A Secret Refuge [02] Sisters of the Confederacy

by Lauraine Snelling

  With the ease born of practice, they circled the wagons downstream of the farmstead and set up camp. The women gathered all the dirty clothes together and headed for the creek. When Jesselynn started off with an armful, Aunt Agatha touched her arm.

  “I don’t think that is a good idea.”

  “What? Washing clothes?”

  “No, you washing clothes. Do you see any of the other men or older boys helping?” Agatha kept her voice low and glanced around to see if anyone was close enough to listen.

  “But . . .” She knew Agatha was right. Ophelia, Jane Ellen, and Agatha could go join the party at the creek, but not Jesselynn.

  Meshach set up his forge, Daniel raced off with a fishing line, and Benjamin took the oxen and horses out to graze.

  “If I graze the horses and oxen, Benjamin can go hunting.”

  “That’s a fine idea.”

  Jesselynn retrieved her writing case, along with the rifle and ammunition from the wagon, and dogtrotted after Benjamin. Ah, hours alone. Out on the prairie with no one but me and the animals. The thought made her run faster. She stopped when she heard a yip behind her. Patch, tongue lolling, came running after her.

  “You should be watching Sammy and Thaddeus.”

  The dog sat at her knee, white ear flopped forward, head tilted slightly to the side. He whined and looked toward the animals.

  “You’d rather herd cattle. Can’t say as I blame you.” She turned and started after Benjamin again, but when Patch wasn’t beside her, she looked back to see him still sitting in the same place. “What do you need, a special invitation?” She slapped her thigh. “Come on, then.” The dog bounded across the already grazed grass to her side, running with her stride for stride.

  Running yielded a pleasure so deep she felt like shouting. While guilt that she wasn’t back helping with the wash tried to inveigle an entrance, she brushed it off like a pesky fly. Today she could be free.

  “Benjamin, wait up.”

  He stopped Roman and turned to look over his shoulder. “What you want, Marse Jesse?”

  “I’ll do the grazing.” She held the gun up. “You get to go hunting.”

  “Ah, fine idea.” He slid to the ground and waited for her to catch up.

  “How far out do I need to take them?”

  “I keeps dem away from de other animals. Ol’ Ahab get all excited around other mares. So maybe down de creek a mile or so, wherever de grass be good.”

  “You take Roman then, and Patch will help me keep them in line. Think I should hobble the horses?”

  He handed her the hide and braided hobbles, took the gun, and, mounting Roman, gave her a grin that she knew matched her own.

  “Enjoy yourself.”

  “I do intend just dat. ‘Sides, deer taste mighty good. We could dry some on top de wagon.”

  “Or share it with the others. If you can, get two.”

  “Marse Wolf, he say dey goin’ form up huntin’ parties when we get out more.”

  “Good. You can show ’em how.” She watched him head for the hills to the east, then turned to follow the grazing animals. Once Ahab threw up his head and stared off to the south, but when whatever had gotten his attention left, he went back to grazing.

  Jesselynn moved them out farther, hobbled the two stallions, and sat down in the grass to write her letters. Patch lay down beside her but leaped up when one of the oxen got too far away from the others and drove it back to the herd.

  “You are one fine dog.” She scratched his ears and his back when he lay back down beside her. The foals both stretched flat out on their sides, tired of playing. So far they were holding up well, but then, there had been plenty of water and grazing for the mares. The horror stories she’d heard started after Fort Laramie.

  Dear Sergeant White,

  She still had trouble calling him by his Christian name, even though he’d kissed her once.

  I was so sorry to hear that you will be unable to join us like you had planned. I know how it is when family things get in the way of our own dreams. Camping at Alcove Springs in Kansas wasn’t what I thought I would be doing, that is for certain. The only thing I knew about Kansas was John Brown’s trying to free the slaves. So far, it seems a good place, with hills and valleys threaded with creeks. Right now the land is green and the sun warm but not hot. I have an idea I am seeing this land at its most idyllic. The farms seem fair prosperous, with many acres sown to wheat that is coming up nicely. Seems there’s been enough rain for that. Not that rain is helpful to those of us who are traveling.

  She told him the events so far, sharing her rejoicing that Wolf, the wagon master, had found no cause to send them back.

  In fact, he hardly says anything to me at all. He is more than polite to Aunt Agatha, who is an excellent drover. Whoever would have thought it? But traveling like this brings out the strengths of an individual—that I know for a fact.

  I am having some trouble keeping in the guise of a Jesse with all these people around. No wonder you were able to discern that I am a woman in man’s clothes. Today Aunt decreed that I would not help with the washing in the creek, so I am the grazer, along with the dog who adopted us from a farm we saw burning on the way to Independence. He is a fine cattle dog and herds Sammy and Thaddeus just like calves.

  She knew he would get a chuckle out of that and planned to tell her sisters the same.

  Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she was missing dinner. Ah, well, too far to go back. She glanced around at her charges. Several of the oxen were lying down, chewing their cuds. One of the foals was up and nursing. The other mare lay down and rolled, scratching her back to get rid of the winter hair.

  Jesselynn looked to the east, following Ahab’s attention. Easy to recognize because of the spotted rump on his horse, Wolf rode with a fluid grace, he and the horse as one body. Seeing him like that brought up a thought. Why did he seem to ignore their wagon? She saw him visiting with the others as they plodded their way across the land, but other than to tip his hat to Aunt Agatha and give them instructions, he stayed away. Now he’d taken his hat off and untied the thong, letting his hair stream in the breeze, dark and thick. She’d heard two men talking about “the breed,” as they called him. Not Wagon Master Torstead, or Mr. Wolf, but the derogatory term that set her teeth on edge. She’d felt like punching them. If all Indians looked like him, they were indeed a noble race.

  Patch sat up and looked back toward the wagons, a whine catching her attention. Meshach came striding across the field as if he owned the land himself.

  “Go get him.” She whispered the command to Patch, and he took off as though someone had set fire to his tail.

  Patch reached Meshach, ran around him yipping three times, then charged back to Jesselynn and lay panting at her side. He leaped to his feet, raced out after that same wandering ox, drove him back to the herd, and returned to drop in his place in Jesselynn’s shade.

  “Brung you some dinner.” Meshach swung a sack to the ground and followed it down. “Got to shoe the red ox. Found his shoes loose dis mornin’.”

  “Did some others come to have any shoeing done?”

  “Did two horse, one ox. Fixed a handle on a cast-iron kettle. De folks know I can do all dat.”

  “Good.” Jesselynn watched as another of the oxen lay down with a grunt. “Guess they about had enough.”

  “Don’t take long wid grass good as dis.” He pulled a stalk and set to chewing the tender end. “I be gettin’ on back. Sammy fell in de water, come up laughin’, so Thaddy jump in after him. Jane Ellen haul dem out and take off dere clothes, handed dem soap.” He shook his head in gentle laughter. “Dey some boys.”

  Jesselynn took two biscuits and a piece of fried rabbit out of the sack. Patch watched her every move.

  “I be goin’.” Meshach stood and removed a rawhide thong from his pocket. “Since tomorrow be Sunday, we goin’ have a church service. Mr. Morgan be de preacher.”

  “They should ask you.”

/>   “A black man be de preacher?” He gave a short laugh and shook his head. “You been in de sun too long widout a hat.”

  “You know your Bible better than any of them.”

  He just waved and went on to tie the loop around the ox’s neck, flipped another loop around the muzzle for a halter, then headed back to camp with the ox. “I bring him back when he done.”

  Jesselynn tossed the bone and half a biscuit to her watching companion and licked the grease off her fingers.

  After finishing a letter to her sisters, she took out the journal and caught up the entries for the last couple of days. Describing the place where they camped made it sound like a bit of heaven. Trees along the creek, grass, cultivated fields, gentle hills bordering the wide flat valley, a creek that serpentined its way to the distant river. Sky so blue that the few puffy clouds looked painted on, and birdsong to thrill one’s soul. She glanced down to find a tiny pink flower at her feet. Heaven indeed. But black folk weren’t welcome here, and the land had a price, no longer free for the working as in Oregon.

  She closed her journal with a clap and set it, along with the ink, back in the leather case. Time to work with the foals. The colt didn’t like the idea of being led around at all. Time to get over that.

  “Marse Jesse! Marse Jesse!”

  Jesselynn looked up to see Jane Ellen running across the field, waving at the same time.

  What could be wrong now? Thaddeus? Her heart leaped.

  RICHMOND, VIRGINIA

  “Worryin’ sure does keep you on your knees,” Louisa said to no one in particular.

  “What’s that you say, dear?” Aunt Sylvania looked up from her stitching. When no answer was forthcoming, she returned her attention to the wool jacket spread across her lap.

  Louisa set her stitching off to the side and rose to wander to the window. Every day she prayed for Zachary to return. Every day for these four weeks she’d gone to bed fighting despair. Not hearing from either of the young men foremost in her life had begun to wear on her.

  “Think I’ll go work in the garden.”

  “That’s a good idea.” Sylvania held the jacket up, studying the sleeve cap.

  Louisa wandered out the back door and across the flagstone verandah only to find two men already out there, one edging the pathways, the other tying up the sweet peas that refused to climb the trellis. There wasn’t a weed in sight, nor a dying blossom to clip off, nor a bit of mulch to be spread. Short of transplanting something that did not need transplanting, there was nothing for her to do. The garden looked better than it ever had, even when Sylvania had had a gardener with helpers.

  If only she could go over to the hospital.

  If only she could find Gilbert . . . and Zachary.

  Lord, I’m caught in the if only’s, and that’s not a good place to be. How am I to be grateful for not knowing if my brother or my fiancé—well, he wasn’t quite, but she’d come to think of Lieutenant Lessling as that—are alive. And my biggest problem is that I am not busy enough to keep from thinking. She had to be honest. From worrying. And I know worrying is a lack of faith. I know that. Lord, give me something to do.

  “Go sew on the jacket.”

  “Is that all you can think of?” She glanced heavenward as she muttered her rejoinder.

  “You need somethin’, Miss Louisa?” The taller of the two men stood a couple feet away.

  “No. No thank you. Would you and Private Daniels like something cold to drink?”

  “Hot maybe. ‘Specially if Abby has those molasses cookies I been smellin’. Sure makes me think of home.”

  “You sit down, and I’ll bring them right out.”

  “No, you don’t need to wait on us. ‘Less o’ course you might want to read while we eat?”

  His hopeful look made her smile. At least here was something she could do to make someone else happy.

  “Come on into the parlor, then, so the others can hear.” Two of the newer men were still bedridden and might be for some time, since her team of herself, Abby, and Reuben were still fighting the putrefaction of their war wounds.

  By the time she’d read them several psalms and one act of The Merchant of Venice, she’d gone hoarse, and two men in bed were soundly sleeping. Since sleep brought healing, she tiptoed out of the parlor and gently closed the door behind her.

  “I don’t think Corporal Downs looks very good. The fever must be back.” She stopped at her aunt’s side. “We don’t have any morphine left, do we?”

  Sylvania shook her head. “A bit of laudanum is all. I thought sure we had him on the road to recovery.”

  “When he wakes, I think I’ll change the bandage on his stump. No sense waiting on the doctor to tell us what we can find out for ourselves.”

  But while the stump looked like only healthy healing flesh, the man had slipped into delirium. When they called the doctor, he listened to the man’s chest and shook his head. “Pneumonia. I can take him back to the hospital, or you can fight it here.”

  Louisa knew their soldier had a much better chance at the house. “We’ll keep him.”

  “Reuben, let’s move Jacob to Zachary’s bed. I’ll get a mustard poultice started. Abby, you make up willow-bark tea. We’ve got to get his fever down.”

  They all headed for their duties, moving like a well-ordered machine, with each knowing what lay ahead. They’d been through this before—won one and lost one. Louisa hated to lose.

  By the darkest hour before dawn on the second day, they had to admit defeat. The soldier’s tortuous breathing had stilled.

  Tears flowed down Louisa’s face. “God, why? Didn’t you hear our prayers? We tried so hard.”

  Reuben patted her shoulder. “God hear us, missy. He just say no. Dis boy now dancin’ in heaven all whole again. You want him back to dis?” His hand gestured to the world around them. “You go on now. Get some sleep so you don’t get sick.”

  “I should . . .” She could barely hold her head up.

  “You should go to bed.” Sylvania stood in the doorway, her dressing gown belted, her mobcap in place. “They will take care of the body.”

  “Yes, Aunt.” But as Louisa pulled herself up the walnut stairs, her tired mind went to two other men. Where was Zachary? Was Gilbert still alive, and if so, where was he? Why, God? turned to Where, God? as she threw herself across the bed. “I’ll undress in a few minutes, rest first.” She wiped her tears on the pillow slip and knew no more.

  Sometime later Abby came up and drew the covers over her, gently closing the door on the way out.

  Dusk grayed the window when Louisa came fully awake. She lay cocooned in the warmth of her quilt and thought back to the battle. They’d done their best. She knew that. The enemy had been stronger, or their soldier had been weaker. How could he not be, with the septic wound?

  “Oh, Lord, how long? How long must this war go on? Please, I beg of you, bring Zachary home again safe and sound. And if you can find it in your will, bring Gilbert also.” A vision of Gilbert in the hospital contrasted to Gilbert admitting his love for her on the front porch made her smile. He had come so far. Loving him now was easy.

  Jacob was back in his bed in what used to be the dining room, and the other bed was made ready for another soldier.

  She sat down at the desk and wrote a letter to the boy’s mother, telling her what a fine son she had and how he had fought hard both for the South and for his life.

  He said our cook’s molasses cookies were good, but not up to those his mother made. He spoke of his home and family and how grateful he was that you raised him to know our living Lord. I know he is dancing with the angels in heaven now and wanting you to remember him strong and fine.

  In the name of our risen Lord,

  Louisa Highwood

  She’d written to this mother before when her son first came to live with them. Return letters had been so appreciated.

  She stared at the sheet of paper. If only she had Gilbert’s home address so she could write her futu
re mother-in-law and ask if they’d heard of their son. The harder she tried not to think of him, the more he came to mind. Was he suffering somewhere? Or had someone taken him in as they were doing? That is, if he were injured.

  When Zachary returned, she would implore him to inquire again about Gilbert. Perhaps someone, somewhere, knew something. When Zachary returned. So much seemed to hinge on when Zachary would come back.

  She refused to consider the threatening thought that surfaced when she least expected it. What if Zachary never returned?

  ON THE OREGON TRAIL

  MAY 1863

  “Some’uns been shot!”

  “Who?”

  “That man, Jones, with the big black beard.” Jane Ellen put her hand to her side and struggled to catch her breath. “’Phelia said to get you. You the best healer around.”

  “You stay with the stock, then. Keep Patch with you.” Jesselynn tore off across the field, her writing case clutched in one pumping arm. She hadn’t thought to ask how bad, but at least she knew where her medical box was packed.

  She shut her mind against any speculating and concentrated on breathing and not tripping on a gopher mound. “Where are they?” she asked as soon as she got to the wagon and could breathe.

  Ophelia pointed to the right wagon and handed her the wooden box she’d stocked with supplies in Independence. “Dey got in a fight.”

  Jesselynn took the box and headed across the inner circle of wagons. She had to keep in mind that Ophelia had been the one to call her, not Wolf or one of the other families. But then, how would they know about her training? After all, healing was woman’s work, unless there was a doctor around.

  “Fools,” muttered one of the men standing near the wagon.

  “What happened?” Jesselynn paused beside him to figure out how to handle this.

  “Got to drinking and got into an argument over something. Most likely too stupid to matter.”

  “But drinkin’ is against the train’s rules.”

  “I know, but when Wolf rode off, these two hit the bottle. You can bet there’ll be a thorough inspection after this.”