Fight for Glory (My Wounded Soldier #1)

by Diane Munier

  My Wounded Soldier

  Book 1:

  Fight For Glory

  Diane Munier

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2015 Diane Munier

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Diane Munier

  Cover design by Book Stylings http://www.bookstylings.com

  To my oldest daughter.

  Prologue

  Illinois, 1866

  Addie Varn

  His head came higher than the corn. Like a scarecrow free to walk this field, he parted the dry green stalks. He sang an old battle song, had the word ‘glory,’ rolling through it. I told Johnny to get inside, not that he ever listened when he was curious.

  When Stranger cleared the crop line I saw a scabbard dragging. But the sword was in his hand. And he raised it while he sang, calling out, “Richard Varn, Richard Varn,” in a voice like doomsday, calling out, then singing.

  Johnny nudged me then, “Here Ma,” he said.

  I took the shotgun, mostly cause I couldn’t believe he had the pluck to be holding it after all I’d told him not to. Then I swung it high and said, “That be all right there, Mister.” But this veteran did not listen, as they sometimes did not. In their heads, many not right from the war, and the country running with them while they tried to find home. It was frightening times.

  “Right there,” I said, the baby in me kicking high this morning, making it hard to breathe, and now this. Well.

  He stopped then, like he was in a parade. He moved that sword and brought it over his heart. “Back home our crops didn’t make three years and we owed the Varns cause Charles held credit, he did. That one say there’s a way to wipe it clean, that slate of debt I couldn’t pay. I went to war for his boy Richard, see? I left my missus and children but fate and the Lord did conspire and I was taken at Ivy Mountain. We died in great numbers in captivity. But I lived through and spent the years in deprivation Richard Varn should have spent. When I got out…my wife moved west, they said. Took my children. Now I am the man owed, and I come to settle,” he said, his attention sharp on me.

  “You lay down that sword and I’ll bring you bread and butter beneath that Sycamore,” I said quick. The Lord and this gun gave me courage.

  Johnny had the wits to go for his pa. Richard followed him into the yard now. He carried two buckets from the milking, but he set them down. “What’s this?” My husband’s voice was sharp, for he did not take to these strangers.

  But he did not take to his wife holding the gun on a man, and he made a motion with his hand for me to stop my foolishness and lower the weapon.

  I did what he asked, but I was ready to lift it need be.

  “You Richard Varn?” Stranger asked.

  “That’s me,” Richard said. His hands moved to his hips as if he’d had enough.

  “You are the one whose cross I bore. You took all that I was…all that was mine.” He lunged toward Richard, a swift motion, two hands lifting the sword. An arc of red ripped down my husband, across his face and neck and chest, so deep.

  Johnny screamed, but it was that sword lifting to finish my lad that brought the weapon steady on my shoulder. God’s hand on mine squeezed that trigger. Red drops splashed in the sun as Stranger’s hat blew away with a goodly piece of his head.

  His body fell to the earth and my son blinked at him…at me.

  “It’s done…,” I said, panting hard.

  And then pain. I dropped that gun, and I reached for Johnny who was stuck there staring at the two beyond help.

  “Hear me Johnny!”

  He looked at me, his little body heaving with his breaths.

  “Run yonder. North field,” I said. Then I knew not how but I was on my knees. I was gripped in pain again, and I was locked in it unable to move. I could not even lift my head to see if Johnny had hightailed it for help. But I knew that one was home from the war, that oldest son who never spoke to even say howdy. I’d seen him riding high on the wagon just that morning in the north field. I wagered…he’d be the first one here. I just knew. For he’d been a soldier…’my wounded soldier,’ his mother had called him when she told us her husband had gone on the train to fetch him home.

  If there were more of these strangers skulking about…he would know what to do.

  “Tom,” I said, for that was his name. I could lift my head now, and my son was still staring. “Johnny…find Tom.”

  I felt all of life gush between my legs then, and the sharpest most sickening pain. I could not birth on this sad porch. I must hold on…and help would come.

  Tom Tanner

  Chapter One

  I would never look at a field the same again. For all of life seemed different to me now. I did not trust the quiet. It used to stretch on, when I was young. But now I did not trust it, and knew it held all of the ingredients for chaos that could come so quickly, in a turn, a moment. Death.

  I had just finished the bread and meat Ma had packed for me in the wagon. That soft white bread I could not stuff myself with enough to silence my thoughts or fill the empty craving. I wasn’t worthy of the bread, the hands that kneaded it with hope, nor the fire that baked it.

  I was no sooner done with my hourly chaw of self-loathing when I picked up a call…a young voice. Too young for such a pitch, such a word, my name.

  It was not my brother Garrett. But I heard him sometimes…on the wind. Smelled him, too. Saw him in some men…tall ones, strong like him, walking loosely and free. But this call was younger, and I thought I heard it again.

  I rounded the wagon and saw him. A lad coming on, running. “Mr. Tanner,” he cried. I hurried to meet him. “My ma,” was all he could say, over and over, hands on his knees. But when he got going, I picked him up and ran for the wagon. Though I could not clearly understand him, I heard enough of the words I hoped to never hear again. Soldiers and guns and killing.

  He was the Varn boy, the one who favored the mother. He was dark and freckled, big brown eyes. I had seen her at meeting. She had rattled me enough I took note. Only because my ma went on. My sister too. There was Jesus and the Mrs. Varn.

  But now…the lad sat beside me, as I nudged this old mule to do more than saunter. She was past her prime and in no hurry. I’d only brought her today because the work was light.

  I watched the boy from the corner of my eye. He stared ahead, a white grip on the seat.

  The boy had told the story then stopped talking altogether. I didn’t think I could send him to the farm on his own. He looked spent, and if there was trouble, he shouldn’t be trouncing around until I understood what to look for. I had my rifle, I was rarely without it. So the boy needed to stay near.

  I pulled up to a gruesome scene. The boy was keening, a bad sound. He was rocking on the seat. I told him to lie in the bed of the wagon. I spoke firmly, and made him look at me.

  But he pointed to the porch, and there was his ma, her dark hair spread around her spent form. She looked tossed on that porch like a rag doll. I lost my breath for fear she was dead, too, but she moaned then and started to move.

  So I grabbed that boy from the seat and all but tossed him in the wagon’s bed. “Lay still. Soon’s I can I’ll help you out.” I took my rifle and went to the woman. I could tell the men were gone.

  Holy cow she was big with child. Looked ready to
foal and with the moaning. I needed Ma. There was no possibility…I’d rather face those dead bodies any day.

  I knelt by her side. She opened her eyes and said my name. I couldn’t have been more surprised if she was dead.

  I stood my rifle against the house, also retrieved her shotgun and did the same. Then I scooped her up because she wasn’t heavy at all, light like my sister.

  I pushed through the door with my shoulder, looking at her, so pretty and looking like almighty hell. This poor thing. I went to the bed in the far corner and laid her on the quilt. I ran to the door then. “Boy,” I called, grabbing the weapons, “Get on in here.” When he didn’t show I said more firmly, “Boy!”

  He popped up then and scrambled over, hitting the dirt hard, but on his feet, and he came running. I wanted him in the house where I could make sure he was safe. This woman didn’t need to lose another while birthing. Dear God, birthing. Just me and her and the big blue sky.

  So I set that boy a job. I had him peel about six potatoes so she’d have some soup when she got through pushing out this baby. And I wanted his mind to stay. Setting a task was the way to nail him to something real.

  Then I hung a quilt from the rafters to block his view. I fed her a little water, but she was poorly. I debated sending that kid over to get Ma, but my gut said don’t do it. So I rubbed my hands together, and took off her shoes. She had little feet and I blushed seeing them so small and dainty in my hand. I did not know my preference for little toes before now, but another pain gripped her and I came to my senses and repented as I told her I was sorry, but she couldn’t have a baby wearing her bloomers. So being careful to keep the skirt in place, I tried to reach beneath its bulk and get a hold of the bloomers, which were split so she could make water, and she already had, lost the water, but still I knew this was going to get real messy, so I pulled her bloomers down, and tears came to my eyes I swear thinking of the after, that’s if we both lived through this.

  But I got them off without seeing anything but her dainty legs shaped so fine I could call myself nothing but sinner as I tried to blot out every idea I ever had about procreating and such.

  I checked on Johnny and he sat at table hacking at those potatoes. I told him to fetch some carrots too, and work on those and I wanted them done right. I felt so guilty, and I don’t know why. I didn’t ask for any of this. But God was always giving it to me anyway. I didn’t deserve nothing good, but what a fix.

  I got a rag and the whole bucket of water and told him, “Don’t be looking out that window neither.” Cause I didn’t want him studying his pa that way.

  I went behind the curtain, and she was worse it seemed, eyes closed and whimpering, and I wet the rag and washed her face, then her neck she was so sweaty and distressed. I was speaking soft to her, saying embarrassing things I thought might soothe her, I didn’t know. But I’d talked to a dying man or two and it served me now.

  In the next hour we got past it all. Her skirt was off and on the floor. I had her knees bent, and was constantly having to bring her leg out of the way. She was screaming and writhing, then so silent I feared she was dead. Her woman parts were widening so swollen and looking ready to pop. I had seen animals birth…all my life. So this was not so different, and so very different.

  I was studying down there, praying for that head to show. She was such a frail looking thing, so dainty, and yet so strong, I shuddered to think how she hurt. I never wanted to see such pain again, but here it was, and I told myself it was good. If she lived.

  I hoped I didn’t have to reach up there and turn it around. I’d had my arm up a cow or two, even a horse, but there was no way I could mess around in this tiny woman, and hurt her like that…, “Oh God, I know my prayers are rotten to you…but for her sake….”

  Her little head was thrashing. “Tom,” she screamed.

  And then a miracle happened. She opened up, and I saw the child’s hair. “Missus,” I said, “you’re doin’ so fine, girl. You’re so fine. Just push it out now, it’s just like it should be, honey.” I was so danged relieved I could have danced a jig if I wasn’t afraid she was going to rip apart and bleed to death on my watch.

  Her little parts were straining, parting like the Red Sea, and before I knew it a bigger oval of the infant’s hair showed.

  “That’s it, honey. You’re the strongest woman I know. My ma would be so proud of you. You’re almost there now, darlin’ girl. Don’t you be afraid. You’ve got to push. Put some muscle in it now.”

  “She grit her teeth, and I gave her my hand, and she squeezed the juice out of it, and I kept telling her to come on like she pulled the plow through mud and stone, and she pushed and I had to let go and catch this baby. Its whole head and shoulders were out now, and I turned it gentle as I eased it out of her, and my life got washed in one moment. I knew that somehow God was telling me I wasn’t the most miserable bastard that ever lived. Cause I had touched heaven, and done a good thing…like a priest or some-such.

  So I set that baby on her mama’s stomach, and Missus looked at that girl and laughed a little, then at me, and I had this life cord and the business still running into her to deal with, but for a moment, we just looked at each other and she said, “Thank you.”

  And I said…nothing in the face of such beauty as that mother and her child. I couldn’t speak.

  Tom Tanner

  Chapter Two

  Missus was exhausted. The afterbirth would not come easy. I knew if I tugged on the cord coming from her body it would bring the rush of blood that surely could mean death. So I watched her labor all over again.

  The little one I had placed in a drawer. I laid her on top of the clothes, pulling some of them over her to keep her warm.

  She wanted the breast, that one. And I needed water and could not send the lad to fetch it for I’d had no time to tend the dead bodies. My anger went to Gaylin. Had he not been such a mule’s behind that morning I’d have taken him to field, but it was all I could do these days not to pound that one and take him down a notch or two. Too much like me, he was. Surely he would come when the sun dipped, for Pa would send him out, or Ma at least, and then we’d see who had the mettle to face the carnage in the yard.

  When I looked around the blanket, Johnny had fallen asleep, head on the table, knife still in his hand, potato rolled on the floor. I went to him and took the knife. I saw the finger he hid in his shirt, the cut on it deep enough. “Damn it to hell,” I whispered, for now the lad was injured too.

  She moaned and I hurried back, “C’mon, God above, give this woman some mercy,” I said, and it came free then, the after, and I wrapped its quivering redness in the nearest thing, the dead man’s shirt. I put that afterbirth aside, and looked for what to use, a woman’s rags, where to look I didn’t know, but I went right to the basket and there were the torn strips, so I packed her best I could, and finally could pull the quilt over, but I knew the bedding, the tick, it would have to be washed or burned and I’d leave that to Ma.

  She was so weak, Missus, not the child. That one cried angrily, and I moved to the woman and gulped a bit as I pulled her chemise down, for we’d removed the blouse some back, but there was her breast, the moisture on the nipple already, and I laid the baby in there, but the mother did not respond she was that exhausted. So I worked to arrange them, and this little angry one grew so frantic she could not latch on, and the angle was bad. I ended up giving her my finger to suck, wishing I’d washed it at least, but that would mean we had some clean water in this Godforsaken set up.

  Then I heard, “Give her to me,” in her weak and lovely voice.

  “Ma’am,” I said, rushing to her side, “she needs to suckle.”

  I laid the baby there again, and with the mother’s help, we got that frantic rosebud mouth onto that swollen plump nipple, and I could have praised the Almighty I was that relieved.

  “Ma’am,” I told her, “can you hang on while I fetch water?”

  The baby didn’t like my voice so close
and set to wailing. Here she was only in this life a couple of hours and already telling a grown man what to do. So I backed off some, and the missus smiled at me, and what a comely woman she was, even after all she’d been through, she lit that room afire.

  So I went to the boy and waked him. I pulled his hand forward and looked at the cut. “Ma will stitch this,” I said, for I’d no precision in me at the moment, so I got him a rag they kept for the dishes and wrapped his finger, then told him to lie on his little bed there. He did not argue. I knew this kind of sleep, it was not rest but escape.

  I went out then. I heard the flies as I smelled it, that ripe swell in the heat. I had my shovel, the one I knew before the war even, and it fit my hand so well. I would like to put them in the earth quick, but Sheriff Jimmy needed to take note. I spoke to Bess, for she was patient, but sorely neglected standing in harness. She had not moved much, too lazy to chase grass here in the yard. I pulled her closer in, near to the husband, as I’d load him in first. Yes, this kind of weight I knew. God made me strong, a bull, Ma said, and bullheaded, she said too, and I went to the barn.

  This man was not without ambition, but he was no farmer. One did not hang tack like that on a nail, and his tools were not sharpened or oiled. I did not care for his arrangement at all, but I wasn’t here to judge. I found what I sought, a cover for goods, and I took this out and rolled the mister into it. Then I bent my knees and strained to get him over my shoulder. I bent and lifted him like a baby. I heaved him into the wagon’s bed and walked Bess to a big Sycamore tree. I pulled him off then, and worked him straight so he would fit a coffin.

  I left Bess in that shade then and she could eat the grass there.

  The other body I dragged around the side of the house. I put him near where she threw her dishwater. He needed washed of his sins. I squatted near him and studied his face, or what was left of it.