Black Noon (5 page)

Caleb was doing his best to usher the last dozen or so townspeople, all of them happy and smiling, from the parlor. Joseph sat in his rocker. Keyes, at a chair, his face pensive.

“. . . Well, thank you all again for coming by, but it
is
getting late and it's been a very . . . trying day for Reverend Keyes. He'll see you all again tomorrow.”

There were scattered “good nights” and “thank-yous” and the word “miracle” was audible more than once as Caleb managed to direct the crowd out the door and close it.

“It is a miracle, Reverend,” Joseph rocked. “Like the Book says, ‘you gave feet to the lame.'”

“No,” Keyes shrugged in a self-effacive effort, “I didn't do anything. It was . . .”

“You're too modest, m'boy.” Caleb lit his pipe. “You've given us hope. Maybe it's the beginning of more good to come. I'll tell you one thing, the whole town wishes you were staying.”

“Well, thank you, but that's impossible.”

“Nothing's impossible,” Joseph said. “Not after today.”

Keyes rose.

“I'd better go to Lorna. She seemed to be feeling poorly again.”

“Too much excitement,” Caleb proffered. “Probably should have stayed in bed a few more days.”

“Yes. Well, good night.”

“Good night,” both Caleb and Joseph chorused.

“Oh . . . uh . . .” Keyes paused at the stairway. “I haven't seen Deliverance this evening.”

“She must be working with her candles,” Caleb conjectured.

“Yes. Well, please tell her I said good night.”

“We'll do that.” Caleb nodded.

Bethia sat in the straight-back chair next to the bedside as Lorna rested, her shadow-rimmed eyes looking at a letter she held in her hand. The room was illuminated by the candle Deliverance brought earlier.

“Well, hello.” Keyes smiled as he came into the room.

“Jonathon,” Lorna said, then looked toward Bethia. “Thank you, Bethia, for all your help.”

“Yes, ma'am.” She rose and walked toward the door. “You'll feel better in the morning after you've rested, I'm sure.”

Keyes waited until she left the room, then went to the bed and sat next to Lorna.

“It's been a long day, but you look . . . fine, just fine.”

“A little tired and weak, Jonathon. And there's that throbbing inside my head again.”

“Mr. Hobbs was right.”

“About what?”

“He said you got out of bed too soon.”

“Didn't want to miss your sermon.”

He moved closer and kissed his wife.

“Jonathon.” Her face and voice uncertain. “That boy . . .”

“Ethan?”

“Yes. How . . . how did it happen?”

“I . . . don't know.”

“I think I do. I think it was your strength that went out to him . . . when you spoke.”

He took her hand and kissed it tenderly. The hand that held a letter.

“What's this?”

“One of your letters. I asked Bethia to get them from the trunk. You know I saved them all, every one. They meant so much.”

“Lorna. I . . .”

“This one's about the first time you met General Custer after you enlisted. You said he called you ‘Sport.'”

Keyes nodded and smiled.

“Your first battle. You never did write much about that part.”

“The important thing I wrote was that I loved you.”

“I had to hear about your field promotion from Libbie. No one's more in love than those two . . . except . . . the two of us.”

“That's right, Lorna . . . and always will be.”

He kissed her again, took the letter from her hand

“Go to sleep, dear.”

He blew the flame out from the candle.

Moonlight flowed through the window into the room.

He sat beside her until she was asleep. It didn't take long.

Keyes, himself, was too restive to try to sleep.

He decided to go outside and think about what had happened that day, but after Lorna had reminded him of the letter his thoughts filtered back to his meeting Custer and that first battle.

It was at Hunterstown.

 

 

Keyes followed the adjutant as they both stepped into the tent where General George Armstrong Custer sat at his desk studying a map.

“Last of the new recruits, sir,” the adjutant said. “Just arrived.”

Custer looked up from his desk and smiled. “Well, Sport. I see you made it.”

“Yes, sir. Thanks to your recommendation it didn't take long.”

Custer looked at the adjutant.

“Another Wolverine, Jason. This one sidetracked from the courtroom to the cavalry.” Then to Keyes. “That's a smart new uniform you're wearing. By the way, private, can you ride?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, you're going to have to. We attack at first light. You have a horse?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, pick one out. We've lost more men than horses. And Jason . . .”

“Yes, sir.”

“See that he gets a red scarf.”

While he was picking out a horse, Keyes noticed a tall, lean man, probably in his fifties, carrying a Bible and talking to the troopers.

Just before Keyes started to mount, the man with the Bible approached.

“You're new here aren't you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No need to ‘sir.' I have no uniform or weapon . . . except this.” He held out the Bible. “Reverend James Mason. Good luck, Private. God be with you.”

“Thank you, Reverend.”

“Ride, you Wolverines! Charge!” Custer shouted. “Follow me!”

And charge they did. Custer in the lead, into the eruption of Rebel rifles across the swamp, with flashes of smoke and a fusillade of bullets out of the brush.

Keyes, red scarf fluttering, found himself just behind Custer as one of the bullets crashed into the general's horse. Animal and rider toppled into the murky water. Custer fell face-first clutching his saber, as hooves thundered and splashed about him. Some of the Wolverine riders circled in confusion.

Keyes swirled his horse near the fallen man, reached out, and down, and grabbed hold of the dazed and muddied Custer by his uplifted arm. Custer, still gripping his saber, swung on behind Keyes.

“Charge, you Wolverines!” he cried again.

Out of the churning chaos and confusion, the Michigan Brigade regrouped and rallied behind their general, hatless and wet-haired, thrusting his saber toward the retreating Rebels.

But one of the Rebel troopers turned and aimed at the double riders. Keyes maneuvered his mount and fired with his gun hand.

The Rebel's shot missed, but Keyes's didn't.

The Confederate retreat had turned into a rout.

That afternoon Custer, in his tent, sent for Keyes.

“I'm not going to make a speech, Sport. But you've earned that scarf. You're as good a cavalryman as we've got . . . and a damn good shot for a half-lawyer.”

“Forgot one thing, sir.”

“What's that?”

“I'm a full-fledged farm boy from Monroe, sir.” Keyes smiled.

“That's where you learned to ride and shoot?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You haven't got any more to learn before being a lieutenant.”

“Sir?”

“I'm issuing a field order, Lieutenant Keyes. Ride to the left of me.”

 

 

As he sat on a log outside the Hobbses' house that night, Keyes remembered Custer's words—and something else.

That was his first kill. But not his last.

Then Keyes noticed something else.

There was a flicker of light from the shed in the not too far distance.

Inside, the cat sat next to a tall, red candle burning on the bench. Deliverance was covering an object in front of her with a damp cloth. She walked to the stove where two small cauldrons were boiling, picked up a long ladle, and stirred the contents of one of the cauldrons, then the other.

As Deliverance turned and started back toward the bench, there was a knock on the door.

She paused.

The knock again, slightly louder.

She had a curious smile on her lips as she moved with supple strides, the grace of a cat, toward the door and opened it, revealing Keyes.

He stood, his manner somewhat embarrassed, not quite certain how to begin.

“I . . . don't mean to disturb you, Deliverance, but . . . I . . .”

She opened the door wider, her eyes an invitation to come in.

He accepted the invitation.

Keyes looked around with genuine wonder.

“It's quite a . . . workshop you have here.”

She was obviously pleased with his reaction.

He continued to take in the contents of the room.

“I haven't seen candles made since I was a little boy.” He picked up one of the figures from the bench.

The cat did not move.

“This is more like a sculpture.” He looked at the figure, then at Deliverance, awkwardly set the figure down again. “Well, as I said I didn't mean to disturb you. Just thought I'd say good night.”

He started to walk off, but Deliverance touched his arm.

She looked at him a moment, then described a pattern with her expressive fingers. It became evident to Keyes that she was referring to Ethan, who now walked without the use of crutches. She nodded and smiled.

Keyes returned the smile.

“Yes. He's a wonderful boy. I'm glad that he was healed.”

Deliverance pointed to Keyes, barely touching him.

Keyes shook his head.

“No. He healed himself.”

She motioned her head in disagreement—“No”—then pointed to Keyes again. None of her movements were abrupt or exaggerated. Deliverance gestured with subtle, simplistic elegance, and attraction. She reached for his hand—took it and guided it to her face near her lips . . . and held it there for a moment.

She let go of his hand. He held his fingers to her face a moment more . . . then withdrew them.

Her eyes expressed an evocative supplication. Keyes recognized her entreaty.

“You're asking if I can help you?”

She nodded in anticipation.

“I only wish I could.”

Her eyes became impelling, sensuous.

He thought for a moment.

“Deliverance, were you born . . . could you ever speak?”

She nodded again.

“I'll find out more from Caleb.”

Deliverance was obviously pleased with his answer.

“Well,” Keyes smiled, “I'd better . . . say good night.” He walked to the door. “Don't work too late.”

He left, closing the door.

Deliverance moved back to the bench and uncovered the object there. A partially finished wax figure that somewhat resembled Lorna.

It did, in fact, have wrapped around it, the cut-off material from Lorna's skirt.

Deliverance gazed at the wax figure. Her eyes no longer doleful.

As silently as he could, Keyes closed the door to their bedroom and entered.

Lorna was asleep. He walked to the side of the bed, reached out and gently touched her bare shoulder, careful not to awaken her.

He walked to the window and looked out.

A flickering light still shone from Deliverance's shed.

He turned and made his way through the moon-bathed room, to the dresser, and looked at his dim reflection in the mirror. He removed his watch and chain from his vest, wound the watch, and placed it near the Bible.

His eyes went to the mirror again as he began to unbutton his shirt.

But he stopped abruptly.

Stunned, Keyes's hand wiped at his eyes, then covered them with both his hands.

When he uncovered his eyes they went first to the Bible . . . then to the mirror . . .

The reflection was of himself.

In a shivering sweat he started for the bed. His left foot kicked the rifle that was leaning against the trunk—knocking the weapon to the floor.

He looked to see if the noise had awakened his wife.

No.

Keyes almost staggered to the bed without undressing and lay there next to Lorna.

But sleep did not come for a long, long time, a fitful sleep in the battlefield of his mind.

Ethan and a half-dozen other blue-eyed, towhead boys were playing near the entrance of the abandoned mine. Ethan just as active and agile as the rest.

When Keyes came out of the front door of the Hobbses' house, Caleb and Joseph were already sitting on the porch, Caleb smoking his pipe and Joseph enjoying the motion of a rocking chair.

“Good morning, Reverend,” both men simultaneously greeted him.

“Morning.”

“Well, Reverend,” Caleb said, “you slept through most of the morning. Must've had a good rest.”

“On and off.”

“Have you had breakfast yet?” Caleb asked.

Keyes shook his head.

“Well, then,” Caleb started to rise, “we'll have Bethia fix you a nice hearty midmorning meal.”

“Thank you, but first I'd like to ask you something.”

“Go ahead.” Caleb smiled and sat back in his chair.

“It's about Deliverance . . . this affliction of hers. How . . .”

“Caleb! Joseph! Mr. Keyes! Please, you've got to help!”

William Bryant, followed by Jacob, several men, and one of the towhead boys, ran toward the Hobbses' house. Bryant shook with anxiety as he stammered for words.

“What is it, William?” Caleb asked. “Take a breath and tell us what happened.”

“It's . . . It's Ethan . . . he asked this morning if he could go . . . go play with his friends . . . I said ‘of course' . . . and . . . now . . .”

“Now what?” Caleb took a step forward.

“Now he's . . . trapped in the mine . . . some timbers collapsed . . . but they can still hear his voice . . . we need . . . help . . . all the help we can get . . . before . . . He's trapped . . . hurt . . . he . . .”

“We'll get there right away,” Caleb assured him, “with all the help we can muster!”

“Caleb . . .”

“Yes, Reverend?”

“I want to go with you.”