John Stafford did not notice the war-ravaged countryside or the tight grip of his wiry guide around his waist. James was dying, and no other thought could enter his troubled mind.
The lad, nicknamed Wart, suddenly slipped from behind the saddle and, motioning to John, started to scramble up a steep slope that led to a large canvas tent at the top of the hill. John dismounted and followed as fast as his legs would carry him.
Two sentries jumped to attention when John entered the tent. It was dark inside, and John paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust. As features began to take shape, he recognized one of the sentries. “How bad is he, Mark?” John asked.
“He’s bad, sir. I’m glad you’re here!”
John clapped his hand on Mark’s shoulder, took a deep breath, and lifted the panel leading to the inner room.
Oil lamps dimly illumined the inner quarters. Men stood quietly clustered here and there. John recognized Seagood at once and made his way toward him. A young man he didn’t recognize lay writhing under Seagood’s care. Is that my son? he wondered.
The young man thrashed violently while Seagood tried to restrain him. At John’s approach, Seagood yielded, placing James’s clenched fist between his father’s thick, warm fingers.
Kneeling, John studied the young man before him. His son’s teeth were clenched, his eyes shut tight. Yes, John thought. James fought with life. It would be like him to fight with death as well.
“I’m here, Son,” John said aloud.
For a brief moment, James opened his eyes, and John witnessed the terror of a haunted soul. The grim reaper was stalking his son, and he was powerless to protect him. “James!” John called. “I am your father!”
James turned, recognition in his eyes. His body relaxed, and he tried to speak.
John laid a finger across his lips. “Save your strength, Son,” he whispered.
Anger flashed across James’s dark eyes. “Thomas …” he managed to gasp.
John leaned closer, and Seagood edged nearer the cot, keen interest sparkling in his eyes.
“Yes,” John said. “What about Thomas?”
James’s lips moved, and John leaned even closer. “What?” he asked.
James grimaced as pain sent a tremor through his entire body. With visible effort to gather his strength, James managed to whisper, “Kidnapped!” Then he fell back on the cot, exhausted.
John was mute with shock. He looked at Seagood for an explanation but found nothing. “Kidnapped?” he heard himself ask. “What do you mean? Kidnapped by whom, and why?”
He looked back at James, but all was silent. The young man was relaxed and quiet: content, as if he had fulfilled some great mission. Pain no longer furrowed his brow, and his hand relaxed between John’s fingers. He’d found peace.
“James, what do you mean kidnapped?” John asked once more, but there was no reply.
Jennifer sat behind a tree, watching and listening to every sound that emitted from the command center. Above the rhythm of her pounding heart, she could hear voices. Wiping her tears away, she watched as a young man scrambled up the rocky slope.
“Master Stafford!” the man cried as he hurried for the tent.
A huge guard stepped into the courier’s path. “What is it, man? Lord Stafford’s son has just died! Must you barge in on his grief?”
“I’m sorry, sir!” the messenger panted, “but Gaff has come! The enemy is in disarray!”
“Gaff!” the sentry shouted. “That is good news!” Quickly he pulled the envoy into the tent.
Seconds later, men poured from the tent, scrambling down the hill to mount their horses. Within moments they were thundering toward the distant clash of battle.
In their wake, everything grew strangely quiet. Jennifer watched the exhausted sentries settle back into their positions. Everything seemed deserted.
Angry thoughts raced through her head. How can John Stafford leave his departed son so quickly? But grief replaced her anger. James Stafford is dead, and it’s my fault. If I’d never come back to Green Meadow, James would still be alive. She buried her head in her arms and wept.
Gradually her tears subsided. Looking around, she realized that the sound of battle had grown dim. Over the past days she’d grown immune to the clash of weapons, for her ears had been tuned to the moans and cries from inside James’s tent. That man was her reality, and he was dead because of her.
She stole a glance at the tent and tried to stifle the secret longing in her heart. She wanted to see James one last time, but she supposed the sentries would prevent her.
She sat still for a bit longer, until finally desire overcame her better judgment. She silently stood and looked around. The sentries stationed at the bottom of the hill had not noticed her movement. Slowly she made her way to the door of the tent.
Holding her breath, she listened. She could hear nothing from within. Timidly, she raised the flap and slipped inside.
The sudden darkness startled her, and she stood motionless until her eyes adjusted to the dim light. She was in a lounge lined with bunks. Cautiously, she glanced at each bunk, half expecting to see a soldier asleep, or worse yet, awake and watchful. The room was empty.
Quietly she crossed the floor to the next flap. Pulling the flap back ever so slightly, she peeked inside. Several oil lamps still burned, illuminating the room with a dim light. She expected someone to be standing guard, but she saw no one.
Breathing deeply, she tried to calm the pounding of her heart. What will they do to me if I’m caught? she wondered. She swallowed hard and stepped into the room. She’d come this far, and she wasn’t going to turn back now. After all, she only wanted one last look.
Her boldness faded as fast as it had come. This room was so foreign to her. It was stark and masculine. There were no adornments on the walls, no light from outside, and no curtains—only two crate chairs, a crate desk, and one cot.
Her eyes remained fixed upon the cot, and her feet were drawn irresistibly toward the sheet-covered body that lay there. Hardly daring to breathe lest she awaken someone in the camp, she knelt beside the cot.
Slowly, fearfully, she drew back the sheet. She closed her eyes, dreading to see death, yet curiosity drove her on. Opening her eyes, she breathed a sigh of relief. James’s face was not drawn or twisted in agony or pain. It was peaceful, as if he were only sleeping.
Jennifer marveled. James was not defeated. Much the opposite! He merely appeared to be resting after winning a great battle.
The remorse of her own soul began to diminish as she looked upon his sweet repose. Gently her finger strayed to his face. It was cool but not cold or clammy. The rough bristles grown during days of unending pain lay thick upon his solid jaw. She felt an ache in her heart to do something for this man who had given himself for her.
Suddenly motivated, she stood. Looking around the room, she spied a wash basin and pitcher. Gathering them, she found a few clean bandages. “These will do,” she said aloud, and her voice startled her. But she had purpose now, and she lent herself to the task at hand.
The grime that covered James was soon washed away, along with days of sweat and dust from the battlefield. She remembered the gallant young commander, clean-shaven and handsome. She was at a loss for only a few moments and soon was rummaging about the room as if she were in charge of the entire grounds. In a small box beneath the rickety desk, she found a small leather pouch in which were a razor and several personal items.
Razor in hand, she set to work. She had done this for her father many times since he’d lost his arm in the battle at Great Bend last summer. Soon she was wiping the last bit of suds from James’s face.
Carefully she sponged her cloth over James’s hair and smoothed it into position. Lovingly she washed his hands and gently laid them upon his chest. She was so involved with her task that she had no idea how long she had been in the tent or what was happening in the world outside.
She left the sheet rolled down, exposing her handiwork. Stepping back, she viewed the results and was pleasantly surprised. James appeared to be sleeping peacefully upon his cot, hands folded upon his breast, without a care or fear in the world.
Her heart suddenly skipped a beat. “Voices,” she whispered. Trembling, she glanced about the room. There were no cubbyholes, no closets, not a single place to hide. She stepped to the door, hoping to slip out unnoticed, but to her dismay, at that very moment, the outer tent flap was pulled aside, and several men entered the outer room.
Dropping the flap, Jennifer stood frozen in place.
“Let’s make plans here,” she heard a tired but resonant voice say.
There was the growing sound of more and more voices outside. Obviously, a fairly large group of men had come back to the tent. Why didn’t I hear them coming? she wondered.
“I wish we’d caught Jabin!” spoke an unfamiliar voice.
“Me too, but his party is greatly diminished,” said another.
“More’s the pity,” said the first. “The slain were probably good men who had fallen under bad leadership.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“Excuse me, sir!” A different voice spoke softly. “Is this where James …?”
“Son, don’t trouble John with that just now.”
“It’s all right, Gaff. Frankly, James is closer to my heart just now than deciding what to do about Jabin.”
“We must be swift, John. We can’t let that weasel go far, or we’ll all pay dearly.”
“I know the wisdom of what you say, but grief speaks loudest to my heart just now. Come, Mathias. I’ll take you to him.”
The flap to the inner room began to open. Jennifer stepped quickly to one side, and a sentry stepped through, holding the flap open for John to enter. As John stepped into the room, the sentry stepped back and brushed against Jennifer.
“What the—” he sputtered, dropping the flap and drawing his blade.
Swords cleared their sheaths, and Jennifer fell to her knees, crying, “Mercy! I meant no harm!”
“What are you doing here?” the sentry snapped, dragging the poor girl to her feet.
“Mark, be gentle!” John demanded. “Who are you, young lady?”
Rudy stepped forward. “She’s the girl who told us James had been wounded!”
John’s countenance softened. “Please, everyone, leave us alone. I’d like to talk with this girl in private for a moment.” He motioned the others to leave.
People reluctantly obeyed, but there arose such a cacophony of voices in the outer lobby that Jennifer could barely hear herself think.
John moved to the door and addressed the group. “Gentlemen, would you please go outside?”
There was a good deal of grumbling, but eventually the confusion subsided. Jennifer trembled, as John now turned his full attention upon her.
“Don’t worry, lass,” he said softly. “No one is going to harm you.”
“I’m so sorry!” she stammered as tears sprang afresh in her eyes.
“Don’t cry,” John said softly. “Can you tell me what you know of my son’s death?”
The man was so kind and gentle. Jennifer wiped her eyes, but she could not look into his face. She felt his hands on her shoulders and finally began to speak. “Your son learned his kindness from you,” she began. She looked up to see a rueful smile cross John’s lips, warming his expression.
“Thank you. My son did not show kindness to everyone, but I’m glad he did to you.”
Jennifer bowed her head, afraid to trust her voice. She knew it was kindness that had brought James to her rescue at the fortress gates. He had saved her life, only to lose his own.
During her silence, John turned toward James’s cot. “What?” he whispered.
Jennifer followed his gaze. James was clean, shaven, and appeared to be sleeping.
“What happened?” John asked, incredulous at the transformation.
“I—” Jennifer stammered. “I wanted to see him one last time, and I wanted to do something for him.” Her mouth felt dry. She felt that her words formed a feeble excuse.
John strode quickly to the cot and knelt beside his son. Jennifer watched from a distance, feeling awkward and very much alone.
John knelt silently for what seemed to Jennifer a very long time, but when he finally turned to her, tears were streaming down his cheeks. His voice broke, and it seemed all he could do to whisper, “Thank you!”
She blushed and dropped her eyes.
“You must have loved him very much?” John asked.
Her eyes glistened as she looked into the eyes of the man before her. “Yes, but only from afar.”
John rose and wrapped an understanding arm about her shoulders. “That is how everyone loved him,” he said softly. “He never allowed anyone close enough to really know him.”
Jennifer could sense a father’s regret.
“What happened?” John asked gently.
Slowly and carefully, Jennifer described her mission away from home, her return, the frightening battle, her fear, her rejection at the fortress, her deliverance, James’s wounds, and her brief stay in the camp.
John’s eyes clouded as she spoke, and when she finished, he pulled her into his arms and held her tight against his chest. She could hear the steady beating of his heart. Imperceptibly at first, but with growing emphasis, she could feel great spasms shake his body. Hot tears splashed into her hair from above, and she felt her own tears run unchecked down her cheeks. Together they poured out their grief and loss.
After tears had drained their anguish, they pulled apart, and neither felt embarrassed. “Dear child,” John said. “You have done a lovely thing for my son. You have also done a lovely thing for me. Thank you for sharing my pain and my loss.”