The Sword (39 page)

“And what happened, Tommy?”

“Well, my ma and pa, and my brothers and my sisters, came rushing to me, but even before they got there I knew something had happened to me. I had been carrying a heavy load, and everything was so dark and miserable. But even as I knelt there in the dirt, I knew that something had happened. That I had something new. I didn’t hear voices or see visions. It was all inside me, Miss Chantel. My parents were crying and holding to me, and I was crying. My poor ma and pa had been praying for me all my life.”

“And what happened then?”

“Well, I was afraid I’d lose that peace that came to me in that cotton field. But I never did. I went to the Baptist church the next Sunday morning, and I told the preacher I wanted to be baptized, and I was baptized that very day. I started reading the Bible, and people helped me learn how to serve God. We all need someone to help us learn about Him, don’t we?”

“Yes, we do,” Chantel said thoughtfully.

“Miss Chantel, I think God has put Jacob Steiner in your life to help you find your way to Jesus.” His voice grew softer and weaker, and he said, “Listen to your grandfather, Miss Chantel. Don’t miss out on Jesus. I want to see you in heaven.”

Tommy died an hour later while Chantel was still holding his hand. He had not spoken again, but his last words she knew she would never forget, his urging her to meet him in heaven.

Chantel was broken as she never had been. She held Tommy’s still hand and wept, torn by sobs. She began to pray then, and suddenly, in the gloom of that hospital ward, she was aware of what Tommy had said. That God had told him that it was his last chance. A cold fear washed over her.
Maybe this is my last chance.
She tried to pray but could not frame the words.

After a long struggle, suddenly she whispered, “I can’t even pray, Lord!” And then it came to her. She thought about her stepfather and how she had hated him—and still did. And then she suddenly knew why she couldn’t pray. She remembered a part of the Bible that Jacob had read to her. The Scripture was, “If you forgive men their trespasses, your Heavenly Father will also forgive you: but
if you forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive ye your trespasses.”

The verse went like a sharp knife into Chantel’s spirit, and she knew that she could not hang on to that hatred and come into the kingdom of God. She finally bowed her head and whispered, “I’ve hated my stepfather, Lord, and You say I must forgive him. So the best I can, I forgive him.”

It took some time. Chantel struggled, hard, for she had years of bitterness in her spirit. Finally, blessedly, she was able to let go of all the hatred and resentment, and then she called on Jesus, and Jesus came into her heart. She knew it as well as she knew her own name. The hot tears of grief streaming down her face changed to tears of joy, and she began to thank God. Chantel knew that nothing for her could ever be the same again.

Chantel saw Jacob’s eyes open, and then he reached out and held her, hugging her with all his feeble strength. She had just awakened him and told him how she had found Jesus.

“Thank God,” he kept saying. “Thank the good God.”

She said, “I’m going to have to have some help.”

“God will send people to help you. Me for one, and if necessary, why, the good Lord will send a mighty angel out of heaven to take care of you, for you are His daughter now and nothing will ever change that.”

Chantel was still crying. “I’ve become a crybaby, me.”

“Those are tears of joy, my sweet girl, and there will be many more of them. I thank God that He has reached down and lifted your soul out of sin and put your name in the Book of Life, and He says He will never blot it out, no never, not throughout all eternity.”

Chantel listened, and the words soaked into her spirit like balm.

She hardly slept, but at dawn she didn’t feel tired. She hurried to the hospital, anxious to tell Clay about her night. As soon as she
came through the door she saw one of the doctors, an elderly man named Hardin, motioning to her. She went down the aisle, smiling and greeting Clay and the men, but not stopping to talk.

Dr. Hardin said, “Miss Chantel, I know that Lieutenant Tremayne is your special friend.”

“Yes,” Chantel said. “We’ve known each other a long time, you may say.”

“I’ve talked to his family, and they’ve begged him. And if you’re his friend, maybe you can talk some sense into him.”

“I doubt it,” Chantel said under her breath, but the doctor was still talking, glowering like an angry bulldog.

“The fool just will not let us take that arm off! He acts like he’s the only man who ever lost a limb. I know that gangrene is setting in—by now I can tell it a mile away. What I think is we ought to dope him up, and then when he’s unconscious, take the arm. He’ll be angry when he wakes up, but he’ll live. If we don’t, then we’re going to lose him.”

“You can’t do that,” Chantel said dully. “He may be a fool, but he is a man, and he has made this decision. But I’ll try, Doctor. I’ll try to talk to him again, me.”

Chantel went to Clay then, and he was already angry and upset.

“I saw you talking to Dr. Hardin, and I know what he said. He’s already been here nagging me. Once and for all, I say no. I won’t do it. Don’t talk about it anymore, Chantel.”

Chantel had left the hospital soon after talking to Clay, for Jacob was moving the wagon to be closer to General Stuart’s headquarters, at his invitation. Chantel helped him lash down all the supplies and pack up their camp.

When they reached their new campsite, as always, Chantel unpacked the big sutler’s tent and began to put it up. But by now all of the men knew her and Jacob, and she wasn’t allowed to lift a finger. The soldiers put up the tent and helped Chantel and Jacob stock it.

Most of them, by now, had no money at all, but Jacob still gave them things—buttons, needles and thread, wool socks, shoes, warm undershirts. He gave away so much that for the dozenth time Chantel wondered how they ever kept a stock at all.

Then she stayed in camp, talking for hours with the soldiers and to Jacob, who was still rejoicing with her. It was late in the evening when she returned to the hospital.

The slow hours passed, and Chantel knew that it was past midnight. How far past she didn’t know. She had prayed until her mind was numb. Clay had fallen into a restless sleep, and she had watched him for a couple of hours, moving restlessly and muttering, his forehead wet with perspiration. Over and over she sponged him with a cool damp cloth, but it seemed that nothing could soothe him.

Finally she leaned forward, folded her hands on his bed, and laid her head down. Her fingers barely touched his side. She began to pray aloud, though in the quietness of the ward she kept her voice to a soft whisper. She whispered, “Oh God, I ask You to help Clay.” She waited, for her mind felt strangely blank. She found that it was much harder to pray aloud than in the privacy of one’s own heart.

But then thoughts, and the words, came to her. “I was unfair to him. He would never have hurt me, not intentionally. I just had so much anger inside me, Lord, and I couldn’t let go of it, and I blamed him for something that maybe, deep down, I wanted him to do. Because I know now that I love him, Lord. Maybe I always have. But now, here we are, we two! Finally I let You save me, and he can’t find his way to You. And now he may die. Please, please, have mercy on him, Lord Jesus. Don’t make this his last chance.”

For a while she was quiet, merely resting, her fingers lightly touching him, and she remembered how she had touched his face that time he had kissed her. She had loved his touch then, even though she had so cruelly pushed him away and made him feel guilty. She sat up then lightly laid her hand on his arm. It felt hot and was stiff with the thick bandages.

Bowing her head, she whispered, “Lord, I don’t know much about You, but I know Jacob has read to me that You will heal people. I know there’s no hope for Clay in doctors and medicine. But Jacob says nothing is impossible with You, so I’m asking You to heal Clay’s arm.”

She went on praying for a long time, until she grew so weary she could hardly stay awake. She finally left, still not knowing any answer from God. She felt sadness, but as Jacob had always said, still she knew joy deep in her heart.

Clay had not been asleep the entire time Chantel had been there. He wandered in a dim haze, his mind coming up to half consciousness at times. He had heard some of Chantel’s prayers, and they had moved him. Dimly he thought,
Lord, I don’t know what to say to You. I don’t know You. I don’t understand anything about You. But I’m glad Chantel has found You. And about this healing business, You know I couldn’t ask You for that. I’ve no right. But I’m so grateful that she did.

He knew he had fever, and he was having trouble thinking clearly.
Chantel loves me,
he thought with wonder.
Or was I just dreaming? That is a wonderful, blissful dream … but no, I heard her. I know I did.
And he knew at that moment, as hurt as he was, and as hopeless as life seemed to be, he loved her.
And like Chantel told
You, Lord … I think I always have.

Clay woke up, and the first thing that he was aware of was that the excruciating pain in his arm had subsided. Then he knew that his fever had passed, for he came instantly, fully awake.

One of the medics had come to change the bandage on his arm. He was a tall, thin man with a good bushy growth of whiskers. His name was Grady Wynn, and he was one of those men who had a great compassion for sick and injured men, a naturally good caregiver.

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” Wynn said. “Sorry to wake you up, but it’s time to change this bandage. How about, while I’m at it, we get
the doctor and let him take this thing off?” he finished brightly.

“No,” Clay said automatically, watching him with a newfound alertness.

“Thought not, but it never hurts to—what? What’s this?” Wynn said in a shocked voice.

Clay looked at his arm curiously, but Wynn laid the last layer of bandage back on it and said, “Don’t move, and for once do what I say, Lieutenant Tremayne. I’ll be back.”

Wynn moved quickly, and in only a few moments came hurrying back with Dr. Hardin. “Look at that arm, Dr. Hardin,” Wynn said. “Just look at it.”