Within minutes, before they even reached the enemy, he found that he was right. The bugle call for retreat came loud and clear through the early morning fog. The cannon must have missed its mark, alerting the Rebels to their approach.
He turned, as did Joseph and Marvin. All together, they turned and ran, eager to be away.
“This way!” Marvin yelled, veering them toward the left. Jeffrey followed. He didn’t care which direction they went, he just wanted to be out of harm’s way. He didn’t mind fighting, but he wanted to be able to see what it was he was shooting at—or at the very least, what was two feet in front of him.
Joseph tripped over something, landing hard on the ground. Jeffrey stopped. “Come on, get up.”
“Go ahead. I’ll catch up,” he said from the ground, obviously stunned.
Jeffrey held out his hand. “Get up,” he repeated.
Joseph took it and managed, with Jeffrey’s help, to stand on his feet.
Marvin must have run on ahead. They didn’t see him anywhere. They were away from the others in the troop now. Except for their heavy breathing, it was quiet. Only an occasional shot rang out behind them.
If only the fog would lift, he could figure out which way they should go. He wasn’t familiar with this area. He had grown up in south Louisiana, near Baton Rouge, and this was the northern part of the state. Nonetheless, the terrain was similar enough for him to navigate—or could be.
“Do you know where we’re headed?” Joseph asked.
“I can’t see a damned thing.”
“Aren’t you from here?” Joseph asked, limping along much more slowly than Jeffrey would have preferred.
“No, I’m from down south.”
He felt Joseph glance at him. “This is down south.”
Jeffrey felt the laughter bubble up and spill out. He supposed from Joseph’s perspective, they couldn’t be much more down south. Only a Southerner from Louisiana could tell the difference. The trees were different. And the people had a different accent.
“What’s so damn funny?” Joseph asked, holding his elbow as he tried to run.
“Over here,” Jeffrey said, slipping behind a fallen log. He silently prayed there would be no snakes. Joseph followed, gasping as he fell to the ground.
“Are you all right?” Jeffrey asked.
“Of course, I’m all right.”
“If you say so. We’ll just hide out here until things clear out.”
They crouched behind the log.
“Is it always this foggy around here?”
“How should I know? I’m from down south.”
Joseph laughed. Coughed. Spit up.
Jeffrey looked over, forgot what he was going to say. The front of Joseph’s jacket was wet. “What is that?” Jeffrey asked.
“What?” Joseph asked, following Jeffrey gaze. “Oh hell,” He swiped the wetness.
“It’s blood,” Jeffrey said, kneeling in front of Joseph to pull his jacket open and reveal the wound in his right shoulder. “You’re hit,” he said.
“Dang.”
“You didn’t feel it?”
“No, man. It must be bad.”
“Let me take a look,” Jeffrey said, ripping Joseph’s shirt and using it to wrap his shoulder.
Jeffrey leaned back against the log. Joseph must have been hit back in the fray.
He strained, but heard only silence – except for Joseph’s heavy breathing.
Now what? They had no provisions. And Joseph wouldn’t be able to travel far. He’d lost a lot of blood.
We can’t stay here.
“Can you walk?” he asked, getting up and holding out his hand for Joseph.
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s see,” Jeffrey said.
Joseph got to his feet and they walked a few yards before Joseph fell back to the ground. “I can’t,” he said.
“Come on,” Jeffrey said, “At least get to the tree.”
Jeffrey propped Joseph up next to a tree. “I’ll go see if I can get some help or at least find some provisions. Wait here.”
“Ha. Like I’m going anywhere.”
“I’ll be back.”
Whoever would have thought of hiding paper money in a fireplace?
Claire sat on the floor of the parlor holding a cloth bag of paper money—Confederate paper money. Only now, the three hundred dollars of hard saved money was only worth about one hundred. She didn’t have the heart to tell him that his money was all but worthless.
No, she corrected herself. It was more money than she had ever seen—even if it was Confederate money. Wrapping it back up carefully, she replaced it. Thank God he had told her where to find it. If he’d passed away without telling her, she would never have known it was there. It was likely that it would never have been found by anyone.
The money didn’t change anything. Even if it had been Yankee currency, she wouldn’t have left him here. Alone with the Yankees at their doorstep.
Nothing could convince her to leave him.
Not even the whole Yankee army descending upon them.
Chapter Two
Later that evening, Claire sat on the porch swing that her father had built when she was a little girl. Romeo lay stretched on the floor next to her. It was her favorite time of the day. The sunlight had settled into the trees and deer frolicked by the pond – three does and two fawns, their spots not quite faded.
Though she had been only close to five years old, she had an indelible memory of sitting on this porch swing, snuggled against her father. It was the only time she remembered him sitting still. On this swing. In the evenings. With her snuggled against him. Staring into the distance.
Always staring.
Claire’s mother had died shortly after Claire was born; hence, she had never known her mother. Her grandmother told her that Claire’s father had been restless after the death of his wife.
Claire often wondered if he blamed her for his wife’s death, but she never had that sense from him, and her grandmother told her that it was nonsense to even think that way.
A week before Claire’s fifth birthday, her father had packed up his gear and left for Texas to fight in the Mexican–American War. His restlessness it seemed, had gotten the best of him.
She remembered the day the letter came.
Claire had made soup for dinner, soup with potatoes she’d grown herself and tomato sauce that she’d put into jars. After Grandpa had sat up and eaten a whole bowlful of the hot soup in bed, she’d eaten half a bowl herself. Alone at the little wooden kitchen table. She’d saved the rest in a jar for tomorrow.
She didn’t have much appetite tonight. There was much to contemplate. Grandpa persisted like a dog with a bone about her leaving.
At his request, she’d dug the money back out and shown it to him. In his mind, it was still worth three hundred dollars. She couldn’t – wouldn’t tell him any different.
The fighting had quieted. It was a little too quiet.
Still.
Waiting.
Their house being away from the main road gave her some comfort. It would be unlikely for anyone traveling the main road to just happen across their land.
A chilly wind drifted across the water and, with a shudder, she stood up. “Come on, Romeo.” The dog stood up, and with a shake, followed her inside. Though she rarely bolted the door, she did so now.
Walking past Grandpa’s bedroom, she paused to peek inside.
“Claire, are you alright?” he asked from the bed.
“I’m well, Grandpa,” she answered, going to stand next to the bed. Romeo followed her and jumped onto the foot of the bed and putting his head down, closed his eyes.
Grandpa patted the mattress. “Sit,” he demanded. “Give an old man a few minutes before you go off to read.”
She smiled. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired. As always.”
Taking a deep breath, she swallowed the lump in her throat. If there was anything she could do to make him
better, she would do it. It broke her heart to see him like this.
“I’m not leaving,” she said, looking him in the eyes.
He smiled, returning her gaze. “I didn’t think you would.”
“So stop asking,” she said, with a lightness she didn’t feel.
“I’ll stop,” he said. “Until tomorrow. I’m only thinking of you.”
“I know. But you have to stop trying to kick me out.”
“Abigail would be so proud of you,” he said, changing the subject.
“You miss Grandma, still, don’t you?”
“I’ll miss her always.”
Claire kissed Grandpa on the cheek and said goodnight. Romeo jumped off the bed and followed her to her room.
As she did every night, Claire lit the candle on her nightstand, knelt beside her bed and said her nightly prayers. She prayed for her grandfather. She prayed that the war stay away from their door. Then she snuggled under the wool blankets with a book. Jane Eyre this time. She’d already read it three times, but she never tired of it.
She fell asleep, her face on the open pages.
Sometime later, in the dark of night, she woke, with the room aglow in candle light. She lay there for a moment and realized what had wakened her. There had been a clatter coming from the front of the house. And now she heard a scuffling noise.
Her first impulse was to check for Romeo, but she was afraid to lift her head. Shifting her feet a little, she felt him there on the foot of her bed.
Her next thought was that Grandpa was up. If he was, she needed to check on him. Soundlessly, she slipped out from beneath the blankets, her feet landing on the cold floor. Shivering, she pulled a blanket off the chair next to her bed and wrapped up in it.
The candle sputtered, leaving the room in darkness. She groaned. Standing motionless, she waited for her eyes to adjust. But it was a moonless night. Pitch black.
By memory and instinct, she soundlessly moved toward the wall, then made her way toward the doorway to the hall.
Only worrying about Grandpa kept her moving forward. She considered calling out to him, but instinct held her back.
Her heart pounding erratically in her chest, she entered the hallway. Something slammed in the kitchen—the cupboard door perhaps, and she gasped, taking a step back, holding close to the wall.
The darkness blinded her. If she couldn’t see though, neither could the intruder. Inch by inch, she used her hand behind her to follow the wall to Grandpa’s room.
Something brushed against her knee and she jumped again, but quickly realized it was just Romeo.
She bumped against Grandpa’s bed and he grabbed her arm. She gasped.
“Shh,” he said, pulling her toward him.
“How did you know it was me?” she whispered.
“Lucky guess.”
There heard footsteps in the hallway.
“Get up here on the bed and keep your hand on my shoulder,” he hissed.
“No, I…”
“Just do it,” he said forcefully, his voice barely above a whisper. “And don’t move.”
She did as he said. She sat on the bed next to him and put her hand on his shoulder. Romeo sat on her foot.
She prayed. Her eyes closed, she prayed for the intruder to go away and leave them be. He could take whatever he wanted, just, please, leave them be.
Seconds ticked. Where was the intruder? She no longer heard footsteps. All was quiet.
“Claire?” Grandpa hissed.
She jumped. “Yes?” she whispered.
“Move closer to me,” he said. “Get behind me.”
She did as he asked, her fingertips digging into his shoulders. Her eyes open now, she strained against the darkness, every muscle on edge. Waiting. Waiting for the intruder to appear in front of them.
She couldn’t see Grandpa. Couldn’t even hear him breathing. It was as though she were alone in the darkness. Except that her fingertips dug into his shirt.
She didn’t know how much longer she could stand it. The waiting. The uncertainty.
She held her breath.
And screeched when Grandpa fired the gun she hadn’t known he held. For just a moment, a man’s form was illuminated, standing in the middle of the room. He fell against the floor.
“I need to see if there are any others,” Grandpa whispered, and shoved the blankets back to stand up, and lit the candle next to his bed.
Claire shook off the shock. “No, I’ll do it,” she insisted, taking the candle from his frail hands.
He hesitated, then let go of the candle. “Take this,” he said, pressing the pistol into her hands.
She nodded as the weight of the weapon settled into her hands, giving her courage. From necessity, she’d hunted deer, but preferred the vegetables grown in her garden. Never in her life had she held a weapon in self-defense toward another human being. Determined not to think about it, she stealthily made her way around the bed and into the hallway.
She glanced at the shape on the floor. The intruder’s blood was soaking the floor. She would have to come back and clean this up.
The candlelight lent an eerie glow to the homey space. She turned left toward the front of the house, stopping to peer into the other bedroom. Finding no one, she went into the front of the house. Moving slowly, she searched the bedrooms and kitchen, then checked the front door as she moved toward the parlor. It was still locked.
A breeze touched her skin as she entered the parlor. She paused, swallowed. Told herself that Grandpa wouldn’t have allowed her to check the house if he thought there was anyone else.
The glass in the window at the front of the house was shattered. That’s what had awakened her.
I’ll have to get this fixed, she thought vaguely, wondering where she was going to get glass for a window. She could barely get a jar to store food, must less a window. I’ll worry about it later.
“There’s no one else,” she said, as she entered Grandpa’s bedroom.
“Good,” he said. He had lit a lantern and was kneeling on the floor next to the injured man.
“How is he?” she asked. Upon close examination, she determined he was about her age, perhaps a few years older, probably his early twenties. Grandpa moved the light closer to his face and Claire’s heart tripped up a notch. His features were strong, yet pleasing. It appeared he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. His dark hair was rumpled, but she imagined it was smooth.
“He’s injured, but I think he’ll be all right,” Grandpa said, relief evident in his voice.
Claire reminded herself that he had shot the man, thus likely felt responsible for him. It was no less than she would expect from her grandfather.
“We’ll get him into the other bed,” she said, handing him the candle.
She put her hands under his shoulders and attempted to lift him. “He’s heavier than he looks,” she said, looking at Grandpa.
“He’s trim, but he’s not small,” Grandpa agreed. “I’ll help you.”
“Grandpa, you can’t,” she said.
“I have to. You can’t move him.”
“Maybe I can drag him,” she said, taking hold of his boots and pulling. He moved a couple of inches. She strained, but he wouldn’t move any more.
Grandpa set the candle on the nightstand and went to help her. Between the two of them, they managed to drag the man about three feet.
Grandpa sat on the floor. “Maybe we can put him in my bed,” he said.
“Maybe,” she agreed, kneeling next to the wounded man. Gently, she pulled back his shirt to examine his wound. “It looks like it went into his shoulder.”
“We’ll have to take it out.”
“He needs a doctor,” Claire said, looking at him incredulously.
“Where are we going to find a doctor? Especially this time of night.”
“I’ll go over to Mr. O’Donnell’s and he can go for Doc Pritchard.”
Grandpa shook his head. “Takes too long. We’ll have to take out the bulle
t.”
“I don’t know how to do that.”
“I do,” Grandpa said.
Claire sat for moment, speechless. “How do you know that?”
Grandpa smiled. “I’ve been around a long time.”
The man stirred.
“We’d best get him up on your bed.”
Grandpa shook his head. “I think we’re gonna have to leave him here on the floor for now.”
Before she could protest, he continued. “Go boil some water and get some rags. This is gonna be messy. Go on.”
She went and did as she was told. After stoking the fire in the stove, she set the morning’s coffee water on it to boil.
While she waited, she went back to check on Grandpa. He’d removed the man’s shirt.
It was in that moment that it struck her.
The man wore blue.
Chapter Three
Jeffrey heard voices.
There was a man and a woman – perhaps an angel. Maybe he’d died and gone to Heaven. But no, he wasn’t likely to end up in Heaven.
Someone was tugging on him, pulling his legs, but he wasn’t moving. He tried to help, but his body wouldn’t respond.
His shoulder burned. Something had happened to him.
He’d been in a house. Trying to find food for himself and Joseph, when it had happened.
It occurred to him that he’d been shot. But why would anyone in the house shoot him? He was only trying to help a friend.
He faded out again, into a dream world.
In the dream, he was at Chene Ruelle, with his twin sister, Alexandra.
The sun shone down warmly on their heads. They lured their old tutor, Nate Basil, outside for their studies as often as they could.
Today, with a cool breeze coming off the river, it was warmer in the sun than the shade. He was tired of conjugating French verbs. He longed to get on his horse and ride. Writing a note to Alexandra, he slid it across to her when he thought Nate wasn’t looking. She giggled.
Come on, it read. Let’s get out of here.
“Master Jeffrey,” Nate said, in a tone replete with patience and knowledge. “Your sister is deep in her studies. It’s inconsiderate of you to attempt to pull her away.”
Hearts Under Fire Page 2