“Mama!” Opal flung open the rear door and called through the house, casting another look at the sodden soldier pooling water on the porch. Where had he come from? The very river itself?
Mama scurried out of the dining room, black skirts swishing around her ankles. “What’s happened?”
As Mama gained the threshold, Opal flung her arm out at the soldier.
“Oh, my!” Mama glanced around. “Where did he come from?”
“I have no idea. He asked if he could die on our porch.”
Mama’s eyes rounded. “What now?”
“Just as I said.” Opal knelt beside the man, a fellow with a red-brown beard and a mop of matching hair. The lines of his face were pleasing, and many would have considered him handsome, if not for the haunting eyes that stabbed at her whenever they were open. Like muddy pools of empty despair, they had tugged at her heart. What manner of pain must he be in to have eyes like that?
“What are we going to do with him?”
Opal gently parted the hair on his scalp, squinting in the failing light to see what had caused the seep of blood. “I think he’s had a head injury. He didn’t seem to quite understand where he was.”
Mama rounded the man and nudged her toe at the dog stretched out at his side, but the creature merely groaned and scooted closer to the man. Mama scowled at it. “Wonder why the dog has plastered himself to this fellow?”
Opal rocked back on her heels. “Perhaps it senses the man is in need.”
Mama looked dubious. “Well, then, I suppose they can keep one another company.”
“We can’t leave him on the porch.”
“And what do you suppose we do with him? He’s obviously in no mind or condition to remove himself.”
A strange tightness coiled in her chest. It wouldn’t be charitable of them to leave him out here in such a condition. Besides, he’d seemed confused, but not dangerous. “We shall take him inside.”
Mama tilted her nose in the air. “I’ll not have some mad soldier loose in the house.” She gestured to him. “Besides, that is no little fellow. How do you propose to move him?”
Opal had no answer to that. He likely weighed as much as she and Mama combined, solid as he looked. And with him in so deep a sleep, he would be like trying to move a dead horse. She nibbled her lip. “Perhaps we can get him into something dry, bring a blanket, and hope he wakes in the night. Then he can come inside.”
The startled sound that came from Mama’s throat almost made Opal smile. She knew the words Mama would say before they passed her lips.
“You mean to undress a strange man? What in all of creation has gotten into you?”
“He needs help,” she said with a sigh, rising to look Mama in the eyes. “We cannot in good conscious just let him suffer and die when we are able to take care of him. We’ll not be like the men who passed by the beaten man on the road, will we? Here before us is a broken man in as much need as the man the Good Samaritan took under his care.”
Mama’s eyes flickered. Opal pressed on. “Is it not written, whoever sees his brother in need, but has no compassion for him, how does the love of God remain in him?”
Mama sighed. “Very well.” She pointed a long finger at Opal. “But you shall not be the one to remove his garments. I’ll not have my only daughter scandalized.”
Such had been Mama’s argument against Opal volunteering to aid at any hospitals during the war. She’d said there would be plenty of older married women who could tend to the soldiers like sons. A pretty young daughter must stay safely at home.
Imprisoned at home, it had often felt like. How she’d been thrilled when Ella had come to Greenville. But knowing Mama was correct, Opal dipped her chin. “Thank you, Mama. That is most generous of you. I shall fetch a blanket.”
“Some of your father’s clothes, as well.” The words came so softly Opal almost missed them.
She hesitated. “Are you certain?”
“It’s only a loan, mind you, but it seems this fellow has need of them for tonight.” Mama kept her eyes trained on the soldier, and Opal could only wonder at what thoughts plagued her.
She passed through the house, her mind a-flutter. The shadows clung to the upper hall, but she had no need of a lantern. Not only did the empty space offer no furniture to trip her, she could have walked these floors with her eyes closed and not falter. She slipped her hand over the cool knob of the door to Daddy’s chamber. Mama had allowed no one to open it since they’d learned of his death that fateful day in the fall of ’64.
Taking a deep breath, Opal pushed open the door and stepped inside. Little remained, the writing desk, washbasin, and marble-top chifferobe having long since been carried off. Only the massive carved canopy bed, missing its feather mattress, and armoire still graced the space. Opal pried open the armoire doors with a protesting squeak, feeling as though she trespassed. Inside, Daddy’s clothes had been neatly stacked and hung.
Opal ran her finger over the material, a lump forming in her throat both for the loss of her father and the reverent care Mama had put into the only remaining thing left of her beloved husband. If Mama had not taken these clothes out to wash and press in anticipation of Daddy’s furlough, then they wouldn’t have been in a dirty heap in the washroom when the Yanks invaded. But Daddy had never made it home for his furlough. Mama had finished washing and pressing the items when the Yanks had gone, then gently placed them here and locked the room away.
Pushing aside the memories, Opal plucked a linen shirt and a pair of trousers from the collection and closed the doors. The more intimate items the soldier would just have to do without, as she could not bring herself to pilfer them. She closed the door to Daddy’s room and stepped across the hall into her own, grabbing the newly finished quilt she’d spent the evenings working on. Fashioned from the usable portions of her old gowns, it was an array of feminine, if not somewhat worn, colors. She’d hoped it would be large enough to cover her bed for the winter, but she’d run out of fabric. Still, it would do.
She plucked it from the hand-hewn chair one of the servants had left behind and scurried back down the stairs. She found Mama standing over the soldier, arms crossed.
“What took you so long?”
“Sorry, Mama.” Opal handed over the quilt and garments, then turned her back on the proceedings.
Twice Mama’s sounds of strain tempted her to turn, but she knew better than to offer aid. Finally, long after full dark had settled on them, Mama pronounced him finished, her tone mournful.
Opal turned to look at him, dressed in Daddy’s black trousers and a linen shirt. She leaned closer. “What have you tied on him?”
Mama stared down at the five black ribbons secured around his upper left arm. “I knew he would not want them removed, so I put them back.”
A weight settled on her. Where a widow donned widow’s rags, a man might tie a strip of cloth in remembrance of those lost. Five. So many to lose. Her heart wrenched for his heartache, and she watched him for a moment, having nothing to offer but a silent prayer the Almighty might grant healing for his soul as well as his body. Opal knelt beside him, the silver slant of moonlight barely caressing his face. “I shall sit with him.”
“Of course you will not!” Mama shook herself from her contemplations. “I’ll not have my daughter out alone with a man in the night.”
Agitation swirled. “Mama.” She waited until she gained Mama’s gaze. “This is hardly a situation in which propriety is of utmost importance.” She gestured to the man. “He is no danger, and it’s no different from nurses sitting at the side of patients. I would like to know if he wakes in the night.” Her throat suddenly tightened but she cleared it away. “And if it happens he passes from this world to the next, I do not think he should be alone when he does.”
Pain flickered across Mama’s face, the depth of it evident even in the scant light. Did she wonder again how Daddy’s final moments had passed, as Opal now did? Left out in the battlefield as he had been, had anyone been at his side? Opal pushed the thought away. It would do them no good to dwell on it. They could do nothing for Daddy, but this man could still benefit from their kindness.
“Perhaps you are right.” Looking resigned, Mama crossed her arms. “We will stay with him through the night and pray he wakes.”
She shifted from one foot to the other, not wishing to argue but concerned all the same. “And what of your condition?”
Mama was silent for a time. “This leaves me in a very difficult situation, you know that don’t you?”
“I do, Mama. But if it makes you feel more comfortable, I shall sit just inside the threshold and keep the rifle by my side. Should he appear dangerous in any way, I shall bolt the door.”
Mama hesitated a moment longer, then finally relented. “Very well. I will leave my door open. If he as much as stirs, you are to call for me. Is that understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mama turned and disappeared into the house, leaving the rear door open for the bugs to find their way in. Her bout with the fever in ’63 made Mama all the more wary of the ever-present mosquitoes, and they had often endured the heat to avoid the insects. Threadbare sheets had replaced the mosquito netting over Mama’s bed, but the nuisances still found their way within.
Once Mama started toward her bed, Opal hurried into the library and reached up into the hollow of the fireplace. Spreading her feet wide for balance, she thrust her arm up through the chimney opening until she felt the smooth wood of the rifle hanging against the brick. She tugged it off the hook and maneuvered the length of it out of the hiding place.
It could do with a good cleaning, and she had no idea if it would even fire. But that didn’t matter. She had no intention of shooting the poor fellow. Scare him, maybe, if she really had to, but mostly she retrieved it to make Mama feel at ease.
She set the rifle down at the threshold of the rear door and then stepped back onto the porch. A chorus of frogs and nighttime creatures began to swell in discordant harmony, the sounds of the night familiar and yet always a bit eerie. The dog whimpered, thumping his tail against the wood.
“You have taken a liking to this one, I see.” Opal shook her head. What was she doing talking to a dog? Had she truly grown that lonely? The dog raised its head from its paws and lifted furry ears at her, as though it was just as surprised as she.
Mama had draped the man in Opal’s quilt and tucked it under his chin. His socked feet stuck out of the bottom, battered boots sitting neatly by his side. Sweat slid down the nape of her neck. Likely this fellow would not welcome the added warmth of a quilt in the August night, now that he was dry. She pulled it off him, rolling it into a makeshift pillow.
Kneeling at his side, she slipped her hand underneath his head and gently lifted. He groaned, turning his face toward her.
“Is that you, Millie?”
“Shhh. Don’t talk now.”
His eyelids fluttered. “Saw…an angel.”
She slid the quilt under his head, and he sank into it with a sigh. “Ummm. And she smelled like honey.”
The man had grown delirious. Opal leaned closer, trying to squint at the wound on his head. Should she get a lamp and try to tend it now, or wait for Mama and the morning’s light?
He thrashed, arms flying out. “No! Don’t!”
Startled, Opal stumbled back, falling on her backside. The dog whimpered, and then stuck its snout under the man’s arm, nudging him. The fellow mumbled again and turned his head. She got on her knees, watching him.
He flung his arms out again, then grew still. She waited for a time, and when it seemed he had settled, she moved closer once again. His breathing turned even. She waffled for a moment between attempting to rouse him and letting him sleep, and finally decided she should find a lantern and see what she could do with that wound.
Leaving him to the insistent canine company, she stepped over the rifle and back into the house once more. Gathering the items she needed from the parlor, Opal struck a match as she walked, lighting the wick and turning it up enough to create a warm pool of light. Using her hand to shield the flame since the lantern had lost the glass chimney in a fit of her clumsiness, she stepped back out onto the porch and knelt beside their unexpected, ah, porchguest.
He never stirred as she parted his hair. A long gash snaked through his scalp from hairline to crown. Deep, it oozed blood and had been caked with hair. She wrinkled her nose. He really could do with a good haircut, and though she didn’t know much by way of doctoring, even she could tell the wound needed to be sewn together. Dare she? Knowing she didn’t fair all that well with a needle even in cloth, flesh would be an entirely different matter.
But Mama certainly wouldn’t have the stomach for it. She grabbed the lamp and made for the parlor again. Better she just do it now without Mama’s scrutinizing gaze. If she were lucky, he may even remain unconscious through the entire thing.
Pulling open the drawer in the hutch, Opal fished out her sewing kit and a pair of scissors and secured them in her skirt pocket. Then she made her way to the kitchen and looped a pail of water and a rag over her arm. Supplies ready, she stepped lightly through the deep shadows of night, her pulse quickening.
She found the man exactly as she’d left him, dog at his side and breathing evenly. He looked peaceful in sleep. A wide forehead graced by neat but manly eyebrows shielded a straight nose and sturdy cheekbones. The dog thumped its tail and gave a whimpering noise as though to say it had taken note of her over-long assessment.
With a huff, she shook her foot at the dog. “Shoo.” The mongrel merely yipped at her and thumped its tail. “Oh, good heavens,” Opal mumbled. It seemed the furry creature could be just as stubborn.
Ignoring it, she situated her tools, taking hold of the scissors first. Hopefully the fellow hadn’t formed an attachment to his damp locks. With quick movements, she gathered up sections of his hair and snipped it off close to his scalp. Even when she lifted his head and turned it from side to side, his deep breathing didn’t change.
Satisfied he would not wake while she tended him, Opal carefully set to shoring his locks and freeing bits of hair from the gash. When his hair was neatly clipped, the beard looked rather out of hand, so she trimmed it back as well.
There. A fine job. Hopefully he would think the same. She dipped the rag in the tepid well water and wrung it out. Keeping the lantern close, she gently washed the bits of dirt and hair from his gash until nothing but pink flesh remained. Now for the hard part.
It took three tries to thread the needle with shaking hands, but she finally got it. She snipped the end of a length of thread free from the spool and tied the ends. Closing her eyes, Opal drew a long, calming breath.
Please steady my hands. She peeked at the man. And, please, Lord, let him not wake.
Before she could talk herself out of it, Opal slipped the needle into the tender skin at the man’s hairline. He moaned a little, but didn’t move. Lips moving in silent prayer as she worked, she made tight stitches all the way down the length of the wound, binding the edges of flesh like the pieces of her quilt. If only she’d had a little whisky to pour on it. But hope and prayer would have to do.
The dog watched her with careful eyes as she cleaned her hands and set the bucket aside. Then she gathered the sewing tools back into her pocket, retrieved the lantern, and settled down in the doorway to keep watch.