Heart of a Dove

by Abbie Williams

  “Aw, is it too late for the fiddle, Boyd?” Malcolm wondered aloud after finishing his food. He took a long pull from his canteen before passing it to me, wiped his greasy fingers against his thighs and set his plate aside. “Your turn for dishes, Sawyer,” he added in a singsong, his voice cracking, all but sticking out his tongue.

  “It’s still today,” Sawyer contradicted calmly. “I’ll take up that duty at first light, not before.”

  “It’s surely after the midnight hour,” Malcolm retorted.

  “An’ therefore a mite too late for music,” Boyd added. “I can scarce keep my eyes open as it is.”

  I was reluctant to move for many reasons, one of which being Malcolm’s warmth. I wished it would not be outright absurd for me to ask him to lie beside me in the tent, for comfort. At least being a boy he wouldn’t expect a thing from me that he oughtn’t; he would simply expect to sleep, and I would not be alone in the darkness.

  Lorie.

  I reminded myself that I wished not to be a coward. Though some dark and terrible part of my soul realized that with very little effort on my part, Angus could perhaps be convinced to stay with me in the tent. But I would not cross that bridge and I hated myself for even allowing the thought to fill my mind. Boyd collected everyone’s abandoned plates and stacked them into the empty washtub. Malcolm rose and stretched, then leaned over and grasped my hands, helping me to my feet.

  “G’night,” he said, and pulled me exuberantly into a hug.

  “Good-night, Malcolm,” I replied, my voice muffled against him, my arms trapped between our bodies.

  He drew back almost as suddenly as he had embraced me. All three of the men were motionless, watching almost cautiously, as though unable to ascertain what might be my reaction; I smiled at the boy, earning one of his lopsided grins in return. I then forced myself to meet everyone else’s eyes for a brief moment. Angus and Boyd both wore expressions of amusement; Sawyer’s face was utterly impassive and my heart lurched. I meant to address them all as I added another, “Good-night.”

  “This here is your tent,” Malcolm told me, to my relief; they were identical white canvas structures and unless they had been laid out exactly the same as this morning, I would have possessed no idea which space was meant for me.

  “See you in the morning,” I said to Malcolm as I worked to untie the entrance lacings, four in a row down the front, and he nodded and then ducked into the tent just a few feet away.

  Just a few feet from you, I reminded myself, alone inside the dim interior of the tent. I wished for a lantern just as Angus ducked his head and shoulders inside, bending to do so. The tents were shaped like letter As with no crossbow, a single wooden pole running lengthwise along the top, braced within additional poles at the front and back, the canvas sides flowing to the earth and neatly staked out. There was plenty of room at ground level, though the only space for standing full height was in the very middle, beneath the central beam; I was certain that Sawyer, as tall as he was, wouldn’t be able to stand straight, were he the one entering just now with the lantern.

  Angus said, “This is for you,” and passed the candle in its tin holder to me. The tin was rounded and pierced with nail holes arranged in patterns, sending dancing pinpricks of light over the walls and our faces.

  “Thank you for everything,” I told him sincerely, as he came fully inside for a moment. Through the inch of gaping canvas behind him, I could see the fire. I could not tell if anyone yet remained seated around its warmth.

  “I’ll be nearby,” he said, quietly. My heart stuttered and I looked up at him, thinking of him holding me to his naked chest and unselfishly comforting me, before promising me that he would no longer seek pleasure within my body. I felt as though I may as well be naked before him right now, though my own guilt, my culpability, was at the root of that, nothing he had done. He drew a breath and said next, “If you need anything, you will let me know?”

  “Of course,” I said and I thought for a moment that he was going to reach and stroke my cheek.

  “Good-night then, Lorie,” he said softly, before ducking back out into the night. He refastened all of the ties for me, from the outside, and then I heard his footfalls retreating on the soft earth.

  Alone again, though the sounds of Boyd and Malcolm’s whispering seeped through the canvas walls. I could not discern sense from their words, but heard Malcolm’s laugh, before more whispering. I set the lantern carefully alongside the pallet that had been laid out for me. I slipped out of my dress, folding its length over my valise at the edge of the tent, before I realized that Angus had given me his pillow, and was without one, just as he’d been without a plate. Surely this could not continue. His seemingly unending kindness was undoubtedly not limitless. But the thought of the alternative, returning to Ginny’s, or another similar place, made me fully understand just how willing I was to accept it.

  In one of my two shifts, which would have to serve as a nightgown for now, I sat on the edge of the bedding and combed out my hair, letting the familiarity of the task calm my endless fears, at least enough so that I could perhaps sleep until morning. I took some pleasure in the softness of my hair, which was just like Mama’s had been; talking today with Malcolm had allowed memories to trickle, images and sounds I had held forcibly at bay for years. I brought the brush to my nose, my mama’s brush, inhaling and imagining that I could catch her scent yet in the bristles. Tears flowed over my face and I let them, though when the sobs followed I lay face down and buried any hint of sound into the pillow. I needn’t have worried; I could hear snoring from the nearby tents, and crickets and frogs and other small creatures of the night, and eventually my weeping diminished. Holding the brush to my chest, I determinedly banished the thought of owing more than I could ever repay and drew the single blanket up to my chin.

  - 8 -

  I lay awake for some time after using Mama’s brush upon my hair, at last drifting into a restless sleep, though I must have been just slightly less exhausted than the last time, as my mind found the energy to dream.

  Within it, I walked a red-dirt road, the Tennessee road I knew, the dust from it powdering my bare feet and rising in swirling curls about my ankles. The road was warm, the sun at mid-afternoon, its light softened by the journey through the filter of tall and fragrant blue spruces growing thickly along both sides of the road. It was a pleasant place and I could smell the spruces distinctly, feel the soft dusty earth beneath my feet. Just ahead the path curved rather suddenly to the right and I knew with everything in me that I didn’t want to see what was around that bend.

  “No,” I said aloud, trying to still my forward motion.

  “Please, no,” I said, begging now, but my voice was soft, ineffectual.

  The quality of the sunlight had changed subtly, though I could only discern it at some deeper level. It still laced through the spruce needles in a lazy fashion, but the air around my body seemed tinted by a shade not quite recognizable in the natural world. It caused nausea to seep into my gut.

  In the next instant I was around the bend, but warm joy radiated as I saw my brothers. I had not laid eyes upon them since the July of 1861.

  “Jesse! Dalton! I’m here,” I called to them. They were but yards ahead, standing handsome and proud in their gray uniforms of the Confederate Army, shoulder to shoulder. Why didn’t they speak to me, run to catch me in their arms?

  Now mere feet from them, no more than the length of a body away, I stumbled to a halt, confused. Their uniforms were so tattered.

  It was my brothers, I was certain, but what was the matter?

  I looked up into their eyes and vomit came surging upwards from my gut. My hands lifted as in surrender, though what I truly wished was to cover my eyes, cast forever from my sight the image of their pale, lifeless faces. Jesse had no jawbone, only a dark-red, gaping row of top teeth, though his sunken blue ey
es stared out at me. Dalton’s left temple bore a walnut-sized, ragged-edged hole, though as I watched in stupefied horror, he tried to smile at me. His teeth were bloody and I couldn’t breathe for the terror that swelled, my lungs crushed.

  I turned, desperate to get away, and saw that the landscape behind me had now altered and that I was witnessing a battle, swarms of bodies locked in combat, like vicious ants on a mound of earth, roiling out of control. Despite the hideous chaos, I heard no sounds, as though trapped behind a smooth, towering wall of glass. A window, maybe, against which I was suddenly pressing my cold fingertips.

  And then through the fighting I saw something I recognized, a horse in the midst of it, a lovely red-and-cream paint rearing her forelegs, her mouth open in soundless equine shrieking. I knew her rider in the depths of my soul, golden-haired and clad in gray, clinging with one hand to his horse’s mane, his other arm outstretched, firing a pistol. Blood flew in scarlet arcs but I knew without a doubt that he was in danger. He was about to be knocked from her back and into the fray. Trampled, crushed, broken to pieces upon the rocky ground.

  He would be taken from me.

  I heard my own voice whimpering, begging, “No, please God, no,” and then as he was struck down, I screamed without ceasing.

  I opened my eyes to brilliant sunlight beating against the canvas wall and both Angus and Malcolm kneeling over me, wearing nearly identical expressions of concern. I sat with a jolt, still enmeshed in the horror of whatever I’d been dreaming. Perhaps self-preservation washed it away so quickly, but as I reeled forward and cupped my face, weeping inexplicably, the images receded as though beneath a rippling edge of opaque dark water, not to be retrieved. All that was left behind was a staggering sense of loss, which wasn’t so uncommon. In my early days at Ginny’s, I had dreamed often of my mother calling my name, though I’d always awoken before I could reach her. And I had been thinking of her as I fell asleep; her brush was still behind me on the bedding.

  “Lorie, are you hurt? Was it a snake?” Malcolm was hopping, grasshopper-like, with the worry and excitement of it all. “Did you see a big ol’ snake? Maybe a spider?”

  “No, it was a dream,” Angus said more somberly, and he gently stroked the hair hanging down my back.

  I choked back sobs and nodded in affirmation, saying hoarsely, “It was a terrible dream. I’m sorry for startling you.”

  “For screaming like the world was ending?” Malcolm clarified. “I thought you’d seen a rattler for sure, or maybe an ol’ cottonmouth. I woulda chopped off its head for you, an’ Gus would make a nice stew of it. Them’s good for—”

  “Malcolm,” Angus interrupted then, and his voice was low and firm. “Give us a moment, if you would, son.”

  Though I was still hiding behind my palms, I sensed Malcolm’s reluctance to leave. He quietly did as bade and at last I lifted my face. I was terribly conscious of the shift I was wearing, which bared my collarbones, and my arms from the shoulder down, and did little to hide the shapes of my breasts beneath. I kept forward purposely, clasping my hands against my chest, my forearms barring any sight of my nipples pushing against the fabric. Though perhaps ridiculously, as Angus had already seen everything plain as day. He removed his hand from the back of my head, where he had been softly smoothing my hair.

  “Tell me, Lorie, if that will help,” he said, easing back.

  I regarded his handsome face, somber in his quiet concern, his gray eyes steady upon me. I sensed the kindness and strength and caring that flowed from him like so much water; Malcolm’s words from yesterday came back to me at once.

  He takes care of all of us, the boy had said.

  “I don’t honestly remember,” I whispered. “I feel foolish for startling you.”

  “That woman where you worked, she was cruel to you,” he said, not a question. “How long had you been there before the other night?”

  “Nearly three years,” I whispered, too depleted to be ashamed; it was a fact. If he’d asked me how many men had plowed their way through me in that time, I could not have as accurately answered. I was immediately ashamed by the crudity of that thought, even leaving it unvoiced.

  He said, “You’ll need time to heal then. But you’re young and you’ll heal, mark my words. Promise me you’ll heed my words.”

  I looked into his eyes in true wonder then, attempting to comprehend the depths of his compassion. How had I been fortunate enough to come under his protection, his care? Because he had made a request of me, I responded, “I promise, Angus.”

  “And you must do something else,” he added next, though I caught the hint of humor in his eyes. “Please, do call me Gus.”

  Malcolm was tending the fire when I emerged a quarter-hour later, and the pan of biscuits. To my great relief, neither Boyd nor Sawyer was in sight, and I could see Angus watering Admiral over at the creek, just down the slope to the right of our camp. I had pinned up my hair and dressed again in the blue muslin, which was limp with wear, but the only garment I could possibly consider wearing as we traveled. I said, “Good morning.”

  Malcolm said, “Now it’s a good morning. Would you like some coffee? Let’s pretend this is a fancy hotel, an’ I’ll be your servant.”

  At that I smiled, the bright beauty of the sunny morning sweeping away a little of my lingering uneasiness; no amount of sunlight could fully dispel my deepest fears, but surely that was true of any living person. I sank across from Malcolm, onto the horse blanket we’d shared last night, and played along with him, replying, “Why thank you, kind sir, coffee would be splendid.”

  “This is our finest, madam,” he said, filling a tin cup for me, with a flourish.

  I accepted it and then wondered, “Where is everyone?”

  “The boys are washing, I do believe,” he explained, nodding in the direction of the creek. My shoulders relaxed incrementally. Malcolm continued, “They was shaving when you screamed, and Boyd said he just about cut his own throat. Thought it might be an In’jun attack, or some such. But you look right as the rain now, Lorie. You’ll walk the town with me, won’t you? We didn’t get to walk through St. Louis, as we left so fast. Boyd wants to visit a barber, but not me. Nor Sawyer, neither, he’s right vain about his hair. Me an’ Boyd tease him, but he says that women like it, like to run their fingers through it.” At this his lips compressed with dismay, as though he realized he may have spoken offensively; I sipped from my coffee to hide a smile, the steam from it rising around my eyelids, and allowed him a moment to regroup. He rallied with, “Well, we can get a bath if you’d like, Lorie. I mean, not the two of us at once. Lord, that would be a sight.” He chortled with laughter, rocking backward, and I couldn’t help but giggle at him and his words as he concluded, “Gus said I could use one, and I bathe in the creek most times, but it’s right chill, an’ in town they have warm water. Course, you have to pay for it…”

  Angus joined us and helped himself to a tin cup. He said, “A bath would be a fine thing for you, son.”

  I offered, emboldened at being alone with my two favorite of my companions, “I would trim your hair for you, Malcolm, if you’d like. If we’ve a pair of scissors.” I realized suddenly that I’d used the word ‘we’ as though anything in this camp was actually mine.

  Malcolm’s hands went at once to his dark shaggy mane, eyebrows lifting.

  “That’s about the best offer I would imagine you could get,” Angus said, regarding the boy over the edge of his cup.

  My fingers itched to straighten him up, spit-shine his face and scrub his fingernails, as though I was his mother, and for the first time since yesterday, I thought suddenly about the possibility of being with child. My stomach grew cold with dread.

  No, not yet. You’ll bleed again soon, you will. It was only the once.

  Malcolm shrugged as though accepting a challenge and said, “Aw right, Lorie, but we ain
’t got no scissors but for the leather trimmers. I ain’t gonna let you near my head with them!”

  “We’ll purchase a more suitable pair in town,” Angus assured him. He asked of me, “Have you a hat? I don’t recall one.”

  I shook my head and he added, “Well, that’s the first item on our list then.”

  I was about to protest when Malcolm let loose with a sharp, echoing wolf-whistle, his eyes over my shoulder. I turned to see Boyd and Sawyer making their way up from the creek, both with damp hair and freshly-shaved faces. Sawyer had a rough linen towel still draped around his neck, the shoulders of his shirt slightly wet and clinging to him. Boyd was carrying a small canvas pouch which no doubt contained their grooming supplies.

  “Would you look at them two dandies?” Malcolm whooped, teasing them. “Ain’t you boys pretty now?”

  Boyd laughed as they reached us, shaking water from his hair onto his brother as he lifted the coffee pot. Malcolm giggled and dodged the droplets. Sawyer remained standing, just beyond my right shoulder. I turned my face back towards the fire and consequently away from him. He observed, “A bath wouldn’t do you a bit of harm, kid.”

  “Don’t I know! I’m a-getting one today, me an’ Lorie, and then she’s gonna cut my hair for me.” His dark eyes quite twinkled at this pronouncement.

  Boyd said, “Well ain’t you the little honey-mouth? How’d you rope her into that?” He nodded politely at me, adding, “Morning, Miss Blake.”