Gallant Boys of Gettysburg (15 page)

“That boy loves you, Sarah,” her mother said firmly. “And real love doesn’t—you can’t turn it on and off.”

“That’s what I’ve always said—but if he still loves me, he sure doesn’t talk about it or show it.”

“He’s afraid you won’t love
him
as much, now that he’s lost a leg. It’s natural enough. I suppose most of us would feel like that. We just haven’t gone through anything as bad as what Tom has.”

“He ought to know that wouldn’t make any difference to me,” Sarah argued. She was mixing dough now, and white flour was on her rounded arms. She molded it firmly, turning it over and punching it, then finally put it out on the counter and began rolling it with a rolling pin. “A man’s more than a foot. Tom’s just what he always was.”

“Sometimes things happen that change everything,” Mrs. Carter said. “For instance, suppose you had a bad accident, and your face was scarred. Don’t you think you’d wonder if Tom would feel differently about you?”

Sarah was rolling out the dough and did not answer for a time. Then she looked up, somewhat startled, “Why—I never thought of that, Ma.”

“You’ve never had to think of it. You’ve always been one of the prettiest girls in this valley. You came to take it for granted. But if you lost that prettiness, I think it would make a difference to you.”

Sarah took an empty can and began cutting out small round circles for biscuits, carefully setting them aside one at a time. “I think you’re right, Ma. It would make a difference. I’d always wonder if he were just feeling sorry for me.”

“Exactly! And that’s the way Tom’s feeling right now. We’ve just got to make him see that it doesn’t make any difference to us.”

“Sure is good to have you here, Tom.” Ezra Payne sat down in one of the cane-bottomed chairs on the front porch.

Tom had been sitting there for some time, reading a book. He put it aside and tilted his chair back against the wall of the house.

“It’s good to be back, Ezra,” he said briefly. He liked this young man a great deal.

Ezra, of course, had been in the Union Army, but only briefly. Ever since he had escaped from Belle Isle Prison and Leah had brought him here, he had stayed to work the farm. He was an average young man in most ways. He had fine brown eyes and very good teeth but was not at all handsome. He was strong, however, and always cheerful.

Now Ezra pulled a pocketknife out of his hip pocket, opened it, removed a cedar stick from his other pocket, and began peeling long slender shavings off it.

Tom watched the keen blade pare away the curving strips of cedar and asked, without much curiosity, “What’re you making?”

“Shavings.” Ezra grinned at him. He peeled off another shaving. “Just like to see ’em curl up. Smells good too. Cedar’s about the best-smelling wood there is, I think.” He pared away a few more and then said, “That battle at Gettysburg was pretty bad, I guess. Papers say it was the worst of the whole war.”

“It was pretty bad,” Tom said. He did not want to talk about the war. He wanted to shut it out of his
mind, but always there was his leg that ended just below his knee in an ugly stump, and he realized he would never be able to forget the war. He had a perpetual reminder.

As if reading his mind, Ezra said slowly and carefully, “You know you were lucky in a way that that shell didn’t do worse.”

Tom’s head jerked up, and his eyes grew hard. “What do you mean
worse!
Isn’t it bad enough to lose a leg?”

Ezra said apologetically, “Well, of course, it’d been better not to get hurt at all. But what I meant was, it would have been a lot worse if you had lost that leg above the knee.” He peeled off another two or three strips of curling cedar. “Quite a few fellows have come back that lost a leg above the knee. Not much to be done about that. But below the knee—you know there’s such a thing as an artificial leg.”

“They’re no good.”

“Why, I don’t think you ought to say that so quick, Tom,” Ezra protested. “I’ve been thinking on it a lot. You know, I ain’t much good on most things, but I guess when it comes to making things out of wood, I’m as good as anybody.”

This was true enough. Ezra’s talent seemed to lie in woodworking. He had a particular genius for it, and already the house was becoming filled up with beautiful furniture he had built. He did not have many tools, but those few he had he used expertly. He’d put together a shop in a shed close to the barn, and neighbors were coming now, asking him to build special furniture for them. And Dan Carter had said, “You ought to leave being a farmhand and set up a furniture shop. You’re a genius with wood, Ezra.”

Ezra said guardedly, “I don’t think it’d be as hard to make an artificial foot as it would be to make a mortise and tenon joint or maybe a dovetail section for a drawer. I figured out what kind of wood would be good.” He held up the cedar stick. “Look at this! See how light it is. Take a piece of oak—would weigh probably two or three times this much. But cedar’s real light, and you could hollow some of it out. It wouldn’t weigh anything at all.” He paused, seeing that Tom had turned his head and was looking away.

Tom listened for a while longer as Ezra talked about the possibilities of an artificial leg, then stood up and seized his crutch. “I don’t want to talk about it, Ezra. I appreciate your thoughts—but just don’t tell me about it anymore.”

After Tom thumped off into the house, Ezra sat on the porch, shaking his head. “He sure is sensitive, and that’s a shame. I could do him a real job with one of them wooden legs.”

Later, Ezra talked to Sarah about Tom and what could be done for him.

She suddenly said, “Ezra, you remember Gus Springer, who lives in Pineville?”

“Sure, I know Gus. Hey! He’s got an artificial foot, hasn’t he? Lost his leg in a train wreck. He does so good,” he said, “I forget he’s got one of those.”

Sarah nodded slowly, as though an idea was forming in her mind.

Two days after their conversation, a wagon drew up in front of the Carter house, and a man got
out. He mounted the steps quickly and knocked on the door.

Sarah answered his knock. “Mr. Springer!” she said. “You got my note!”

“Sure did, Miss Sarah.”

Springer was a small man, no more than five seven or eight, who ran a tanning business. He was wearing a natty suit of blue serge, and when he removed his hat, he revealed a shock of rusty red hair. His blue eyes sparkled as he said, “Don’t get an invitation from attractive young ladies to come calling very often. Mrs. Springer was a little bit worried about it.”

“Come in, Mr. Springer,” she said. “I guess Mrs. Springer wasn’t too jealous. She let you come.”

“When she read your letter, she said it was OK.”

Sarah’s note had explained Tom’s injury and asked him to come out and talk.

He appeared glad to do so.

“Sorry to hear about Tom,” he said, “but I’m glad he wasn’t hurt worse.”

“It’s bad enough—or so he thinks, Mr. Springer.”

“Well, I can understand that. I guess I thought the world had come to an end when I lost my leg, but—” he shrugged his trim shoulders “—I hardly even miss it now.”

Eagerly Sarah said, “It would be so good if you could talk to Tom.”

“Sure. Where is he?”

“I think he’s in his room. It’s down the hall, to the back—I’ll go get him, though.”

Springer was sitting on the horsehair couch and looking at a magazine when Sarah came back, Tom thumping on his crutch behind her.

Springer stood up at once. “Hello, Tom,” he said cheerfully. “Glad to see you.” He went over and shook Tom’s hand. “Sorry about your bad luck, but I’m glad you made it alive.”

“Thanks, Mr. Springer.” Tom looked at him with a question in his eye and said, “You just out visiting?”

Sarah had not told Tom the purpose of Gus Springer’s visit.

“Sure, that’s it,” he said easily. “But now that I’m here, I might as well give you my testimony.”

“Your testimony?”

To Tom this would mean a Christian testimony, but Sarah knew this was not what Springer had on his mind.

“What do you mean ‘testimony’?”

“Look at this, Tom.” Springer suddenly began dancing about. He moved quickly with ease, ended with a fancy spin, and said, “How do you like that?”

“Why—I guess it’s all right,” Tom said, bewildered.

And then Springer reached down with his closed fist and tapped the side of his lower leg. It made a solid knocking sound, and Tom blinked with surprise.

Springer grinned. “That’s right! Lost my leg right below the knee in a railroad accident while you were gone. Just wanted to come by and show you what they can do about these things.” He nodded cheerfully. “I know it’s been a blow, but you get you one of these legs.” He pulled up his pant leg and showed Tom the polished wooden leg. “Here, let me show you how it fastens on.”

Tom glanced over at Sarah, who was looking on with interest. He said, “No, thanks, Mr. Springer. I don’t think I want to know.”

He was behaving badly again, but she saw that somehow he was embarrassed by the scene.

“Thanks for coming by. I appreciate it.” He turned and thumped off. A door slammed.

Springer turned to face Sarah. “Well, he’s a little sensitive right now, but he’ll get over it.”

Sarah was terribly disappointed, though she tried to hide it. “Thank you, Gus, for coming. I think it’ll be a while before he’ll be willing to listen.”

Springer said encouragingly, “Sure, he’ll come out of it.”

When he’d said his good-byes and left the house, Sarah knocked on Tom’s door.

“Come in.” The answer was rather gruff, and when she stepped inside, Tom, standing by the window balanced on his crutch, turned to her. He said stiffly, “Sarah, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t meddle in my business anymore.”

“Tom—”

“You just don’t know what it’s like, and you’ll never know what it’s like. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d rather be alone. Just leave me alone. That’s all I ask.” He turned to stare again out the window, his back rigid.

Sarah stood there, terribly hurt. She left the room, and tears rose in her eyes. They trickled down her cheeks. She wiped them with a handkerchief and whispered, “He’s not himself. He’s got to learn that he’s still a man.”

J
eff had been struggling for a few days with a problem that would not go away. Leah must have noticed that he had grown quieter, because one day when they were walking alone through a field she asked abruptly, “Is something wrong, Jeff?”

“Wrong? Why, no. I don’t reckon there is.” He hesitated, then said, “Look! Remember that tree? That’s where we found the woodpecker egg we looked for for so long.”

Leah fixed her eyes on the huge towering oak. “I remember,” she said. “We must have looked for two years for one of those. I still have it, Jeff. Never did find the kingfisher’s egg, though. I don’t know where they nest.”

The two had hunted birds’ eggs for as long as either of them could remember. Leah kept them all carefully labeled in small flat boxes in her bedroom. Birds’ egg hunting with Jeff was among the most precious memories of her childhood. “I wonder if we’ll ever finish making that collection.”

Jeff looked at her quickly. Her face was troubled, and he turned her around to face him. “I
have
been struggling with a problem, Leah. You’re right.” He grinned faintly. “You know me pretty well, I guess. Can’t hide anything from you.”

“What’s the matter, Jeff?”

“Well, I’ve got to go back to my unit. Tom’s all right now, and Pa’ll be worried about us.”

“You wrote him, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did, but I’ve got to get back to the army. It won’t be long before I’ll be old enough to be in the regular army. I’m tired of banging on that old drum anyway.”

Troubled light came to Leah’s greenish eyes, and she bit her lower lip. “I wish you didn’t have to go back.”

“So do I. Nothing I’d like better than just to stay here and hunt and get a farm somewhere.” He tried to summon a grin. “And hunt eggs and fish with you. Just like we’ve always done.”

A flight of blackbirds sailed overhead, making their raucous cries, but the two did not look up. The birds swarmed and hovered, then fled in a dark cloud toward the north.

“I guess we spend a lot of our time saying goodbye. Well—” Jeff shrugged “—we’d better get back. I’ve got to talk to Tom.”

They made their way back to the house, and Jeff found Tom sitting out in the blacksmith shop. His crutch lay to one side, and he was watching Ezra shoe a horse.

Jeff leaned against a stall and watched as Ezra set the last nails, clenched them, and then lowered the horse’s hoof.

Looking up, Ezra said, “I’ve learned a lot about shoeing horses since I’ve been here. Mr. Gallion down the road, he’s taught me quite a bit. Got a lot to learn though.” He took the horse’s bridle and walked toward the door, calling back, “I’ll see you fellows later. I’ve got to go feed the hogs.”

As soon as he was out of the barn, Jeff ambled over to his brother and sat down on an upturned
bucket. “Tom,” he said, “I’ve got to get back to Virginia.”

“I guess it’s time we went back,” Tom muttered.

“I don’t think you ought to go,” Jeff said. “Your leg’s not completely healed, and you’ll get better care here than back there.”

“What you mean is, there’s no place there for me to go,” Tom said sharply.

“No, I didn’t mean that.”

“Well, it’s true enough.” Tom had not shaved for three days, and his black stubble of whiskers gave him a rough look. He’d always been neat and careful in his dress, but he’d let that slide since he had been wounded. He stared moodily at Jeff. “One place’s about like another. Might as well stay here and be a freeloader with the Carters.”

Jeff started. “Why, they don’t think of you like that, Tom!”

“They should. I sit around eating their food and doing no work.”

Jeff wanted desperately to say, “If you’d get an artificial leg and learn to use it, you could do most anything you wanted to.” He knew, however, that Tom was mindlessly stubborn about this. It was as if he had made up his mind not to do anything to help himself.

Jeff sat there helplessly. “Well, you’ll be better in a few weeks. Maybe the war’ll be over by then. I hope so.”