Chapter 24

I must lose myself in action lest I wither in despair.

—Tennyson

 

December 1864

 

With winter underway, Benton made the decision to go into winter quarters and chose the palatial Ramsey house for the grounds. A fine brick house near the home where Sarah had been found, it offered security and comfort at every turn. With a long sloping yard, a grove of trees for firewood, and a view that reached for miles, it was the perfect spot for spending the gloomy months that preceded the spring campaign.

Benton also had chosen the spot because of the quiet quarters it offered Sarah, who was welcomed into the home with open arms by the matron of the household. Between the solace the home provided and the gentle ministrations of Mrs. Ramsey, Benton hoped Sarah could make some sort of recovery. He knew she needed all the help she could get. The girl they had found seemed so detached at first, so frail and weak, that it seemed to him there was hardly enough flesh upon her bones to keep body and soul from parting ways.

But as time passed, her strength began to return little by little, and he saw her walking the grounds more and more often. Despite the fact that she did not talk, the men of his command made every effort to coax a smile or even a laugh from her. She was ever surrounded with a contingent of officers and soldiers who wished to be the first to spark a memory, to see the glint of life sparkle once again from within those blue eyes.

By January, her health had improved steadily, though not as swiftly as Benton would have liked. Other than receiving occasional updates from Mrs. Ramsey, Benton rarely had the opportunity to see Sarah and never made the effort to talk to her.

He stayed busy in the outbuilding he used as headquarters or out on short scouts, his guilt and his remorse overcoming him when he thought of the sacrifice she had been willing to make on behalf of his command. The fact she had survived and was gaining in health was a great relief, though it did little to ease his pain or lighten his guilt.

She was alive and in a place that afforded him the opportunity to feast his eyes from afar. However, he soon discovered that keeping his distance when she was this close was almost more distressing than even her loss had been.

When he sat by the campfire late at night gazing up at the warm lights of the house, Benton wondered what she must be thinking, sheltered as she was among strangers. If she was in pain, she bore it unflinchingly and uncomplainingly, according to Mrs. Ramsey. He was not surprised. She had never been one to complain about that which she could not change.

The afternoon sun had dipped low in the horizon when Benton spotted Mrs. Ramsey on the front veranda of the house. He urged his horse forward and stopped to say a few words, hoping to get an update on Sarah without asking. Sitting relaxed with one leg crooked over the front of his saddle, he felt his horse lift his head suddenly. From the corner of his eye, Benton noticed the willowy form of Sarah move onto the porch and watched as she took a seat in the shadows.

Benton paused in conversation only slightly when he saw her, but continued to watch her closely without appearing to do so. He noticed she had more color than when last he had seen her, though she still possessed that faraway, lost look in her eyes. Staring straight ahead, she displayed neither attention nor curiosity, interest nor boredom, in the conversation going on in front of her.

Without warning, Benton’s horse nickered as if greeting an old friend, and bobbed his head up and down in excitement. “Calm down there, Vince,” he said in a soothing tone. “Easy now.”

Benton feared the sudden movement would startle or frighten Sarah, but the action seemed to touch a faint faraway chord in her memory. She stood and slowly wiped her brow as if to clear away the mists that obscured her vision.

Benton remained quiet, barely daring to breathe as she tentatively walked toward him. His gaze drifted over to Mrs. Ramsey, whose pale face and wide-eyed expression revealed that she too sensed the importance of the moment and wanted to do nothing to interrupt it.

With curious eyes and parted lips, Sarah reached up and lightly touched his horse’s scarred neck with her fingertips, then opened her hand and placed it flat upon the indentation of the old wound she had helped to heal.

She looked up at Benton with an inquisitive light in her eyes that had not been there before, and then blinked. She seemed to be trying to make out his figure through a shaft of smoke or heavy mist.

“Hurt.” She removed her hand quickly, as if the sound of her own voice had startled her.

“Yes, he was hurt,” Benton said softly, the music of her sweet voice nearly unraveling him. “You nursed him back to health. Do you remember?”

Sarah stared at the wound intently in an obvious effort to sort the images in her head; then her gaze lifted to the saddle and fell on the piece of rope still tied there. She swallowed hard and touched her throat, a look of deep bewilderment and confusion crossing her countenance. “Hurt,” she repeated.

She looked up at him again, and it appeared she wished to say something but was unequal to the task. Turning in apparent exasperation, she disappeared into the house.