by Ward, Marsha
George squinted at him. Ned’s face had gone gray. “Where does it hurt you?” he asked.
“Mostly my legs. I lost a lot of muscle when the shell exploded.” He shook himself.
“Where else?”
“I get kinks in my back. Spasms.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
Ned laughed, a bitter sound. “Not in your shape, brother. Let me take a minute to rest, then I’ll get back to nursin’ you.”
“I had it all worked out that I was going to nurse you,” George said. “I let Heppie leave here—” Aghast at his slip, George shut his mouth and let his head hang down to hide his face.
After a moment, Ned asked, “Who’s Heppie?” When George didn’t answer, he paused for a long moment, and finally said, “Hepzibah Bingham? Are you sweet on her?”
George said nothing, his heart sick. If his brother put the pieces together and reported them to the occupation commander, his own stupid big mouth might mean a prison sentence for the girl he loved. She didn’t do anything wrong, either. No, please, he thought, and realized that he was shaking, but not from the pain of his injuries.
Ned was speaking again, wringing out the bloody cloth over a bowl of water. “When I came through town, I didn’t get a brass band and a ‘welcome home’ speech.” His voice sounded strained. “Folks didn’t seem happy to see me. Old Man Calkins spit on me before I made it out of town.” He paused for a moment and began again, his intonation carrying a note of despair. “I stopped at the Bingham’s bakery to see how Miss Jessie would receive me, but it was locked up, so I didn’t get to see her.”
George looked up. “James Owen edged you out of the running with Miss Jessie last year,” he said. “I heard tell they were fixin’ to marry. Ended up he went west with his folks.”
Ned’s face twisted in anxiety. “James Owen? Jessie’s gone with him?”
George shook his head. “No. He left her here.”
Ned called James a few choice names even as he heaved a sigh of relief. He straightened up in his chair, his face furrowed. “Where is she? Nobody was at the bakery. It looked”—he compressed his lips for a moment, then blurted out—“abandoned.”
George shook his head again. “I don’t know where she is.”
Ned swore. “George, you’re hiding something. You’d know where she was if she was anywhere nearby. That means she’s gone. What happened?”
George licked his split lips. “I can’t say.”
“Does it have anything to do with those riders beatin’ you near to death?” Ned was hovering over George, looking intently into his eyes. “Don’t tell me you don’t trust me.”
George put his hands over his face. “War changes folks,” he muttered, ashamed of his misgivings. “I don’t know where you stand.” He heard Ned’s sharp exhalation and the creak of the chair as he sat once more. After a while, George dropped his hands into his lap and looked at his brother. To his surprise, tears trickled down Ned’s cheeks.
Ned swiped at his cheeks before he opened his mouth and said, “I fought for the Union because I believe in it. That didn’t make me love my family less than I did before I left. George, you’re all the family I got now, and I don’t want to be at odds with you.” Ned swallowed, his Adam’s apple moving up his throat, then down again. “I won’t press you more than to ask this favor. If you know Jessie’s in trouble, and you know where she is, you’ve got to tell me.”
Chapter 5
During the next few days, Hannah fought her fears and strengthened her resolve to live. She ate everything Heppie gave her, and soon she became strong enough to walk for short periods.
The morning was bright and sunny when Hannah decided she wanted to get off the wagon seat and see how long she could keep pace with the others.
“Luke,” she said to her brother, who was driving. “Can you pull up for a minute? I’d like to walk.”
“Are you sure, Sis?”
“I reckon so.”
He halted the team and helped her down. “Holler when you’re tired out,” he said. He slapped the lines on the rumps of the horses and yelled, “Hi-yup! Get up there!”
Hannah took a deep breath of spring-scented air as the wagon lumbered into motion. Soon, however, she coughed, as the dust left in the wagon’s wake filled her lungs. She moved to the side of the road, coughing and gagging, and clutched a sapling for support.
The air cleared as the wagon and its brown cloud moved on down the pike. Hannah stood straight, breathing in the newly freshened air. Suddenly she bent double and threw up her breakfast.
No! she thought, as her head and stomach roiled in a crazy dance. Not again. I can’t be ill again. But the nasty sickness came down on her, forcing her to gag and heave until she had no strength to stand. With her last bit of energy, she wrenched herself away from the foul results of her ailment and fell to her knees, forehead against a tree.
She took shallow breaths, trying to avoid vomiting again. After a while, her stomach calmed, but she couldn’t get to her feet. She let go of the tree and fell sideways, then rolled a bit away from the pool of vomit.
As Hannah lay by the side of the pike, she began to worry that the wagon and her family were getting farther away each moment. Will they miss me? Luke will daydream. He won’t take notice that I’m gone for hours. Her anxiety increased until she had to wrap her arms around her stomach to keep herself from vomiting again. Then she thought, Robert will come for me. She sighed, relief sweeping through her body.
Why do I feel ill? she asked herself. I’m not feverish. Not even a little bit. These spells come out of nowhere.
Half-hidden thoughts ran like skittering mice through the hallways of her mind. She swallowed, dipping her head and making a grand effort to force saliva through her dry throat. Half-recalled whispers, timidly giggled from the mouth of a girlfriend into her conspiratorial ear wafted by her consciousness. One thought took root, and she shuddered violently. No! She rolled into a ball. This is impossible!
She lay curled on the earth and leaves, unable to believe the caprice of her brain. “No!” she cried out, feeling like her body would explode. The awful truth bombarded her realization, but she thrust it from her, out of her thoughts, out of her actuality. Her fists flew to guard her ears, as though someone were speaking to her in gross, disgusting words. “No!” she shrieked. “No, I won’t let it be so. You can’t make me. God, you can’t make me bear a child from that loathsome, hairy monster! It’s not true! It’s not true! It’s not true.”
She began to sob wildly. What would Robert think of her, bearing a bastard child? The child of a bastard Yankee? He’ll never love me again!
Chapter 6
Several days after he’d met the Yankee riders on the turnpike, George hauled himself into the milk wagon, wincing at the pain in his ribs. Although Ned had wrapped them well with strips of soft cotton material, any movement of his torso gave him sharp reminders of the beating he’d taken. Just as George gathered the lines, Ned came into the barnyard and stood in front of the horses, glowering as though he’d drunk sour milk.
“Where do you reckon you’re off to?” He took hold of the headstall of the nearest horse.
George took a shallow breath. “I’m sick of you pouring most of the milk down the garden rows ‘cause I can’t deliver it.”
Ned shook his head. “Come down off that seat. You’re not healed up enough to drive into town. I’m sorry I don’t know the customers, but that can’t be helped.”
“I’m goin’, Ned. If you want to come spell me on the driving, climb up. If not, step out of the way.”
“Do you deliver to the Yankee camp?”
“Ha,” George barked, a single laugh at Ned’s reference. His brother, the Yankee. “Yes, I do. They pay on time, too.”
Ned moved aside, hesitated a moment, then got up onto the wagon seat. “I’ll go along. I have business there.”
George got the horses underway before he handed the lines to Ned. “Do you reckon you remember how to drive?”
“Does the sun come up in the east?” Ned countered, his face serious.
George arranged himself more comfortably on the seat, and after Ned had turned the team onto the Pike, he asked, “What’s your business at the camp?”
Ned’s face was blank and he didn’t answer.
“Are you fixin’ to tattle on those riders?”
This time, Ned grimaced. After a bit, he nodded. “You’re the only brother I got, George. Those louts ain’t my brothers-in-arms. I got no loyalty to them.” He paused to guide the horses around a pothole in the road. “If my service as a Union officer counts for anything with the commander, I’ll use it.”
“You reckon he’ll shake his finger at Bull and them and give ‘em what for?”
“I’m hopin’ for more like a court martial.”
“A court martial? For beating a Johnny Reb?” George laughed. “You been cooped up in that hospital for too long, Ned. Mount Jackson, hell, the whole Shenandoah Valley is occupied territory.” He touched his swollen, yellowing cheek. “They’ll probably get medals.”
Ned growled, “The war’s over. The troops are supposed to treat the population with respect.”
“You’re askin’ too much.” George sat back on the seat. “Those riders are rough men. I know they don’t care about giving respect. Not after what I seen.”
Ned looked sideways at George. “Are you ready to tell me what you seen?”
“I’m thinkin’ about it.”
“It was pretty bad?”
George’s face twisted at his memories. “My friend’s wife was … raped!” He looked over at Ned. “You can’t say that to the commander. I’ll let you tell him I was beaten, but that’s as far as it goes.”
“Tell me their names.”
“Bull, Cal, Foster. I don’t have first and last names for you. That’s all I heard.”
“I reckon that will do.” Ned shook the lines over the backs of the horses and lapsed into silence for the rest of the trip to town.
Their first stop was at the Union camp. Gritting his teeth against the pain in his ribs, George hauled down the milk cans and delivered them while Ned talked to the commander.
George returned to the wagon and waited on the seat, his hands tightly gripped together. What was Ned telling the commander? Would he mention Mrs. Fletcher’s violation? Ned was no dummy. George figured his brother had made out most of the story from the bits of information George had let slip. How much would he reveal to the Union commander?
When Ned finally limped toward the milk wagon, his set face didn’t give away much of what was in his mind. He climbed aboard, and George slapped the horses’ backs with the lines, urging them to get started into town.
After a period of silence that stretched into forever, George asked, “Well?”
Ned leaned over and rested his elbows on his knees. “He listened. He’s likely going to drum them out of the army. There’s been reports about their cruel deeds before, and I reckon this was the final straw.” He picked at a thread of weed clinging to his boot. “I still should have taken you in with me to show what they did.”
“What does it matter if you convinced him they’re treating folks poorly?”
Ned threw the weed onto the passing roadway. “No matter, I reckon. You’d have made an almighty good witness, though, just to look at you.” He grinned at last. “I might not have had to jaw at him so long.”
George clucked to the team, and they went about their deliveries. They were finished by midafternoon, and headed back to the farm.
Ned saw the smoke first, black and billowing, far down the Valley Pike.
“No!” he exclaimed, and swore.
George shouted at the team, but the horses were weary and couldn’t keep up more than a shambling trot. Ned threw himself out of the wagon seat and ran along the pike. Soon, the injuries to his legs proved too much, and he pulled up at the side of the road, bent over and panting.
When George reached him, Ned climbed aboard and gasped out, “I reckon it’s our place.”
George bellowed “Damn Yankees!” and then looked at his brother’s white face. “No offence,” he muttered.
“They’re louts,” Ned replied, shaking his head.
George turned into the lane, and pulled up the horses when they were halfway down, aghast at the devastation. The barn had burned to the ground, the wellhead had been tipped over, and the house had been set afire. Being made of stone, it had not burned entirely. Smoke drifted on a breeze. George sat in stunned silence for two minutes. At last he got out of the wagon to follow Ned, who was attempting to enter the barn.
“It’s still too hot to get inside,” Ned said, wiping sweat from his forehead. He kicked a timber that had fallen into the barnyard with the collapse of the roof and swore bitterly. “How many cows did you have?” he asked.
“Six. They should be in the pasture.”
“I don’t see any out there.”
“Where are they?” George stumbled toward the pasture fence.
By then Ned was inside the barn, moving debris out of his way. “God damn it!” he swore, beckoning to George. “You have to see this.”
George followed Ned, his stomach roiling at the stench. His six cows lay on their sides, throats cut, the hair on their hides burned. George emptied his lunch onto the embers of what had been a stall.
Once he could stand upright, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at his brother. The bleak, yet outraged expression on Ned’s face helped him make up his mind. He cleared his throat and said, “I reckon I can tell you where Miss Jessie went. The Fletchers and all the Binghams are on their way to St. Louis. They’re heading out for New Mexico Territory.”
Ned let out a whoosh of air. He looked around and spread his hands. “There’s nothing of value to keep us here, George. Let’s follow them at first light.”
~~~
As the glow of coming dawn lightened the eastern sky, George and Ned left the burned-out farm and walked their horses toward the Valley Pike. George rode the better of the two wagon horses, and used the other as a pack animal. Ned was astride the Union mount that had brought him home. They carried a bare minimum of supplies: a change of clothes, water, whatever food they could find in the ashes of the kitchen. George dug a hole in the garden to retrieve a buried rifle and ammunition he’d managed to bring home, and Ned had his weapons.
When they reached the end of the lane, George turned south and Ned turned north.
Wheeling his mount, Ned whistled a note to halt George, who waited for him to catch up.
“Where you goin’?” Ned asked.
“To Staunton.”
“Wouldn’t Fletcher take the Northwestern Pike out of Winchester? It would get them into West Virginia quicker.”
“I reckon they took the Staunton and Parkersburg Pike.” George slid his thumb along one of his reins.
“What makes you think that?”
“Miss Heppie sometimes talked about her cousin in Monterey. They used to visit every couple of years before the war. Mrs. Bingham knows that road.”
Ned rubbed the back of his neck. “The Northwestern is better traveling.”
“Don’t matter,” George said. “I followed them a mite, and they turned south out of town.”
Ned exhaled. “Let’s get movin’.”
They gigged their horses to a trot and followed the pike south, and soon approached the McNeely farm. Mrs. McNeely stood in the yard, throwing feed to her three scrawny hens. She stared after the brothers as they passed.
“That’s a bad piece of fortune,” George muttered.
“Old Miz McNeely?” Ned shook his head. “She’s harmless.”
“No, she’ll make mention of our leaving. The dead rider was found in her barn, and I expect the other Yankees scared her pretty fair. I reckon she’s afraid not to tell them anything they might be curious about.”
Ned looked back over his shoulder. “She’s just standin’ there, watching us.”
“We’d best be watchful, ourselves.”
Neither brother said much the rest of the day. They reserved their strength for the journey, pressing forward as hard and as fast as George’s ribs could bear.
On the third day, they passed through Staunton and turned northwest toward Monterey. Late in the day, they forded a stream that hadn’t been re-bridged since the war ended, and found a camping place back in the forest away from the road. They kept their campfire low, just hot enough to warm the beans they’d cooked the night before. After they ate, they doused the fire and made ready for bed, aided by the light of a quarter moon.
George stood up from rolling out his bedroll. “Ned, my ribs ache something fierce. I’m going to scout around a bit before I turn in. Maybe I can work some kinks out with a walk.”
Ned gave a nod and said, “I’d join you if I wasn’t so tuckered out. Mind you, don’t make a lot of noise and wake me up when you come back.”
George chuckled. “You wouldn’t hear a bear stumbling into camp over your snoring. Rest well, brother.”
He left the camp and walked a short distance through the woods. Silver moonlight streaming through the trees dappled the ground before him. He wondered how Heppie would look with the light of the moon falling on her hair, over her shoulders, on the soft white skin of her throat. He swallowed hard. Heppie was somewhere on this road ahead of him. He would find her, maybe inside of a week. How would she receive him after the dim-witted things he’d said? Would she turn her back? Refuse to look at him? Meet him with harsh words?
How could a woman with such a fair face say anything unkind? Yet she had left him behind, coldly turning his loyalty to his brother and the dumb creatures in his care into ashes with a few stark sentences.
George leaned against a tree. He could see Heppie’s face in his mind’s eye as clearly as though she stood before him. Pale yellow hair rippling beside her cheek, nose turned up a tad bit on the tip, lips pink and soft— He backed away from that thought. She had chosen Hannah over him. They were like two halves of a split apple, those twins. Ever since he’d known them, he’d puzzled to figure out a way to distinguish which sister was who. Finally he had discovered the small pink spot on the side of Heppie’s neck; a spot that pulsed with the beating of her heart.