Beyond the Fire

by Dewayne A Jackson

  “No!” Ben sobbed. “They’ve taken Jennifer! She’s not here!”

  Across the clearing, Larry heard, and he wanted to curse. He’d been too late! It had been Jennifer inside that blanket on the packhorse. That was what Ben had meant!

  As the truth sank in, a sickening silence covered the camp.

  “What about Grandma?” someone asked.

  “Dead!” Benya said dully. No one was surprised.

  Larry hobbled slowly across the clearing. He noticed that Ben’s shoulder was bleeding badly. “Come on, Ben,” he said. “We have to get you bandaged. Is anyone else hurt?”

  “Does it matter?” Benya cried angrily. “We let them take Miss Jennifer! We all deserve to die!”

  “Wait a minute,” someone said. “What’s that sound?”

  Everyone grew silent and strained their ears. A shrill whistle wafted on the afternoon breeze.

  “It’s Carter,” someone blurted.

  “Quick, back into the trees,” someone shouted. “It may be another raid.”

  Everyone hobbled toward the trees, but even as they moved, the whistle kept blowing.

  Larry motioned for everyone to stop. “Look, Carter’s either hurt or in trouble. There is no other reason he would keep blowing that whistle.”

  “It may be a trap,” someone said.

  “Trap or no, I’ve got to find out!” Larry said.

  “Me too!”

  When it looked as though everyone was going to make the trek to the creek, Benya Hefington took charge. “We need someone to guard the camp. The best archers and the least mobile will stay here. The rest of you, come with me.”

  Larry couldn’t walk very well, but he had been among those who had carried Carter to the creek this morning, and he wasn’t going to be left behind. Benya led his little group through the thickets to where they had left James Carter, but Carter wasn’t there.

  “Carter!” Benya yelled.

  “Carter!” everyone began to shout.

  Someone had the sense to shush them long enough to listen for a response from their friend. They heard a faint whistle farther downstream.

  “How did Carter get down there?” Larry puffed, trying hard to keep up with the group.

  “Someone had to have carried him,” said Tyrel Tucker, a square-jawed fellow who had fought beside Carter in the Battle of Green Meadow. “They must have taken him by surprise, though, because he was the best archer James Stafford had.”

  They rounded a bend in the stream and surveyed the countryside. The forest opened into a broad meadow where the road dipped to cross the stream.

  It took a moment to comprehend what they were seeing. A large bundle lay low in the water, with Carter nearly drowning beneath it! There was a man dressed in crimson nearby, facedown in the water, an arrow protruding from his side. On the far side of the creek, two horses pulled contentedly at the tall grass.

  The group rushed forward, and several men relieved Carter of his burden while others lifted him from the stream.

  Carter coughed water from his nose and mouth. “Whew!” he puffed. “I didn’t think you guys were ever going to come!”

  Questions flowed faster than the brook. “What happened? How did you get down here? Are you all right?”

  “Don’t mind me, guys. There’s somebody in that blanket. I heard a cry when it hit the water.”

  Benya slashed the cords that held the blanket shut. “It’s Jennifer!” he cried. Her skin was pale, and blood trickled from a cut on her forehead.

  “Is she breathing?” Carter puffed. “I thought it might be her.” His breath was short, and he was exhausted from his labor.

  “No,” someone said. Several men laid Miss Jennifer with her face to the bank and began to press on her back.

  “What happened, Carter?” Benya asked tersely.

  “I saw Jabin’s men coming and tried to warn you,” James said. “I didn’t know if you could hear me all the way up there.”

  “We heard you, all right,” Ben said. “Thanks to you, we’re alive.”

  “Two men broke from the party and came in search of my signal,” James told the group. “They never got close. You’ll find them out there in the trees, but they’ll never hurt anyone again.”

  “What about this one?” Ben asked, pointing at the man lying nearby.

  “I heard you guys fighting up on the hill,” Carter wheezed. He was pale and weak, and it was getting hard for him to talk. “I knew they would come back this way, and I wanted to cut them off if I could. Using my hands as feet, I partly swam and partly floated downstream. I got to that bend when I saw this guy. I didn’t know what was in the bundle, but I figured he was trying to get away with something important.”

  Everyone looked back to the bend Carter had indicated. It was several hundred feet away.

  “Don’t tell me you hit a moving target from that distance?” someone asked.

  Carter was growing very tired. “Okay, I won’t tell you, but there he is.”

  Tucker elbowed Larry in the ribs. “I told you he was the best.”

  One of the men huddled over Jennifer called out, “She still ain’t breathing, Ben!”

  “What happened to her, Carter?” Ben demanded.

  Larry noted that Carter was growing very pale.

  “She fell!” Carter rasped, his breath growing shallow.

  “Give him a break, Ben,” Larry said tersely. “He’s in no shape to be talking.” Larry studied Carter’s wounds. His skin had been scraped and torn on the rocky creek bed, and his stumps looked nasty.

  “I heard someone cry when the bundle hit the water,” Carter gasped. “I hurried to get there, but when I tried to lift the bundle out of the water, I couldn’t.”

  “Save your strength, Carter,” Larry demanded. He was ripping his own shirt into strips. “Help me wrap him up, fellows.”

  Benya waded into the stream and looked back at the bank. Men were working over both Miss Jennifer and Carter. Somehow he felt guilty that either of them had been hurt. “Oh, Lord,” he whispered, “save them.”

  Suddenly he heard a cough. He whirled to see Miss Jennifer spewing water from her nose and mouth. “Atta girl,” he whispered to himself. “Keep it up.” He waded toward the bank.

  “She’s coming around!” someone shouted, and nearly everyone gathered around her. Ben nearly bowled them over in his zeal to get to her.

  “Help her up!” he shouted. At that moment, Jennifer coughed, blowing more water out of her nose and mouth. She opened her eyes and tried to speak but coughed instead.

  Men eased her to a sitting position. Feebly she shook her head to free her face from the long damp strands of hair that clung to it. Jennifer gazed into a sea of familiar faces. Trying to smile, color crept into her cheeks. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  The group fell silent, grateful to hear Miss Jennifer’s voice. Suddenly Carter broke the silence. “I told you guys you were going to thank me.”

  They set Miss Jennifer on one of the horses that had remained nearby, and several men escorted her back to the camp. They would tell the others what had happened and prepare a place for Carter.

  Benya, Larry, and the others quickly cut two saplings and used the wet blanket to make a pallet. Gently they laid James Carter on the pallet and lifted him to their shoulders. Slowly they carried him back to camp.

  Carter received a hero’s welcome when he arrived, but he was too weak to join in the merriment. As evening fell, so did everyone’s hope that the young man would survive.

  Though Jennifer was exhausted, she stayed by Carter’s side throughout the night, and now she prayed, “Dear Lord, please grant James victory. He gave all he had to save me. Please, please, save him.” She’d done all she knew to do, and still James Carter thrashed in agony. Jennifer wept for him.

  As sunlight spilled in
to the farmyard, Carter suddenly grew calm. Jennifer watched in amazement as the fever that had ravaged his body broke, and the lines of pain on his face eased. As others woke from their slumber, James Wesley Carter eased into a deep and healing sleep. God had answered Jennifer’s prayers. Carter was going to make it.

  The days that followed were a mixture of joy and sorrow. The horses killed in battle were butchered, and the meat was hung out to dry. The dead were buried, and the campsite was scoured. The cottage was cleansed, but weeks passed before Miss Jennifer could enter her grandmother’s cottage alone. She never spoke of her ordeal, and laughter graced her features less frequently, but Jennifer was determined life would remain fun.

  Time passed, and battle scars turned to blisters. Together, Miss Jennifer’s little family tilled the earth with makeshift tools and planted a garden. Though isolated and forgotten by the rest of world, the men with Miss Jennifer had no idea how fortunate they really were.

  CHAPTER 45

  The Cotton Household

  “Grandpa,” a little voice sounded in the room. “What happened to Grandma? We haven’t heard about her in long time.”

  “Well, Grandson, I haven’t talked about your grandmother much because she went through a very hard time, and sometimes this story makes her sad.”

  There was a sudden hush in the room, and everyone felt quite subdued.

  “Mary,” Bill began, “shall I tell the children your story?”

  Mary looked up from her knitting. She smiled and then turned back to her labors. “I suppose,” she said. “It might be helpful to someone else.”

  Bill remained silent as his lovely bride worked her needles. Mary stopped her labors and glanced around the room. Her eyes finally met Bill’s, and though not a word was spoken, she returned to her knitting with a smile on her lips.

  “Well, children!” Bill said. “Your grandmother and great-grandmother were in a terrible predicament. Strange men had broken into their shop and …”

  In the darkness of their room, Mary clung to her mother. They could hear the staircase groan under the weight of their intruder. Dolly scanned the room. “Quick!” she hissed. “Slide the bed against the door.”

  Though Mary had been paralyzed by fear, her mother’s sure movements gave her a sense of direction. She stepped to the foot of the bed and pushed. Nothing happened.

  Dolly had better fortune. She had positioned herself at the heavy headboard. Throwing her considerable weight into the project, Mary not only heard but felt the heavy bed begin to move.

  The footsteps on the stairway stopped and then began to race up the stairs.

  “Push, Mary!” Dolly hissed.

  Frantically, Mary did push. With a lurch, the bed slid noisily across the floor and bumped into the door. At that moment the latch on the door lifted, and the door opened, but only an inch or two.

  “Scream!” Dolly cried. “Scream for all you are worth! If there’s a man left in this town that is worth his salt, you’ll get his attention.” She grabbed the heavy brass pitcher from the wash stand. “If it’s a fight they want, it’s a fight they are going to get,” she said, setting her jaw.

  Mary trembled as she slid open the bedroom window. “Help!” she cried into the empty street below.

  “Scream!” Dolly shouted as she clambered up onto the bed, the brass pitcher firmly in her hand. “Again!” she yelled.

  The thick door began to splinter under the intruder’s heavy blows. With a sudden crash, the upper half of the door gave way. A dark shadow filled the doorway. Mary’s nightmare had come to life. Terror swept over the poor girl, and she screamed. Mary’s scream so shocked the intruder, Dolly, and Mary that all three stood stock-still—but only for a moment.

  The intruder broke the spell and began to push through the splintered door, widening his path. Mary screamed again and again. Dolly raised the brass pitcher over her head. When the intruder’s head cleared the doorway, Dolly swung the pitcher down as hard as she could. There was the sound of a loud crack, and the man collapsed at her feet.

  Between Mary’s screams, Dolly could hear men shouting from the street below. “It’s the Trumbell place!”

  Dolly stood over her victim and shouted, “Mary, help me get his sword!” She tugged desperately at the blade that was pinned beneath the man’s body.

  Dolly could hear the clash of steel in the rooms below as the garrison finally confronted Dolly’s midnight marauders. Dolly continued her struggle until finally she freed the intruder’s blade, and there she stood on Mary’s bed, brandishing the sword and daring anyone to enter the room.

  The sights and sounds were too much for Mary. Her screaming suddenly stopped, and she slumped to the floor.

  “It’s a sweet little boy, Mary,” Dolly said gently.

  Mary lay still as tears ran freely down her cheeks. “Mama,” she said, breathing deeply, “may I see him?”

  Dolly held up a tiny bundle. A squirming red body was lovingly wrapped in the corner of a quilt. Suddenly a little leg popped out, and a tiny voice began to howl.

  Mary’s heart melted. “Oh!” she cried. “May I hold him?” Her arms reached instinctively for the bundle.

  “Yes, darling.” Dolly sighed, easing the babe to his mother’s breast. “That’s what he’s wanting,” she said.

  Within moments, wailing was replaced by sighs.

  “Oh, Mama, he’s perfect!” Mary breathed. The tiny babe opened his eyes and stared at his mother. “Oh, you are a darling,” she whispered.

  Dolly sat on the edge of the bed. Tightness pulled at her chest, and pain shot down her left leg. Her arms ached, and she felt nauseous. “The night’s been too long,” she thought to herself.

  The pain in her chest eased, and she watched Mary cluck and coo to the bundle in her arms. Dolly had never seen her daughter so content. “He is perfect,” she said. “Do you have a name for him?”

  “William Trumbell Cotton,” Mary said without looking up.

  Dolly caught her breath and grimaced as another “spell” struck and then passed, but she said nothing. She didn’t want to spoil this precious moment for her daughter.

  After several days, Dolly was still exhausted. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath, but Mary didn’t appear to notice. She was completely absorbed with young Master William.

  No! Dolly told herself. I won’t mention my troubles. Young William’s fever is enough for Mary to worry about. Dolly lifted a pail of cool water and tiptoed into the room, hoping not to disturb the baby.

  Mary looked up. “Mother, I wish Dr. Ganton hadn’t left with the army. I don’t think William is getting any better.”

  Mary failed to see the lines etched on Dolly’s face. Suddenly the older woman gasped and grabbed for a chair. Water spilled as the pail hit the floor.

  “Mother!” Mary cried, leaping to her mother’s side. “What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t … get … my breath!” Dolly panted. Her face was drawn and gray. “I can’t …” And then all was silent.

  “Mother!”

  Some days later, a young man by the name of Walley heard screams from the abandoned side of town, and he went to investigate. Under one of the huge cottonwood trees that lined Orchard Creek Avenue, he noticed a woman lying facedown in the dirt. He watched for quite some time as she pounded the ground with her fists and screamed in anger at God. Finally the young woman’s hysteria slowed to deep, retching convulsions. “Ma’am,” the lad whispered, stepping closer. “Ma’am!”

  Mary lifted her head. Her face was puffy from crying, and dark circles surrounded her eyes. She saw the boy but turned away, trying to ignore him.

  “Ma’am!” the boy tried again, a little frightened. “Can I get someone to help you?” he asked.

  “No one can help me!” Mary screamed.

  Walley stepped back quickly. “Is something wrong?” he asked, not kn
owing what to say.

  “I can’t go home,” Mary cried, vaguely waving her hand in the air.

  “Why?” Walley asked.

  “Everyone is dead!” Mary wailed. She had finally admitted it. Her mother had died carrying water to her room, and fever had taken the life from her baby boy. Mary had covered her mother where she’d fallen on the floor, and baby William was carefully wrapped in a blanket lying on her bed. She turned on Walley as if it was his fault and screamed, “Go away! Leave me alone!”

  The boy backed away slowly, and the woman took no more notice of him. Reaching an intersection of streets in town, Walley stood indecisively for a few moments. Suddenly he said, “I know. I’ll get Captain Armonson.” With that, he turned and raced toward the garrison.

  Captain Armonson of the Capri garrison did come and help Mary back to her home. In the hours that followed, men came to remove the bodies of her mother and her son, carrying them to the cemetery where they were given a proper burial.

  The third day after Mary met Captain Armonson, she was beginning to adjust to her new life. That evening when Armonson came to call again, he asked her, “Are you sure you will be all right?”

  Mary was in her own kitchen. She felt more composed than she had in days. “I’m sure,” she said, but her heart quelled at the thought of being alone. She watched Captain Armonson from behind the dark veil she wore. He was so much like Bill. “Captain,” she said, “you have been so kind. Thank you so much for all you have done.”

  “You have suffered a great tragedy, Mrs. Cotton,” Armonson said. “Should I send a man around once in a while to see how you are doing?”

  Mary glanced at the boy beside Captain Armonson. She had begun to enjoy the lad who had found her wallowing in pity some days before. “No, Captain,” she said. “Just send Walley when you can.”

  The young boy’s eyes sparkled, and he grinned from ear to ear. “I can carry water or dig potatoes or whatever, Mrs. Cotton,” he said, bubbling with excitement.

  Mary nodded at Captain Armonson. “We’ll manage nicely,” she said, rising from her chair. “You have more important duties than to tend a troublesome woman like me.”