he would soon go again. She knew that. Only, the next time he wouldn’t come back.

  When she looked in Jeremiah’s direction again, his conversation with Preacher Tomlin had ended, and he was leading the horse to the water trough.

  “Now, you needn’t worry about feeding all of us, Sayer,” Preacher Tomlin was saying as he approached. “We have brought plenty of picnic baskets, all of them full to the brim. We shall have our service and then we shall break bread together in our remembrance of Thomas Henry. We’d best get started,” he called to the men. “You, too, sir, if you would be so kind as to join us when your horse is seen to,” he called to Jeremiah.

  Jeremiah gave him a short nod, and led the horse into the barn. After a time he came out again carrying the axe Sayer had tried to keep oiled and sharpened and ready for Thomas Henry to use when he came home.

  “Gather around,” Preacher Tomlin said to the group, and Sayer was suddenly surrounded by sympathetic people who didn’t hesitate to heed Preacher Tomlin’s command. The women pressed in on her, embraced her, murmured kind words about Thomas Henry, kissed her cheek and briefly took her hand.

  And kept her from saying anything to Jeremiah.

  She couldn’t see him, but she could feel that he was near. She realized suddenly that Preacher Tomlin was praying, and she bowed her head.

  “...Your words are beauty. Your words are truth and mercy. Your words are justice and forgiveness and comfort. We are come to You now in this time of sorrow, offering You our gratitude because we know Your words help us to believe. Bless all of us here and this endeavor we are about to begin. Comfort our dear Sayer and Beatrice and Amity—and Thomas Henry’s loyal comrade, Jeremiah—in their loss that they may hear Your words and understand...”

  Sayer continued standing with her head bowed for a moment after the prayer had ended. When she looked around, Jeremiah was no longer there. She spotted him walking up the hill with the rest of the men. And, ignoring the women around her, she watched until he had disappeared among the trees, and she couldn’t see him any longer.

  * * *

  They went looking for me. All three of them went looking for me.

  Jack didn’t know why that bit of information from Amity surprised him so, but it did. It just hadn’t occurred to him that they might think he was absent from them because he was hurt. At worst, he thought they might think he’d simply gone.

  Sayer.

  He had been very careful not to give the people standing around her cause to think that there was anything between them when there wasn’t. He didn’t want to seem overly familiar, and he didn’t want to show how glad he was to see her. He didn’t know if they were inclined to believe Halbert Garth, or more likely, whether they were too afraid of Halbert to treat Sayer kindly regardless of what they believed.

  But finally, when he did look at her, it took his breath away. As far from her as he was, he still got lost in her sad eyes. She hadn’t expected to see him—ever; he could tell that, and it was a startling realization to suddenly be mindful of the fact that he didn’t want to be responsible for ever making her unhappy again.

  The preacher—Tomlin—was nothing like Father Bartholomew, but he was just as competent at managing a captive work crew. Jack busied himself chopping down saplings that had managed to take root in the rocky ground. The haft was well-worn and comfortable in his hands, and it was yet another reminder of Thomas Henry. The axe had been a good choice of tools. No one approached him for conversation while he was swinging it.

  But he couldn’t chop forever, and eventually he would be at the mercy of the men around him and their burning questions regarding who he was and where he had come from and his assumed pact with Thomas Henry. Surprisingly, though, the ones he had already encountered at the general store didn’t seem inclined to press him for new information. And the ones he hadn’t met before had nothing to say beyond the initial introductions. He supposed that the reason they were all gathered here must have put a damper on their curiosity. It was time to pay their last respects to Thomas Henry Garth, and unlike Jack, they had all known him well.

  Eventually, after some brush was burned to drive the snakes away, Preacher Tomlin was satisfied that the access to the huge flat outcropping of rock and the rock itself were in an acceptable condition for a memorial service. As the others turned to go, Jack stood looking at the vista Thomas Henry’s father had apparently used to communicate with his God.

  “I see you are a man who appreciates God’s handiwork,” Preacher Tomlin said behind him.

  “It’s a beautiful place,” Jack said.

  “Are you a godly man, Mr. Murphy?” he asked, and Jack gave a short laugh.

  “I’ve spent the last four years of my life killing other men for reasons I still don’t understand, Preacher Tomlin. I don’t feel very...godly.” He turned and looked the preacher directly in the eyes.

  “You’ve lost many who were close to you.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I have—and it doesn’t make me feel kindly toward the Deity.”

  “I see you are a plain-speaking and honest man,” the preacher said after a moment. “It’s a very good thing to be. Our Lord is very fond of honest men. I believe you are well on your way to finding the godliness you seek.”

  Jack would have told him that he wasn’t seeking godliness, but the man turned and walked away, leaving him standing with a mountain range at his back and his protestations unvoiced. Honest? There was no honesty in his even being here. He was simply doing what he had done all his life. He was trying, by whatever means available, to survive.

  Jack joined the group, and they all walked through the trees and back down the steep slope to the cabin. He didn’t see Sayer outside as they approached, and he didn’t miss the intensity of his disappointment. He knew what a difficult event this must be for her, and for a moment, he wished that Father Bartholomew were here. Father Bartholomew would know precisely what to say to her to give her the comfort she so desperately needed.

  But that wasn’t possible. He would never see him or the others ever again.

  Several cedar buckets of cold water from the spring had been left for them on a long makeshift table near the porch, and the men all shared a communal dipper to drink their fill. What was left, they poured over each other’s heads to cool off. There wasn’t much hope of any of them looking presentable after that. Even Preacher Tomlin accepted a good dousing. Once again Father Bartholomew came to mind, and Jack tried not to smile at the unlikelihood that the fastidious priest would allow someone to empty a bucket of water over his head. Father Bartholomew would certainly have wielded an axe if needed, but he would have stopped short at losing control of his dignity.

  T
he cabin door opened, and Sayer and the rest of the women came out. She looked so sad.

  And so achingly beautiful.

  “If you would escort Sayer, Mr. Murphy,” Preacher Tomlin said.

  Jack had no choice but to offer her his arm. He thought for a moment that she wouldn’t take it, but she did. His sleeves were still rolled up. He could feel the warmth of her hand through the cloth, and her fingertips where they touched his bare skin. She looked up at him and gave him the barest of smiles. Amity caught his free hand, and Beatrice took Sayer’s. Together, they began the walk back to the place where they would give Thomas Henry his final goodbye.

  “Rorie’s going to stay behind with Mrs. Mitchell and put the food on the table,” Amity said, looking up at him. “Mrs. Mitchell’s knees hurt, too.”

  “I see,” Jack said.

  “Do your knees hurt?”

  “No,” he answered.

  “Mine, neither. I’m glad. I don’t want to wear cabbage.”

  This was not the time to laugh, and he had to work hard not to. He realized that Sayer was affected by Amity’s remark, as well, because she suddenly squeezed his arm.

  But the moment passed, and the solemnity of the occasion rolled over them all. There was no talking, only birdsong and the wind in the treetops and the bright blue sky of a late-summer day. He realized suddenly that many of the women were carrying flowers that must have been brought up from someone’s garden down below, and one of the men carried a fiddle. He glanced at Sayer from time to time as they made their way, but her head was bowed, her eyes on the rough, newly cleared ground.

  “It’s not much farther,” he said quietly to her at one point, because he could feel her pace slowing with the steepness of the climb, and she nodded.

  And the same thought kept going around and around in his mind.

  I shouldn’t be here….

  Sayer’s hand on his arm tightened again as they cleared the trees, and the wide vista of the Blue Ridge mountain range beyond came into full view, one ridge after another far into the distance. It was like standing on the edge of the world, and clearly, she found it breathtaking despite having lived here.

  “I didn’t know,” she whispered. “Thomas Henry never told me.”

  “Maybe it was his father’s special place. Maybe he only showed it to Preacher Tomlin.”

  Amity was holding on to his hand with both of hers now, and he leaned down to speak to her.

  “It’s all right,” he whispered. “You’re not close to the edge. You won’t fall.”

  She gave him a grateful look, but she didn’t let go. One of the women stepped forward to give her and Beatrice some flowers to hold. Amity hesitated, then finally let go of his hand to take them.

  Jack didn’t know what the memorial service would entail, but it was soon apparent to him that these people were well acquainted with the rituals held for the loss of a loved one. Several of the men spoke of their relationship with Thomas Henry. One told of the struggle Thomas Henry had had with “certain people” to get permission to marry Sayer before he had to leave with his company and go off to war.

  “Wouldn’t take no for an answer,” the man said. “It didn’t matter how many hard looks Mrs. Preston give him. Sayer’s uncle, now, he was all right with it. He knowed they weren’t nobody for Thomas Henry but Sayer from the time he weren’t nothing but a boy. I don’t reckon Sayer knows about this, but Thomas Henry, he up and told that rich man what his intentions was before he even had a beard to shave. Sayer’s uncle said for him to come back and talk to him when he had a house and land of his own. And that’s what he did—”

  Jack stopped listening. He didn’t want to hear any more about Thomas Henry Garth and his long-standing love for Sayer. He didn’t want him to be any more real than the man whose face he could barely see in the darkness of the battlefield, the man whose daguerreotype he had avoided. He turned his attention toward the mountains and the wisps of clouds caught there like delicate white flowers in a beautiful woman’s hair. He would think about other things, other places. He had good memories to dwell on, despite having grown up in an orphan asylum and surviving a war.

  But he could still feel her warm hand on his arm.

  Suddenly, Preacher Tomlin was asking him something, jarring him back into the place he would rather not be. Jeremiah looked at him blankly.

  “Would you be so kind as to say a few words?” Preacher Tomlin said, apparently repeating the question he’d only just asked.

  Jeremiah cleared his throat. “I... Yes. I will.”

  He managed to get through it, and apparently he was the last speaker, because Preacher Tomlin nodded to the man with the fiddle. The man began to play. The intro to the song was one long and mournful note, and when it died away, a woman began to sing, her voice filled with all the sorrow and regret of the occasion. He glanced at Sayer. She was weeping without making a sound, and the silence of it made it all the more heartbreaking and poignant. She stared straight ahead, the tears sliding down her cheeks. After a moment, she let go of his arm to wipe them away.

  Bright morning stars are rising...

  Day is breaking in my soul….

  And then it was over. With one final gesture, the careful placement of the many flowers they had carried onto the outcropping of rock, these people sent Thomas Henry Garth’s soul to its rest.

  As they walked back down to the cabin, Sayer took his arm again, and Beatrice and Amity went on ahead. They were quiet and well behaved, but still it was as if some burden had been lifted from their small shoulders and they could be little girls again. Jack barely remembered what he had said about their brother, except for the one truth in the midst of it—that despite the sad circumstances, it was a privilege to have met Thomas Henry’s friends and family.

  Preacher Tomlin said a prayer of thanks when they all had gathered in the yard, his last of the day before everyone ate. This time Jack found himself actually listening. The ritual of prayer had been such a part of his life at the orphanage, but he had deliberately let go of that aspect of his faith. He had let go, and he’d found nothing to replace it.

  Apparently it was the custom that the men were served first, so there was no time for anyone to start up a conversation with him. Jack found himself going around the table and filling his plate with ham and cheese and corn bread and pickles, but he didn’t pile it high enough to satisfy the women who supervised the process. It took a considerable amount of charm on his part to convince them that he had a sufficient amount of food and that he would not starve.

  “Will you let the poor man be and let him eat in peace,” one of them finally said, shooing him along. He made it all the way to the porch with the plate and a glass of apple water before his hands began to shake.

  * * *

  “No!” Rorie hissed in Sayer’s ear because Sayer had seen the sudden change in Jeremiah’s demeanor, and she would have followed after him when he abruptly left the group. Rorie stepped firmly on the hem of Sayer’s skirts to emphasize just how unwise she thought such a move on her part would be.

  “Too many eyes hooked to too many wagging tongues,” Rorie whispered. “And he don’t need you. Not now.”

  Sayer looked around her. Surprisingly, Jeremiah’s sudden departure had caused barely a ripple. She supposed that they attributed it to a soldier’s need for the privacy to vent his sorrow—except that he had told her himself that he hadn’t known Thomas Henry very long.

  But whatever it was, Rorie was right. He didn’t need her. Of course he didn’t need her. She knew that. What she didn’t know was why she had been so determined to go after him despite how it might look to the people around her.

  “All right,” she said to Rorie, and after a moment of intense scrutiny, Rorie stepped off her hem.

  The meal concluded more quickly than Sayer expected, hurried along by
the increasingly persistent rumble of thunder in the distance and the growing threat of rain. The food not eaten was packed up and taken inside the cabin—a parting gift from Preacher Tomlin and his congregation. Goodbyes were said amid renewed condolences and blessings, and all the while Jeremiah’s plate of food and glass of apple water sat on the porch edge in mute testimony to his absence. Beatrice and Amity had relocated themselves to sit on either side of the plate and were taking turns shooing the flies away.

  Sayer waited until the party of mourners was well down the path to the buffalo road before she picked up the plate and glass and took them inside. She set them on the table and covered them with a tea cloth until he could eat it. And she tried not to seem so preoccupied with his whereabouts, pouring the hot water from the kettle into a deep pan so she could wash the dirty dishes the women had already carried inside. Beatrice and Amity helped with minimal squabbling, but their illness had clearly left them without stamina, and they were once again drooping from the strain of the day.

  “Go lie down and rest,” she said, and for once they didn’t protest. They took off their shoes and stretched out side by side on their bed and were asleep in no time.

  “This was a hard day for them,” she said to Rorie.

  “Not just them,” Rorie said, giving Sayer a look she couldn’t read. She could tell with reasonable certainty, however, that Rorie wasn’t referring to her.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing,” Rorie said. “Except now is a good time to go see about him.”

  “No, you were right before. I don’t have to do that. He doesn’t need me. I don’t know what made me think he did.”

  “He didn’t need you with the whole blooming church congregation watching and whatever Halbert’s been saying floating on the breeze. But I reckon, if you’d take the time to notice, you’d see they ain’t here now, are they?”

  Sayer frowned and didn’t say anything. She washed another plate, and then another, before she abruptly dried her hands on her apron.