by Ward, Marsha
A sharp pain interrupted his worries about Rulon. “Ow!” He should have kept an eye on Ella Ruth’s ministrations. She seemed to be probing his flesh with some cold metal implement. No, she was cutting his flesh! “Ella! For the love of—”
“Shush, Ben. Act the part of a man. I must remove this infection or you could lose the leg.” Her look was stern, but quite concerned, and he gritted his teeth so hard he was afraid he would break them.
“Go ahead,” he muttered. “Give me warning when you’re fixin’ to cut me again.”
“I’m sorry. It must be done. I wish I could give you a tumbler of liquor to dull your senses, but I cannot spare it. It is all I have to wash your wound afterward.” She held up a bottle of amber liquid.
He nodded his understanding.
She returned to her work, and after a bit said, “Prepare yourself. I have one more cut to make.”
He thought perhaps he blacked out for a while, because when he opened his eyes again, the blanket covered him. Ella Ruth wadded up the waste and put it into a basket. Then she turned to him and placed her hand on the blanket, uncomfortably close to his parts.
“Now you must rest. Tonight I will take you into the house. It’s too dangerous to leave you here. You could be discovered.”
“Ella?”
“Yes?”
“I owe you a debt of gratitude for takin’ me in and usin’ your healin’ arts on me.”
She stared at the ground, nervously working the fingers of the hand on the blanket against her thumb.
“Your devotion to me is clear. Will you forgive me for my doubts?”
She nodded. “With all my heart.”
“I reckon you gave me that already.”
“Yes.” She joined her hands together before her mouth, and oh horror, a tear slid down her cheek.
“Don’t weep, girl. We’ll find a minister.”
She sniffed and bowed her head, not saying anything further before she turned and left with her basket and his dinner plate.
~~~
Ben — October 21, 1864
After nightfall, Ella came back to the shed and whispered, “Ben. Are you awake?”
He was nearly asleep, truth be told, but got himself in hand enough to answer, “Yes, mostly.”
“Good,” she said. “Swing your limbs over the side of the table. I will assist you.”
“Why?”
“I’m taking you to the house. The Yankees are about, and I don’t want them to discover you.”
Alert, now that she had reminded him of his dangerous circumstance, Ben struggled upright and did as Ella Ruth had bid him.
She took his arm and guided him onto the stool, then down to the ground. “Mind your wound,” she murmured. “Let me bear your weight.”
He looked around for his gear, but could see nothing in the dimness.
“Have no fear,” she said. “Your rifle is safe in the house.”
“I thank you,” he whispered, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and venturing a step. Pain shivered up his leg, but he could hardly cry out and bring the enemy down upon them, so he bit his lip and bore the pain as well as he could while Ella Ruth tugged him toward the house.
He stumbled a time or two, both from weakness and from encountering unknown obstacles in the path, but they made good progress, and soon approached the house.
“Shh!” Ella Ruth cautioned, standing still.
Ben stopped, now clutching the girl for all he was worth in an attempt to keep his balance.
“Now go,” she muttered, and tugged him forward.
Ben stumbled again, stepping on a rounded object that must have some length to it, as both feet found it.
“Careful. It’s only a stick,” she said, a little catch in her voice.
“I will make it, if we haven’t far to go,” he replied.
“Just a bit more,” she promised, and soon they did arrive at the back of the house.
Ella Ruth pulled on the latch and opened the door to the darkened wash room. The kitchen showed no light either. They paused so she could close and bolt the door. Then they passed through the wash room and into the kitchen.
“Here,” Ella Ruth said, pulling back a chair and easing Ben into it. “You must rest, dear husband.”
Husband? Figuring his ears had stopped up to the extent that he had misheard her, he put a finger into one and wiggled it around.
Ella Ruth lit a candle, placed it on the table, took his hand from his ear, and said, “Ben, we’ve stepped over the broomstick. We’re now husband and wife.”
Even as he groaned in disbelief, he recalled the rounded stick near the back of the house. “I stepped on it,” he whispered. “That’s not the same as jumping over it.”
She held herself rigidly erect, grasping his hand with hers. “No matter. You crossed over the broomstick. You are my husband, according to the rites of the servants.” She paused, then took a breath and continued in a softer tone. “If you need words, I will say words to you, words of fealty and devotion, words of love and adoration.”
“You can speak them later, once I’ve rested,” he said, his mind reeling with the notion that they were married. Pain dulled his senses. He longed for sleep, could barely keep himself awake, but he would have to deal with Ella Ruth’s conviction sooner or later. “If you’re set on this rite, I’ll come up with words to speak. Right now, I have to sleep.”
~~~
Ben — October 22 through November 6, 1864
Ben awoke the following morning with words in his brain that led him to believe that he had been mulling over the state of affairs during the night.
Ella Ruth had ensconced him in her parent’s bed despite his strenuous objections. The girl would not be denied, which he already knew from sad experience, but at least he had put his mind to ease once he had spoken his doubts.
Now he felt a mite off. When he took stock of himself, he discovered that his leg had swollen up to a tremendous extent, and he feared infection and fever had set in.
Jerusalem crickets! He didn’t have time or inclination to be laid up in bed for an extended period. He had to get back to his company.
He tried calling out for Ella Ruth. The weakness of his voice frightened him. He tried again, and this time he achieved some volume. She came quickly, worry written upon her face as she examined his leg.
“Ben, you must lie still. I’ll bring an herbal powder for the wound. We must bring down that swelling and the fever. Bear with me, and I’ll pull you through this rough spot.”
At times in the days that followed, Ben doubted he would survive. At others, he wished for a surgeon to cut off the limb. But at the end of a fortnight, Ella Ruth’s faith and labors were rewarded. Ben had come through the daunting hours of intense pain and weakness and finally felt he had regained his strength.
“Darling Ben,” his miracle worker said as she spooned a thick soup into his mouth.
“Yes?” he asked between swallows. He could pull off the task of feeding himself, but at the moment, he enjoyed the luxury of lying in bed without pain at last.
“You must begin to walk around more.”
“In due time,” he said, not wanting to exercise at the moment.
“I will assist you.”
“As ever.” He noticed the brightness of her blue eyes against the dark hollows around them. Could she be starving? She should be eating this soup. Heaven only knew where she had acquired the ingredients. “Ain’t you tired? Hungry?”
She gave a small shrug with one shoulder. “A little.”
“You’ve gone without food and sleep to serve me.”
She made a face of denial.
“Come rest beside me. I’ll feed you what remains of the soup.” He moved over to make room for her and took the bowl from her hand.
She raised an eyebrow. “Do you have any fever?”
“No. You have cured me of the infection.”
She sat on the bed. A bird cawed outside the window. “I own I am a mite t
ired.”
“Lie back. Eat.”
He fed her the soup remaining in the bowl until she had taken it all and ran her tongue across her bottom lip in search of any lingering sustenance. The sight sent a stirring through his nether regions. He reached across her to put the bowl on the small table beside the bed and sensed the warmth of her breast beneath his arm.
His body responded with a yearning so sharp he barely could contain it. He sucked in a breath and held it. Had she spoke the truth when she had insisted he was indeed her husband? Could a step over a stick make it so?
He used the breath to ask, “Ella? You are truly my wife?”
She nodded, and he read conviction in her eyes, and yes, a spark of hunger.
“And I am your husband?”
“Please,” she said.
Chapter 27
Ben — November 7, 1864
Ben awoke at daybreak, his heart hammering, and his breathing—ragged, labored—took a long time to regularize.
What have I done?
He looked at the girl in his arms. She had murmured words to him, binding words of love and devotion and marriage. He dimly recalled some such pledge had come from his mouth in response. The details were hazy, but he had spoken of his undying adoration and claimed her as his wife.
Then he had done so in a carnal manner.
What have I done? his mind screamed. His heart replied that she was his own bride, but his innermost being cried out that he had sinned against Heaven and against Ella Ruth.
“No,” he moaned, and felt her stir.
“Ben?”
He stiffened, felt his arms tighten around her. “I’m here,” he muttered.
“Husband,” she sighed.
He dared not speak. The idea that stepping over the broomstick was a legal and lawful marriage ceremony had lodged deep in her brain, convincing her that they were man and wife. He knew they were not. How could they be? They were not slaves.
He breathed slowly, deeply, trying to loosen his grip on the woman whose favors he had taken with such relish.
He shuddered. Slaves. Perhaps they were. Slaves to passion. Slaves to carnal actions. Slaves to the Eternal Pit. He had dragged her down to damnation.
He groaned, and she was instantly awake and aware.
“Are you ill?” Her voice was sharp.
“God forgive me. I have sinned.”
“No.” She sat up. “Look at me, Ben.” She took his face between her palms to make sure he did. “Do I have the aspect of a sinner?”
She did not. Her countenance was radiant, peaceful. Could she be right in her conviction?
“We crossed over the broomstick. We spoke the words. We are wed, as perfectly wed as Mistress Mary and brother Rulon. Is that not so?” Her eyes bore into his.
He had to nod. He must not let her doubt her status. He knew the truth. He had violated her trust as much as her body, and he was damned to enter Hell for his sin.
~~~
Julia — November 20, 1864
Owen Farm
Mt. Jackson, Via.
My dear husband,
How I long for your company. Instead, I am putting up three left-behind fellows who need nursing before they can go back to their companies. Yes, they should be in the soldier’s hospital or in Staunton, but capacity having been reached, we are obliged to provide room, board, and bandages.
I do not let Marie or Jule anywhere near these young men, for they are a low sort of person from another state not known for gentility. I hope to see the last of them off in the next week, food being in short supply from the time of Sheridan’s burning.
I fear it will be necessary to send the girls into town, perhaps to stay with Rulon and Mary. I hesitate to do so, as Mary has her hands full nursing Rulon. Husband, his wounds are grievous. At first, I despaired for his life, but Mary would not let him die. If I had the surgeon who ill-treated him in my rifle sights, I cannot say what I would do.
Surely you do not wish to hear blood-thirsty threats from your wife, so I will cease such talk, but my anger does not abate when I remember how my son was dumped in a ditch to die! I am weary of war and of trying to cope with a dire new situation nearly every day. When will it end, dear husband?
Ben is with Gen’l Early’s army here in the Valley. Carl still rides with Mosby. James is besieged at Petersburg. He is certain Gen’l Lee will bust them out this coming Spring.
I pray for you and our sons every morning and every night. If Heaven has ears, surely the Father will give heed to our noble cause and bring this conflict to a close.
Craving to feel your arms about me, I remain,
Your loving wife, Julia
~~~
Ben — November 24, 1864
Ben stood in the entryway, holding Ella Ruth tightly against his chest. She had been trying to put on a brave face, but he could tell from the riotous rhythm of her heart that she was profoundly affected.
“It won’t be long before I’m back,” he swore. “We’ll find a true minister to unite us when warring is done.”
“Ben,” she sighed into his shirt. “There is no need. We are wedded as firmly as though we had said words in the church.” She tilted up her face and planted a kiss on his lips. “I wish you would believe me.”
He wished he could. He cupped her cheek in his hand. How she had changed since that fatal day. Her face radiated joy. She took pleasure in fetching and carrying for him, even though he knew his health had been restored, except for a slight limp. No more the heedless coquette, she had become the little wife she believed herself to be. His little wife.
Hating to erase the happiness from her brow, he had prolonged his stay as long as he could and still feel his absence was honorable. However, yesterday he had stated his intention to rejoin his company, which he figured to be wintering in a gap in the Blue Ridge.
Now the moment of parting had come and his heart ached, even as it beat wildly in anticipation of traveling back to the regiment.
“You will write?”
“Must I send letters to the store?”
“No. While Poppa is gone I shall take delivery here. Don’t forget to begin with ‘Missus,’ or I won’t know to whom you’ve addressed your note.”
He smiled at the bantering tone in her voice. “You are a little scamp.” Becoming serious, he tapped her on the nose. “That could be dangerous for you. Don’t be surprised if I use the Allen surname.” He saw the beginning of a frown on her lips, and hastened to add, “Just until the war is over.”
“Then I may claim your name?”
“I promise.” He felt a bit of unease at giving the vow, but shook off the doubt. They would be wed by proper authority as soon as he returned, and then she could call herself “Mrs. Benjamin Owen” to her heart’s content. He sealed the promise with a long, yearning kiss.
“I must go, my love,” he said at last, squeezed her gently, and turned on his heel.
~~~
Ella Ruth — December 3, 1864
Ella Ruth woke and faced the day ahead with a sigh. Ben had scarcely been gone a week, but she missed his grin, his warm presence beside her in her parents’ bed, his tantalizing scent of manhood. She had waited such a long time for the caresses that had carried her away to the realm of womanly fulfillment.
She could hardly believe her good fortune when she had come upon him so unexpectedly in the battered orchard. She had gladly nursed him back to health, clinging to the promises they had made to marry when next they met. But she had not foreseen the impediment to their plans of a lack of ministers of the gospel.
The old Ben would not have cared. How many times had he urged her to give him her favors just one time? As many times as she had refused him. However, the Ben she had kissed last week and sent back to Jubal Early’s army cared very deeply about the risk of carnal temptations.
She sat up. That didn’t matter now. Poppa would acknowledge her marriage, wouldn’t he? He had never denied the Negro servants their ceremonies. Ben’s reserva
tions would be overcome when he returned and they would be united in connubial bliss once more.
As she dressed, she considered if there were any changes in her body that would indicate coming motherhood. She knew the signs to watch for, but so far, there were none. Perhaps the handful of encounters she had teased out of Ben after that first night was not sufficient. When he returned, she intended to keep him to herself for a very long honeymoon. She had no desire now for a trip to Europe. Anywhere private would suit her, even a barn or a ferny dell. All she wanted was Ben’s arms around her and the delightful exertions of marriage. She smiled to herself. Sooner or later, a child would come.
~~~
Rulon — December 31, 1864
Rulon looked down at the puckered scars on his stomach and chest and grimaced. How would Mary react to his unsightly body when time came for them to change their relationship from casualty and nurse to man and wife?
They lived in their own house. No one but the little son was around to impede them. The boy went to bed early, but would the awful mess of wounds cause his Mary’s heart to shrink?
She had seen the wounds, true, but as his nurse, not as his lover.
He had fought back from the brink of extinction, holding fast to the longed-for reward of Mary’s arms about his neck and her ready response to his embrace. Ever since he had returned home, his enemy had been the exhaustion that came hurtling out of the corner of the room to ensnare him after each attempt to begin an everyday activity. He had husbanded each gain in strength as a victory over the specter of death and defeat.
He had won the ability to feed himself. How sweet that was! He could draw himself to a sitting position, even swing his limbs over the side of the bed without pain lancing through his vital organs. He had advanced to being able to take short steps to sit in the armed chair Mary had dragged up the stairs from the kitchen. His greatest victory thus far was the ability to use the chamber pot by himself.
Be that as it may, he still was a prisoner of the second floor of the house. Two days ago, he had ventured as far as the stairs, but fell and tumbled down the steps to the landing. Mary would not permit a second try at escape now. He gingerly twisted his torso. The ache was still in his ribs. Descending the stairs was a victory yet to be gained.