He stopped. Ran his hand through his hair.
He shouldn’t have left Claire. That was all there was to it. No matter what his intentions, she was alone. And he may not be able to get back to her as easily as he had expected.
“Look,” he began, stopping. “I need to go back that way.” He gestured back the way they had come.
The bayonet didn’t come this time, but their looks pierced him just as effectively. And the suspicion was tangible.
“I left my gear,” he added.
“What gear? You didn’t have anything last time we saw you.”
“Yeah, well, I acquired some.”
“You can get it later,” Marvin said, walking again.
Jeffrey found himself pulled both ways. He needed to get back to Claire. He obviously needed to go with these men or they would suspect something. As he stood there, immobile, Joseph pulled him, not too gently, by the shoulder.
“This way,” he said, with a nod of the head.
Jeffrey allowed himself to be pulled along. He would have to go with these men for now. Then, when he was able to do so without jeopardizing Claire, he would go back to her. His gut knotted with trepidation.
When they arrived at the camp, the other soldiers ignored them, only occasionally sending a disinterested glance in their direction.
The Yankees, it seemed, weren’t all that interested in him after all.
Claire dumped a bucket of water into the washtub and stretched as she glanced toward the line of trees. A light breeze ruffled her hair as she dipped a cotton shirt into the soapy water and began scrubbing. Romeo sat at her feet, his eyes closed and head on his paws. Grandpa sat on the front porch, his eyes closed too, as he soaked up the warm sunshine.
Jeffrey had been gone for almost six hours, since just before the sun came up. And already she watched for him. If truth be told, she had been watching for him for well… just about half a minute short of almost six hours.
She should be repelled by the fact that he was a Yankee. Yet… he was nothing like she expected a Yankee to be. He was kind. Even Grandpa had taken a liking to him. And he was handsome. Her cheeks heated with the thought of his hands on hers. Perhaps she should dump the bucket of water over her head next time instead of into the washtub.
Romeo jumped up, barked once, and dashed toward the trees, his tail brushing the ground.
What got into him? Claire turned, looking to her right and heard the approaching soldiers in gray before they emerged around the bend in the road. Three years ago she had watched them travel north—proud and confident. Now, their uniforms were soiled and torn. Many had no shoes. Many limped, injured. Others were merely dragged along by their companions.
Her heart ached for them. Then with a start, she realized why they were headed down her road.
It was time for her to honor the deal she had made with Colonel Bonaire.
As the soldiers passed her, moving toward her house, she saw the hope in their eyes. Hope that she had only offered in desperation.
Grandpa roused from his nap and watched the soldiers warily. Claire swallowed hard with the realization that she should have told him. She had hoped nothing would come of it.
Allowing the shirt to plop into the water, she wiped her hands on her skirt and watched the soldiers wind their way onto her land. An officer on a worn, yet proud gray stallion trotted to a stop in front of her.
“Colonel Bonaire,” Claire said, lifting her eyes to his, dread pooling in the pit of her stomach.
“Miss Whitman,” he echoed, tipping his hat.
So much for hoping and praying it would never come to pass.
“Your kind offer is much appreciated,” he said, glancing toward the soldiers.
“I honor my agreements,” she stated.
“I was certain you would,” he said, turning his gaze back to hers.
She was a little surprised by what she saw in his face. He smiled with a cockiness and with what she instinctively knew to be interest. Her spine stiffened.
“Your men are welcome here as we agreed. I have nothing else to offer you.”
He drew back slightly, his horse neighing. “As you wish,” he said, and turned his steed away, toward the back of the house where his men were already setting up tents and spreading out supplies.
With a heavy sigh, she set off toward the porch where her grandfather watched her, confusion evident even at this distance.
“Claire,” he began. “What is this?”
She rubbed a hand against her temple. “I’m sorry, Grandpa. I should have told you.”
“You knew?”
“I hoped it wouldn’t happen.”
He waited silently for her to continue.
The line of wounded gray continued to pool in their yard, flowing all around the house.
“A few days ago when Colonel Bonaire was here,” she paused.
He nodded.
“I made an agreement with him that we could stay here,” her words came in a rush. “He wanted us to leave, but he agreed that we could stay if he could use our land as an infirmary.”
“Why does he need it?”
She shook her head. “I’m not really sure. I think he wants to use our well and he ‘um… he wants to use the third bedroom.”
Grandpa was silent. His lips thinned and his neck reddened.
She shook her head. “He was going to insist that we leave.”
“Perhaps that would have been best,” he said softly.
“No,” she insisted. “I won’t be forced from my home.”
Grandpa shrank back in his chair. “It isn’t worth it,” he said.
“It shouldn’t be so bad,” she persisted.
“If he so much as lays a hand on you…” His eyes narrowed and there was a growl in his voice that she had never heard.
“He won’t come near me.”
“It’s not safe here without Jeffrey.”
Claire swallowed a bubble of laughter. How had it become lost on Grandpa that Jeffrey was the enemy? The same way it became lost on me.
Grandpa opened his mouth to say something else, but closed it when a soldier rushed up to Claire.
“Miss Whitman.” The boy, not more than fifteen, stood next to her.
She turned and waited for him to continue.
“Can you come and help?”
“Help?”
“Yes,” he said, his breath shallow. “The doc won’t be here for a few days and we need your help.”
Claire glanced at Grandpa. He shook his head as though to say, I told you so.
“I’m not a nurse,” she said.
“Everyone here is hurt or sick,” he persisted.
“What about you?”
“I don’t know nothin’ about healing. Besides…” He glanced toward the sound of shelling in the distance. “I have to get back to the fighting.”
“Of course,” Claire said. Suddenly, her agreement with Colonel Bonaire made more sense. It wasn’t her house he wanted. It was her—her hands.
“Very well,” she said, glancing down at her dress. Her sleeves were rolled up and she wore her oldest dress—a green flowered gown that she had gotten years ago. Long before the war. She supposed if it were stained with blood, it wouldn’t be a great loss.
With one last apologetic glance at Grandpa, she followed the soldier behind the house to what looked like a war-zone itself already.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Mark.”
Tents and fires had sprouted up. Men lay everywhere—sprawled upon the grass and leaning against the oak trees. Men who looked to be nearing Grandpa’s age and men who looked to be no more than boys.
“Over here,” Mark urged. He stepped into a small tent and she followed. “This is my brother,” he told her.
Claire’s heart tripped with dread. The boy’s skin was ashen, his eyes closed. She glanced at Mark’s hopeful countenance.
“Where is he hurt?”
“He was shot,” Mark said,
pulling the sheet from his brother.
Claire gasped at the sight of the bloody shoulder wound. Instinctively, she knew that this man would have easily healed with proper treatment.
“When was he shot?”
“Two days ago.”
Claire knelt next to the boy and began peeling back what was left of the tattered cloth of his shirt. “Mark, what is your brother’s name?”
“Tom.”
She nodded. “I need you to bring me some hot water and a clean cloth.”
She barely had the words out of her mouth before Mark had disappeared to do her bidding.
Her heart wept for this young boy, so brutally shot down and so carelessly tended.
Within minutes Mark returned with a bucket of steaming water. Apparently, the soldiers were keeping a fresh supply.
She dipped the cloth into the hot water, rang out the cloth, and began wiping the dried blood caked around Tom’s wound.
Silently, she prayed for him.
Tom was only the first of the many soldiers neglected. Only the first of many who could survive with basic care. Only the first of dozens she tended that day.
The sun had drifted behind the trees leaving them in a shadow of twilight when Claire heard someone calling her name.
Her hand paused over the forehead she soothed—this time with a cool cloth.
“Claire?”
She looked into her grandfather’s eyes, ringed with worry.
“You have to stop and eat something. You’ve been at this for hours.”
Claire leaned back and for the first time in hours looked at the man standing in front of her. There must have been a hundred soldiers lying around her yard. Most of them prone with injuries. The other dozen or so men hurried among them, carrying buckets of water, cloths, and plates of food. With a quick glance, she counted seven fires all with either pots over them or spits of food.
She wiped at her face with her wrist. “What time is it?” she asked, though it was rather obvious that it was near bedtime.
“Nearly eight,” Grandpa said. “Here.” He handed her a plate with a biscuit and an ear of corn. “You have to eat something.”
She nodded and took the plate from him. After wiping her hands on her soiled skirt, she picked up the biscuit and took a bite. Her stomach growled in rebellion. It had indeed been since breakfast that she ate.
“Thank you,” she said.
Grandpa kneeled next to her. “How did this happen?” he asked.
She shook her head and took another bite of biscuit before sitting flat on the ground. “I had no idea,” she said, looking around her again.
“You can’t do it all by yourself.”
“No,” she agreed. “But who else is here?”
Grandpa took a deep breath. “I’ll go into town tomorrow. See who can come out to help.”
She shook her head. “That trip would be too hard on you.”
“Claire, I can’t sit by while you…” he glanced around again. “While you single-handedly nurse the entire wounded Confederate army.”
She smiled. “I seriously doubt this is the entire wounded army.”
“Nonetheless…”
“Miss Whitman,” someone called. “Can you take a letter?”
Claire swallowed and looked at her grandfather. Another boy sending a last letter home. She would rather clean a hundred gunshot wounds than listen to a single heart-wrenching letter from a dying son to his mother.
Grandpa put his hand on her shoulder. “Now, taking a letter is something I can sit and do.”
“Very well,” she agreed, relieved. “That will help immensely.”
Claire watched her grandfather make his way to the dying soldier’s side, settle onto a stool and, taking a sheet of paper from an orderly, begin to write down the boy’s last words.
This war, indeed, touched everyone. And everyone had a part to play.
As she finished her supper, she glanced toward the road and wondered. Wondered how her handsome Yankee fared.
And prayed if he were wounded, that somewhere, someone was taking care of him.
Chapter Seven
Jeffry aimed and fired. And missed.
Intentionally.
The irony of the situation sat like a lead weight in his gut. He’d longed to fight with the Yankees. Now he couldn’t bear to fire upon his own countrymen. The blue of the uniform they had insisted he wear seemed to stifle his very breath.
If he were found out, he’d be condemned by both sides.
His worst nightmare.
The bugle sounded and they moved forward. If only the sun would drop, the fighting could stop. And he could perhaps make his way from the army camp.
They were closer now to Claire’s farm than they had been yesterday. Of course, that was only a guess. This area of Louisiana was, for the most part, unknown to him.
The volley of shots rained around him like a hailstorm. So much for his theory about the setting sun.
The first sting hit his arm. The second and third, he couldn’t say. It was different from the last time he was shot. That had been more like a blast.
But the sting… the stings hurt worse.
He blinked and realized he lay on the ground.
When had that happened?
Footsteps struck the ground all around him. He tried to cover his face, but couldn’t move his arms. Someone fell across his legs. He cried out.
The soldiers moved away and he was left there. Alone, except for the soldier atop him.
The sun dropped into the horizon, dipping quickly out of sight.
Darkness settled over them. Someone groaned. A death rattle floated through the silence from someone not far away. Then the silence returned. Not even a bird stirred.
Minutes passed. Hours?
The stench of death permeated the air and got into his lungs. He might be sick.
Jeffry had never felt so alone. There, trapped among the dead and dying.
The next thing Jeffrey knew, his skin baked inside his blue wool uniform. He tried to swallow, but his throat caught with dryness. The ground vibrated beneath him as footsteps approached.
He heard male voices from what sounded like far away. He blinked, but couldn’t open his eyes against the blinding mid-day sun.
“Just leave ‘em there. There’re just Blue-Bellies.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I think this one might still be alive.”
Jeffrey felt a boot slam against his hip. Yes! I’m alive! Why couldn’t they see?
“He won’t be for long,” the one in charge said.
The footsteps jarred the ground beneath his ear as the soldiers walked away, abandoning him.
No! His mind screamed silently. Don’t leave me here. I have to get back. I promised.
“Claire,” his mouth moved, softly forming the words. He swallowed thickly.
“Sir!” A new voice called out and the disappearing feet halted.
“You can have his boots if you want,” the one in charge said.
“No, sir. He’s alive… and…” Someone knelt next to him and put a hand to the pulse at his neck. “I know this man. We’re neighbors.”
Claire had never been this exhausted in her entire life.
She turned and looked toward the window at the morning light just beginning to push away the darkness of night.
Two days she had spent tending the wounded and dying men in her yard. Day and night they found their way to her home. It was as though a beacon beckoned them there. How did they know where to go?
Two days she had Confederate soldiers prowling every inch of her home. Most of them were honorable men. She had yet to come to a final verdict on their commander, Colonel Bonaire, however. He watched her constantly. His eyes on her each time she thought to look up from a wounded soldier beneath her hands.
Two days she had awakened from a sound night sleep, so exhausted she could barely pull her eyes open. What kind of Hell had she gotten herself into?
She fou
ght against the instinct to tuck her head beneath the sheets and burrow back into the bed and pulled herself to a sitting position. Even now, she heard the signs of the soldiers outside, stoking fires to begin heating the water to clean another wound.
More soldiers would come today. She was certain of it. The flow never ended. Despite Grandpa’s wishes, no one had come to assist her. Only she and a handful of volunteer soldiers tended the hundred or so wounded.
If only they had more help. They could save more.
Hearing Grandpa in the kitchen putting water on to boil for coffee, she forced herself to get up and pull on her soiled dress. She could barely stand to put it back on, but she refused to ruin either of her other three gowns.
Grandpa had spent the last two days writing letters dictated by wounded men to their families. If he could withstand, then, so could she.
“Good morning,” Grandpa said, when she staggered into the kitchen.
“How can you be so cheerful?” she asked.
He handed her a mug of steaming hot coffee. “We’re here together and we’re alive and well. We have the opportunity to help those less fortunate. I feel blessed.”
Claire squinted her eyes and studied her Grandpa.
He laughed. “No, I’m not addled. I’m just… thankful.”
Claire sipped her coffee. “I’m too exhausted to be thankful.”
“Indeed,” he said, pulling out a chair for her. “You’re doing too much. No one would blame you if you rested today.”
Claire looked past him out the window at the soldiers lying there, hopeful that they could survive another day. Jeffrey’s face flashed in her mind. His boyish smile. His deep, blue eyes. The feel of his lips against hers.
Again, she knew she could not fail these men. Somewhere someone loved them.
“I’m merely cranky,” Claire admitted with a shake of her head. “I couldn’t not help them if I wanted to.”
Grandpa smiled. “I didn’t think so.”
Claire took her mug and went out to stand on the front porch. She needed a moment to prepare herself for the work ahead.
“Miss Claire,” Jeremiah approached her with a plate piled with biscuits and gravy and bacon. “Here’s your breakfast.”
Claire smiled at the young man of not more than fourteen who had unofficially become her assistant. Someone had doubtlessly had the insight to assign him to keep him off the battlefield. He had proved invaluable to Claire, staying by her side, fetching whatever she deemed necessary. She had quickly come to count on him being next to her.
Hearts Under Fire Page 6