Northern Light (3 page)

3

Mama urged them to hurry and get to the sailor. Margaret would have rather stopped to enjoy the beautiful setting sun. But that wasn’t going to happen. Just one more thing she could blame that Yankee for.

Papa led Celia through the tall grass until they reached the dunes. He pulled on the mule’s harness. “Margaret, come up front so you can tell us which way to go.”

She scanned the water’s edge and noticed her pail shining in the setting sun. His body had to be nearby…she remembered dropping the pail. It didn’t seem that he had been so far away when she found him earlier. It was no wonder she was so out of breath when she arrived back at the house.

She pointed out the direction to Papa, and he nudged the old mule forward, her bray indicating her opposition to the idea. “I’m sorry, girl; I know you don’t like walking on the sand. Just a little further now.” Her papa was sweet to everyone…even an ornery old mule.

The man was still half out of the water.

“Be careful, Mama. He grabbed my wrist.” Margaret kept her distance. “And he might have a gun too.”

Mama knelt by his side, inspecting his wounds. Margaret kept her distance after the scare he gave her earlier. At the frightful memory she crossed her arms tightly around her waist. Her wrist stung with her tight grip. “And remember…he might have a gun too.”

Mama reared back and gasped as a fiddler crab ran across the sailor’s torso.

Papa knelt in the sand on the other side of the body. He brushed the little crab off the man’s chest with a chuckle and searched his clothing. “Don’t worry. He’s unarmed.” Papa looked up at her. “He was probably sent ashore to look for food and this happened.” Papa stood guard, rifle in hand.

Mama knew a lot about medicine because her papa, Grandpa Brannon, had been a doctor. She had even trained to become a nurse until she met Papa and everything changed…the first time she looked into Papa’s eyes. She’d told the story often enough to her daughters.

“Is he alive?” Margaret asked.

Mama lowered her head to the man’s face, and then looked at Papa. “He’s still breathing, but not very strong. These wounds are pretty bad, Jeb. It’s hard to tell how much blood he’s lost with him being in the water. I’m not sure he’ll make it.” Mama looked at the man. “So young too.”

Margaret found it difficult to care whether the man lived or died. What if this Yankee was the one who killed her Jeffrey? Why should her parents risk their lives and the lives of their children to help a blue belly? Sometimes her folks did things she couldn’t for the life of her understand. And this was one of those times.

Papa lifted the man and dragged him out of the water.

“Be careful, Jeb. He’s starting to come around.”

From the agonizing groans, his pain must have been excruciating. She turned away, disgusted by the blood oozing from his wounds, mixing with the wet sand.

“Margaret, come give us a hand. I don’t think me and Papa can lift him by ourselves.”

She whipped her head around and glared at Mama. What could the woman possibly be thinking? “I’m not going to touch that filthy Yankee!”

“Margaret Frances Logan…get your hind end over here and help us load this young man into the wagon. If we don’t get him back to the house, he has about as much chance as a candle in a windstorm of surviving.”

Margaret felt the blood leave her face. “You’re taking him to our home?”

“Well, what on earth did you think we would do with him?” Mama looked at Margaret as if she’d grown an extra head.

“I don’t know, bandage him up…leave him here…take him to Fort Greene. But take him to our house? Please, Papa!”

Her papa stood but remained silent. He wasn’t likely to take her side.
Meddling in the affairs of women isn’t a pastime smart men partake in.

She heard his all-too-familiar words in her mind.

“If we leave him here, he’s sure to die. If we take him to the fort, they will probably put a bullet in his head,” Mama said. “The Christian thing to do is take him home and patch him up.”

Margaret’s hands shook, she was so angry. She crossed her arms to steady herself. “So that’s it…you care more about this dirty, rotten Yankee than you do your own flesh and blood?”

Mama stood, hands on her hips. “Margaret, why did Jesus tell the story about the good Samaritan?”

“Mama, this isn’t the time or the place to talk about Bible stories.” Margaret raised her eyebrows and twisted her mouth to the side, satisfied she had the upper hand on her mama.

“Well, I think it’s the perfect time, young lady.”

Now both were standing face to face.

“You’d better answer your mama.” Papa moved the rifle to the far side of the wagon and covered it with a cotton sack.

“I guess He told the story because He wanted us to know how we should treat people.” Margaret huffed out her breath. Her shoulders sagged. Mama had won this round. “But that has nothing to do with us…a poor southern family helping a dirty…murderin’…Union sailor. Surely there are some things even God doesn’t expect us to do. We can’t all be Samaritans.”

“The meaning is the same, dear. God wants all of His people to act like that Samaritan.” She touched Margaret’s arm. “What if we were from the North and it was Jeffrey laying there dying?” Mama’s voice turned syrupy. “Wouldn’t you want some godly person to help him?”

Margaret’s bottom lip quivered. How could Mama stoop so low as to bring Jeffrey into the conversation? “That is a mean thing to say, Mama. My Jeffrey is dead and nobody was there to save him…nobody!” Tears began to flow.

“I know that, baby girl, but now we have the opportunity to do something right for one of God’s creatures, in spite of this horrible war.” Mama put her arms around Margaret and squeezed tight.

Mama’s words hurt, but still, Margaret knew what her mama said was true. If the North and South would learn to get along, then this horrific war could be over sooner. Margaret joined her parents in lifting the Yankee into the wagon. As they maneuvered him on the buckboard, she averted her eyes. Mama was sure to stretch her sparse medical knowledge to its limit with this patient.

Mama crawled inside and went to work, tearing open his already shredded jacket to reveal his injuries. With the thick strips of cloth, she wrapped the flesh wounds on his broad forearms. Her hand disappeared in the man’s overgrown, thick black hair. His eyes fluttered as she put the laudanum elixir to his mouth.

His face, the one Margaret had felt so compelled to touch only hours earlier, seemed pale against his dark facial hair. She turned away and scolded herself for having the gall to look on the face of that Yankee when her Jeffrey lay cold in his grave.

“Come on, Jeb, we need to get going before nightfall.” Thankfully, Mama broke into Margaret’s thoughts.

“Um-hmm.” Papa nodded his head. “We don’t want to be caught with a Union sailor come time for the foot patrols to start their evening rounds.”

Margaret struggled to breathe when she heard her father’s words…something she hadn’t even considered. They could all be killed if the Rebels caught them giving aid to a Union sailor. Before she could utter her complaint, Mama looked straight at her.

“Gather up your pail and continue collecting oysters for supper. We still need to eat. You can catch up to us on the trail.” Mama’s matter-of-fact way of speaking suggested no questions were needed.

Margaret didn’t voice the opinion that screamed through her mind.
An extra mouth to feed!
She didn’t deem it wise since Mama sounded so annoyed with her following their confrontation, but she was more than happy to finish the chore rather than accompany her parents back to the house…especially with that Yankee in tow.

Papa nudged Celia toward the trail. “Come on, girl. Let’s get this boy back to the house before it’s too late.” The mule complied with a bit of coaxing.

Margaret gathered the spilled oysters. The huge shell that caught her attention previously found its way back into her hand. Thoughts of the Mardi Gras and home brought on an overwhelming sadness. She sank to her knees. Her skirt caught on Papa’s boot and ripped off part of the bottom ruffle. The blood-stained frock was already destined for the rag basket, and there certainly weren’t any ball gowns in her future. She might never be able to return to her beloved New Orleans.

The newspaper account of the fall of New Orleans reached them long ago. Papa figured Captain Farragut must have arrived shortly after they had left. The women of the family all cried as he read the news. Margaret stroked the rough shell and allowed her mind to wander—New Orleans, her beautiful pearl, was gone. Even if they could go home, would there be anything left? She threw the big oyster shell as far as she could.

Thoughts of the war brought her back to the current disaster…the one headed toward her home. She pushed up off the ground and thought about the calamity her mama and papa were bringing on their family.

She rubbed sandy palms on her filthy skirt and finished filling the pail with oysters. Someone with common sense needed to be present when her parents arrived with the Union sailor. And if that was her…then so be it.

4

Thomas Murphy lifted his head and tried to focus. He was on a boat surrounded by a dense layer of fog. At least he thought it was a boat. Why else would he feel the waves and swells tossing around?

The image finally became clear…yes…there was a lighthouse in the distance. He could discern only the long golden beam stretching out across the water. The longer he gazed at the beacon, the clearer it became. Wait…he wasn’t in a boat; it was a soft bed. The lighthouse was only a painting. The intense throbbing in his head was the source of the waves and swells. He dropped back onto the soft pillow.

He raised his hand to his forehead and felt a large bandage covering the warm, sensitive area. Pain in his shoulder forced his hand back down from his bandaged forehead. He rolled to his side and looked around the room. It didn’t appear to be a hospital. He tried to remember what happened.
Think, Thomas, think. Where could ye be?

Shadowy memories of burning hot ordinance, the smell of smoke, and a sense of falling swam through his mind. The room swirled, making him want to retch. He’d been in enemy territory. He reached under the sheet to check for his weapon but only felt the bare flesh of his thigh. Someone had stripped off his clothes and bandaged his wounds. Seething pain overcame him. The fog returned, and then the room grew dark.

~*~

Margaret slipped inside the front bedroom and inched toward the bed where the sailor slept.

Mama had kept him knocked out with laudanum because with all the thrashing about he did, she didn’t want him busting open the stitches.

The even rise and fall of his ribcage told Margaret he was still alive. It was inappropriate for her to tarry alone in the room, but she had good reason. Anything that could be used as a weapon needed to be removed. She touched a lace doily and looked at the sailor. “No, I suppose you can’t hurt us with a doily.” She replaced the hand-crocheted decoration and then moved to the dressing table. There was a comb, a brush, a mirror…and a letter opener. “You won’t be stabbing any of us with this, sir.” She slid the thin sliver of silver inside the pocket of her apron.

Margaret scowled at the man, resenting how peaceful he looked asleep on some of their best sheets. She moved closer to the bed. “Well, Mr. Yankee sailor, I guess you think everything is going your way, don’t you? Get yourself shot up and just happen to land in the home of some honest, God-fearing people who patch you up and let you recover in one of their bedrooms. Well, guess what?”

The sailor stirred and moaned.

Margaret froze. He waved his arm back and forth and mumbled something she couldn’t understand. She had spoken too loudly.

He sighed and settled back into sleep.

She released the breath she’d been holding and clutched her chest, willing her heart to stop pounding. She took one last quick survey of the room, put her hand against the letter opener in her apron pocket, and headed for the door.

The last thing she wanted was for her face to be the first thing the sailor saw when he finally opened his eyes.

But feeling as guilty as Lot’s wife, she glanced back at the bed for one more look.

~*~

“Would you like some tea, Thomas?”

The dark-haired beauty stood beside his bed, ready to tend to his every need. “Why, thank ye, lass. That would be wonderful.”

She leaned close and stroked his cheek, genuine concern shining in her eyes. “You poor thing, you’re badly injured. Why would anyone want to hurt you?”

Thomas reached for her hand, but now she was holding a tray of tea and biscuits. “Aye, lass, but that’s how it goes in war, I suppose.”

She seemed to float to his bedside. She smelled of roses and fresh country air.

“The angels must be smiling on me today. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve having such a gorgeous woman by my side.”

The beautiful apparition with the coal-colored hair floated toward the door without serving him tea. The door creaked when she opened it.

As Thomas woke, pain covered him like a blanket…it had all been a dream.

~*~

Someone watched him from the crack in the door.

Thomas tried to focus, but the stupor he was in made it difficult. He tensed, searching for a weapon. The tiny round face only reached up to the doorknob, so whoever was looking at him must not be very old. “Hello there, wee one.” His voice sounded hoarse and raspy. He cleared his throat.

The eyes doubled in size and the door slammed shut.

“Mama, Mama, the Yankee is alive!” A little girl’s voice rose outside the room. “And he talks funny too!”

Thomas chuckled, which sent a surge of pain through his torso. He sobered. There was no denying who he was to those who had apparently saved his life.

As he lay in the darkened bedroom, footsteps approached the room.

He covered what he could of his body with the soft, clean bed sheets.

The door swung open, and a woman stepped through holding a tray. Her face was gaunt, causing her cheekbones to protrude in much the same way his own mam’s had. Even her arms looked slender but muscular. Bright red hair sprinkled with strands of silver was pulled into a knot at the nape of her neck. She appeared to have been a strong, hearty woman at one time. But the war had probably done its part to beat her down, as it had with everyone else. She didn’t look dangerous. “Well, I see you’ve decided to join the living, Van Winkle. My name is Caroline Logan…and what is your name?”