by Iris Penn
“What will you tell them?”
“I lost it defending the cause. That’s all.”
“I think Colonel Wilder would be proud to hear you say that.”
Colby thought of the poor engineer swinging in the tree. “Colonel Wilder is not about what we are fighting for.”
“What are we fighting for then?”
“Ten dollars a month and a new rifle to take home when it’s all over.”
***
WITH COLBY STRETCHED OUT in the back of the small wagon, John Holcomb stretched a white canvas over the wagon’s bed to keep the sun off before driving the wagon over the hills. Colonel Wilder’s troop had crashed through the underbrush with no regard to their horses or men, but the wagon was not designed for such speedy travel, and Holcomb found it difficult to navigate through the dips and valleys that made up most of the countryside.
Colby drifted in and out of consciousness while they rode. When he would awaken, he tried hard to swipe away the mosquitoes who constantly tried to land on his bleeding stump of a leg. He wondered if it hadn’t hurt less before they took it off. Now the fire that consumed him was not isolated to his leg, it was an inferno that devoured his entire body. They had no medicine for the pain, no morphine or even whiskey to take the razor sharp edge off. Colby only had himself, squeezing his eyes shut with every hellish bounce the wagon took as he forced himself to think of other things besides his stump.
There was the portrait of Melinda, and he gripped it until the edges of the locket cut into the palm of his hand. He would see her soon. They would reach Nashville, and then he would go north to find her. Her perfectly round eyes would sink deep into him and take away his pain. Then, when he was better, he would sit for long hours and explain to her the story of her father. She would be sad, but Colby would be there to comfort her and console her.
He had made a promise to her father.
Holcomb drove for hours, finding a road when they eventually emerged from the underbrush they had been rambling through. The ride smoothed out, and they headed east along the road. Holcomb was watching for soldiers on the road, and he kept his rifle nearby. Wilder had left them, but he had also left them enough food and ammunition to last them no matter how long it took them to get home. Holcomb didn’t think the food would last long if Colby was up and able to eat. However, Colby had shown no interest in the food, so Holcomb assumed it would be plenty for him.
“Where are we?” he heard Colby call from the back of the wagon.
“Decatursville,” said Holcomb. “We’ll see if we can find a doctor to give us something for that leg of yours.” Holcomb knew there probably would be no doctor in the town, for the army had called most of them away to serve, but he still had a little hope. He was also hoping to find a way to get a message home to his wife in Murfreesboro, but he knew that when the Union soldiers had come through western Tennessee, they had cut or torn most of the telegraph lines. Perhaps he could write a letter and have it sent by post: if there were any riders available.
The town of Decatursville consisted of a scattering of houses along the road leading up to a central dirt road branching out to the east and the north. It was here a small collection of storefronts lined up neatly, and one of them bore the small emblem marking a pharmacy and general store. Holcomb didn’t see anyone as their wagon rolled closer to the center of the town. It was as if the town was abandoned. He saw a few faces peer out of windows, curious and fearful, but Holcomb’s wagon was not carrying Union troops.
“Hello?” called Holcomb as he parked his wagon and climbed down. They stopped in front of the general store.
“Stay here,” he told Colby as he walked through the dusty street and entered the store. The cool darkness was a sharp contrast to the bright sunshine outside. Holcomb’s eyes adjusted and the sharp smell of spice greeted him, but he saw no one inside. He walked through the store, boots echoing on the wood floor. Most of the shelves were bare: the army had already been through here and taken what they needed. There were a few gardening tools, shovels and rakes, hanging on hooks in a lonely array, but all of the barrels of seed were empty, and the racks that used to hold the horse tack were bare as well.
“Hello?” called Holcomb. “Anyone here?”
He moved over to the counter where a closed door led to another room behind it. He tapped on the wooden surface of the counter. “Hello!”
The clicking of a hammer being cocked sounded behind him. Holcomb froze, slowly putting his hands up. Another click, and Holcomb recognized the sound as that of a shotgun: both hammers now cocked and ready to fire into his back.
“Turn around real slow,” a voice said from behind the shotgun. “We’ve had enough trouble with thieves and don’t need any more.”
“I’m not a thief,” said Holcomb, edging around to face the voice. “I’m a customer.”
He turned around and saw two black holes: the end of the shotgun barrels, staring at him like unblinking eyes. Looking past the gun, he saw a young woman held it, her steel gray eyes matching the color of the gun. She lowered the gun a little, but now it was pointed at his stomach instead of his head, and that didn’t make Holcomb feel much better.
“I’m looking for a doctor,” said Holcomb. “My friend’s hurt.”
“No doctors here,” said the woman. She looked young, maybe twenty, with a scar across her neck that wrapped around her throat like a white snake. “Store’s closed, too.”
“I need medicine,” said Holcomb, wishing she would put away the gun. “Morphine. I saw the pharmacy sign outside.”
The woman actually laughed a little, but the gun did not waver. “You honestly think we have morphine here? The army already cleaned us out three weeks ago. All we have left are shovels to bury our dead, who are dying without the benefit of medicine because of our boys marching away to the south. Now here comes one slinking back home to take what else he can. Well, we don’t have any here. So you need to get out of here before I write up one more casualty for the ‘cause’.”
“Okay,” said Holcomb. “I’ll leave.” She didn’t move. “With your permission, of course. I’m John Holcomb, from Murfreesboro. My friend and I are going home.”
“I think you’ve deserted,” said the woman. “And you’re looking for morphine for reasons other than for medication.”
A faint cry from outside, and Holcomb almost broke for the door, but the woman’s steady hand held him back.
“What’s the matter with your friend outside?” she asked.
“Got his leg taken off. From a wound he got at Pittsburgh Landing. He’s in a lot of pain.”
The gun shook a bit, and Holcomb saw the woman glance toward the door, her eyes narrowing with thought.
“You got any money?” she asked.
“No.”
The woman stepped over to one of the windows and glanced out, looking at the wagon. She saw Colby lying in the back of the wagon, half trying to crawl out. The cap on his stump had popped off, and red streaks were dripping down the sides of the wagon, staining the wood. With a grunt, Colby rolled over the side of the wagon and collapsed in the dusty street, clawing at the dirt.
Holcomb saw the woman’s face soften. Her mouth opened, half in shock at what she was seeing. Colby was trying to crawl into the store, his stump trailing behind him and leaving a trail.
“Oh, no,” she said quietly. Holcomb watched as the shotgun dropped to point at the floor, slack in her hand. “Your boy out there is out of the wagon.”
“What?” Holcomb started to go for the door, but stopped when the gun was raised again.
“Let me see him,” she said. “Maybe I can help. Bring him in and carry him to the back. There’s a bed back there, and be sure he’s comfortable.”
There was a thump beside the door, and Colby dragged himself up to collapse just outside.
“He looks like he’s dying,” the woman said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MELINDA LAY DOZING IN the porch swing, rocking back and forth
in a lazy rhythm. It was sunset, and the warmth of the day was fast dissolving into a cool evening. She felt chilled as she woke, and she looked up to see the last of the daylight sinking behind the trees.
The paper had fallen to the porch floor. Apparently, she had dropped it while she dozed. She reached down and picked it up again, crinkling the paper as she scooped it up. It was a well-read letter, creased and creased again with the seal of the governor stamped at the top. She didn’t want to look at it again, but she found she couldn’t help it, and the words, black and crisp, left no misunderstanding.
There was no record of her father at Johnson’s Island. The last group of prisoners had been processed more than two weeks ago, and there was no one named James Jacoby in the entire bunch. The list of prisoners included ones taken from the battle near Pittsburgh Landing, but her father was not among them. She read the lines again, but the meaning was clear. She felt fresh tears spring up.
Her father was not taken prisoner. There would be no prisoner exchange. If he was missing, then he was presumed dead or deserted.
The letter came that morning. A fresh-faced boy who had been delivering death notices of local boys killed or wounded had delivered it to the surrounding farms. He had galloped up on Melinda as she was putting the final touches on a crude scarecrow built in the center of the corn patch. It kept wanting to fall over, no matter how far she tried to pound it into the ground. It finally stood, tilted slightly, its arms jutting out and its head canted to one side.
“Melinda Jacoby,” the boy read from the envelope before handing her the letter. “Good day,” and just like that, he was gone down the road, raising small clouds of dust to deliver more notices of loss. Melinda simply stood, letter in hand, and stared at it. It looked official, as the postage on the envelope marked that it came from Nashville. She didn’t want to open it, but found herself quickly ripping it open, sliding the slip of paper out with a shaking hand.
Now she sat with blurred eyes staring out at the gathering darkness. The world wavered from behind water, and she angrily wiped her tears out of her eyes. Her father might not be dead. He might be missing, or lost. The letter crumpled in her fist, and she felt herself collapsing inside. The farm with its tilted scarecrow was all around her, and she couldn’t keep it together. For the past week, she had been eating well but a little too recklessly. She had gained a little bit of weight, and new color had returned to her face, but the reserves in the cellar were fast dwindling. They would be gone soon if she kept eating like she had. It would be late July or early August before the corn would be ready, and the other crops, what was left of them after the torrents of April, were looking wilted and sad, no matter how much water she carried out to them each morning. By midday, the sun would crack open the earth and dry out her plants, and the next morning she would be lugging bucket after bucket of water back out into the gardens to water them all again.
She was tired now most of the time, and she often found herself dozing off if she sat for more than a few minutes at a time. Sometimes she would walk out to the edge of the tree line and visit her mother’s grave, but she grew tired of that as well, and just the thought of the walk made her exhausted. The thought of taking Joan Johnson up on her offer came back to Melinda. It was tempting, now more than ever. They would probably insist as soon as she told them about the letter.
Then the thought of her father came to her. He was either dead or wandering lost in the wilderness, most likely looking for a way home. She refused to allow the word “deserted” to come into her mind, but it was there anyway, like a black sore. He deserted the army, and he’s not coming back.
However, she knew he was not the type of man who would run from his responsibility.
But then, how would she know how he would react under the pressure of fire? What would she do under the same circumstances? She wouldn’t blame him if he had run away. As she looked around the farm, she had the wish to run away, too. Leave the farm and head to Nashville. Abandon the rural life for one of city living. She could even have suitors who would take her for long rides in their carriages through the countryside as they went for their picnic beside the lake.
She shook her head, snapping herself out of her dream. That was not her. She would rather be thrown in the back of a hay wagon than ride in a stuffy carriage, and what would a suitor see in her anyway? The product of rural living and the result of a lifetime of scratching in the dirt for her next meal? She looked at her hands, worn and deeply calloused from welding a hoe all day. Like her father’s hands, rough from a day in the field. Her nails with their bits of dirt embedded deep underneath them, no matter how hard she scrubbed. The hair, often flattened by the constant wearing of her hat. No, a suitor would never give her a second look, and she doubted she would have much patience for one, anyway.
Crows landed on top of her scarecrow, their weight threatening to tip it over entirely. Melinda frowned at the result of her hard work. The scarecrow had taken her all of two days to stitch together, and it seemed the crows were laughing at it. Laughing at her, as well.
She could go to bed and forget about it for a few hours. Let the comfort of sleep wash over her and then there would be nothing but peaceful darkness for a brief period of time. The more she thought about it, the more inviting it seemed. She stood from the porch swing, the crinkled letter shoved down into the pocket of her skirt.
Voices were coming down the road, harsh and rhythmic. A cadence of marching, and all of its accompanying noise broke the soothing silence of the oncoming dusk. Melinda looked around the corner of the house, seeing a horse and rider leading a procession of marching soldiers. The banner the rider carried was visible even in the dim light. The stars and stripes: Union boys.
Melinda felt her chest tighten as she ran inside the house and locked the door. Perhaps they would pass on by and leave her alone. It was the first time she had even seen a Union regiment down in her part of the country, and the sight of row after row of trudging men coming down the road filled her with terror.
She blew out every candle she came to, and hurried on into the bedroom where she pulled her father’s shotgun out from under the bed. Cracking it open, she slid two shells in and snapped it shut. Then she crouched, peering out the bedroom window and waiting.
The horse with its rider was cutting across the yard, leaving the columns of men behind him as they continued to march west down the road, toward the Johnsons’ farm. Melinda saw the rider dismount, but more horses were coming up now: an entire cavalry division that had been riding with the army stood in her yard while the lead rider’s heavy boots thumped on the porch.
A booming knock reverberated through the house. Melinda held her breath, still crouching beneath the window. Please, oh, please, let them pass on by and leave me alone.
She could crawl under the bed, but they would find her and drag her out, kicking and screaming. She could jump out the window, but three thousand men marching down the road would see her. She could shoot them, but at the most she could get two, and that would leave the rest to do what they wanted to her, if they didn’t kill her first.
So, she waited, clutching the gun in her sweating hands and trying not to breathe too loudly. Another knock, and when there was no response, she could hear the door burst open and the boots thumped into the house. She could smell the smoke from the torch he carried and had a sudden flash of him applying the flame to her house.
“Anyone here?” a harsh voice called out. Melinda’s heart was drumming so hard surely they could hear it from the other room. The boots were coming closer, clomping throughout the house as they searched it. More came in, and when she peeked out the window, she saw most of the cavalry had dismounted, and some were coming into the house to follow their friend.
She saw the light from the soldier’s torch reflecting on the wooden floor as it stopped at the doorway to the bedroom. The silhouette of the soldier was there, filling most of the doorframe as he peered around in the darkness. Melinda’s fingers slipped
over the shotgun, but she knew she would never be able to actually raise it to fire.
The soldier had spotted her, crouching there like a cornered dog in the corner beneath the window. A pistol was in his free hand, and Melinda saw it now pointed at her.
“Put down your gun, miss,” he said. “Come on out of there. We’re not going to hurt you.”
Whether or not the soldier was speaking the truth was not important. What was important was how sincere he sounded, and Melinda found herself wanting to believe that he really wasn’t going to hurt her, and things would be okay. She started to put the gun down and stand, but another shape came up beside the soldier, illuminating himself in the torchlight.
“Got us a reb farmwife, looks like,” the new soldier said, and there was nothing sincere in his voice. It was harsh like gravel, and his words tumbled out like rocks being thrown. “Corporal Sims, you are relieved. Secure the horses and tell the men we’re riding out with the others in ten minutes. Make sure they didn’t find anyone else in the house.”
Sims lowered his pistol, giving Melinda one last look. Melinda suddenly did not want the young corporal to go. As long as he stood there, she felt safer, and she felt trust. But now the other soldier was ordering him out, and the new face that had appeared had no kindness about it.
“Sir, what about the girl?” Sims asked. Melinda still clutched the shotgun, but she didn’t think the new soldier had seen it.
“Standard procedure, Corporal,” said the new soldier. “We interrogate her, and find out what she knows. Then, if she cooperates, we go our separate ways.”
There was something sinister about the word cooperate the way the new soldier said it. It was a knife of a word, cutting through the dark air, short and stabbing.
“Get to it!” the new soldier suddenly barked at Sims. “I’ll be out in five minutes. Remember, we ride in ten.”