Widow of Gettysburg (44 page)

Sun-sparked water streamed over Silas as he pulled himself up out of Willoughby Run. A month after the battle, he wasn’t convinced it was safe to drink, but he couldn’t help but take a dip in the water to cool down after he had nearly choked Isaac to death. It had been years since he had allowed his anger to overpower his will.

Scrubbing his body and hair with a towel, he put his clothes back on and planned his departure from Holloway Farm.
It’s the right thing to do.
He could get around on his crutch as well as the doctor could hope. It was time to carve out a new life for himself. One that didn’t involve the war.
Or Liberty.
He was sure she would not tolerate him now.

As Silas began making his way back to the farm, an odd-shaped patch of lush green grass caught his eye. He looked at the farm again, and memory locked into place. This was the spot where he had fallen, with the wound that changed his life forever. On one knee, he knelt, and grazed his palm over the silky blades. The blood he had spilled had fertilized the ground.

He closed his eyes to sift the profound from the ordinary, his ears filling with birdsong.

And barking.

Barking? But Major was deaf, and hadn’t barked the entire time Silas had known him. Suspicion drew Silas toward the sound, all the way back to the farm.

In the dooryard, Major hurled himself against Silas and howled, pitifully. Silas bent to scratch him behind the ears, but Major wasn’t interested.

Silas jerked his head toward Liberty’s second story window in time to see Isaac slam her by the shoulders against her bedroom door. His heart nearly stopped. Her dress was ripped at the neckline, and her dark
hair curled wildly about her shoulders.

Just because she’s not good enough for the main course don’t mean you can’t have a little on the side!

They stumbled out of view.
I should never have let Isaac out of my sight! What have I done?
Silas’s pulse throbbed in his head, his mind grappled for a solution.
I have to get there!
With one leg, by the time he made it up to the house and up the stairs, Isaac could have ravaged Liberty already. He slammed his crutch into the ground and yelled in frustration against his own impotence.

Fitz came trotting out from the barn. “What’s the racket?”

“Isaac’s got Liberty.” He pointed to the window. “Fitz, I need a gun. Do you have one? Can you get me one?”

Fitz raised his eyebrows. “You fixin’ to fire into the window? What if you miss?”

“Get me a gun! Now!” His voice was laced with rage meant for Isaac and all other men like him. Fitz ran off and in moments, brought back an Enfield rifle.

Without being told, Fitz held the crutch steady under Silas’s arm as Silas ripped the top off the cartridge and poured powder and bullet into the barrel.

“You know you got one shot, don’t you? You miss, we’ll never see him through the window again.”

He knew. He also knew that if he missed Isaac, he could very likely hit Liberty. “That’s why I won’t miss.” He glanced up and saw a flash of her black hair again before it disappeared.

Silas drew the rammer and slammed it down the barrel.

Another thud sounded from the bedroom.

Metal rang on metal as he whipped the rammer out of the barrel and returned it to its holder.

“It don’t look good, Silas. I don’t see ’em.”

Liberty cried out.

Silas primed the gun with a percussion cap and shouldered it, squinting down the barrel through the front site. Sweat and stream
water stung his eyes. He blinked the moisture away and prayed for a good clean shot. Just one clean shot.

He waited.

And heard nothing.

It’s over. I can’t fight anymore.

Liberty squeezed her eyes shut against Isaac’s face as he straddled her on the floor.

“Liberty!”

Her eyes popped open at the sound of Silas’s voice.

“Rise up!”

Isaac looked up, and Liberty punched him in the jaw. He dropped on top of her. Her spine dug into the hardwood floor as she writhed and wormed to wiggle out from beneath him. She lunged toward the window, clawed at the windowsill, but he pulled her backwards across the floor.

Liberty kicked at his face, then spied the chamber pot she had never emptied from yesterday morning. She flung off the lid, grabbed it by the handles and sloshed her waste all over Isaac’s face.

He shrieked and covered his eyes as she scrambled to her feet.

Dripping and reeking with stink, Isaac leapt up and slammed his body against hers, pinning her to the door once more. “Even if you’d blinded me, it wouldn’t stop me. I know my way around in the dark.” He planted both hands on the door, trapping her between them. “When will you just stop fighting, woman? You will never win!”

A rifle shot cracked the air and smashed into Isaac’s arm. He screeched and crumbled to his knees as Liberty ran to the other side of the room. His arm bloomed with scarlet, and blood seeped into the floor, brightening the grain of the wood.

Liberty looked out the window but saw only the blue-grey fog of gunpowder dissolving in the air.

“They’ll cut off my arm,” Isaac moaned. “Please, please don’t let
them chop my arm off! I don’t want to live like a freak for the rest of my life!” Holding his arm, he curled up into a fetal position near the bed.

Too late.
Liberty slowly stepped back to the door, unlocked it, and turned the latch, expelling a sigh of relief.

Too soon.
Isaac lashed out a leg and kicked the door closed. “You did this to me!” He plunged his hand in her sewing basket and whipped out the scissors, holding them like a knife.

Myrtle had seen the wagon return with Liberty this morning and hurried to make her coffee. Now that coffee spilled down the stairs as Myrtle hiked up her skirts and ran toward the bedroom. Something was wrong. Isaac was yelling. She could tell from his lisp.

Bursting into the room, she took in the scene in a second that seemed to last minutes. Liberty’s hair curling about her shoulders, her dress ripped at the neckline, her face bruised, lip bleeding. Isaac with his trousers off, raising the scissors in the air, stumbling but mad with fury.

Isaac had attacked Liberty, perhaps just to have his way with her.

Let him.

“Help me!” Liberty breathed. The floor, slippery with blood, Isaac’s arm soaked with crimson. Someone had shot Isaac through the window.
It had to be Silas.
But it hadn’t stopped Isaac.

Myrtle would help Silas. In a span of time no longer than a breath, Myrtle decided to be a hero.

From behind, she punched Isaac where the bullet had entered his arm, then knocked the scissors out of his hand as he reeled in pain. She slammed him down on the floor and straddled him, pinning his arms across his chest.

“The chloroform.” She nodded to the basket, and Liberty rushed to it, her eyes wide with surprise as she found the chloroform and cloth towel. Liberty knew exactly what to do with them. Folding the towel into a cone, she doused it with chloroform and scrambled back to Isaac. Myrtle snatched it from her and pressed it over his face.

Myrtle wanted to kill him herself. She wanted Silas to thank her, even if it was for saving Liberty.

Isaac’s shrill cry turned rabid as he screamed into the cloth, kicking at nothing, then fell silent and limp beneath the drug.

“It’s over,” whispered Liberty.

But it wasn’t. Not yet. Myrtle gazed calmly at the towel beneath her white-knuckled hand. She had to be sure he couldn’t hurt Liberty anymore.

Myrtle knew what it was like to be hurt.

Liberty backed away from the body on the floor in shock. When Myrtle finally took her hand away, she left the towel on Isaac like a burial face cloth.

Footsteps—and a crutch—pounded on the staircase and in the hallway before Silas, Fitz, and Dr. Stephens spilled into the room, followed by Major. Self-consciously she stood and pushed her hair back away from her face while the men huddled over Isaac.

“He’s dead.” The doctor pronounced and smelled the cloth.

“W–we were j–just trying to subdue him—” Liberty covered her mouth with her hand.

“I did it,” Myrtle said proudly. “Myrtle Henderson killed Isaac Tucker. I saved Liberty for you, Silas.”

The men exchanged stupefied glances.

“He attacked Liberty. He was going to hurt her. So I stopped him.”

Myrtle’s confession hung in the air, all eyes on her simple, smiling face. At length, Dr. Stephens said, “As far as I’m concerned, this man is a casualty of the battle at Gettysburg.”

Silas approached Liberty and scanned her battered face. Part of her wanted to reach for him and burrow into his chest and feel his arms wrapped around her. Another part of her couldn’t help but wonder. If Bella had been right about Isaac, could she be right about Silas, too?

Silas reached out to touch her face, and she flinched away from him.

“Liberty.” His voice was gravelly with unchecked emotion. “I swear
I would never hurt you. If anything had happened to you, I don’t know what I would have done—” His voice cracked, and a lump bobbed in his throat. “Forgive me for not getting here faster—I came as soon as I could …” He drew a breath before turning to Myrtle. “Thank you for helping Liberty. I will always be grateful.”

Myrtle beamed at him, and Liberty saw in her eyes the childlike devotion that drove her. Stepping over to him, Myrtle closed her eyes and lifted her face to him like a sunflower leaning toward the light.

And jolted awkwardly at the sound of Dr. Stephens calling her. “Could you fetch Dr. O’Leary for me, please? We need to move the body downstairs and I could use some help. Fitz is somewhat at a loss and Silas … well, I’d like to let him have some time with Miss Holloway alone.”

For Myrtle, the spell had been broken. Heartbreak was written on her face as she tucked her chin into her neck. “Why don’t I just help you myself?” She returned to Isaac, picked up his feet, and followed the doctor and Fitz out of the room.

Liberty’s knees gave way in utter exhaustion, and Silas circled her waist with his arm before she could slide to the floor next to her bureau. He guided her to the edge of her bed, where they sat. “Are you going to be all right?” he whispered, and she nodded, aware that his hand still rested on the small of her back. Major sat on the hem of her skirt and looked up at her. She buried her fingers in the fur behind his ears.

“I was so close to not being all right. I was sure I couldn’t fight him off anymore …” Tears stole her voice as Bella’s face surged in her mind. Bella had fought, too, but no one came to rescue her.
Where is she now?
“I miss my mother,” she whispered.

“Then it’s true? You are certain?” His face was tight. She nodded. He looked away for a long moment after she nodded, and slowly withdrew his hand from her. “She will come back for you.”

“How do you know?” Her voice trembled with uncertainty.

“She loves you too much to stay away. She always has.”

Liberty nodded. Her eyes burned.

“Silas Ford?” A Union officer stood in the doorway, Dr. O’Leary at his side, a sponge and bristle brush in his hands.

“I’m sorry, Silas,” Dr. O’Leary muttered. “I had to bring him up.”

The officer cleared his throat. “I read all about you in the paper. As you no longer require medical attention, you are hereby arrested as a prisoner of war.”

Liberty’s breath grew ragged in her chest as she and Silas stood. She locked eyes with him. “Will I see you again?”

“For what purpose?” He cut his voice low and wrapped her hand in his. “Whatever we felt—or feel—for one another, it has to end here. Now. Surely you must know that we cannot be together. Not now.”

“Move it, Ford.” The officer frowned, and Silas began to draw his hand away from Liberty.

“Don’t stay away,” she breathed.

“Don’t you see?” He swallowed. “It’s the only way. Don’t wait for me, Liberty. Live your life, and be happy. You deserve nothing less. And you deserve far more than me.” Silas tucked her hair behind her ear and slid his hand to the back of her head, his fingers deep in her unpinned hair. She closed her eyes and lifted her face to his as he leaned in, smelling of sawdust and sun. Gently, he tilted her head down and pressed a kiss to her hair, the scruff of his chin grazing her forehead. She should not have yearned for him to draw her close, to burn her lips with his once more, when he chose to part as a brother might leave a sister.