The Gentle Rebel (27 page)

“Bring him in, Friend Nathan,” the woman said. She was a tall woman in her fifties, straight and well-formed. Her hair was auburn with just a trace of silver, and there was a calmness in her brown eyes that Nathan liked at once. “We’ll put him in the spare room.” Nathan walked behind her down a short hall, turned into a small room, and then set Laddie down.

“Get into that bed, young man,” Sister Greene said. “I’ll come back in a spell with something that’ll do thee good.” She stared at Laddie and asked in that same even tone, “Thou art a man of God?”

Laddie looked quickly at her, nodded and said, “I’m a Christian.”

“Good. Then we both know where thy healing’s got to come from.” Sister Green turned and opened a drawer, pulled a night shirt out, and handed it to Laddie. “Get into that.”

As the woman left, Nathan said, “I’ll be back tonight, Laddie, after roll call. You mind Sister Greene, now!”

He turned and left. As he passed Sister Greene, he said, “I don’t like the way he looks, Sister.”

“I should think not—he’s got pneumonia.”

Nathan swallowed and stared hard at the woman. “You—you real sure about that?”

“Yes. How long is thy unit staying here?”

“We’ll pull out at dawn, but—!”

“Well, thee can leave the young man here.”

“I can’t do that!”

“He’ll die if he’s moved.” Then in the same calm, even voice, she asked him exactly the same question she had asked Laddie: “Art thou a man of God?”

Nathan turned red and threw an awkward glance at Ezra, who seemed to be enjoying the scene. Finally he shook his head. “I thought I was once, Sister—but now, I guess I’m just kind of a seeker.”

The door opened and Nathan was relieved at the interruption. The man who walked in had the same chiseled features as Sister Greene—the same warm brown eyes and generous lips.

“Friend Dan,” Ezra said, “this here is Nathan Winslow. He’s done come to dump a sick soldier on you while he goes to play army.”

Dan Greene glanced at Parker, and humor lit his eyes and drew a smile to his wide mouth. “Friend Ezra, when thee gets right with God, thee will have a little more tact.” He had a deep baritone voice, and there was a solidness in his shoulders, a thickness in his chest that most ministers lacked. He shook hands with Nathan, his grip like a vise, and said, “I trust the sickness is not too bad.”

“Pneumonia, Daniel,” his mother said. “We’ll keep him until Friend Nathan can come back for him.”

“It’s a lot to ask . . .” Nathan said uneasily. “I know you folks don’t hold with armies and fighting—”

“We hold with helping those who need it, Friend Nathan,” the man interrupted. “Thee can be assured your friend will get good care.” His eyes studied Nathan, and he asked, “Is he your kin?”

Nathan quickly explained how he’d found Laddie, trying
to soften the part he’d played, then said, “I lost a brother at Lexington—and Laddie Smith is . . . !”

He paused, and seeing how disturbed he was, Dan said, “Easy to see thee does care for the young man. But even if I say so, he’s in the best hands for a man who’s bad sick.”

Nathan nodded, unable to speak, so he whirled and said, “I’ll come back tonight.”

Ezra followed him to the wagon, and said little on the way back to camp, for he saw that his new friend was tormented with doubts. When he stopped to let Nathan get out, he said with a plaintive note in his voice, “Guess it’s times like this that sinners like you and me wisht we wuz Christians, Nathan. But reckon you got the boy in to folks who know how to get hold of God.”

Nathan was worried and depressed all day, and finally when he came back after visiting the Greenes’ house that night, he went straight to Knox. “Captain, Laddie’s got pneumonia.”

“Is it bad, Nathan?”

“I just came from there.” His lips were tight and his eyes were miserable in the lamplight. “He was delirious, General—didn’t even know me!”

Knox stared at him silently. “I’d like to let you stay with him, Nathan—but I need every good man I’ve got.”

“I know—I’ll be leaving with you in the morning. But it’ll be so hard—not knowing if he’s dead or alive.”

He had left then, and the next morning as the brigade filed through the town in the gray dawn, Nathan cast one last desperate look down the lane to the small house just barely visible in first light, and prayed fervently,
God—help Sister Greene!

Even as he prayed that prayer, Daniel Greene was looking down the street at the troop. He turned and said to his mother, who was sitting at the table with a Bible open before her, “They’re leaving. Don’t think they’ll be back for weeks, if what I heard is true. With this weather and these roads, those men are in trouble.”

Sister Greene looked up at him and said, “I think we’re in trouble, too, Daniel.”

He gave her a quick look, for he could not remember many times when his mother had admitted having a problem. Her faith was unchanging, like a rock, and he went over to sit down across from her. “What is it, Mother?”

“That young man in there, Daniel.”

“Thee thinks he’ll die?”

“No. The sickness won’t be unto death—but Sergeant Smith has a worse problem than ague or pneumonia.” She paused and he waited. Waiting came easy for him, for the Quakers did much of it. Sometimes they would sit for two hours on hard, backless benches waiting until one of the Friends had the Inner Light touch his soul and a message was delivered.

Finally she lifted her eyes and said, “Sergeant Laddie Smith is living a lie, Dan.”

“A lie? What sort of lie?”

“About an hour ago I went in, and the fever was so bad I knew I had to use cold packs to bring it down. That’s when I found out—when I took his nightshirt off. Sergeant Smith is not a man, Dan. We’ve got a sick young woman to care for.”

He stared at her, unable to believe what he heard. Finally he said, “That’s bad! A woman with all those men!”

He got up and walked to look out the window as the last of the troops passed over the hill and disappeared; then he turned and said quietly, “I was mistaken about Winslow. He didn’t seem like the sort to do this sort of thing—keep a loose woman.”

“Loose or not—we’ve got to seek God, Daniel, or she’ll be a dead woman. I’ll get the body healed—but thee must see to her soul.”

Friend Daniel Greene said nothing, but doubt filled his brown eyes. Finally he said heavily, “God help her—poor child!” Then he got up and left the warmth of the fire, walking for the rest of the morning in the freezing cold.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

FRIEND DANIEL AND LADDIE

Sometimes the cold gripped so fiercely that she shook in every joint, trying to burrow deeper into the warmth of blankets; then the heat would rise like a tide of fire and she would struggle feebly to throw off the covers. She was down in a cold, dark hole sometimes, being pulled deeper and deeper into an even blacker depth, and she wanted to sink into it—to escape the alternating agony of fire and ice that racked her body.

But every time she began to sink into a welcome oblivion, an insistent voice would come to her, just when she seemed about to slip into the utter depths; it would grow loud and the sound of it would draw her back to the light.

Time was not for her a stream that moved from one point to the other, but a vast ocean with no beginning and no end. Seconds, days, years had no meaning; the only things that marked time were the hands that touched her, bathing her with cool water and holding her head to put a cup of water to her parched lips. And even the voice and the hands were confusing, for in her delirium she somehow came to distinguish between one voice that was soft and quiet and another that was deep and powerful—and sometimes the touch of hands had that same difference.

At last she came out of the darkness, and the bright sunlight streaming in from a window across the room hurt her eyes. She closed them quickly, having glimpsed only a white ceiling and a wall covered with paper ornamented by yellow flowers. Lying there with her eyes shut, her other senses were
flooded with signals—cool sheets against her body, the pressure of cool dampness on her forehead, a sour taste in her mouth, the smell of fresh bread baking, the acrid scent of camphor—and the sound of a man’s voice.

The voice was very close but so quiet that she thought at first he was speaking with someone else in the room, but suddenly she realized with a faint shock that he was praying. Accustomed as she was to elevated language from ministers in pulpits (which she unconsciously imitated in her own prayers, to some degree), she was caught by the fact that whoever it was spoke with God on most familiar terms!

“ . . . and so, Lord, it’s been a hard fight, hasn’t it?” The deep voice suddenly chuckled, and added, “I came pretty close to doubting Thee a time or two—but Thee never fails. Well, now, it’s clear that Thee has pulled this young woman out of the pit as a brand plucked from the burning, and I thank Thee for keeping her alive—but Lord, we’ve got to do something about her soul! Lord, I’m not much of a preacher, but nothing is too difficult for Thee—so now that Thou has taken away the disease, I’m going to believe that the soul of this sinner will be made whole. And, Lord, when there’s—well, friend, so thee is awake?”

He broke off suddenly as he found himself looking directly into a pair of black eyes that had opened and were regarding him intently. He had been holding a damp cloth on her head, and the position had brought his face within inches of hers, so always after that when she thought of him, she saw him this way, framed in her vision, his square face brown and tan. He had thick brown hair and heavy eyebrows the same color over deep-set brown eyes, and she could see clearly the dent in his straight nose and wonder what had broken it. He was a handsome man with very regular features, and a serene expression characterized both his face and his manner.

“I’d guess thee’s a little dry,” he said when she tried to speak and found her mouth parched. He removed the cloth from her head, picked up a cup, then put his arm under her
shoulders and pulled her into a sitting position. “Drink as much of this as thee can.”

She was so thirsty that she put both her hands on his, and in her eagerness spilled water down the white gown she was wearing. When it was gone, he gave her more; then she said in a voice rusty with disuse, “Thank you.”

“Well, how does thee feel?”

She considered the question, then nodded. “I—feel weak.” She looked around the room, then turned her eyes back on him. “How long have I been here?”

“How long? Well, they brought thee here five days ago. Does thee remember that?”

She suddenly remembered the room and nodded. “It’s not clear—wasn’t there a woman here?”

“My mother. She’ll be back soon. Are thee hungry?”

The question hit her like a blow, activating her appetite, and she said urgently, “Yes!”

He laughed and got up. “I’ll fix some eggs. It’ll be nice not to have to pour broth down thee with a spoon for a change.” He got up, adding as he left, “Don’t try to get up yet. Thee would probably fall and break thy neck!”

He was gone for some time, and Laddie tried once to get out of bed. The room seemed to tilt, and she fell back and lay with her eyes closed, appalled at her weakness. He came back with a wooden tray containing a plate of scrambled eggs and a large glass of milk. “Can thee sit up and eat, or shall I feed thee?” he asked.

“Oh, I can eat!” she said quickly, and tore into the delicious eggs. She ate it all, and almost licked the plate, but felt his eyes on her. “I’m so hungry,” she said as he took the tray away and set it down on the nightstand.

“Thee can have something more solid in a few hours.” He sat down and gazed at her with a quizzical look in his eyes. “It’s God’s own mercy thee didn’t die, young woman.”

Young woman!

Laddie gave a gasp, and involuntarily she cried out, “You
know . . . !” He took her meaning at once, and his mouth tightened as he nodded slowly. Something in his direct stare disturbed her, and she felt a flush creeping up her throat.
He thinks I’m a loose woman, living with the soldiers!
she thought instantly. There were in the young army, camp followers—low women who moved from man to man with no shame.

Her hand rose to her cheek, and Daniel Greene looked at her.
She looks so innocent!
he thought. The sickness had thinned her face, making her large eyes seem enormous. He found himself admiring the girl’s beauty—which startled him considerably! He was the most eligible bachelor in the county, and had long ago grown indifferent to the charms of young women; so many had smiled at him.

I think I’ve gotten attached to her—like I did to the sick kitten I nursed back to health,
he thought.
But she is a fetching girl—and she looks so young and innocent!
His experience with loose women was practically nonexistent, there being none in Half Moon—at least of the professional type—but he had always thought of them as being painted and lewd in manner. The girl he stared at had a dewy expression in her eyes, and a rosy flush that colored her slender neck and rose to give color to her smooth cheeks. He had seen a painting of the Madonna once in a museum in Philadelphia, and she looked more like that portrait of the Virgin Mary than a Jezebel!