Unwilling Warrior

by Andrea Boeshaar

  “I won’t deny it. I have much to learn.” Valerie moved toward the window and peered outside. Dusk settled around the frozen landscape. No street lamps. No noise of neighboring buggies passing by. She turned back to the McCabes, Catherine, and Emily. “But I plan to give it my best try.”

  “That’s all anyone can ask of you.” Leah came forward and reached for Valerie’s hands. “We’ll all help you.”

  “I appreciate it.” The offer meant a lot.

  “But I’d advise against doing chores for her.” Catherine’s tone rivaled a schoolmarm’s. “She’s lived a spoiled, pampered existence, and now she’s got to learn the basics like milking cows, gathering eggs, and cooking, just to name a few.”

  “And I’m willing.” Valerie couldn’t argue, although she loathed Catherine’s derogatory tone.

  Leah squeezed her hands in a silent promise.

  “I’m sure no one here would blame you,” Catherine said, “if in a few days or a week you wanted to leave. St. Louis might be a better fit for you, Valerie . . . or Jefferson City.”

  “I’m not leaving.” Valerie squared her shoulders.

  “And, I should say, we’re not letting her go.” Jake ambled in with Bear right behind him. “Ben would skin me alive if he came home and his wife wasn’t here.”

  Catherine shifted on the piano bench.

  Valerie hid a smile.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean any harm.” Catherine’s voice sounded smooth as butter. “I was merely pointing out that no one would blame Valerie if things here didn’t work out.”

  “But we’re not slave drivers here.” Reverend McCabe smiled at Valerie, and tiny crinkles appeared at the sides of his golden-brown eyes. He glanced at Catherine. “Stop trying to scare this poor girl off.”

  “Oh, Cousin Daniel—” Catherine waved a hand at him.

  “I’m glad you’re feeling better today, Catherine.” Valerie walked to the settee and sat down. “And I’m so very relieved to see those nasty headaches of yours are gone.”

  “Me too.” Emily lowered herself down beside Valerie.

  Catherine flicked them an annoyed gaze before peering at the babe still in her arms.

  “Headaches?” Reverend McCabe sat in an armchair and leaned forward, a frown now creasing his brow. “I want to know all about them, Catherine. It might be that Dr. Owens will need to be summoned in the future, and we need to know about your ailment.”

  “I don’t have an ailment, Cousin Daniel, so you needn’t worry. It must have been a virus.” Icy-blue eyes stared hard at Valerie, then Em. “I’m just fine.” Catherine ground out each word.

  In that moment Valerie sensed the gauntlet had been thrown down. A challenge loomed on the horizon like tomorrow’s dawn. While some people enjoyed a stimulating contest, Valerie wasn’t up for it. All she yearned for was love, peace, and happiness in her new home. She didn’t want to battle Catherine.

  And yet somehow Valerie knew this duel was one she couldn’t afford to lose.

  ***

  Ben had grown tired of the cold and relentless rain. His bones ached. After almost two weeks of traveling into Kentucky, he and Clint had discovered no new developments in Luke’s disappearance. Ben was rapidly losing heart. The one fact he was learning fast was that men went missing every day. It made him wonder if he’d ever see his brother alive again.

  Ben reined in his horses and jumped from his wagon’s bench. He walked to where Clint stood several feet behind him. “This town seems a good enough place to stop for the night.”

  “I figure we’re in Stanford—southeast of Lexington.”

  Ben grinned and motioned to the livery. “That’s what the sign says. Stanford Livery.” He chuckled.

  Clint didn’t look like he was in the mood for any humor as the rain fell on his already soggy hat and drenched raincoat. “I’ll meet you over there.”

  “Right.”

  They both checked their animals and wagons into the livery, then walked a short distance to the inn. They ordered separate quarters and hot baths but elected to eat supper while the housekeeping maids readied their rooms.

  “So where to next?” Ben stared at the flickering taper on the stuffed tabletop. They sat near the crackling hearth, and the warmth radiating from it felt good. He was still soaked from front to back and, sadly, getting used to it. “I’m about to give up any hopes of finding Luke. It’s beginning to seem pointless.”

  “That’s because you’re cold and tired. Tomorrow morning you and I will both feel better.”

  Ben thanked God for Clint and his good ol’ common sense. “I expect you’re right.”

  “As usual.” Clint grinned. “But I do believe God spared our lives by getting us out of Clarksville when He did.”

  “Agreed.” Ben recalled the news of the Union’s victories at Forts Henry and Donelson. He mourned the loss of life. Over one hundred Confederate casualties from the Fort Henry battle, and more than ten thousand from Fort Donelson. Last Ben heard, officials were still counting.

  More than ten thousand Confederate soldiers dead, captured, or missing! The numbers were staggering—and nearly three times more than the total number of men lost at Bull Run.

  And men went missing all the time. Those words kept playing over and over inside his head.

  “Oh, God,” he silently prayed, “I don’t think I could stand it if Luke’s dead.”

  As if in reply, Psalm 91 came to mind. A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.

  “Don’t look now,” Clint muttered. “We might have company.”

  Ben watched with a wary eye as a couple of Union officers swiped off their dark blue caps and claimed the table next to theirs. Hidden in his saddlebags was a letter from a certain Confederate colonel; things could get ugly if those fellows decided to do a search and seizure. However, neither Ben nor Clint would give them any reason.

  One officer regarded them intently and nodded a greeting.

  Ben inclined his head in a brief reply.

  “Looks like you men have been out in the weather too.” The officer hesitated before taking his seat.

  “Yes, sir, we sure have.” Ben thought he appeared harmless enough, probably seeking chums with whom to split a whiskey bottle or additional card players. Ben wasn’t interested in either, and he knew Clint shared his sentiments, so he didn’t invite the men to sit at their table.

  The second man swiveled around in his chair and narrowed his gaze. “You’re not in uniform . . . what’s your business?”

  “Freelance photographers, sir.”

  “You don’t say?” The first officer grinned. “I had a feeling you weren’t regulars here.”

  “No, sir.” Clint twisted his torso and faced the other men. “We’re new in town.”

  The two soldiers appeared interested. Then, after a look at each other, they simultaneously moved their chairs over to Ben and Clint’s table.

  “Sergeant John Withers.” The dark-haired, bearded gentleman offered his right hand.

  Ben took it and introduced himself. Clint did likewise.

  “And this is Sergeant Douglas Strauss. We’re with the First Ohio Infantry.”

  “Nice to meet you both.” Clint’s voice sounded steady, calm.

  Ben relaxed some more, knowing his partner didn’t sense danger either.

  “We sort of took the night off to eat some real food and get warm.” Strauss stroked his long, red-orange beard and grinned as the serving girl passed. His eyes lingered. “Nice to see a pretty face too.”

  Withers didn’t seem to notice his pal’s leering. “Now where’d you two say you were headed?”

  “As of now, no place specific. I’m actually searching for my brother Luke McCabe. He’s a chaplain. Went missing after Bull Run.”

  Both officers shook their heads.

  “That’s a shame,” Withers stated with remorse. “Men seem to vanish after every battle.”

  “So I understand.”
The comment didn’t help Ben’s morale in the least.

  “In the meantime,” Clint added, “we’re photographing the war as it happens around us. We send pictures and articles to various publications.”

  “You ought to come and photograph our regiment.” Withers smiled with pride. “We’ve set up camp near where the old Fort Logan once stood—about a mile east of here.”

  “We’ll ride out tomorrow.” Ben looked at Clint, who nodded in agreement.

  “You say your brother’s a chaplain?” Strauss narrowed his pale green eyes. “There’s a young man in our camp . . . ” He shook his head. “Naw . . . ”

  “Please. Go on.” Ben leaned forward with interest.

  “Well, this fellow sort of resembles you. He talks about God a lot.”

  Ben’s exhaustion fled.

  “But the boy’s a few cards short of a full deck. Doesn’t know his real name or where he’s from. Nobody does. Seems he just started marching with us one day.”

  “You talkin’ about PB?” Withers tipped his head and peered at his buddy from beneath one bushy brow.

  “That’s the one.” Strauss nodded with a smirk.

  “Peebee?”

  “Private Preacher-boy,” Strauss said with a smirk. “Most of us just call him PB for short.” He shrugged. “We had to call him something.”

  Ben shook his head. “Luke’s intelligent. Hardly ‘a few cards short of a full deck.’”

  “I’ll say one thing about PB.” Withers’s expression turned serious. “The boy knows how to handle a gun. Last Saturday night a few men bet they could outshoot him. Well, they lost their wager and ended up sitting through PB’s Sunday morning preaching. Sang hymns and everything.” The sergeant snorted a laugh. “But I guess that’s not the worst thing that can happen when a man loses a bet.”

  “Reckon that’s the truth.” Ben could well imagine Luke showing off his skills with a gun in order to get men to hear God’s Word. Sort of like Elijah when he challenged the prophets of Baal. “How old would you say this PB is?”

  “No more than twenty.” Strauss stroked his mangy beard again and hailed the serving girl.

  Ben still pondered the reply. The age matched Luke’s. “I’d like to ride back with you tonight and meet this man. May I?”

  “Fine by me,” Strauss said. “Then tomorrow maybe you men can take some photographs. That’ll boost the men’s spirits and bide some time until we receive our next orders.”

  “Good.” Ben glimpsed Clint’s nod. “We’re up for it.” And he was more than ready to check out this sharp-shooting, God-loving “PB” the men spoke about tonight.

  Eighteen

  Don’t get your hopes up.”

  “Hard to do, Clint. This fellow could be Luke.” Ben led his horse along the muddy camp road where Fort Logan once stood with blockhouses and cabins all surrounded by a high stockade. Dismantled now, but in a way, Ben felt as though he were treading on hallowed ground. This was, after all, Daniel Boone country—well, close enough. While Boone traveled north and founded Boonesboro, Colonel Benjamin Logan founded Fort Logan by the creek, and the town of Stanford grew out of that during Revolutionary War time. There wasn’t a McCabe alive who didn’t regard Boone as a legendary figure. And although a frontiersman in Kentucky, Boone lived his final years in Missouri, and not too far from Jericho Junction either. Ben was always proud to claim Daniel Boone as a Missourian—at least in part.

  He smiled inwardly. Ol’ Ivan would be pleased to know the education he’d paid for hadn’t been completely wasted. Nearing the soldiers’ tents, Ben and Clint tethered their horses and then strode the rest of the way into the camp. Strains from a fiddle could be heard off in the distance.

  “I never figured I’d find Luke in a Union infantry camp.” Ben looked hard at each man they passed.

  “You haven’t found him yet.” Clint grabbed the sleeve of Ben’s coat and pulled him between two tents. “From what Withers and Strauss said, Captain J. T. Marshall’s quarters are over here.”

  Ben trudged along, mud splattering over his boots and onto his trousers. When they reached the tent they found the captain sitting at a makeshift table writing in what appeared to be his logbook.

  The man looked up. Wariness masked his well-defined features, and Ben guessed the man to be somewhere in his forties.

  “What can I do for you gentlemen?” The captain rose slowly to his feet.

  Ben quickly introduced himself and Clint. “I’m searching for my brother. We were told about a young man who’s called PB around here, and I’m wondering if he might be Luke McCabe.”

  “PB?” The captain tucked his chin, looking thoughtful. Several agonizing seconds passed. “All right. I see no harm in it. I’ll send for him.”

  Stepping back as the captain came around and ducked under the tent flap, Ben prayed—and prayed hard. So many questions scampered across his mind. If this was Luke, why didn’t he know who he was, where he came from?

  Captain Marshall returned, carrying a couple of stout, wooden stools. “Have a seat, men.”

  They did. Then the waiting began. Captain Marshall wasn’t one for small talk—he quickly bent his head to his book and absorbed himself in his work again.

  Finally a young man entered the tent. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  Ben sat forward. He sounded like Luke but . . . different. His gaze quickly wandered over the soldier’s baggy blue shirt, too-snug jacket, and dirt-covered black pants. He held a Union-blue cap in his hands. Between the shadows dancing off the tent walls and the man’s full beard and shoulder-length hair, Ben couldn’t tell for sure.

  The captain sat back in his chair. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Everyone calls me PB.”

  “Your real name?”

  The young man shifted his stance. “Don’t know, sir.”

  Ben moved to stand, but Clint’s hand pressed down on his shoulder.

  “Where you from, soldier?” the captain queried.

  “You asked me that question some time ago, sir, and I still don’t have the answer.”

  Captain Marshall’s gaze shifted to Ben and Clint, and suddenly the young man became aware of their presence. “It’s probably battle fatigue. That’s how we figure, anyway. I haven’t discharged him because he’s not a rabble-rouser. He’s able-bodied, and he’s proved himself proficient with a weapon.”

  Ben pushed to his feet, and this time Clint didn’t stop him. “Luke? Luke McCabe?” He moved closer, his heart thumping. But when their gazes met, he knew for sure. “Luke!” He set his hands on his brother’s shoulders and peered deeply into his blue eyes. “Don’t you know me, Luke?”

  His brother’s bearded jaw moved, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t. He blinked a few times and his breath came and went in rapid sequence. Finally he muttered, “Ben.”

  With a joyous hoot, Ben gave his brother’s shoulders a shake followed by a bear hug. “Thank God I found you. I found you!”

  “Ben . . . ” Luke’s tone beheld a note of disbelief. “Ben!” He clutched him.

  “Can’t you remember where you’ve been?” Ben stepped back. “You disappeared at Bull Run.”

  “Bull Run . . . ” Luke’s voice was quiet, a distant echo.

  And then he saw it. “What’s this?” He reached out and pushed strands of Luke’s stringy hair aside, revealing a jagged reddish scar—a wound, poorly stitched and looking still infected with dirty hair pressed up against it.

  Luke touched the side of his head, then looked at his fingertips. “It’s nothing. Just a cut or something.”

  Captain Marshall had come up behind Ben. Clint stepped in behind him. They all stared at the side of Luke’s face, but it seemed no one wanted to say what had to be going through all their minds. Head injury. “I wasn’t aware of your wound, son.” Captain Marshall folded his arms. “You might have mentioned it.”

  “Like I said, it’s nothing.” Luke seemed embarrassed. “Most days I forget it’s even there.” />
  “When did you get it? How?”

  Luke hesitated. “Don’t know,” he finally said.

  Ben turned to his brother’s commander. “Captain, if it’s all right with you—”

  “Take him. Maybe there’s a doctor in town.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “There’s not a trained physician among us here in this camp.”

  “Hey, wait,” Luke began to protest. “No. I’m not leaving my regiment.”

  Ben’s heart twisted when he glimpsed the determination in his brother’s eyes.

  “You’re hereby ordered on medical leave,” the officer said.

  “Captain—”

  “I’m not saying you can’t return. Just . . . ” He flicked a glance at Ben and Clint. “Get your head fixed up. Once you remember your own name, I’d be proud to have you back.”

  Luke conceded, but grudgingly so. “Come on.” Ben steered him around toward the tent’s entrance. “We’ll start by getting you cleaned up and a good night’s sleep.”

  ***

  “You have beautiful dresses.” Sarah handed another gown to Valerie.

  Taking it, she hung it in the tall, knotty-pine chifforobe. She’d been told Jacob made the piece of furniture. “Thank you. My mother and I always had such fun shopping for clothes.” Sadness tweaked Valerie’s heart, but she felt surprised how much the pain had lessened. Maybe she could begin relishing the memories of Mama now.

  “Is your mother sad that you left New Orleans?”

  “My mother died last year.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Sarah gave her a compassionate look before holding out another gown. “What about your father?”

  That wound was still raw. “Murdered. A month ago.” She could barely eke out the words.

  Sarah looked horrified.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you. Please forgive me if I have.”

  Swallowing hard, Valerie shook her head. “Nothing to forgive. I’m not so weak-kneed that I can’t handle the truth.”

  Sarah pulled another garment from the trunk. “Who–who killed your father?”