FROM THE ASHES
by
Carolyn R. Scheidies
Torn Veil Books
winnipeg
Published by Torn Veil Books at Smashwords.com
This book is also available as a paperback at your favorite online retailer like Amazon.com, or through your local bookstore.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-926712-48-2
From the Ashes is Copyright © 2010 by Carolyn R. Scheidies. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce in whole or in part in any form or medium.
All Scripture contained within is from the King James Version of the Bible.
Published by Torn Veil Books
www.tornveilbooks.com
Text set in Garamond
eBook Edition
Cover Design by A.P. Fuchs and Roxanne Fuchs
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This book is dedicated to that special person who’s been hurt by life and doesn’t know where to turn. Know that no matter what happens in life, God is there and God cares.
Carolyn R. Scheidies
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FROM THE ASHES
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“The LORD is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? the LORD is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?”
- Psalm 27:1
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PSALM 13
1 How long wilt thou forget me, O LORD? for ever? how long wilt thou hide thy face from me?
2 How long shall I take counsel in my soul, having sorrow in my heart daily? how long shall mine enemy be exalted over me?
3 Consider and hear me, O LORD my God: lighten mine eyes, lest I sleep the sleep of death;
4 Lest mine enemy say, I have prevailed against him; and those that trouble me rejoice when I am moved.
5 But I have trusted in thy mercy; my heart shall rejoice in thy salvation.
6 I will sing unto the LORD, because he hath dealt bountifully with me.
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PROLOGUE
“Hope deferred maketh the heart sick: but when the desire cometh, it is a tree of life.”
- Proverbs 13:12
Wayne Jars glared at his wife who stood beside the deep sink that had seen better days. Her limp ash blond hair escaped from what had begun as a tidy bun. The once white aristocratic hands with their long slender fingers were brown from long hours in the sun and red from scrubbing dishes that never had seen better days.
As for her figure, he thought, the scare crow I put in the field to scare away the pesky birds has more curves.
Anger curled around his gut. Clenching his fist, he forced himself not to smash it onto the rough hewn table. Not one of his better efforts. But then, nothing he put his hands to seemed to turn out right, nothing.
Across the room of the tiny house, his two daughters quietly giggled secrets. Probably about Amity’s latest beau, George. He wished the lad would say his piece and take her off his hands. Three girls. Three giggling females who cared little about the land and spent too much time primping, at least to his way of thinking. All his wife’s fault, of course. Useless creatures, the lot of them. With the right offer, he’d have the last two off his hands.
He glanced once more at his frail wife. The prairie living sucked the life right out of her. No possibility of any more sons, not now. The woman failed him. All her fault.
“Wayne?”
Had she spoken to him before? Drat the woman! Always on him about something. Why couldn’t she leave him be?
She spoke, “Are you finished?”
She hovered like some scared rabbit. Her timidity irritated him. She hadn’t always been so timid. For a moment, the hard line of his mouth softened, remembering her as she swished toward him down the gentle slope of green in her rose silk gown. Her eyes sparkling, she, ever so slightly, pouted raspberry lips. Not one to pass up an opportunity, he kissed her. Though she pulled away all in a fluster, he read pleasure in her eyes as well as confusion. Yes indeed, ‘twas a moment to savor. The woman trembling at his side bore little resemblance to that young woman of wealth and privilege.
“Speak up woman,” he growled, shoving the plate into her hand. These days, he could scarce tolerate her hesitant touch.
Blanching, she took it from his hands. Not fast enough. Swinging around, Wayne grabbed her arm. The plate clattered to the floor. The giggling stopped abruptly. The sudden hush fueled his fury. Her fault. Hatred for the woman he married churned inside. She avoided him as much as possible. Didn’t want him near her, but he made her pay for pushing him away. No use, not any more. His once vigorous wife was but a dry husk.
He needed a son. He needed help working the farm. Sure, he begot Edward, Eddie for short, who’d run off to play war. She gave him one miserable excuse for a son, and daughters. Daughters! The only one with a lick of sense betrayed him by running off with some no account soldier boy with half an arm.
Rotten war. Who cared anyway who won as long as it didn’t interfere with his plans. But it did. Plans destroyed because of the north’s infernal interference, leaving him with the pitiful creature who’d seduced him with her shining eyes and well-to-do connections. Jaws clenched, he tightened his grip until her arm bruised.
“Wayne, no,” she cried.
It only churned the fury within, fury at her. She trapped him into marriage; trapped him in the wilderness; trapped him with no way out. Of course she’d always secretly despised him, a man who worked with his hands. She’d toyed with him, the pampered relative of a wealthy plantation owner. But she got burned and her family . . .
Fire raged inside. He married her; proud she wanted him. He had such plans for them back then, such dreams for their future. After all, he was son-in-law to the cousin of a highly regarded planter.
Except they did not respect him, and his dreams crumbled under their puritan morality. They cut him off, cut off his hopes, his dreams. Hatred for Charlene’s family flared. His expression hardened. The very sight of what had once been his beautiful bride, sickened him.
A moment later, he threw her against the wall as his rage spewed forth. Her limp hair cascaded over her shoulders as her head slammed against the wall. Out of control, Jars slammed her again and again. The dazed fright in her eyes drove him to near insanity.
Squeaking like a stuck pig, his youngest daughter Cherry shrunk down into a dark corner of the shanty. Sixteen-year-old Amity, her lips grim, stepped between he and her mother. “Leave her alone.”
He made sure she felt the force of his fist. Wiping blood from her lip, she confronted him. “Leave her alone, Pa. She didn’t do nothing to you.”
“Lot you know.” Nonetheless, his fists dropped to his side. Chest heaving he restrained himself with difficulty, lancing the two with the blue of his words until the women winced under his profanity.
Putting her arm around her frail mother, Amity held her up. In his own way, Jars admired the determined courage of his daughter. Too bad her mother hadn’t the same sort of backbone.
“If she’d given me sons instead of helpless womenfolk, I’d have made something of this place by now,” he grumbled. “If her top-lofty family hadn’t taken me in such dislike, we’d be living in Fair Greens instead of suffocating in this forsaken hell hole.”
Amity made an effort to calm him. “We’ve tried to help, Pa. You know we have.”
“Baugh! Not worth the effort.” Despair washed over him as he clenched and unclenched his fist.
“Amity’s right, Pa,” Cherry managed, “but nothing we do pleases you.” Cherry edged up the wall as though fearing her father’s fury might once more erupt.
Amity seemed to sense the storm had passed. “Pa, about help?”
“I ain’t about to shell out money fer no hired man. They ask too much.”
“In town I read about how they’re sending young’uns out from the east to live with folk out west. Orphans and such. People take them in.”
Something sparked in Wayne’s eyes. “Rightly speakin’ now?”
“Yes, Pa. Read there are lots of boys especially sent out. They help out on the farms, like part of the family.”
“Umm. Where did you hear tell about this, Girl?”
“Read an article in the paper in town. Sent lots of orphans to Illinois and Indiana and Iowa and such. Why not to Kansas?”
“What’s it cost?”
“Don’t rightly know, Pa.” Amity faced her father.
Jars pulled on his suspenders. “An orphan lad to work the farm. Maybe I oughta look inta that.”
Sidling toward her older sister, Cherry touched her mother’s face, her large brown eyes bright with tears. “Oh, Mama,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”
Jars frowned.
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CHAPTER ONE
“If, when evil cometh upon us, as the sword, judgment, or pestilence, or famine, we stand before this house, and in thy presence, (for thy name is in this house,) and cry unto thee in our affliction, then thou wilt hear and help.”
- II Chronicles 20:9
Heat from the unexpectedly late fall sun beat down on the already devastated land. Wiping the sweat from her brow with a delicate hand, Dawn Taylor stared up at the three-story structure that had been home all her life. Tall round pillars lined the front wrap-around porch. Vines gracefully climbed the walls, softening the lines of the imposing building. Green vines tangled with the dead and dying ones, all desperately in need of pruning.
The once startling white siding of the manor house had faded to gray like a dignified lady gracefully crumbling into ruin with inattention and age. The steps leading to the porch squeaked. They needed serious attention, as did both the hedge and the once well-manicured lawn that stretched away to the outbuildings.
No laughter floated on the slight breeze from the vast cotton fields, now lying neglected, black and barren. No lively dark children raced each other around the trees. No sturdy grooms walked the prime cattle that were her father’s pride and joy. No gardeners or cooks sang as they worked.
War.
She hated the very sound of the word. War! All it meant was deprivation, depression and despair. And hope? Dawn shook her head. Hope had become little more than a word.
Things hadn’t seemed so bleak in the beginning, but as the war dragged on and on and on, the once thriving estate languished. The Confederate soldiers that marched off to war with such confidence in smart neatly pressed uniforms and braid, now straggled back wearing tatters and brown homespun. Hopeless anger replaced confidence, and the workers, slaves actually, escaped, afraid, as much from the revenge of the raiding Grays as from the advancing Bluebellies.
Workers? Dawn winced. Like her mother born in the north, she hated slavery. She hated the things she herself had seen and overheard: children torn from their mother’s side; husbands sold away south from their wives and families; beatings for little or no reason.
Her mother was right, slavery was evil, even on a place like Fair Greens where the workers were treated kindly and abundantly provided for. Due to her gentle mother’s influence, her father never split up families. Not until the war. Not until the sudden death of her dear mother from some unexplained fever she caught while down in the slave cabins tending a sick child.
Something happened to her gentle father then. Or was it the war? Nothing was the same after her mother’s death. Nothing. Her father’s countenance grew stern and haggard. Nonetheless, he hung on, a planter marching to a different beat until his own neighbors turned on him. A slave mysteriously disappeared. Some claimed he ran away. Dawn believed differently. One of the stablehands found him dead, strangled. Dawn’s father took it as a warning and kept a closer vigil on his people and his family.
Visits between plantations slowed, and finally, as the war turned against the South, stopped completely. Singly and in small groups, slaves sifted away into the night. Dawn’s father refused to pursue them. With each defection, the work load grew heavier. In time, the fields were abandoned with half a crop brought in.
It took only a slight cough, but it was enough to take the life of the broken man who’d once been so full of life, before the war, before the death of his beloved wife.
He’d freed the last of the slaves on his death bed. Dawn could only feel relief. What with the continual raids by their own men, they scarce had provisions left for themselves. With the fall of Atlanta, Sherman marched across the land, leaving a wide swath of destruction behind. Surely they would be safe. Hadn’t her father said as much?
After all, they didn’t have slaves, and her mother had been a Northerner. In fact, they still had an uncle in the Boston area. She even recalled his address from the letters her mother so frequently wrote in her delicate hand. No, she needn’t fear their coming. Still, deep inside fear trembled.
“Lord, help us.” Dawn didn’t even know how to pray, whether for the Northern soldiers to come or to pass them by. She no longer shared her father’s optimism on that score. Surveying the only home she’d ever known, she thanked God her father hadn’t witnessed the final disintegration of what he’d spent his whole life building up.
Sighing, Dawn turned her eyes, gray with concern, toward the trees guarding the perimeter of the gracious house. A sound caught her ear and she tensed. After the last raid, she made certain to stay out of sight. Julia insisted, and Julia was to be obeyed. Her father made them all promise to obey their oldest sister. Dawn kept her promises.
Suddenly her younger brother Caleb trotted toward her, desperately urging an ancient animal into an awkward gallop. The poor gelding stopped in front of Dawn who laughed at the disgust so evident on the face of her lanky brother.
Scratching the horse’s graying nose, Dawn said, “Jack’s too old to ride, Caleb. Why he was old when Papa gave him to me as my first real horse.”
The tall gangling twelve-year-old groaned. “If only our own soldiers hadn’t taken all the horses, leaving us with only one broken down old animal.” Absently he patted the old gelding as though to take the sting from his comment.
Slipping from the animal’s back, he took the reins into one hand while fishing into his pocket with the other. He pulled out the stump of a thick carrot. The old bay nuzzled him as Caleb fed the tidbit to the eager horse.
“I wish,” Julia said, “they hadn’t taken all the bacon and the chickens and the flour or raided Papa’s gun room.”
Dawn whirled toward her sister Julia.
The tall, slender Julia, the very epitome of the Southern Belle, graciousness and all, hugged her brother. “But Lord willin’ we’ll get by.”
Dawn didn’t meet her sister’s eyes. Couldn’t. Not when her heart rebelled. Was God willing they starve? How could her sister remain so cheerful? Even in her worn gown, Julia appeared as fresh as though she’d was attending one of the many afternoon teas that always showed off her mother at her most gracious. Once. Long ago. A life time ago. A sigh escaped Dawn’s pursed lips.
“You all right, Dawn?” Her sister asked quietly, the look on her face one of understanding.
Again that deep sigh. “I guess. Yes. Fine.”
Nodding, Julie seemed about to pursue the question. Instead she asked, “Did you find the vegetables in the garden?”
Shrugging her auburn hair from her shoulder, Dawn held up a burlap bag. “Afraid it’s all I could find,” she said, handing the limp bag to her sister. “Not much left.” Dawn heard the complaint in her tone and grimaced. Julia only smiled that gentle smile so like that of their mother, the smile that melted the reserve of her Southern gentleman father for the Northerner. Her mother married one of the most eligible of bachelors of her day.
Amazing how her pampered sister rose to the challenge not only as mistress of Fair Greens, but also as cook and everything else that needed doing. And she did it with a gentle smile on her lovely face.
Her sister’s acceptance of the situation brought forth Dawn’s admiration. Julia had courage. She’d faced down Confederate soldiers and had them bowing and apologizing. It was the least they could do considering all they took away with them. Dawn felt only anger, and it showed in the flash of her eyes. But stronger than the anger was her guilty secret.
Fear!
Fear kept her silent. Fear churned inside. Fear!
Showing a meek exterior, she helped her sister and kept their younger brother in line. He was just old enough to fancy himself their protector, just old enough to get himself in trouble should he try. Her father sensed the lad’s restlessness even before he died and made him promise to stay with his sisters. Thankfully, Caleb promised.
“Caleb,” Julia’s voice interrupted Dawn’s thoughts. “Did you find any eggs?”
The twelve-year-old hung his head. “I didn’t look. I hate trying to find that old hen. She moves every day.”
“If she didn’t,” Dawn said with a sarcastic twist to her lips, “she’d be in some soldier’s stew pot by now. So be thankful.”
Julia made no comment, but Dawn flushed under her sister’s steady gaze. “Yes, Caleb, we’re alive and safe. We have a great deal for which to give thanks.”
Dawn bit her lip to keep herself from retorting. “Sure, our parents are dead. The house is falling into a heap, and we scarcely have food enough to feed ourselves.” Even as the thought flickered in her mind, she felt ashamed. Others suffered worse indignities.
As though sensing her sister’s confused emotions, Julia gave her a quick hug before starting up the steps. “Caleb, take Jack, find Old Bess, and find those eggs. Dawn . . .”
A loud crack cut off her words as the rotted step gave way beneath her. With a cry, Julia fell. Caleb leaped forward to grab her as Dawn hurried toward her sister.
“Julia, you all right?” Dawn raised Julia gently to a sitting position while Caleb carefully freed her ankle from the broken step. He flung the broken board away in disgust.
Julia stilled a groan as she tried to rise. “I . . . I’ll be fine. Just get me into the house.”
Without another word brother and sister assisted Julia up the last couple of stairs to the shaded porch.
They stopped as shouts rose in the nearby wood. The three stared at each other. Limping toward the porch swing, Julia sat down. The chain groaned, squeaked as she rocked back. Her face serious, she commanded. “Caleb, take Jack and hide in the woods.”
“I want to stay.” Legs spread, Caleb crossed his arms across his narrow chest.
“No, we might well need Jack if we ever need to leave Fair Greens. He’s all we have.” Julia’s voice softened. “Caleb, we need him. Please . . .”
“Oh, all right.” Grabbing up the reins, Caleb took the horse and vanished into the trees away from the shouts and the growing thundering hooves that shook the leaves of the trees.
“Now you Dawn. I won’t have you exposed to the soldiers’ insults.” Julia’s tone booked no refusal.
Dawn hesitated. “I can’t leave you here alone.”
Julia winced. “I’m in charge and you promised to obey me.” Pausing, she lowered her voice. “This is no game, Sis. Go. Now.” As Dawn continued to hesitate, Julia added, “Promise me, that no matter what happens, you’ll stay hidden.”
Dawn remained silent.
“Dawn?”
With reluctance, Dawn nodded.
For some reason, instead of entering the house, Dawn headed after her brother, but she had no notion where he’d gotten to. He was good at disappearing. Just then the first of the soldiers broke through the line of the trees at the edge of the property.
Harnesses jingled on the large horses as the soldiers galloped up the slight incline toward the house. Their raucous laughter sent shards of terror down Dawn’s spine. Almost without thought, Dawn grabbed a branch of a thick-leafed tree next to the house and hauled herself high into its depths.
From her viewpoint she watched the soldiers’ advance. Bluebellies on fat, sleek horses. Anger churned.
Turning, she also watched her sister pat the skirt of her threadbare spring-green gown into place. She watched Julia bow her head before settling a pleasant look on her face.
It would be all right. It would. Then why the quiver of fear in her stomach?
* * * *
CHAPTER TWO
“When I looked for good, then evil came unto me: and when I waited for light, there came darkness.”
- Job 30:26
Two burly soldiers, hats remaining firmly on their heads, stomped toward the porch. Staring up at the lovely Southern Belle waiting for them, they stopped.
“How may I assist you?”
Dawn admired Julia’s poise. Absently, she noted her sister’s hands clenched in her lap. Maybe her sister wasn’t as calm as she appeared.
“We’ve come for provisions.” Taking off his long gloves, the taller of the two slapped them against his palm. “Don’t try any of your stalling tactics. We’re onto your sly manipulations.”
Julia paused as though deciding whether or not to debate their inflammatory comments. Delicately she took hold of the chain of the swing, her hand shaking the slightest bit. “We have little enough, but you’re welcome to what you can find.” There was no use trying to stall them. Dawn was glad Julia hadn’t tried.
A branch poked her side, and she shifted her position, sending a small flurry of leaves fluttering down to the ground. Her stomach tightened. “Please don’t let them notice,” she mouthed, the words hardly more than a desperate thought. Anger stirred toward the cavalier attitude of the soldiers. Leave us alone, her heart cried. We’re not hurting you. We’re not your enemies. She licked lips that dried with her growing anxiety as she witnessed the expressions on the faces of those accosting her sister.
How could Julia remain so calm?
With a nod toward his troop, the soldier stood aside with a sneer on his face while his men kicked in the door and tramped inside the house, their boots echoing on the hard wood floors. Even from her perch, Dawn heard the shouts and derisive laughter, heard priceless china smashing, or was it windows? Windows. Shards of glass from an upstairs window sprinkled down on her. A thin-faced soldier leaned out the window waving something she couldn’t quite identify, wasn’t sure she wanted to.
Fury flared. How dare they destroy her home, her memories, her treasures! She thought of their rough hands on her mother’s things, on her own. Weren’t the Confederate soldiers’ foraging through their stables, their kitchens, their smoke house bad enough without this? Lord, why?
The pillaging seemed to continue forever and with every crash, with every vile curse, with every evil laugh, Dawn shrank further into the bowels of the tree that offered her sanctuary.
An eternity later, the soldiers emerged, their arms filled with pans, bedding, even a gilt frame—whatever the Confederate soldiers left them. Their language burned her ears.
One sneered as he swept by her sister. Another spit. Without a word, Julia wiped the spittle from her cheek. Her calm demeanor seemed to further anger the men. One fingered a lock of her hair. Even from her perch, Dawn recognized the slight shudder of Julia’s shoulders. Still, Julia refused to acknowledge the indignity with other than, “If you found what you came for, please go.”
One soldier snorted. “You have no idea why we’re here, do you?” He seemed to enjoy the expression of confusion that crossed Julia’s face. “You haven’t heard?”
“Leave be,” said another, jumping from the porch with his ill-gotten gains.
A burly soldier glared down at her. “Better move. We’re going to burn this place to the ground,” he growled. Dawn saw her sister’s fingers tighten on the chain. Her own chest tightened.
“This is my home. My father freed his slaves,” Julia told him. “I am not your enemy, and there is no reason to destroy this place.”
Dawn’s sentiments exactly. Now maybe the soldiers would move on and leave them alone. It was a vain hope.
“A Southern plantation owner freeing his slaves?” The soldier in charge derided her. “Sure. And I’m President Lincoln.”
Dawn’s pride in her sister burst inside as Julia raised her head and confronted the enemy head on.
“True, nonetheless. My mother was a Northerner from Boston.”
“A traitor,” grumbled another of the men. “Another slaver taking one of our women.”
No, thought Dawn, it wasn’t like that. Why didn’t they understand? “Lord, help us.”
Dawn watched Julia pale as the soldier sat down beside her and put a hand against her cheek. She strained to hear what the man was saying to her when a shout from the corner of the house caught her attention. Momentarily, she jerked her gaze toward the side of the house. Smoke billowed from the beautiful old house. Oh, no! They spoke true. They were burning down her home. Her concern quickened for her brother. He must not confront these men. He must stay in hiding. She wished him protection, prayed a barrier around him.
Below her under the bushy tree, men cavorted like demented animals, as though the fire stripped away the last veneer of civility. In a frenzy she could not even comprehend, they smashed windows, chopped porch supports, ripped siding from the house, and even pulled up flower plants that they gleefully threw at each other.
The Confederate soldiers had taken stores and left them all but destitute, but they had not acted like this. Were the stories of Northern horrors really true? Dawn swallowed with difficulty.
Overhead, clouds obscured the setting sun. A chill settled into the pit of Dawn’s stomach. Lord, make them go away. Please make then go away.
Suddenly a scream so hideous she almost lost her grip, tore her attention back to the porch. Where was Julia?
She no longer sat on the swing that now dangled on a single chain like it had been wrenched from its moorings. The rising breeze set the chain clinking ominously. Julia?
Lord where is she? Her breath caught in her throat.
Dawn’s palms, sweaty from the grip she had on the branch slipped. Almost fiercely, she wiped her hands on her skirt, pulled the voluminous skirt more closely about her with one hand as she sought a more secure hold with the other. As soon as she clutched the branch, she felt her body sway and she grabbed and held on with both hands. Slowly, she pivoted to search for Julia. Had they forced her into the burning building? No, surely.
The huddle of soldiers on the porch confused her. What was going on? Their animalistic grunts and guttural laughter froze Dawn to the tree. Again the scream.
No. No it couldn’t be! Julia! What were they doing to her? She had to help her sister! She . . .
As she arched forward, her hand slipped from the branch. Without glancing down, she lowered her foot to search for the next secure landing. She must go to Julia. The branch on which she settled her foot refused to take her weight and she hurried to pull herself back up. Her breath came in small starts. Worry edged panic. She must help her sister, the sister who had always been there for her. Suddenly, a voice below her stopped her.
“Find any Southern Belle for us?” The voice drawled, a mocking imitation of Southern speech.
Her heart pounding, Dawn, her head against the trunk, closed her eyes and clutched the tree. Fear froze her body. Julia’s screams terrified her, nauseated her. She couldn’t have moved if she tried. But she had to help, she had to . . .
Heat from the fire licked at her skin. How soon before it scorched the leaves and revealed her hiding place. “Lord?” Her throat constricted. Her lungs burned, and she forced herself to breathe.
“Stop!” The command startled Dawn so much she almost lost her grip on the branch.
One at a time she wiped sweat from her palms, before hitching herself up further in the tree. She had to get a better view of what was happening below. A giant of a man rode into the clearing on an equally monstrous black beast. With him rode an equally impressive troop. At his command the vengeful soldiers, like statues, froze in place. Had it not been so desperately tragic, the tableau below would have been almost comical, like toy soldiers forever molded into position. Maybe now, she’d be able to discover what was happening to her sister.
The leather of the saddle creaked as the giant swung down from the restless horse and dropped rein. The soldiers who had caused such destruction with such abandon moments earlier, seemed to shrink under the lieutenant’s penetrating gaze.
Something about the man made Dawn’s heart beat quicken. She caught her lower lip between her teeth as the man strode toward the porch.
As the men around the fallen form parted, Dawn glimpsed her sister. Lord God . . . no! Closing her eyes, Dawn swallowed bile rising in her throat.
Lieutenant Austin Andreeson patted the neck of Ebony, his greatest asset and companion. Coming into the clearing of the stately mansion, he felt the tug of frustration as he watched dark smoke billowing into the darkening sky. What a waste to destroy such beauty. Surely there was another way. These mansions were not only spoils of war, they also reflected a wealth of history, American history, whatever the present war situation implied. Man’s inhumanity to man disgusted him. Yes, he understood the reason for his orders, but the indiscriminate use of the authority by other American commanders angered him. Then again, he knew little of those who inhabited this property.
A whimper sounded from the shadowed porch, a decidedly human whimper. Frowning, Austin made his way up the stairs, careful to avoid the broken step. The sight that met his eyes sickened him. His eyes flashed toward the four men around him. He noted the scratches on their cheeks. He knew them all, one better than the others. He’d hoped for better. He noted fear of retribution, but little, if any, remorse. Struggling to hide his rage, he sucked in a long deep breath. If it were up to him, he’d have the lot of them summarily executed.
“Take these men into custody,” he barked, as he knelt beside the bleeding young woman. The long rays of the late afternoon sun highlighted her fragile beauty. Desecrated beauty. Through her obvious pain, an inner light showed through even as her body shivered in the afternoon chill.
“Miss, I’m sorry.” Words were so inadequate. “I’m so sorry.” His uniform never felt so tight, nor his responsibility so heavy. Fury simmered inside.
At his terse command a soldier brought a blanket that Austin carefully wrapped around the shivering young woman. With a worn hand, he smoothed her damp blond locks from her forehead. He knew his expression revealed his sense of helplessness, anger and outrage. “What can I do?”
She nodded ever so slightly. “Dawn,” she murmured, swallowed, tried again. “Dawn.” Lifting her small, delicately shaped hand, she clutched his arm. “Please . . . Dawn.”
What did she mean? He glanced toward the sun of the late afternoon blazing down at them, setting in a glorious array of colors. Did she confuse sunset with sun rise? He reigned in his confusion as he tried to make sense of her request. The hand clutching his arm slipped and he felt her weaken. His stomach tightened.
“Sergeant,” he commanded, “Help me here. We have to check her for injuries.” More than anything, the collateral damage to families in the war, galled. No one deserved this sacrilege. No one.
A slender medic knelt beside him. Shifting his position to allow the medic better access, Austin said, “Don’t hurt her any more than you have to.” He knew the young medic. Knew his admonition unnecessary, but needed to speak the words—more, he realized, for himself than for the medic under his command.
While he turned away, the medic checked over the patient. “Lieutenant.” Austin turned only to catch the jerk of the medic’s head. The medic’s tight lips as well as the spark of anger and sadness in his eyes, told Austin all he needed to know.
He made the mistake of glancing into the girl’s eyes. He flinched. She knew.
War meant fighting, even killing, but this, this outrage.
“Make her comfortable Doctor,” he ordered. Even his raised voice made the girl wince, and he lowered it.
“I’m sorry.” The medic shook his head, speaking softly for Austin’s ears alone. “I don’t have any medicine left, at least not enough to kill the pain.”
A spasm hit and the girl groaned. A moment later, her eye lashes fluttered. Pain widened her eyes, then just as suddenly a peace settled on her porcelain features.
“Jesus,” she whispered one last time as her body slumped.
An almost non-existent gasp, born on the rising breeze, drew his attention to a nearby stand of trees. His startled gaze melted with the most astonishing blue-gray eyes he’d ever seen, eyes surrounded with incredibly long dark lashes. He had the impression the girl was of an age with the young woman at his feet, though all he could really make out were those incredible eyes, bright with unshed tears, tears and . . . unspeakable terror.
On his tongue was the order to retrieve her from the tree. As though she sensed his thoughts, she shrunk back, if possible, further into the bowels of the tree. He felt her fear as a palpable thing. His insides churned and shame warmed his face, almost as though the whole was his fault. Wasn’t it? Had he arrived a few minutes earlier . . .
Licking his lips, he broke the gaze. After what happened, he could scarcely blame the young woman for her terror. Sending soldiers after her would only make matters worse. Something in those eyes did strange things to his insides, warmed some inner part of him. He wanted to reach out, hold, protect, wipe the terror from those incredible eyes.
Instead he busied himself with the girl before him, his men, his responsibility.
“Dan, John, find the family cemetery. Look out back.”
Some fifteen minutes later, they returned. By that time, Austin had the unknown beauty carefully wrapped in blankets, according her the dignity in death the four soldiers had not given in life.
Picking up the slight young woman, he barked, “Bring those four along.”
At the cemetery, he grimly pointed to a spot where grass that needed cutting waved. “Grab a spade and dig a grave,” he ordered the four apathetic soldiers. With satisfaction, he watched them sweat as they applied themselves to labor they thought beneath them. He read their anger in the stiffness of their shoulders, the muffled curses and the clench of their jaws.
He never would understand how in wartime conditions, men, often husbands and fathers, acted like brute beasts with even less conscience over despicable deeds. What made them think themselves above those they now dominated? How were the actions of these soldiers any less contemptible than how slaves were treated? Austin swallowed, hiding his horror behind a stern mask even as his heart cried out, God help us.
His anger hardened his resolve toward the offending soldiers. Orders were clear; the men would pay dearly for their deed. Still it didn’t seem enough.
As the sun slipped behind the trees, two of his more mature soldiers took the girl from Austin’s arms and lay her carefully into the newly dug grave. His face a mask, the lieutenant forced the four soldiers to refill the grave.
The medic carved the date on a piece of wood that he pounded into the ground. There seemed little more to do.
Austin’s one consolation. The young woman knew the Lord, of that he was certain.
Taking off his hat, he bowed his head. Words did not come easily to his tongue.
All that came to mind was the Twenty-third Psalm and he began to quote slowly. One by one his soldiers joined him.
The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:
He leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil: for thou art with me;
thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:
thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:
and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever.
There was little more to do, but walk away.
At that moment, one of the four soldiers who’d desecrated the young woman broke away. Grabbing the gun from another comrade in arms, the soldier galloped across the field into the tall grass and the wood beyond.
“After him,” Austin snapped. His expression grim, he sent out the men. He should have expected something like this from that one. Long before this incident, he knew the man had no moral compass and less compassion for anyone weaker or more vulnerable. “Find him. If he resists, shoot.”
Though they searched most of the night, Austin’s soldiers never discovered the whereabouts of the renegade soldier. Austin suspected some of his own soldiers of less than diligence in their search.
Only as the sun crested the horizon did he remember the young woman in the tree, but by the time he was able to return late the next afternoon, she had disappeared and her home lay in ashes.
* * * *
CHAPTER THREE
“The eyes of the LORD are in every place, beholding the evil and the good.”
-Proverbs 15:3
Caleb found his sister still in the tree, her arms wrapped so tightly about the branch it cut into her skin. Her hands gripped the branch with a death grip as tears streaked her pasty white face.
“Dawn. Dawn.” When his sister didn’t respond, Caleb grew concerned. “Dawn,” he called more sharply. “Are you all right?”
Still no response.
Coming into the clearing with the smoke and flames searing the darkened sky, Caleb forced himself to a cautiousness taught him by the experiences of war. It wouldn’t be the first time soldiers tried to recruit him, even to trying—once—to haul him off against his will. He was needed here. He hated hiding, leaving Julia to face who-knows-what insults.
With each year that passed, and especially with the death of his father, his need to protect grew. Part of him wanted more than anything to hide and to run, while another part of him demanded he protect his sisters and his home. His home? He doubted there’d be much left to save after this latest assault on his house. Even back in his deep hiding place, he smelled the smoke and heard the hideous laughter.
He clutched Jack’s rope more tightly and gritted his teeth. Every instinct screamed, “Go!” Only his promise kept him in his place. If only, he hadn’t made that promise. He was a child no longer and it was time Julia realized it. Time he pulled his own weight and became a man like his father, a man who protected and cared for the women of the household.
A mouse streaked out of the grass, scrambled over his boot and disappeared into the distance. The underbrush boiled with frightened rodents and small animals, heading away from the plantation house, away from the almost insane laughter, away from the crackle of fire and the enveloping smoke. Jack’s eyes widened and he shook his head when a large rat rushed by. Hurriedly, Caleb grabbed Jack’s head, quieting him with a pat and a pinch to the nose.
In time, the laughter faded, though the crackling grew more pronounced. Sounds of nature froze at the intrusion of humans. Soldiers crashed through the brush and trees. Caleb feared discovery and slipped further into hedges that had hidden him from prying eyes since he’d been a child of six. Over the years, he’d made it into quite a hideout, which served him well to hide them from the soldiers, though it was a tight fit for the old horse. Did they search for him? He shuddered, tried to pray. Unease settled deep within, and he was unable to shake the fear that curled inside. The reins slipped through his wet palms. Caleb wiped them on his pants. He waited until the bushes once more rustled, a bird sounded. Waited until the sounds of soldiers faded.
Finally, his face set, Caleb led Jack toward the house. With the soldiers combing the woods, he’d had to stay out of sight far too long. His stomach churned at the brightness against the sky, churned with hate. His birthplace, his heritage gone. And his sisters?
Concern clenched his hands as he shrunk further into the dense brush. No one knew the area like he. Even Jack seemed to sense the need for silence.
Once a fleeing soldier, the one they must be hunting, he guessed, from the overheard snatches of conversation, passed so close he could have tackled him. But what did he care if a Bluebelly deserted? What was that to him? More than once he clamped his hand over Jack’s nose to keep the horse from giving away their location when several riders walked their horses so close to his hiding place, he could have reached out and touched them. He remained so still, he scarcely breathed. Prayer was but words spit out of his mind. “Please. Safety. Protect. Help.” Glowing sunset settled into dark shadows and still he heard the clop of a horse’s hoof, the clank of a spur, a distant shout.
Though Caleb waited until all sounds of the heavy-footed soldiers died away before cautiously emerging from his hiding place, he still moved slowly, listening, stopping, listening again. A sudden snort behind him swung him about so quickly he tripped. “Jack,” he whispered. “It’s you. Am I glad.” He spoke softly to quell his own uneasiness. “I thought I’d been caught for sure. Come on. Let’s find Julia and Dawn.”
The night brought relief from the unusual searing heat of the afternoon sun, but not from his anxious thoughts that grew with each passing moment as he neared his home. In spite of the cool wind, Caleb wiped sweat from his forehead.
Through the trees, fire crackled and snapped, throwing out sparks to consume flowers and nearby trees. Thankfully, the direction of the breeze kept the fire from spreading to the front, where Caleb prayed he’d find his kin.
Other than the explosive sounds of the all consuming fire, nothing stirred. No varmints stirred in the underbrush, no owls hooted in the trees, no voices called his name.
Was there, then, still danger? Leaving Jack contentedly munching grass at the boundary of the wood, Caleb edged his way toward the front of the burning pyre. Little remained of the structure, even the front porch burned bright and orange and red, the flame a fiery monster gobbling his life.