Hearts Aglow (2 page)

Uncle Arjan took his horse and tied him to the hitching post in front of the house. Rob dismounted and asked, “Why would a fella want to hurt George and David? They were good people.”

“Good people with the wrong color skin,” Arjan replied. “At least wrong in the eyes of those that done this.”

Rob secured his horse and followed his uncle back to the oak tree. The older man reached for the rope that held George. It had been tied off at the base of the tree – knotted in such a fashion to allow quick release. He gently lowered the former slave to the ground while Rob guided George’s body into a position on his back.

“Look, there’s some kind of note,” Rob declared, reaching for the bloodstained paper. The scrawling was poor, but legible.

“What’s it say?”

“Ephesians 6:5.”

Arjan nodded. “I heard it used often during the war.”

Rob shook his head. “Do you remember what it says?”

“ ’Fraid so. ‘Servants, be obedient to them that are your masters according to the flesh, with fear and trembling, in singleness of your heart, as unto Christ.’ ”

The verse chilled Rob to the bone. “It’s signed, ‘The White Hand of God.’ ”

They said nothing more, but instead went to where David’s body swayed. Working together as they had for George, they lowered David to the ground. Another note had been tacked onto David’s bloody shirt.

“ ‘Let others be warned.’ ” Rob shook his head and reached out to remove the paper, only to realize that it had been affixed with a nail – a nail driven into David’s chest.

He covered his eyes with his hand. “They were good men – good workers, willing to help anyone who needed it. This oughtn’t have happened,” Rob said.

“It’s gonna keep happenin’ as long as decent folks let it,” Arjan replied.

They heard a wagon approaching and turned to see two men seated on the buckboard. G.W. had finally arrived with Dr. Clayton. Another man approached on horseback. As he drew closer, Rob could see that it was Ralph Nichols, the town constable.

Arjan stepped forward. “They’re dead.”

Dr. Clayton jumped down from the wagon and went to the bodies as if to confirm the statement. Rob went to where G.W. stopped the wagon. He couldn’t contain his sorrow.

His voice broke. “We were too late. Too late.” He shook his head. “Just ain’t right.”

“Who did this? Did you see them?” G.W. questioned.

“They were long gone when we got here. The cabin was burning and the men were . . . were . . . ” He fell silent and regained his composure. “They were hangin’ from the oak.”

G.W. glanced past his brother but said nothing. The constable walked up to the brothers and pointed over his shoulder. “Doc confirmed they’re dead.”

Anger coursed through Rob at the matter-of-fact statement. He turned and glared at the man. “Of course they’re dead. The question is, what are you gonna do about it?”

The minutes ticked by ever so slowly, worry and fear taking each moment captive. Though Deborah was relieved to see that the bleeding had stopped, she still worried about the degree of damage done to Sissy’s head. The swelling in her face had increased, making her nearly unrecognizable. She’d balanced precariously between wakeful moanings and unconscious peace ever since being placed in the bed.

When they finally heard the wagon pull into the yard, Deborah breathed a sigh of relief. Mother hurried to the door. “That will be G.W. with Dr. Clayton!”

Sissy stirred but didn’t open her eyes. “Mebbe my men, too.”

“I’ll bring them right upstairs.” Mother left Deborah with Sissy.

Deborah patted the woman’s leathery scratched and scarred hand. She pressed a kiss on her cold fingers, pleading silently with God for good news. The older woman struggled to open her eyes.

“Sissy, stay awake. Look at me – it’s important you not sleep. We need Dr. Clayton to examine you first.”

“I’s tryin’, Miss Deborah.”

Soon she heard the sound of boots in the hallway and Dr.Clayton strode into the room. “How is she?” Christopher asked, meeting Deborah’s gaze. He put his bag aside and began to take off his coat.

She raised a brow. “Very weak. I’ve cleaned the head wound and managed to stop the bleeding, though she’s not able to stay conscious. There’s fresh water in the basin by the bed.”

He nodded and rolled up his sleeves. Next he took up the bag and drew out a brown bottle of carbolic acid. She waited as he washed his hands, then handed him a clean towel. His handsome face contorted in worry.

“Bring me more light.”

Deborah did as he instructed. Shining the lamp just right, the wound was quickly revealed. Seeing that Sissy had once again passed out, she asked softly, “What about George and David?”

He said nothing as he studied the wound. Finally he glanced up momentarily, but his look told her everything. Deborah felt a sob catch in her throat and bit her lip to keep from crying out. She fought back tears and forced her mind to focus on the matters at hand. Steadying her voice, she pointed out the obvious.

“She has a swollen eye and . . . and . . . lacerations. She . . . well . . . they hit her with the butt of a rifle.”

Christopher nodded and threw her a brief but compassionate look before retrieving several things from his black bag. “You did a good job here. The wound is extensive, but the skull appears intact. A miracle, to be sure.”

“Sissy would tell you that she’s hardheaded,” Mother announced from behind Deborah.

Christopher looked up. “Sometimes that benefits a person, eh?”

Deborah saw her mother nod, but the look on her face revealed that she, too, was overwhelmed with grief. Straightening, Deborah took hold of her mother’s hand. “We have to be strong for Sissy.”

Her mother nodded. “I know.”

Sissy remained unconscious for most of the doctor’s ministrations. As Christopher and Deborah worked together to close the gaping wound, Euphanel maintained a hold on her friend’s hand.

Deborah couldn’t help but think of the years the two women shared. Sissy had once been the property of Deborah’s grandparents. Mother, however, had been happy to see the slaves set free and had welcomed Sissy into her own home as a paid worker. But more important – as a friend.

They had gone through so much together. Sissy had been there for the delivery of each of the Vandermark babies. Mother, in turn, had helped Sissy deliver David. They had doctored and cooked, cleaned and gardened together for so long that each woman could very nearly guess the next move of the other. The color of their skin had never been important. Mother always said she’d never had a friend so dear as Sissy.

Moaning softly, Sissy opened her eyes as the doctor moved to exam her ribs. “Doc Clayton?” she asked. She struggled to focus.

“I’m here, Sissy. Rest easy now.”

“My men. Where’s my George? My David?”

Euphanel interceded. “Now, Sissy, you know we can’t be worrying about that just now. You’re hurt mighty bad and we have to get you mended first. Arjan and Rob are taking care of George and David.”

This seemed to calm the woman. Both eyes were now swelling, making it difficult for her to keep them open. When Christopher touched a particularly tender area on her side, Sissy couldn’t help but cry out.

“I would say you have some broken ribs,” he told her.

“They was kickin’ me and kickin’ me. I . . . liked to . . . never got away.”

Deborah frowned. “We will see to it that they pay for this, Sissy. It’s hate, pure and simple – and it cannot be tolerated. Not by good Christian folk.”

But Sissy never heard the words as she slipped back into sleep. Christopher straightened. “I’ll keep watch. The next few hours will be critical. We’ll pray there’s no brain swelling, but it seems likely there will be. We may have to drill a hole through the bone to release the pressure.”

“Now then, Dr. Clayton,” Mother said with an edge of reprimand to her voice, “you either believe the Good Lord is faithful to answer the prayers of His children or you don’t. We’ll pray His will and trust that it includes Sissy’s healing. I can see death being a more perfect way of meeting that, but I would be sorely distressed to lose my friend.” Mother squeezed Sissy’s hand one more time, then slowly released it. “I’m going to go start some breakfast. I’ll bring you both a plate when it’s ready.”

“Thank you, Miz Vandermark,” Christopher replied. He went to wash the blood from his hands as she exited the room.

Deborah stared down at Sissy’s damaged body. The older woman had been a part of their family as long as Deborah had been alive. She had taught Deborah to weave baskets from reeds, to can her first batch of grape jam, to catch catfish in the river. The woman could truly do almost anything. At least she
had
been able to do those things. What would happen if she was unable to function normally?

Tears fell hot on her cheeks, and Deborah couldn’t help but speak her thoughts aloud. “She’s always been there for me . . . for all of us. I can’t imagine losing her.” Her voice cracked. “Sissy has always been family. She will always be family.”

Christopher crossed the room and took Deborah in his arms as she began to sob. For several minutes, she found it impossible to compose herself. She shook from the intensity of her emotions. She could feel Christopher’s hands on her head stroking her haphazardly fashioned hair. The ribbon that tied back the bulk of her tresses easily gave way under the new attention and Deborah’s ebony locks fell about her like a veil.

“Life is hard, my dear. Injustice and misery will always be dreaded companions.”

She tried to speak, but words would not come. Burying her face against his shirt, Deborah let out all of the fear and frustration she’d been feeling. How would she ever manage to help comfort Mother if Sissy died? She needed to bolster her strength, but Deborah felt as though she had none.

For a long while Christopher held her and let her cry. Deborah had never been so long in another person’s arms – especially not a man. There had been times when her father had consoled her after a fall from a horse or the death of a beloved pet, but those times were never so lengthy. Aunt Wilhelmina had held her while she cried after learning about her father’s death, and Mother had comforted her several times since. But this was different.

“You have the most beautiful hair,” he whispered against her ear.

“I’ve so often wanted to see it down like this – to touch it.”

Deborah stilled in his arms. She allowed her mind to clear and her body to relax in his embrace. It wasn’t in keeping with propriety that she should be here in her nightclothes with the man she hoped to one day marry, but at such a time as this, there was surely no condemnation. Or was there? Didn’t the Bible speak about weakwilled women? Was this one of those moments?

Her conscience got the better of her, and Deborah straightened and pulled away. Here the worst thing possible had happened – good men had been murdered, Sissy had been beaten – and Deborah was thinking of romance. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fall to pieces. Maybe I won’t make a good doctor after all.”

Christopher shook his head and glanced back to where Sissy remained asleep. “You did all that was required. Do you suppose I never break down after dealing with folks? That’s why doctors are better off not tending their own family members. It’s often hard to be objective when the broken body before you is that of a loved one.”

“It seems you would be most competent in dealing with those folks,” Deborah countered. “Because you care more for them than anyone else.”

“True, but emotions can blind you, paralyze you. I once saw a doctor back East unable to amputate the mangled arm of his son. The young man had caught it in a thresher, and in order to save his life, the arm had to be completely severed. The father knew it would cost his son’s life to do nothing, but he couldn’t bring himself to do the job.”

“And so
you
did?” Deborah asked.

“Yes. I was but a student, with a great deal to learn. But under the circumstances, I had to do what I could.” Christopher looked away. “Sometimes life is like that. The choices we must make are made of necessity – to do nothing would be far worse.”

“Some would say otherwise. They would tell you that you acted above your station or your training. In my case, it’s a matter of acting in an unladylike manner or interest. Doing nothing is often expected – especially of women.”