Northern Star (7 page)

“Your palm’s as soft as a girl’s.” Hunter laughed as he supervised the bandaging.

Abram grunted at Hunter’s remark but said nothing. The cut wasn’t deep, and soon the pain subsided as Hunter talked to her. He seemed to be rambling to keep her mind busy while Abram cleaned the blood away.

“Boy, have you ever seen one of our balloons?” Hunter asked.

Perry shook her head. She’d read about the North using balloons to observe battles but had never seen one.

“The only thing greater than watching them drift into the sky is being in one as it lifts. I first saw one six years ago in the summer of ‘59. Abram and I traveled over two weeks to watch Professor Wise launch his balloon,
Atlantic.
It beat anything I’d ever seen. It was a huge balloon, bordered on either side by smaller ones, lifting a gondola with four men inside. Just think, kid, it covered over eight hundred miles in less than twenty hours.

“Old Professor Wise plans to cross the Atlantic soon, if Lowe doesn’t beat him. When the war’s over, I bet Lowe tries again.” Hunter was speaking half to himself as he watched Abram wrap Perry’s hand.

Perry raised her head. She remembered hearing the name Lowe before. Captain Williams had said something about a Professor Lowe needing Hunter back fast. She’d known by the tone of Williams’s voice that Professor Lowe
must be someone important. “Who is this crazy man, Lowe, who wants to cross the ocean in a bubble?” she asked, hoping to encourage Hunter, for his face was already tight with fatigue.

“I wouldn’t call the chief of our Army’s aeronautical division a crazy man. He’s a genius. He put a telegraph up in a balloon in ‘61. He attached it to a cable holding the balloon. We can send information down from five thousand feet up.”

Abram said, “It was a telegraph cable that almost got us killed a few days ago.”

Hunter laughed, forgetting his own pain for a moment. “Maybe so, but it’s not usually dangerous. Men have been going up in balloons for almost a hundred years now. I’ve heard Marie Antoinette watched the first test flight in 1783.”

Perry was fascinated by Hunter’s story as he told of early ballooning. He examined Abram’s work on her hand while he talked. She saw that tiny lines wrinkled the corners of his eyes.

“Fine job, Abram. You may have missed your calling. Instead of floating around with me, maybe you should have tried doctorin’.” Hunter’s voice was light as he teased Abram.

Abram agreed. “I’d have had plenty of patients traveling with you.”

Hunter smiled at his old friend. “We’d better get the horses hitched up before our friends wake up.” Then, to Perry, he added softly, “Why don’t you strip that shirt off and wash the blood out of it before we start moving.”

Hunter leaned back, and within seconds his eyes closed in sleep, as though his few sentences had exhausted all his energy. Perry watched him curiously, studying the lines of his face for any signs of laughter. Could he have suspected her gender? Perry smiled to herself, thinking of the shock Hunter would have if she did remove her shirt. She wondered if the sight of her bare chest would stir his blood,
as his had warmed hers. It was an outrageous thought, for he was a Union officer and she was wanted for treason. Yet she couldn’t stop watching him. His facial muscles were relaxed, his lips slightly open, giving his mouth a slight pouting expression. His strong character showed even in the lines of his sleeping face.

Perry climbed carefully out of the wagon, nursing her bandaged hand. She moved to Abram and the horses, watching idly as he hitched the team. She knew the blood would remain on her shirt, for she had no intention of undressing. Glancing at the two unconscious bodies in the dirt, she asked, “What about them?”

“Oh, they’ll come around in a few hours. They’ll be mighty sore when they do.” Abram chuckled to himself. “Thanks for cutting me free, boy.” Again emphasizing
boy
, as though it were a private joke he found greatly amusing. “I may have to teach you something about using knives.”

The knife! Perry whirled and ran to the wagon. Bending down, she retrieved her pearl-handled treasure from the dust where she had slung it. Very carefully she bent the blade into its case, using only her good hand and her leg as a brace. Caressing the knife gently, she slid it into her pocket. She prayed she wouldn’t have to use it again, but somehow the hope seemed lean as she moved deeper and deeper behind Union lines.

As Hunter’s party traveled north, the early spring air grew cool with evening and a mournful, silent fog crept around them. Abram finally turned the horses toward a cluster of trees in the distance. “There’s a plantation up the road where we might get that hand doctored properly. Maybe we could even spend the night there. Looks like we’re in for a storm.”

Perry didn’t comment. Every bone in her body ached from bumping around in the wagon. She watched the last bit of watery yellow light pass from the horizon and hoped she could stay awake long enough to find a corner to curl into for the night. The brooding sky blended with her mood. She felt that if the wagon hit another bump, her weary bones would snap in two.

They passed through the gates of the large plantation. The grounds were massive but the house looked old and in need of repair, even from a distance. A brick kitchen and one ancient barn huddled behind the dilapidated main house. It looked as though someone were slowly removing the walls and fences for firewood.

Abram maneuvered the wagon with tireless skill. “During the first part of the war hundreds of troops were housed here. Before we were soldiers, Hunter and I came over to
watch a balloon ascent. Now it looks like no one’s around.”

Abram slowed beside the deteriorating back steps. A soldier, not out of his teens, bounded from the kitchen. He struggled awkwardly, trying to put his coat on and hold his rifle at the same time. “Who goes there?” he yelled as his rifle twirled like a baton and fell in the dirt before him.

“Captain Hunter Kirkland and party,” Abram answered formally with no hint of laughter in his tone. “We need a doctor.”

The soldier picked up his gun and straightened to a formal stance. The tiny smile on his pimply face told of his thanks for Abram’s kind disregard of his clumsiness. “Don’t have no doctor, but you’re welcome to come in. Me and the boys were left behind last week to guard this place, and we haven’t seen more’n a jackrabbit. If you got news, we’d be glad to share our grub.”

Abram climbed down from the wagon. “Have you a dry bed for the captain? He needs to be out of this damp weather.”

“Beds are all full. We’re sleeping four to a room upstairs. The only fireplaces that work are downstairs. Those rooms are reserved for officers’ meetings, but we ain’t got any here now.” The guard looked at Hunter. Perry could see by the curiosity in the boy’s eyes that he’d never seen the pain of battle. “There’s a formal dining room. Reckon we could put a mattress over the table for a night. Ain’t no bigwigs here to eat off it.” The soldier seemed fascinated by the red spot on Hunter’s bandage. “We leave a guard on duty in the hall, so you don’t need to worry about some deserter killin’ him in his sleep. We can build a fire big enough to warm his bones.”

Abram nodded. “Thanks for your kindness. I’ll sleep with the horses in the barn. We’ve already had them almost stolen once. I’m not giving anyone another chance. Do
you have a warm place for the boy?” He pointed at Perry. “He’s been feeling poorly lately.”

The guard glanced at Perry. “Reckon he could sleep in the kitchen. There’s a cook and her grandson in there now, but she goes to her place at night.”

Perry was amazed at how fast they settled inside. In a little over an hour Hunter was resting in his bed on a huge formal dining table, and Abram disappeared into the barn for his first sleep in two days.

She helped all she could, then took a blanket from the wagon and headed for a corner in the kitchen. The old cook and a boy of about seven were banking the fire for the night when she opened the kitchen door. Without a word the cook filled two bowls with butter beans and ham. She gave one to her grandson with instructions to take it to the man in the barn and handed the other to Perry.

While Perry ate, the woman mumbled, “When you finish, there’s a medicine kit if that bandaged hand needs care. I wanta head home before the storm starts pouring and I get stuck here for the night.”

“Thanks,” Perry said between bites. The old woman’s face remained as cold as a three-day-old corpse until her grandson returned. She managed a half smile for the boy but huffed her disapproval when he sat down next to Perry and began rattling away.

“Wanta see somethin’ really fine?” The boy’s eyes sparkled.

Perry couldn’t help but smile and mentally braced herself for a frog, or whatever the child might consider a wonder in this world.

The boy danced over to a corner of the kitchen and lifted a trapdoor. “This here’s a tunnel from the kitchen to the main house. Goes right into the dining room. Before the war, we carried tray after tray of food over to the fine folks and never had to worry about rain or snow. They always made us whistle when going through the tunnel so’s none of us would try having a snack on the way. Plus, I
think it scared fine folks to have kids appearing in the corner of the dining room without notice. We call it Whistling Tunnel.”

The cook waddled closer, pulling on her coat. She nodded a slight farewell to Perry. “You can use it to check on that wounded captain during the night.” Her words were matter-of-fact, as though she had long ago lost interest in anything this world had to offer. “If you try going outside and up the back steps, you’re likely to be shot as a prowler.”

“Thanks,” Perry answered sincerely, though the advice was not given with any kindness.

The old woman shuffled and tied her ragged wool scarf around her neck. “Just don’t wanta clean your blood off the steps come morning. Plus it looks like it’s really gonna rain, and I don’t relish you tracking mud all over the dining room and my kitchen if you make a trip.” She pointed toward the corner near the fire. “There’s a hip tub over there if you want a bath. From the looks of ya, you might be doing the world a favor to have one. Don’t reckon nobody be coming in here if you bolt the door after us.”

Perry couldn’t help but smile. The old cook was trying to be kind, but lack of practice left her rusty.

The woman pulled her boy toward the door. “There’s clean clothes in that basket. You might find something to sleep in besides those bloody rags you’re wearin’, and I doubt if any one of them soldiers got sense enough to notice somethin’ gone.”

Perry would’ve hugged the cook if she hadn’t vanished through the doorway an instant later. Her suggestion sounded too good to pass up. Perry locked the door and put water on to boil. She stripped off her clothes and took a long bath to the music of a heavy spring thunderstorm outside. She scrubbed her skin almost raw and washed her hair until her arms ached. Her problems seemed far more bearable as she dried before the fire. With salve and a
fresh bandage across her palm, she felt not only human but a lady again.

She found a huge white shirt with ruffles down the front in the clean laundry. The shirt was long enough to be a nightgown, and with the sleeves rolled up it looked almost elegant. Her hair curled and waved around her in a black cloud of silk. She couldn’t bear to bind it up, though she knew she should.

Laying Hunter’s necklace atop her pile of dirty clothes, she noticed how foreign it looked there, as foreign as a Southern lady in a northern camp. The only gold in this mess was the chance to be near Hunter. During the idle times of the ride she’d let herself imagine what it would be like to be loved by such a man.

Perry lit a candle and decided to try the passageway. She’d seen all the lights go out in the main house an hour before and knew all the soldiers were asleep, except for the guard on duty in the main hall.

She told herself she. only wanted to check on Hunter’s health, but she knew that was only half the truth. She longed to touch him once more before she had to disappear from his life. One memory of being in his amis would carry her the rest of her life…one last moment of being totally alive.

The tunnel was dry and brick-lined. There were no spiders or mice, only the earthy smell of the damp dirt above her. The brick slanted upward until she came to a stairway. She blew out the light, not wanting to announce her presence until she was certain Hunter was alone in the dining room.

*   *   *

Hunter tried to sleep, but the thunder pounded against the dining room’s long windows like cannon fire, and the lightning flashed, reminding him of battle. He hated being too weak to move more than a few inches. He hated the constant pain that throbbed in his shoulder. He hated being
alone in this old room. But most of all he hated admitting to his weakness.

He closed his eyes and cursed the war for the hundredth time. He wanted a life outside of a uniform. He wanted rest. He wanted to feel more than hate and duty before he was too old to feel anything but pain. The fever always seemed worse at night, making him light-headed and confused.

A creaking sound came from the corner. Hunter’s senses came alert. He slowly turned his head toward the noise as his one good arm reached for the holstered revolver above his pillow.

The sound came again, like aging hedges crying with movement. He searched the darkness.

Lightning flashed against the windows as bright as day. Hunter turned his stare for a moment toward the curtains. The yellowed lace looked aflame, then darkened back into pale stillness. The thunder that followed sounded like the heavens were falling upon the house.

Hunter looked back at the corner of the room, but nothing was there. He had only imagined the noise, as he’d imagined so many other things since his fall a few days ago. The corner was as bare as the rest of the room…as the rest of his life.

He sighed heavily and pressed his palm against his forehead. Sleep seemed his only escape from the pain, and it was a welcome comfort. He wouldn’t think of the loneliness or the throbbing in his shoulder. He would only relax and dream.