by Diane Munier
Enjoy this Excerpt from
My Wounded Soldier: Fight for Glory
Chapter One
Tom Tanner, 1866
I would never look at a field the same again. For all of life seemed different to me now. I did not trust the quiet. It used to stretch on, when I was young. But now I did not trust it at all, and knew it held all of the ingredients for the chaos that could come so quickly, in a turn, a moment. Death.
I had just finished the bread and meat Ma had packed for me in the wagon. That soft white bread I could not stuff myself with enough to silence my thoughts or fill the empty craving, the aching inner prisoner that rattled my cage and said I wasn’t worthy of the bread, the hands that kneaded it with hope, nor the fire that baked it.
I was no sooner done with my hourly, minute-by-minute chaw of self-loathing when I picked up a call that was not bird, nor beast. It was a young voice. Too young for such a pitch, such a word, my name.
It was not my brother Garrett. But I heard him sometimes…on the wind. Smelled him, too. Saw him in some men…tall ones, strong like him, walking loosely and free. But this call was younger, and I thought I heard it again.
I rounded the wagon and saw him. A lad coming on, running. “Mr. Tanner,” he cried. I hurried to meet him. “My ma,” was all he could say, over and over, hands on his knees. But when he got going, I picked him up and ran for the wagon. Though I could not clearly understand him, I heard enough of the words I hoped to never hear again. Soldiers and guns and killing.
He was the Varn boy, the one who favored the mother. He was dark and freckled, big brown eyes. I had seen her at church, but I did not stare. I saw very few, but she had rattled me enough that I took note. Only because my ma went on. My sister too. There was Jesus and the Mrs. Varn.
But now…the lad sat beside me, as I nudged this old mule to do more than saunter. She was past her prime and in no hurry. I’d only brought her today because the work was light.
I watched the boy from the corner of my eye. He stared ahead, a white grip on the seat.
I wished my ma was here. The boy had told the story then stopped talking altogether. I didn’t think I could send him to the farm on his own. He looked spent, and if there was trouble, he shouldn’t be trouncing around until I understood what to look for. I had my rifle, I was rarely without it. So the boy needed to stay near.
I pulled up to a gruesome scene. The boy was keening, a bad sound. He was rocking on the seat. I told him to lie in the bed of the wagon. I spoke firmly, and made him look at me.
But he pointed to the porch, and there was his ma, her dark hair spread around her spent form. She looked tossed on that porch like a rag doll. I lost my breath for fear she was dead, too, but she moaned then and started to move.
So I grabbed that boy from the seat and all but tossed him in the wagon’s bed. “Lay still. Soon’s I can I’ll help you out. Don’t be afraid. I’m here now.” I took my rifle and went to the woman. I could tell the men were gone.
Holy cow she was big with child. Looked ready to foal and with the moaning. I needed Ma. There was no possibility…I’d rather face those dead bodies any day.
I knelt by her side. She opened her eyes and said my name. I couldn’t have been more surprised if she was dead.
I stood my rifle against the house, also retrieved her shotgun and did the same. Then I scooped her up because she wasn’t heavy at all, light like my sister, not nearly like the dead body of a full grown man.
I pushed through the door with my shoulder, looking at her, so pretty and looking like almighty hell. This poor thing. I went to the bed in the far corner and laid her on the quilt. I ran to the door then. “Boy,” I called, grabbing the weapons, “Get on in here.” When he didn’t show I said more firmly, “Boy!”
He popped up then and scrambled over, hitting the dirt hard, but on his feet, and he came running. I wanted him in the house where I could make sure he was safe. This woman didn’t need to lose another while birthing. Dear God, birthing. Just me and her and the big blue sky.
So I set that boy a job. I had him peel about six potatoes so she’d have some soup when she got through pushing out this baby. And I wanted his mind to stay. Setting a task was the way to nail him to something real.
Then I hung a quilt from the rafters to block his view. I fed her a little water, but she was poorly. I debated sending that kid over to get Ma, but my gut said don’t do it. So I rubbed my hands together, and took off her shoes. She had little feet and I blushed seeing them so small and dainty in my hand. I did not know my preference for little toes before now, but another pain gripped her and I came to my senses and repented as I told her I was sorry, but she couldn’t have a baby wearing her bloomers. So being careful to keep the skirt in place, I tried to reach beneath its bulk and get a hold of the bloomers, which were split so she could make water, and she already had, lost the water, but still I knew this was going to get real messy, so I pulled her bloomers down, and tears came to my eyes I swear thinking of the after, that’s if we both lived through this.
But I got them off without seeing anything but her dainty legs shaped so fine I could call myself nothing but sinner as I tried to blot out every idea I ever had about procreating and such.
I checked on Johnny and he sat at table hacking at those potatoes. I told him to fetch some carrots too, and work on those and I wanted them done right. I felt so guilty, and I don’t know why seeing as I didn’t ask for any of this. But God was always giving it to me anyway and I didn’t deserve nothing good, but what a fix.
I got a rag and the whole bucket of water and told him, “Don’t be looking out that window neither.” Cause I didn’t want him studying his pa that a way.
I went behind the curtain, and she was worse it seemed, eyes closed and whimpering, and I wet the rag and washed her face, then her neck she was so sweaty and distressed. I was speaking soft to her, saying embarrassing things I thought might soothe her, I didn’t know. But I’d talked to a dying man or two and it served me now.
In the next hour we got past it all. Her skirt was completely off and on the floor. I had her knees bent, and was constantly having to bring her leg out of the way. She was screaming and writhing, then so silent I feared she was dead. Her woman parts were widening so swollen and looking ready to pop. I had seen animals birth…all my life. So this was not so different, and so very different.
I was studying down there, praying for that head to show. She was such a fragile looking thing, so dainty, and yet so strong, I shuddered to think how she hurt. I never wanted to see such pain again, but here it was, and I told myself it was good. If she lived.
I hoped I didn’t have to reach up there and turn it around. I’d had my arm up a cow or two, even a horse, but there was no way I could mess around in this tiny woman, and hurt her like that…, “Oh God, I know my prayers are rotten to you…but for her sake….”
Her little head was thrashing. “Tom,” she screamed.
And then a miracle happened, and I could see the head. She opened up, and I saw the child’s hair. “Missus,” I said, “you’re doin’ so fine, girl. You’re so fine. Just push it out now, it’s just like it should be, honey.” I was so danged relieved I could have danced a jig if I wasn’t afraid she was going to rip apart and bleed to death on my watch.
Her little parts were straining, parting like the Red Sea, and before I knew it a bigger oval of the infant’s hair showed.
“That’s it, honey. You’re the strongest woman I know. My ma would be so proud of you. You’re almost there now, darlin’ girl. Don’t you be afraid. You’ve got to push. Put some muscle in it now.”
“She grit her teeth, and I gave her my hand, and she squeezed the juice out of it, and I kept telling her to come on like she was pulling the plow through mud and stone, and she pushed and I had to let go and catch this baby. Its whole head and shoulders were out now, and I turned it gentle as I eased it out of her, and my life got washed in one moment, and I knew that somehow God
was telling me I wasn’t the most miserable bastard that ever lived. Cause I had touched heaven, and done a good thing…like a priest or some-such.
So I set that baby on her mama’s stomach, and Missus looked at that girl and laughed a little, then at me, and I had this life cord and the business still running into her to deal with, but for a moment, we just looked at each other and she said, “Thank you.”
And I said…nothing in the face of such beauty as that mother and her child. I couldn’t speak.
About the Author
Living comfortably in the heart of America with the people I love. I live an extroverted life, but I'm a genuine introvert. An urban kid, I spent much of my youth running in various neighborhood establishments. There I met many colorful characters and I learned to love them and be fascinated by them. My love of story comes from them. I learned to sit on a bar stool or a kitchen chair or in a pew and hear story. Hear the voices telling story. See the mouths move and the hands clutching glasses or cigarettes. See and hear the laughter. There is no greater honor than to hear someone's story. If you feel that way about the tales I tell...what more could I ask.
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