by DiAnn Mills
We’ll have many more times to skate together—years of memories. “I remember the time you threw a snowball and bloodied my nose.” He laughed heartily in remembrance, causing him to relax a bit.
She shuddered. “Dare you remind me? I ran all the way home and hid in Papa’s barn for fear I’d get thrashed.” She sighed in a mellow sort of way. “You never told anyone.”
He pulled the horse in front of the house, his and Emma Leigh’s future home. “Would you like to come by here tomorrow?” He took her hand. “I’d like to walk through the rooms and remember Christmases past.”
“Of course. Is everything there as before?”
He nodded and smiled, recalling every piece of furniture and handmade item from his mother. “But tonight, I have something else on my mind.” His heart began to pound furiously.
“Is everything all right?” She stared into his face. “You seem distressed.”
The overwhelming urge to kiss her nearly drove him to distraction, but not yet. Soon enough he’d claim her lips. Taking her hand, he began. “Last night I talked to your father about more things than courting you.”
Her eyes widened, but she said nothing.
“We discussed matters about the future.”
Emma Leigh was always chatting away. Having her say something, anything, would help his scattered nerves.
Taking a deep breath, Thad forged on. “Emma Leigh, I love you. I can’t remember ever loving anyone but you. So I’m asking you to marry me. Now we might have a difficult time while I’m in school, but one day I’ll be a doctor, and things will be easier.”
In the faint light, she quivered. “I love you, too, Thad, but I can’t marry you. I simply can’t.”
“Why?” he blurted out. Hadn’t he felt God leading him to take Emma Leigh as his wife?
Tears fell swiftly from her eyes, and she did nothing to stop them. “Papa and Mama need me to help them take care of the family.”
He removed his glove and with his thumb brushed the wetness from her cheeks. His heart swelled with love for his precious Emma Leigh. “No, my darling. Your father and I have an agreement. He is going to take care of my cattle, and in return he will have the milk to use and sell. He will also have any calves to start his own herd.”
She held her breath as though unbelieving of his words.
“Come spring,” Thad said, “he’s going to take care of my apple orchard and till the land to plant crops. We’ll split the difference come harvest time.”
“But his health?”
Thad lifted her chin. “Granted, he had a deep cough less than ten days ago, but look how he’s doing now. God is healing him, Emma Leigh. By spring he’ll have his strength, and by midsummer, you and I can be married. If you will have me.”
She continued to cry.
Desperate and confused, Thad couldn’t even pray. “What is it? Do you not care for me?”
She stiffened and shook her head. Then she took a deep breath. “No, I do love you. I’m crying…I’m crying because I’m happy.”
He gathered her into his arms and held her close. Slowly he bent to kiss away her salty tears now chilling against her soft cheeks. His lips trailed to hers and tasted their sweetness. “You will marry me in midsummer?” he whispered.
“Maybe sooner, if you would like,” she said, standing back and offering a smile.
Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled his mother’s brooch into his palm. “I’d like for you to have this,” he said. “I know you can’t see it very well in the darkness, but it’s a cameo that belonged to my mother.” He slipped it into her hand.
“Thank you,” she said breathlessly. “I’ll take such good care of the brooch—just as I will of you.”
“No,” he said. “I’m taking care of you, and God will do the rest.”
Before dawn on Christmas morning, Thad and Uncle Albert quietly unloaded the wagon and set its contents by the Carter door. Two smoked hams large enough to feed a family of growing children for much more than one meal, flour, potatoes, red cabbage and bacon, squash, turnips, green beans harvested from the summer, stewed apples, and Aunt Klara’s delicious rice pudding—all ready for the family inside. Atop the food, Thad placed six cinnamon candy sticks, one for each of his soon-to-be brothers and sister. In a bundle, he’d placed warm coats for each member of the family—the result of selling one of his cows and taking a small portion from his savings.
As he and Uncle Albert drove away, Thad looked back to see the cabin door open and Emma Leigh wave and blow him a kiss. God had indeed given him the desires of his heart.
Miracle on Kismet Hill
Loree Lough
Prologue
Fort Fisher, North Carolina
January 15, 1865
Blood oozed from the colonel’s left temple as a dozen of his men knelt in a protective semicircle around his battered body. Daubing the officer’s forehead with the corner of a dingy neckerchief, Trevor Williams caught the eye of one soldier and demanded, “Where’s that water I told you to fetch?”
“What’s the point, Sarge? He’s bleedin’ like a stuck pig. We ought to be fetchin’ a shovel, instead, and start diggin’ his…”
“Quit talkin’ a fool,” Trevor growled. “The Colonel’s strong as an ox. He’ll pull through this.”
Shrugging, the private rolled onto his belly and, using his elbows to propel himself forward, dodged flying debris as he headed for the water trough.
“Be a cryin’ shame iffen that boy dies tryin’ to save a dead man,” came a coarse whisper from the back of the group.
Trevor stood, fists clenched at his sides, oblivious, it seemed, to the constant barrage of cannon fire exploding around him. Glaring at each man in turn, he said through clenched teeth, “Get back to your posts. Anyone who has any other ideas will be talking to the front end of my musket!”
Without another word, the small crowd dispersed.
“You were a might hard on ’em, don’t you think?”
On one knee again, Trevor studied his colonel’s black-bearded face. “Good to see you’re awake,” he said, ignoing the question. “Billy’ll be back with some cool water any minute.”
The colonel waved the offer away. “Don’t need water. What I need is…” Arching his back, he winced with pain. “How long was I out?” he gasped when the agony released him.
“To tell the truth, Colonel, with all that’s been goin’ on, coulda been an hour…or a couple a minutes. All’s I know is, a block of stone knocked you cold when the east tower came down.” Trevor nodded at the colonel’s bloodied pant leg. “Hurt much?”
Richard Carter forced a half-hearted snicker. “Hurts plenty,” he managed to say. He’d been hit enough times to know this was no mere flesh wound. It would be bad—the sticky dampness in his boot and the unending throbbing told him that much—but how bad he wouldn’t know until he mustered the courage to look. Summoning all his strength, Richard levered himself onto one elbow, took a deep breath, and focused on his right foot.
The sight sent waves of nausea and dizziness coursing through him.
His once slate-gray trousers leg now glistened with the deep maroon of his lifeblood, and the squared toe of his boot was missing…along with three of his toes.
Whether his light-headedness came from what he’d just seen or loss of blood, Richard didn’t know. He slumped wearily back onto the brass-buttoned jacket his men had wadded beneath his neck. A rasping sigh slipped from his lungs as the image of the mangled foot flickered behind his closed eyes. Even if the injury healed, he’d walk with a limp for the rest of his life. And if gangrene set in…
But he couldn’t allow himself to dwell on the grisly possibilities just now. He focused on his men—mere boys, some of them—who were counting on him to lead them to safety. “What’re the damages elsewhere, Sergeant?”
With quiet efficiency, Trevor Williams gave his commander a rundown.
The assault that began in the early afternoon had continued until Unio
n General Terry aimed his navy’s guns to targets inside the fort. As the Yanks at sea struck the north facade, two thousand troops stormed the seaward wall. But armed only with cutlasses and handguns, the Bluecoats were no match for Fort Fisher’s soldiers, and after hours of bitter hand-to-hand combat, the Northerners retreated. When they returned, better armed and more determined than ever to win, they forced the Confederates to fall back.
“We lost hundreds of men,” Trevor continued, his voice soft with reverence, “and hundreds more will likely die of their wounds.” Hanging his head, he took a shaky breath. He frowned deeply, and his eyes and lips narrowed with fury and disgust. “The Bluebellies’re loadin’ up every Reb who’s breathin’.” He rubbed the furrow between his brows, his hand casting an even darker shadow across his sooty face, and snarled, “Well, I ain’t goin’ to no Yankee prisoner of war camp!”
Richard surveyed the surrounding terrain. Lifeless bodies of boys and men lay alongside the wounded, the blood of Blue- and Graycoats puddling together on the rust-red North Carolina clay. The smoky air thickened overhead, trapping the stink of gunpowder and burning wood—and death—beneath it. The boom of exploding Colombiad cannonballs echoed within the fortress as horowitzers, carbines, and musketoons discharged deadly lead balls.
Amid the melee, Richard remembered the Albermarle. He’d been on board the sturdy boat when it attacked Plymouth. The North hadn’t been prepared for its enemy’s ingenuity, and the shallow-draft gunboat, secretly constructed in a cornfield beside the Roanoke River, defeated a squadron of eight Union gunboats, giving the South reign over the western end of the Sound. None of the North’s vessels could match the ironclad’s power…until Cushing’s torpedo sank her. Afterward, Richard and a handful of stalwart survivors were quickly reassigned to Fort Fisher….
“Worst of it is,” Trevor was saying, “they’ve cut us off from reinforcements.”
Richard acknowledged the seriousness of the sergeant’s statement. The North was better armed. Better fed. And in many ways, better led. Still, Richard refused to believe the South would be defeated. After all, no one, least of all northern forces, had expected the Albermarle to succeed. Yet she had….
“We’re not licked yet,” Richard grated. Then, with a fortitude that surprised even himself, he wrapped his bloody fingers around Trevor’s forearm. “There’s a letter,” he began, “in the pocket of my coat. If I don’t…” Clamping his teeth together, he hesitated. “If I don’t make it through this one, I want you to see it reaches my family.”
Trevor grimaced. “Ain’t like you to talk this a way, Colonel. What is it you’re always tellin’ us? ‘You lose only when you give up.’ Seems to me you oughta take a little of your own good advice.”
Eyes wide with fear and desperation, Richard tightened his hold on Trevor’s arm. “Get the letter,” he hissed.
Gently, Trevor slid the coat from beneath Richard’s head and rummaged through the pockets until he found an envelope, addressed to the Carter family in Spring Creek, Virginia. He held it up for the colonel to see.
“Put it somewhere safe,” Richard insisted.
Trevor stuffed the envelope into his shirt and patted it. “Snug as a bug in a rug,” he said, feigning a lighthearted grin.
Only then did Richard release his death grip on Trevor’s arm. His relieved smile disappeared as a coughing fit devoured his remaining strength. Eyelids fluttering and arms flailing, he reached blindly for Trevor. “Is it getting dark, or…?”
“Ain’t got a watch,” the sergeant interrupted, squinting into the powder-gray sky. Giving the older man’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze, he added, “You ain’t gonna die, Colonel. Least…not if I have anything to say about it.”
But Trevor’s assurance fell on deaf ears, for Colonel Richard Carter had once again blacked out. His sleeplike state rendered him dumb to the fact that his men were being seized. Somewhere, from deep within the fog of unconsciousness, he pictured his beautiful brown-eyed daughter, Brynne. His burly son, Edward, who he’d heard had been wounded in Nashville. His loving wife, Amelia. Oh, how I miss her sweet smile…and that way she has of fussing over me, Richard thought. How are they faring, with me gone three long years?
He seemed to recall seeing Trevor, picking his way through the ruins of Fort Fisher, ducking and dodging, weaving and bobbing…. He’d always admired the young man. Like himself, Trevor believed in leading by example. He’ll be a fine officer someday, if he doesn’t…
Richard’s buzzing brain would not allow him to complete the grisly thought. Take care, was his silent message to the sergeant. Take care, and get that letter to my Amelia.
The very thought of her comforted and calmed him. The vapor in his mind cleared just enough for the hard-voweled voices of two Union soldiers to break through. “This one’ll never make it,” the first said as he and a mate roughly slung Richard onto a dirty wagon bed.
“Doesn’t matter,” said the second. “We were told to take every one that was breathing, and this one’s breathing.”
“Maybe so,” replied the first, “but he won’t be breathing long.”
Richard hadn’t talked to God in a very long time. Hadn’t had time to do anything, really, but attempt to survive this miserable war. But the smoky haze cloaking his mind felt cool and comforting. It stanched the throbbing in his foot and the ache in his head, too. In the white mist, he smiled, feeling whole and healthy and pain free, as boyhood images of heaven echoed in his memory.
Lord Jesus, he prayed, if You decide to take me home to Paradise, let them bury my bones on Kismet Hill, near that stubborn little pine….
Chapter 1
February 1865
Brynne had been working since dawn, trying to put the house back together after the last Yankee raid, when a persistent rapping at the front door interrupted her work. She had played hostess to enough Yankees to recognize their “calling card” when she heard it.
She had to admit that, by and large, the regular troops of Bluecoats passing through had been gentlemen, but a few ragged stragglers were another story. As a result, half of her father’s cherished book collection had disappeared, along with her mother’s wedding rings, and the cameo Brynne had inherited from Grandma Moore. They’d also helped themselves to chickens and sheep, cows and horses, bushels of potatoes and sacks of flour.
If the two- and three-man parties that regularly showed up without warning had known she’d gladly have shared the family’s quickly dwindling food supply, would they have stolen heirlooms and keepsakes anyway? And if they’d been given advance notice that she considered it her Christian duty to tend their wounds and mend their uniforms, would they still have found it necessary to break windows, trample flowers, destroy fine upholstered pieces that had been in the Carter family for generations? Brynne’s cynical answer, after years of dealing with these blue-coated marauders, was yes.
The very first time Yankees had approached Carter soil, Brynne hid her father’s pistols and hunting muskets. The weapons, as yet untouched by Northern hands, still nestled beneath the parlor floorboards.
Now, Brynne climbed down from the stepladder and knelt to pull up the plank nearest the fireplace, where Richard’s rifle lay wrapped in a bedsheet. Balancing it on palms that trembled with fear and rage, Brynne stared at the weapon. Do you have what it takes to use it? she wondered, biting her lower lip.
As she searched her heart and mind for an answer, Brynne recalled what a raiding party had done to her neighbors to the east: The Smith house had stood majestically on Spring Creek soil for nearly a hundred years before the drunken infantrymen burned it to the ground—with the family trapped inside. And no one would ever forget what the next group had done to the Warner’s twin daughters….
Before the war, had anyone asked Brynne if she could aim a gun at one of God’s children for any reason, the answer would have been a quick and resounding “No!” But now…
“Please, Lord,” she prayed under her breath, “don’t let them give me a
reason to use this…because we both know that if I must, I will.”
Had her mother been home, she’d have reminded Brynne in not-so-gentle tones that it was not Christian to take up arms against her fellowman. “A true lady leaves the fighting to the menfolk,” Amelia would have scolded.
But her mother was not at home. As Spring Creek’s only midwife, she’d been at the Andersons’ since dawn, helping bring their first baby into the world.
Brynne hoped the soldiers would be satisfied with a bite to eat and a cup of weak coffee, because she had little else to offer, and she would not be satisfied leaving the fighting to the menfolk any longer!
She tucked the hem of her full blue skirt into her black belt and slipped into her boiled wool jacket. Hoisting the rifle, she tiptoed through the house and sneaked silently out the back door. Crouching low in the shadows, she worked her way around to the side of the house, doing her best to time each step to coincide with the soldiers’ knocks. There’s no telling how many of them have descended upon Moorewood this time, she cautioned herself. You mustn’t reveal your position….
Once she rounded the corner and peeked over the winter-browned honeysuckle, she halted in surprise: just one soldier stood on her porch. He appeared to be a young man, tall and lanky, with broad shoulders that slumped a bit under the oppressive weight of war.
He carried no weapon that she could see, but experience had taught her the wisdom of the old proverb, “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.” Creeping alongside the forsythia hedge that led to the front door, she made it to the bottom porch step…and rushed him. “Turn around slow, soldier,” she snarled, the rifle barrel mere inches from his blue-coated back, “real slow.”
He did as he was told. “No need to be afraid, ma’am,” he said in a soft Southern drawl.
“You’ve got that right,” she snapped, giving him a gentle poke with the end of her gun. “No need to be afraid if you have enough firepower.”