For Home and Country Read online

  “He warned me,” Bowden said, his voice grave and vacant.

  Lifting my head, I located him through my tears. Face ashen, he stood observing the sea of injured people. “Who?” I said, my voice rasping.

  “Gray. The dreams. The visions. All warnings.” Gripping the sides of his head, he dropped to his knees and released a guttural wail.

  I rushed to his side and tenderly cradled his head against my waist. Turning, he buried his face into the fabric of my dress and wept like I’d never seen him do before.

  ENTERING THE SICK HOSPITAL, I looked to the cot by the window and recognized the face of Gray’s pa, who had chosen to remain at Livingston after Bowden had sold his plantation. Nausea roiled in my gut. He lay unconscious, his breathing shallow. As I turned my gaze to the other cot in the room, my body shook, and I fought back a cry as I saw Jimmy’s bloody form. My feet rooted to the planks, but the gentle urging of Bowden’s hand on the small of my back pushed me forward.

  The warmth of his hand faded as he left me and went to kneel beside Gray’s pa. “Hello, old friend,” he said, his voice thick as he took the man’s hand.

  A sob caught in my chest, and I turned back to Jimmy. He lay shirtless, a bloodstained bandage wrapped around his torso. Elsewhere, flesh wounds had been left by a blade. His breathing was ragged, and I knew that he held on to but a glimmer of life.

  I knelt beside him and slipped my fingers under his hand, lying at his side. “Jimmy, it’s me, Willow.” My voice was tattered. “You will be just fine. I’ll see to it.” I stroked his hair. Tears streamed down my cheeks and tickled my neck before soaking into my bodice. “You’re too stubborn to die,” I said with a laugh, blinking off tears. His eyes fluttered open, and my breath caught, but they quickly closed, as though his subconscious had reacted to me. “I need you. More than you will ever know.” I closed my eyes and laid my cheek on his chest, finding comfort in the beat of his heart. “Ruby, Saul, Mercy—we all need you,” I whispered.

  A shadow fell over me, and I opened my eyes to find Ben standing at the foot of the bed. I pushed to my feet and walked a few feet away, and he followed.

  “He can’t die,” I said in a low voice, my lips quivering. “He mustn’t. He is like a father to me in all the ways that matter. He loved me and taught me things my own could not.” Misery and fear wrenched at my heart, and thoughts of hurting him didn’t enter my mind until too late. Catching myself, I gasped, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to—”

  “Do not apologize for speaking the truth.” I saw compassion and understanding in his eyes. “His love for you radiates, as does yours for him. Regardless of your parentage, Miss Rita and James raised you and stood in when we could not. My brother’s and my failures will always haunt me, but there is no time for regrets of the past. I’ve done all I can for him. The rest lies in God’s hands. Both men need a miracle.” He looked wearily from one cot to the other.

  As Bowden joined us, I said, “You all are supposed to leave today. I can’t possibly manage—”

  “We have no choice but to leave. We will send word of what occurred here, and hope they will grant us a few days.” Bowden strode to the door and called out to Kimie. When she entered, he gripped her shoulder. “Are you capable of caring for the wounded in our absence?”

  “I-I…” She looked from Ben to him.

  “The next best person to a trained doctor,” Ben said.

  Her expression uncertain, she gulped, then squared her shoulders. “I’ll see to them.”

  “Good.” He released her. “Willow will ensure that any capable womenfolk are made available to help you.”

  I had yet to realize the number of lives lost at Livingston. My pulse quickened. When I did, could I face the knowing? What of the bodies scattered across the work yard requiring burials? My gaze turned to the window, and the injured spread across the lawn. So many hurt and needing attention.

  “But what am I to do?” I gawked at Bowden, dumbfounded. As I thought of the impossible task ahead, my panic mounted. Recalling the damage I’d observed upon our arrival, I pointed at the window. “Destruction is everywhere: our ships, the warehouse; the main house is partly destroyed; the kitchen house and smokehouse are gone. How can I possibly make Livingston functional again with no menfolk around? I can’t do this. It’s too much.” Concealing my face in my hands, I let sobs rack my body.

  “Come.” Bowden took my hand and led me outside.

  We left the quarters and strolled along the path leading to the family cemetery and the ponds.

  “I know it is a lot to ask of you,” he said. “Too much, really. But you will have Jones, and after we assess our losses we will know exactly what we are up against. Unfortunately, in these uncertain times, many are forced to do things we don’t want to. Not only the men who have enlisted, but the women left behind to manage the land.”

  I took a deep breath to relieve the tightness in my chest. Although my heart remained heavy, the numbness I felt over what had occurred was slowly evaporating with the determination to put everything in order. Bowden needed me to be strong. The people of Livingston needed me. I couldn’t possibly crumble now. “I know,” I said as we stepped from the tree line and the graveyard came into view.

  I froze. “No, no, no!”

  “What is it…” Bowden’s words faded as he too beheld the sight. “My God!” Bowden raced forward, hauling me behind him.

  At the edge of the cemetery, I dropped to my knees and gawked in horror. The fence had been demolished, gravestones uprooted, and the graves of my son, mother, father, and grandparents trampled. The McCoys had sought to desecrate their very memory.

  A part of my soul fractured, and with a forlorn wail I fell forward, pulling at the grass and dirt. Why? Had we not suffered enough?

  Bowden knelt and wrapped me in his arms, and I lifted my head and looked at him. Silent tears stained his cheeks. Had I cursed my husband in our union? Why was God bent on unleashing pain on my family? Had I brought misery and suffering to Livingston? I collapsed against Bowden, sensing the galloping of his heart, and his trembling body.

  “H-how do we go on?” I sobbed into his shoulder.

  “We must.” His hard voice made me look at his face. There was a cold glint in his eyes.

  I gulped. “Please don’t leave. I can’t bear it. I can’t.”

  “I have no choice.” He hauled me to my feet and turned me in the direction of the house.

  All of me wanted to curl up and die and leave the cruelty of a world I wasn’t designed for. I wanted to rewind the past days—we would never have gone to Charleston, and perhaps we could have prevented the devastation that had befallen Livingston. In that scenario, the slaves hidden in the warehouse would have perished in the fire.

  Wait. I stopped in my tracks and turned to him. “The men that set fire to our ships and the warehouse—do you think it was the McCoys?”

  “I believe it’s impossible that it was anyone else.” He clasped my hand and continued toward the house.

  “But how can you be certain?”

  “Because amongst the bodies are men clad in states’ militia uniforms,” he said.

  “Missus Willow, Masa Bowden.” Mammy’s voice drew our attention. She was hurrying toward us. Big John, supporting his weight with a makeshift cane, hobbled behind her. As they got near, I noticed the bandages covering his hands and the way he wheezed.

  “You all right?” I asked.

  “Nothing time won’t heal,” he said with a bow of his head.

  “He tried to save de house, and ’bout killed himself in de process.” Mammy scowled up at him and he grinned, finding amusement in her feistiness.

  “Miss Rita, I need you to take my wife up to the house and give her something to calm her nerves.”

  “No.” I pulled away from him. “I will not be set aside as though I’m too weak to handle what needs doing. I—”

  He pulled me to him and placed a finger to my lips, stilling my words. “Look at me,” he said g
ruffly. I looked at him. “Do you think I don’t know what you’re capable of? You’re capable of more than even you realize. I’m counting on you while I’m away. The people need you more than ever before. I fear the trials will be many, but together we must stand united and see this to an end.”

  “But what if you don’t come back?” My voice trembled at the thought. “What if none of you do? Am I to have a graveyard of loved ones?”

  “Missus Willow, you mustn’t think lak dat. None of de misfortunes and losses dat befell dis place or your family got anything to do wid you.” Mammy touched my shoulder. I pulled from Bowden to face her. “Life ain’t fair. Why, et downright unjust at times, but we got to keep moving anyhow. Now come along and do as Masa says. You won’t do anyone any good if you don’t keep a sound mind.” She took my arm and escorted me across the work yard. I glanced over my shoulder at my husband, who stood staring blankly after me.

  Turning back, I considered what lay ahead, and worry gnawed into my fear. Would we survive what was to come?

  Drifter

  MY EYELIDS OPENED, AND I gritted my teeth at the pain ricocheting through my skull. Touching the damp bandage compressing my head, I frowned as the recollection of how I’d received the injury deserted me. Parched, my tongue thick, I licked my lips to relieve the burn of cracked skin. My hollow stomach gurgled, demanding food. Blankets soaked in sweat clung to me like a second skin, and my nostrils rebelled at the smell of my body.

  Senses tuning to the musky, woodsy scent enveloping me, my gaze went to the animal pelts hanging from the plank walls of what appeared to be a one-room cabin. The door was ajar. A table sat next to an open fire where an iron skillet sizzled.

  Where am I? Struggling to sit up, I grimaced at the ache of bruised ribs. I sensed my lack of clothing, but before I could locate any the doorway darkened. I regarded the mountainous man with silver plaits and an unruly beard who lingered on the front stoop, with a blade in one hand and a slab of meat in the other. It appeared freshly carved from an animal’s carcass; blood dripped over his fingers onto the dirt floor.

  My heart beat harder. The weakness in my limbs and the awareness of my nakedness made me feel vulnerable. In a panic, I glanced around for my trousers or something resembling clothing.

  “You return to the land of the living.” His voice was gruff, but not unfriendly. He strode into the cabin and tossed the meat into the skillet before wiping his hands on buckskin trousers.

  “How did I get here?” Thirst made my voice a rasp.

  “Weeks back, I found you belly-up by the river about ten miles from here.” He turned to face me, and his brown eyes held a keen glint. “It appears you took a shot to the head. You’re one lucky son-of-a-gun. Someone must be watching out for you, ’cause you should be dead. Fixed you up the best I could. I couldn’t find an exit wound, so I reckon the bullet is still in there. If my woman was still around, she would have fixed you up good. Sickness took her about five years ago. She was one of the last of her tribe,” he said matter-of-factly.

  The only good woman is one that doesn’t draw breath, a voice chimed in.

  I examined the cabin’s shadows for the speaker, but we were alone. Turning my gaze to the open door, I detected no one outside. I heard only the chatter of the forest critters, and the neighing of a horse.

  The grizzly fellow strode to my bed and held out a tin cup. “My name’s Samson. What do they call you?”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but memory failed me. What was my name? Frowning, I regarded the man as he waited for an answer.

  Say nothing, the newcomer said.

  Sweat beaded on my brow as I found no recollection of anything before the opening of my eyes. Panic surged, and my heart galloped faster. Who was I?

  “Well, do you got a name, or what?” His eyes narrowed, and the deeply etched channels in his jowls and pocked and weathered flesh gave him an intimidating appearance.

  He asks too many questions. End him before he has a chance to tell.

  Tell? Tell what? I hid my hands in the blankets to conceal their trembling. My attention slid to the blade he’d set on the table. I studied it before directing my eyes to the outstretched hand holding the cup. A vision of his lifeless body, gutted and splayed out on the cabin floor, flashed through my mind, and I shook my head to dispel it. I swallowed hard. This must be damage from the gunshot wound. It was concerning.

  I gawked at Samson. His penetrating eyes scoured my face in a quest for answers. “Name’s Preston Lawson,” I said. The name rattled from my head as naturally as a next breath. Preston Lawson. I rotated the name in my mind. Why did the name sound so foreign?

  Yes, that will do. Glad to see you haven’t lost all sense, the voice jeered.

  “Drink.” Samson gestured at me with the cup.

  My pulse slowed to a calmer pace. Reaching for the cup, I noticed the steadiness of my hand.

  “You get a look at the one who shot you? Ain’t messed up with the law, are ya?”

  I took the cup and drained the contents before handing it back to him. “In the wrong place at the wrong time. Rode into a meadow just as a hunter lifted his rifle to shoot; next thing I know, I’m waking up here.” The story rolled off my tongue with no sense of recognition.

  An uncanny chuckle made me eye Samson, but he stood with lips pressed together. I trembled at the mounting awareness that the voice may occur only in my head.

  “Got ten lives, I reckon.” Shaking his head, he returned to the skillet as the odor of scorched meat drifted.

  As I observed him, the image of an auburn-haired woman with voluptuous curves and rouge-stained lips surfaced, and my jaw tensed at the vision. Who was she? And why did I get a feeling of bad blood between us?

  Exhausted, I slumped back and allowed sleep to take me.

  Willow

  THE DEATH TOLL AMOUNTED TO heartbreaking numbers. Knox, Mr. Barlow, Magnus, and some of the surviving quarter folk took on the task of burying the bodies.

  Destruction touched every corner of the plantation. Bowden oversaw the construction of makeshift living quarters to replace the cabins reduced to rubble in the attack. By dusk, newly constructed tents sat with the few remaining cabins on the quarters’ scorched earth. We assessed the damage to the main house and the outbuildings. The lumber that hadn’t been set aflame would be used to fix the main house and build a new kitchen house, barn, and smokehouse. I feared we wouldn’t have enough supplies to make the repairs, and if the chaos unleashed in the harbor continued, would it even be worth the effort?

  As darkness fell over the Lowcountry, Bowden and I sat in the rockers on the back veranda. We discussed what I would do when he, Ben, and Knox took leave the following morning.

  The shuffle of someone’s approaching footsteps drew our attention to the work yard. “Evening, Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong.” Jones stepped into the light from the lanterns hanging on the veranda posts. He removed his dark hat, sullied with dust and soot, before ascending the steps.

  “Have you finished the head count?” Weariness lined Bowden’s face as he regarded the overseer.

  “That I have.” Discouragement shone in Jones’s eyes. “There are twenty-seven quarter folks left. Most of the ones who took up arms now lie in graves. Some who fled to the river at the outbreak of the attack haven’t returned.”

  “One can hardly blame them.” A shiver shot through me as I thought of the panic they had to have experienced to flee to the deadly swamps. “All folks’ emotions will be high, with what has happened…is happening.” I glanced at the horizon, where the siege of Fort Sumter continued. “I fear for our people’s safety, with the country at war.”

  Bowden cursed under his breath before standing to pace the veranda. “The McCoys had their revenge—the unnecessary end of so many lives.” He threw his hands in the air. I rose and, like Jones, stood staring at my husband. Bowden regarded us as though expecting an answer. “And the battle in the harbor…” He gestured in the direction of Charleston, where the cannons
rumbled, and the sky gleamed crimson and orange. “How many of our countrymen will die? And for what? Because the South fear they can’t run their lands without slaves, and the North’s desires for tariffs. Both are generated by fear of each other’s influence. Are we not brothers?” Tears of frustration dampened his eyes as he came to stand in front of us.

  Jones grunted. “I stand by your belief,” he said, “but we’ve been left with no choice but to face what is to come.”

  Bowden gave his head a shake to clear his thoughts and took a deep breath before clasping Jones’s shoulder. “You are right. Forgive a man’s weakness. Charles trusted you, as do I.” He glanced at me. “I trust that you will care for my wife and the folks here in my absence.”

  “Livingston has been my home since your wife was waist high.” Fondness reflected in the overseer’s eyes as he directed a look at me. It swiftly dissolved, and he returned his attention to Bowden. “I’ll defend this plantation and all who live here with my life. You both will continue to have my loyalty.” Jones’s voice was emotionless, but his statement revealed his devotion.

  “Gratitude.” Bowden’s voice broke with sentiment, and he coughed to clear his throat before continuing. “The north field’s crop is gone. The transporting of goods will become more constricted than before. We need to plant as many food crops as possible to feed the people, as supplies and monies will be limited. I suggest you set those not assigned to repairs to prepare the east field for that.”

  “I will see to it.” Jones tipped his hat and dismissed himself.

  Bowden held out his hand and I gripped it. He spun me into his arms, and I settled there, absorbing the abundance of his love, for tomorrow, he’d be gone.

  “Willow. Bowden.” Magnus’s voice rose from below us, and I parted from my husband’s arms to look down at him and Mary Grace, standing in the work yard.

  “Yes?” I strolled forward and rested my hands on the railing. Bowden joined me and placed a hand on the small of my back.