Before she could withdraw her hand, his eyes shot open and he grabbed her wrist.
Margaret screamed in terror, trying to pull from his grip. What if he had a weapon? What did he plan to do to her? She pounded on his arm with her other hand, trying to free her wrist. But his grip was tight.
“Please help me.” His voice was almost too weak to hear, but he peered straight into her eyes. His hand went limp and fell to the sand.
Margaret stood and backed away, but both boots stuck deep in the sand. She lost her balance and fell backwards, landed on something sharp. The sleeve of her dress ripped. She grabbed her arm as blood seeped through the tear. A bloody, jagged shell had mangled her wrist. Tears threatened, but terror held them at bay and gave her the clarity she needed to get away.
Margaret pushed off the sand and pulled her feet out, boots and all. Righting herself, she backed away, holding her injured arm, chest heaving with every breath.
Without a second thought about the pail containing the family’s supper, she turned toward the trail, ready to bolt. But something tugged at her heart, urging her not to run…those pleading blue eyes. She moved a safe distance from the sailor. Her mind raced.
What do I do? Should I help him? Is he dead now? He did ask for my help—but he’s a Yankee…
“Papa will know what to do.” She hiked up her skirt and took off. Despite the fact that her father’s awkward boots sank in the sand with every footfall, she quickly reached the trail toward home.
Before the sailor was completely out of sight, Margaret glanced over her shoulder for another look at him, wondering if the ordeal had actually happened. But the searing pain shooting through her bloody arm gave her all the proof she needed.
The man seemed to be awake again and was feeling around for something.
Her hand covered her mouth and she let out a loud gasp.
Dear Father in heaven, he’s looking for his gun!
2
“Papa, Papa, come quick!” Margaret raced up the property line toward the house. Her frantic cries demanded the attention of the entire family.
The youngest two Logan children, four-year-old June and baby Jeremiah, peered through the window of the front room.
Papa emerged from behind the shed, a hammer held high as if ready for an attack. “What’s going on out here?”
She needed to catch her breath.
Papa was the first to reach her side.
Mama and Elizabeth rushed out of the cotton field toward her.
“What on earth happened, Margaret?” Mama gave her a good looking over. “Did you fall? Your backside is covered with sand.”
Papa lowered the hammer. “Give her a chance to speak, Caroline. She’s plumb out of wind.”
Elizabeth pointed at Margaret’s torn dress and blood-stained arm. “Oh, my goodness, look at her arm, Mama. She’s bleeding!”
Mama ripped the sleeve even further, revealing the long jagged cut left from the oyster shell. “That’s a nasty gash, Margaret. Let’s go in the house and get that taken care of.” Mama tried leading her toward the house, but she didn’t budge. “Now come on…”
“Mama…wait just a minute…please!” She pressed her injured arm to her chest. She cared not that blood from her arm seeped into the bodice of her dress, possibly ruining the garment. She pointed toward the bay with her other hand. “There’s a man. I thought he was dead…but he wasn’t.”
Mama’s eyes narrowed. “Did he hurt you? Did he do this to you?” She looked at Papa. “Jebediah, someone has hurt our girl.”
The front door flew open and June ran out. Baby Jeremiah toddled as fast as his legs could carry him to Margaret’s side.
The sight of blood had drawn them like flies to molasses.
“Sissy, what happened to you?” June asked.
Mama attempted to shoo them back into the house.
Papa looked squarely into Margaret’s eyes. “Did he hurt you, Margaret?” He touched her trembling arm.
Margaret shook her head and waved her hand. “No, Papa, he didn’t do this to me. I fell on a sharp oyster shell, and it cut my arm open.” She struggled to get the words out. “He’s…he’s a sailor—and he’s half dead.”
Papa stepped closer, his voice steady and calm. “All right then, Margaret, tell me exactly what happened.”
“He’s a Yankee, Papa!”
Elizabeth and June clasped their hands over their mouths.
Baby Jeremiah slapped tiny hands over his face too.
Papa had given strict warnings to his daughters about steering clear of anyone who even remotely resembled a Union soldier.
“Whatcha gonna do, Papa?” June asked.
Mama slipped an arm around Margaret’s waist and eased her head onto her shoulder. It calmed her nerves when Mama stroked her long hair.
Papa rubbed his stubbly jawline. “Well, I suppose we ought to go see what we can do.” He turned to his youngest daughter. “June, go fetch my rifle and powder flask.”
“You gonna shoot him, Papa?” June asked. The unexpected excitement seemed to have the little girl wound up.
Papa furrowed his eyebrows and shook his head. “No, June, I’m not planning to shoot anyone. I just want to be cautious and make sure everyone is safe, that’s all.”
“But you
might
shoot him, right, Papa?”
“All right now, run along and get the rifle and powder flask.” Papa turned to Mama. “Caroline, go in the house and tend to Margaret’s arm. While you’re in there, gather some extra bandages. Sounds like we might need them.” He handed the hammer to his middle daughter. “Put this away in the shed, Elizabeth. I also need you to haul in those cotton sacks from the field. I’m guessing we’re done pulling for today. And when you get done with that, meet me out by the pen; I need a hand hitching the mule to the wagon.”
~*~
Mama slung Jeremiah over her hip and helped Margaret into the house, even though she didn’t really need help. The trip to the kitchen was made even more difficult with June helpfully pushing her from the rear. Mama and June eased her into a chair. She didn’t squelch their doting; she didn’t have the energy.
Mama set Jeremiah down and collected a bowl of water and a rag to clean Margaret’s wound.
The little boy held out his arms for Margaret to pick him up. She instinctively pulled him onto her lap, forgetting the pain from the gash.
Little June’s eyes grew at the sight of her baby brother climbing on her injured sister. Tiny hands gripped her hips. “Jer’miah, you get down off her right this instant!”
Jeremiah buried his face in Margaret’s chest at June’s scolding.
Mama pursed her lips. “Let him be, June. He’s worried about Margaret, and it’s time for his nap.” Mama rummaged around in the cabinet where their meager medical supplies were kept. The roll of gauze was almost gone. Between the four kids and Papa, Mama had doctored more scrapes and cuts than should be allowed.
Mama took down the bottle of laudanum and slipped it into her apron pocket.
“The cut isn’t that bad. I don’t need the laudanum.”
Mama dipped the rag into the water and then washed blood and sand from the jagged wound.
Margaret pressed her baby brother to her chest and winced at the pain.
“I know, Margaret. It’s not for you. Now come with me into the bedroom so I can see what we have in the rag basket.” Mama turned to June, who watched with great interest. “Young lady, your papa told you to do something. Now you’d better get to it.”
“Oops…I forgot.” June’s eyes widened and she ran from the room.
Margaret followed Mama into the bedroom. She held tight to Jeremiah with her good arm and kept the injured arm close to her chest. Mama sat in front of the rag basket and Margaret sat on the floor beside her.
Jeremiah crawled out of her lap and laid his head on Mama’s legs. He rubbed his eyes while chanting the name he called her, “Ma, Ma, Ma, Ma.” Finally, he slept.
Mama firmly tied strips of a discarded pillowcase around her arm. When the wound was properly covered, she went to work tearing rags into bandages, handing some to Margaret too. It goaded her to think the precious strips of cloth would soon be used to doctor the Yankee sailor.
“So how bad did he look?” Mama’s voice was soft as she glanced at Jeremiah.
Margaret squinted at the memory of what she’d seen. “He looked pretty bad to me, all bloody and shot up.”
Little June came into the room and wiped her brow. “Whew, that rifle is mighty heavy.” She brushed off her hands on her skirt. “Can I go see the Yankee, Mama?”
Mama tilted her head to look at her youngest daughter. “No, I need you to stay here with Jeremiah while I go with Papa and Margaret to see what we can do.”
“But, Mama, I ain’t never seen no Yankee before.” The little girl whined and puffed out her bottom lip.
“Oh, my goodness, is that proper English, young lady?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Now say it the right way.”
Margaret turned away so June wouldn’t see her smile.
June frowned and crossed her arms. “OK. I have never seen a Yankee before.” Her arms dropped down to her sides as she jutted her chin out. “Mama, why am I the only one in this house who has to use proper English?”
“Every one of my children is taught proper English…it’s up to them to use it. And thank you. That was much better,” Mama said.
Margaret made eye contact with Mama, knowing she was probably fighting back a smile too.
June’s eyes grew wide. “So can I go? I really want to see what he looks like, Mama!”
“Not this time. Stay here and keep an eye on Jeremiah until Elizabeth finishes her chores. Besides, you’ll probably be seeing him before you know it.”
Mama can’t really be thinking about bringing him here!
Margaret ripped the old sheet into strips. The ragged fabric would make fine bandages…
even if they might be used on that stinking Yankee.
June plopped down beside her sleeping brother. “Dumb ol’ baby.”
Mama took a quilt from the bed and spread it over Jeremiah. “Now that will be enough of that, young lady, you hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am.” June lay on the floor next to her brother.
“We’ll send Elizabeth in directly. Come on, Margaret. If he’s as bad as you say, then we better hurry.”
Margaret helped gather the scraps of cloth and then followed Mama outside.
~*~
Margaret watched Papa and Elizabeth attempt to attach the harness to the wagon. The mule brayed and kicked. It had been a while since the old girl had been hooked up to a harness, and she’d never liked it too much.
“Come on, Celia girl, you’re going to ruin my wagon if you kick it too many more times.” Papa talked to the animal as though she was another one of his daughters.
Margaret chuckled at the way her father dealt with the stubborn animal. “I think that’s her intent, Papa.”
Elizabeth held tight to the mule’s harness. “Margaret, we really don’t need any of your remarks right now!”
“Well, pardon me.” The tension between Margaret and her sister grew with every passing day.
“All right, girls, that’s enough of your bickering.” Mama placed the supplies in the small cart.
Elizabeth released her hold on Celia. “Papa, I hauled in the cotton sacks, and I hung them on the hooks like you asked. So can I go to the bay with you?”
Margaret thought it a good idea. Anything to keep her from having to look at the horrible, bloody body of that Yankee would suit her just fine.
Papa was about to answer when Mama interceded. “No, I need you inside the house to watch over your sister and brother. Who knows how long we’ll be gone.”
Elizabeth’s mouth drew up tight. “That’s not fair, Mama! I did what Papa told me as fast as I could. Why does Margaret get to do everything, and I never get to do anything?”
Margaret gave her sister a warning look. It was never a good idea to argue with Mama.
Mama turned to Elizabeth. “And just what is it that Margaret gets to do that you don’t? Collect oysters? Haul water for laundry? Because if it’s more chores you want, I’ll be more than happy to assign them to you. Is that what you want?”
Elizabeth hung her head. “No, ma’am.”
“Mama, why don’t you let Elizabeth go? I’ll watch the little ones. Besides, I have no desire to take another look at that nasty, bloody Yankee.” Margaret attempted to break the tension.
“Mama, can Margaret watch over June and Jeremiah instead of me?” Elizabeth looked at her. Tears coursed down her cheeks.
Mama took the bottle of laudanum and placed it atop the bundle of bandages already in the wagon. “No…Margaret is the one who knows where the man is, and she is the one who’s going with us to the bay. Now, I told you what I need you to do. I suggest you get to it.”
Elizabeth looked defeated. She turned to her father. “Papa?” Elizabeth whined and pleaded with outstretched arms, tears still flowing.
“Do what your mama says, Liz.” Papa turned away and slapped Celia on the rump. “Come on, girl.”
“We’ll be back as soon as we can.” Margaret spoke.
Elizabeth lifted her apron and scrubbed the tears from her face. She stomped into the house without another word.
Margaret ached for her rebellious sister.
Elizabeth’s defiance had become a constant source of pain. Twice in one day she’d complained of unfair treatment. Mama would probably give her a lesson on what was fair and what was not. Margaret turned to follow Mama and Papa. They were already halfway up the trail. Gathering her skirt, she hurried along to catch up with them. A chill ran down her spine at the thought that the man might have a gun. What would happen if they arrived to find a detachment of Union soldiers had arrived to collect their dead? Why couldn’t Mama just leave well enough alone? Didn’t their family have ample problems already without running to the rescue of a Yankee sailor? As far as Margaret was concerned, the Confederates had already decided this sailor’s fate and it wasn’t their business to meddle in their affairs.
The farther they went down the trail, the more Margaret wanted to run in the opposite direction. The image of the sailor’s body caused bile to rise in her throat, but then, his smoky blue eyes found their way into her imagination. How she longed for him to still be alive so she might have the chance to see his beautiful eyes once again. She shook her head to remove the image and chastised herself for harboring such a thought about a Yankee.