by Diane Wylie
“All right, darling, I’m going to take hold of you now.” With that she put her hand out and took hold of the reins lightly. The horse’s ears twitched nervously, and it blew through its nose, working the bit with its mouth.
Jenny continued to whisper to the horse as she relieved the soldier of his gun then worked the saber out past the man’s body. She tossed the weapons into a deep pile of leaves, which swallowed them immediately.
Taking the reins, she turned the horse, keeping her movements slow and easy. The animal followed her over to where her bundle of plants lay. Leaving the sack lie, she wondered now what to do about the dog, who sat watching her expectantly just a few feet away.
Fixing her faithful companion with a stern look, she told him, “Home, Romulus. Go home,” and pointed in the direction of the manor. Rommie’s face fell in disappointment. He was clearly ready for adventure. Jenny said again in a low voice, “Go home, Romulus, I mean it,” and pointed again.
The dog stood, and his tail drooped pitifully. Slowly he turned and reluctantly headed through the trees toward the manor, stopping and looking back several times before finally disappearing from view.
With a sigh of relief, she turned her attention to her new charges. The big black horse relaxed only slightly when the dog disappeared. Each time the cannon boomed again, its eyes rolled around as if it wanted to bolt. Tying the reins firmly to a tree, Jenny groped in her large pocket and drew out a scarf.
“First thing to do is stop the bleeding; that’s what Kizzie always says,” she reminded herself, moving directly from the horse’s head to the soldier’s side. His face was still turned away; he had not awakened or made a sound. Slipping the scarf under his leg, she slid it up to the wound, wrapped it tightly around the leg, and tied it.
“Okay, now hold still while I take a look at the rest of your master.”
The animal’s injury did not appear to be serious since the blood had congealed already so she concentrated on his rider. The man had apparently been fighting this war for some time if the state of his uniform told the correct story. It was liberally stained with mud and deep, rust-colored bloodstains. In addition to the big hole in his pants at the site of his injury, there was a large rent down the side of his dark blue jacket, and his right knee showed through another hole, which was frayed at the edges. Jenny wrinkled her nose. He smelled bad—of sweat, blood, and gunpowder.
She finally got a look at the man’s face pressed against the neck of his steed. It was a young face, maybe about her own age, from what she could tell through the blood that had run down one cheek from his dark hairline. For lack of an alternative, she reached down and used the hem of her homespun dress to wipe away some of the blood from the man’s eye and cheek. The horse shifted, forcing her to step back for a moment. She needed something else for his head. Maybe he had a handkerchief or a bit of cloth she could use.
“My, you are a handsome one,” she murmured with frank admiration. His pale face had nicely arched dark brows, a smooth forehead, straight nose, high cheekbones, and a full, almost sensual mouth. “Do you have a wife or girl waiting for you to come home to her?” she asked the unconscious man softly.
Reaching her hand inside his open jacket, she felt around for a bit of cloth. Suddenly her wrist was seized and held in a vise-like grip. A low, hoarse voice spoke in her ear.
“Just what do you think you’re doing, Madame?”
Startled she turned to see that the man had not lifted his head from the horse’s neck, but one eye was open and his hand held hers so tightly the blood supply to her fingers was cut off completely. Her hand began to turn cold immediately.
Jenny tried to pull away. “Unhand me, sir. You’re hurting me. I was looking for a bit of cloth for that gash on your head…and it is ‘Miss,’ not ‘Madame.’” She drew herself up as tall as her five-foot, four-inch frame would allow and glared at the Yankee.
His fingers opened fractionally, enough to allow some blood to seep past, but he did not let go. “Who are you, Miss, and where am I?”
“You, sir, are on my family’s property, Pleasant Run Manor outside of Danton, Virginia.”
* * *
Good Lord, the blow to his head must have addled his brain! Did that Southern woman say, Danton? It couldn’t be. The battle was a good five miles or more to the north of there. Could Napoleon have carried me that far? How long was I unconscious?
Moving slowly, with supreme effort, David placed his free hand on Napoleon’s neck and pushed himself upright in the saddle. Still holding the woman’s wrist, he peered through the trees with one eye; the other was still sealed shut with his own blood.
“How late is it?” he snapped. The sounds of the battle had almost stopped. An occasional booming was heard from scattered cannon fire. The sun was beginning to slide down to the western horizon, leaving a rosy glow over everything. The woman turned her face up to his. David could only see a blurred pale oval surrounded by a mass of light, honey-colored hair.
“It is quite late in the afternoon, Captain. You are a fair distance away from your despicable army, and I really must be getting home before Papa begins to worry. So if you will be so kind as to release me, we can both be on our way.” Her voice had a pleasant, melodious drawl despite her haughty tone.
David tried, in vain, to bring her features into focus. Still keeping his hand clamped around her wrist, he lifted his other hand from the horse’s neck, spit on it, and tried to wipe away the blood and muck from his eye. He swayed dangerously and released the woman’s wrist to steady himself. She immediately backed away.
“Wait! You tried to rob me, woman. Why?” Then he groped for his pistol and saber. “You took my weapons. Where are they?”
“I threw them away to keep you from killing any more good Southern boys,” she retorted. “Would you have a better reason?” He scowled at her. “Besides, would I bother to bandage the leg of someone I wished to rob? I would simply bash you on the head and take what I wanted.”
Surprised, David looked down at his throbbing leg and saw the fuzzy colored image of what could have been a green cloth wrapped tightly around his thigh. He knew he didn’t do that.
Blinking, he tried again to bring the woman into focus, but his eyes would simply not clear. He had to return to his unit to see to his men and get a surgeon to bandage his leg properly. There was no time to look for his weapons. He had to convince this, apparently pig-headed, Southern woman to return them. Daylight was fading fast. He had to move now.
“Well, I apologize. My thanks for the bandage, Miss. Would you be so kind as to return my weapons and untie my horse? It’s time I returned to my unit. I appeal to your humanity to let me return without turning me in to your army.”
“Hmmph,” she snorted. “I should turn you over. You’ll just go back and kill more Southerners, but I won’t. I can’t abide soldiers of any kind and wish to avoid any dealings with any army. You are free to go if you can find your way back.”
David had no choice. He had no wish to be branded a deserter. He was so far from the fighting with no memory of how he had gotten here.
She moved to a pile of leaves and searched around for a few moments. Coming up with the pistol and saber, she returned them to him. “Don’t shoot anyone on your way back,” she commanded then untied the reins and turned the horse’s head due north.
“Thank you, Miss, for your help. You’d best be heading home now.” He nodded in her general direction and almost fell off the animal when a wave of dizziness struck him hard. Grabbing Napoleon’s neck and breathing heavily, he shifted in the saddle, sending a lightning bolt of pain through his leg as he dug his heels into the horse’s belly to start him trotting toward the Union army.
* * *
Jenny watched the soldier valiantly attempt to ride away, his back ramrod straight and proud. The pair made it to the edge of the clearing. Then she heard a soft moan seconds before the Yankee toppled sideways out of the saddle and landed heavily on the ground at the stallion�
��s feet. The huge horse moved delicately to keep his hooves away from the limp form of his fallen master. The great black head went down, and his muzzle pushed at the Captain’s shoulder. No response was forthcoming.
She was touched by the show of concern by the big animal but annoyed at the foolishness of men. Sighing she stepped forward to help the injured Bluebelly. There was no hope for it now. She was involved whether she wished it or not.
Chapter Three
The firelight flickered off the pale walls of the sitting room, casting its rosy, welcoming glow over everything it touched. The wind outside the windowpane rustled the trees and threw gaily-colored leaves in a riot of activity outside the modest manor house.
“Jenny, is the light not adequate for your eyes? Turn up the wick, daughter. Do not frown at the book.”
“Yes, Papa,” she replied and reached out to turn the wick up on the oil lamp sitting beside her. She stole a look at her father from under her lashes, sighed, and silently willed him to retire to his room. The night seemed to be lasting an eternity. Dinner had been torture. Patsy, their cook, had made a delicious dinner with their dwindling foodstuffs, but Jenny’s stomach was so tied up in knots she could barely eat. But eat she did, lest Papa get suspicious and question her. It was vital that her dear, crotchety father did not suspect she had plans for the night. If he found out what she was about to do, there would be a big price to pay.
Smoothing her gown with one hand, she tried once again to concentrate on the book she held open, but it was useless. All evening long she thought of only one thing—the handsome Yankee soldier who, she supposed, still lay concealed under the shelter of pine branches and leaves where she had been forced to leave him when darkness began to creep over the land.
Lifting her eyes, Jenny looked to where her father sat, his gray head bowed low over the manor ledgers, still writing away, squinting at the pages. One hand came up under his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose then reached up to massage his forehead.
Please, oh please, go to bed now, Papa, she silently implored while carefully keeping her face composed into what she hoped was a neutral expression. She could feel the dampness gathering in her palms, took a deep breath to calm her jumpy nerves, and surreptitiously wiped her hands on her skirt. The pale green material shimmered in the light, and the full petticoats she wore under it crackled when she shifted nervously on the crushed velvet furniture.
Jenny went through each step of her plan again, turning it over in her mind, trying to foresee every possible thing that might prevent her returning as quickly as possible to the clearing. It was essential that she returned tonight or the lone Yankee could die.
A tiny voice in her head whispered, “Why should I care if he dies? He is an enemy soldier.” She hated the war between the North and South—the war that divided the country and some of the families in her own state of Virginia. It was sickening the way these men sought to destroy each other and everything around them.
Suddenly, she remembered her father’s presence in the room and glanced up to see if he had noted the change in her expression from the careful blankness to utter revulsion. It was not that she was squeamish at the sight of blood; to the contrary, she was inured to its smell and feel, having helped the slave woman, Kizzie, many times in an effort to learn the healing skills that the old woman possessed. It was the thought of men mangling each other that gave her reason to shudder. She and Kizzie had been working together for a few years, but she still had a lot to learn. Would her meager skills be enough to save the soldier?
With a smile she remembered how she had finally worn down Kizzie’s resistance. The woman had balked at her request for healing knowledge, saying that the slave cabins were no place for a young lady of good breeding to be spending her time. Despite this, Jenny came every day and watched the gentle brown hands doing seemingly magical things. The tools of her trade were salves, ointments, and teas, which were made from local herbs and plants that looked like nothing more than old weeds. She had seen Kizzie’s skill. The woman could soothe hurts and take away pains and illness with her brews and potions.
A prickle of fear went through her. She would be on her own dealing with the stranger’s injuries. How she wished she had a chance to learn more about medicine and the workings of the human body. But it couldn’t be helped; there was just too much risk involved with this to bring anyone else, slave or not, into the situation.
Phillip Winston looked up at his daughter as if he had sensed her eyes on him. “What is it, daughter? Is the approaching storm bothering your nerves?”
With a start she realized that the wind had indeed picked up and was rattling the windowpanes in earnest. Jenny had been so distracted that she had taken no notice. She stood up abruptly, forgetting the book in her lap. It slid to the polished wood floor with a thump. Papa frowned, and Romulus picked up his big brown head from the hearthrug to gaze questioningly at his mistress. Footsteps echoed in the hall, and Jebediah appeared in the open doorway.
“Massa Winston, we done put away all de hosses and everything shut tight. I done laid duh fires in y’alls bedrooms. It be gettin’ colder. Ol’ wind she blowing fierce now.”
Papa waved Jebediah away. “Good, good, you can be on your way now.”
Dismissed, the slave turned to go and was brought up short as a small boy nearly plowed head on into the older man in his haste to gain the sitting room.
“Benjamin! Now you apologize to Jebediah and slow down,” Jenny scolded her young brother who had come to a complete stop. Ben’s eyes dropped sheepishly to his bare toes peeking out from under his nightshirt.
“Thorry, Jeb,” he whispered then looked up and grinned at the man, showing a wide gap where his two front teeth had yet to make an appearance.
Jeb smiled his own rather toothless grin in return. This was a bond the two had with each other, boy and slave, but Benjamin’s front teeth would come in over the next few months while Jebediah would never regain the ones a mule had kicked out two years ago.
“No harm done, Massssa Ben,” The words hissed out between his lips. The slave’s eyes flicked over to his master’s stony face then to the floor as he backed out of the room, bobbing in a kind of half bow. “I’s gotta go now. Good night, Miss Jenny, Massa Ben, Massa Winston.”
“Good night, Jeb,” Jenny replied, and Benjamin echoed her sentiments in a smaller voice. The little boy scampered across the room and flung himself into her, hugging her tightly around the waist. Her arms closed around him automatically, and she sat down again, tugging him into her lap.
Benjamin was a precious little product of her late stepmother and her own aging father. It was a May-December match made a few years after her own mother, Patience, passed away from morbid sore throat when Jenny was fifteen. Poor Elizabeth, Papa’s second wife, had not survived Benjamin’s difficult birth. Her father had been devastated at the loss of both wives and had turned to his work for solace, leaving Jenny and Ben to their own devices much of the time.
Romulus pushed his nose into her arm jealously so she patted the dog on his big furry head, while keeping one arm wrapped around the solid, warm body of her brother. “Very soon you will be too big for my lap, Benjamin.”
“Then you will have to thit on mine, Jen,” he replied solemnly.
Across the room she caught a glimpse of the upturned corners of their father’s mouth at this serious reply. He lifted his head from his paper, placed the quill in its stand, and rose stiffly.
Phillip Winston was still a strong, vital man, despite having reached the half-century mark in age. His skin was browned from years of hard work outdoors. Of medium height and build, the master of Pleasant Run Manor had a reputation for tough, but fair dealings with all who crossed his path, whether they were slave or free.
Jenny loved him but knew of his strong beliefs regarding this war. War was against everything he stood for. Papa proclaimed time and time again, to anyone who would listen, no soldier would step foot on his land while he had brea
th in his body. He vowed that no war would disrupt his way of life. Running the plantation was his mission to the exclusion of anything that interfered with it. Bringing a soldier home would send her father into an apoplexy of a high magnitude. The Yankee in the woods would have to remain her secret. Dear Lord, she hoped he was still alive.
The wind howled loudly, flinging leaves and sticks against the windowpane.
“Come, children. Time to retire.”
Moving to the fireplace, Papa stirred the hot logs apart. Ben hopped off her lap and waited expectantly. Smiling, Jenny snapped her fingers for Romulus and headed for the door. Up the long staircase she climbed, followed by the dog, knowing that Ben and their father would soon follow.
They would retire to Benjamin’s room first to share a goodnight story before Papa sought his own rest. He had recently taken Jenny’s place as the nighttime storyteller, and she was glad the two were spending more time together. She was especially glad to be relieved of the storytelling duty tonight; she had important things to attend to.
Once in her room, she bolted the door. Quickly pulling a linen sheet from the armoire, she began to rip it into strips, hoping the sound would not carry. These she rolled into tight balls and stuffed into a valise along with stubs of beeswax candles, additional bits of cloth, and a nightshirt she had taken from her father’s laundry. When the valise was full, she shoved it under her bed.
Rummaging through her clothing again, she found the worn-looking but clean linen shirt and breeches she sometimes wore when working with the animals. Shedding her gown and donning the old garments, she put her robe over this outfit, hung up her gown, unbolted the door then tiptoed to her bed. Pulling the blankets up to her chin, she blew out the candle.
Lying in the dark, she watched the shadows created by the dying fire dance across the wall. Gradually her pulse slowed, but she knew she would not sleep for a long time to come.
Finally she heard it. Footsteps came quietly down the hall then a low squeak. Papa stepped on the loose board in front of the hall table as he did every night. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Seven steps and the sound of a door creaking open then shut. Papa was in his room for the night.