“Nonsense, I say,” she snapped, sounding stronger. “If what you imply is true, he would have let me drown with you. He saved me and anyone else he could get his hands on. You should be grateful for the breath left in you and not waste it engaged in pointless bellowing. Now unhand him and make yourself useful. There are a great many people around us who need help.”
Twitch obliged by letting go, but not without protest. “No disrespect, Augusta, but this here is Mooney’s buck. He is driven by my whip. Overseein’ is my business and nobody—”
“Don’t dare challenge me, Twitchell,” Aunt Augusta said, narrowing her eyes. “Be gone with you. Time is of the essence in a crisis of this magnitude. Go do some good for someone other than yourself.”
He stepped back, awash with contempt flowing as heavily as the water that dripped from his face, hair, and clothing. He turned to James. “I won’t forget this, boy. You’ll pay another day. I never leave a debt uncollected.” His crooked teeth widened into a seething smile to punctuate his anticipation. “Now come on with me. My buckboard sank in the marsh down yonder. You ain’t helpin’ nobody but me. Your duty is to your master.” As James complied and walked away with him, Twitch swung his leg around and kicked James in the hip. James’s knees buckled, but he never broke stride or acknowledged the aggressive reminder delivered by his overseer. Twitch shook his wet hair like a mutt caught in a rainstorm, then looked back over his shoulder at Aunt Augusta. His dead eye oozed mucus, in contrast to the renegade glimmer in its counterpart. His message was clear: Aunt Augusta’s power no longer intimidated him.
Overcome by a dizzy spell, Aunt Augusta staggered backward. Was it her brush with death or her recognition of Twitch’s unleashed danger that caused her to sway from her perch? If not for Livie and me steadying her, she would have toppled from the carriage. She sat for a moment, and with Elijah fanning her with the corner of a quilt, she regained her composure.
“If it suits you, Miz ’Gusta,” Winston said. “I will have Elijah drive you and these gals back to de big house. I’ll stay and do what I can fo’ these poor souls struck by de river.”
“I shall stay as well,” I said, giving Winston my hand to help me from the carriage. “Perhaps I can aid the injured in some small way. Alert Colt to what has happened. With his medical training, I know he will come immediately to assist in the rescue.”
To my surprise, Aunt Augusta did not forbid me my desire. She looked at me through aged eyes, then nodded her approval to Winston. As they rolled off toward the highlands of Hillcrest, a tremor quaked throughout my body. I wish I could have attributed it to the soaked dress hanging from my limbs or the frigid puddle sloshing in my boots; however, it was an undeniable shudder of vulnerability waking in my consciousness. Aunt Augusta’s forceful presence, which often had been oppressive and cause for resentment in my life, also afforded me a great deal of protection. Twitch had torn a hole in my blanket of security, and it chilled me. The time had come for me to grow up and rely on myself, to trust the beliefs seeded in me or chance being swept away by the storm hinted at in the wind that shifted from north to south. I turned away from the retreating carriage to face the overturned world spread before me.
Chapter 25
T
he wall of water that pushed downstream after the ice break receded back within the banks of the river. However, the destruction left in its wake was not so easily tamed. Thirty souls drowned or were missing. Most were slaves who worked in the vicinity of the bridge or along the shoreline, engaged in the tasks of their masters. A handful of white slave drivers and business owners, including Jeremiah Taft of the gristmill, were mourned as tragic losses. In contrast, the deaths of the enslaved were viewed as mere inconveniences until they could be replaced at the next auction. However, inside the quarters of every plantation bordering Echo Ridge, the loss of dear friends and family members struck a harsh blow. Though spared any direct impact, the population of Mud Run cried out in heartache as word of the dead blazed up the mountain like a wildfire.
I shall never forget the magnificent image of Colt riding down from the hills on his stallion. With saddlebags loaded with bandages, ointments, and other medicinal necessities, Colt leapt from his horse and rushed to take me in his arms. Adversity transformed Colt in my eyes, as well as in those he touched with his healing hands.
“I came as soon as I got word,” he said while carefully checking the cuts and welts on my arms and face.
“My injuries are minor and will fade by week’s end,” I said, sinking into the security of his embrace. “Look around us. There are not many as fortunate.”
“Help us, Colton,” Mac Prentiss called from the lumber mill. “My wife’s arm is broken.” I marveled as Colt took charge of setting up a makeshift infirmary in the schoolhouse, treating the injured who arrived helpless and dazed from the stricken part of town. I stood in awe of his gentle expertise and calming presence in the midst of the uproar.
He instructed me to tear linen into strips to aid in treating the deep, penetrating wounds delivered by debris used as weapons by the floodwaters. Lifeless bodies were carried with dignity to the rear of the building and covered with a heavy tarp to protect them from flies and vultures until family could claim them for burial.
Colt treated both black and white as they were brought to him, and it was not until evening, when I walked to the well for fresh water, that I noticed a group of townsmen gathered near the church. Mr. Snead’s wife, Charmaine, was inconsolable with tears.
“John, if she is not seen by a doctor soon, she will bleed to death.”
“No hands stained with the blood of a darky will touch my daughter. This self-professed doctor is a disgrace to his family and to this town.”
“But, John, she needs a doctor.”
“Charmaine, when word reaches Dr. Waverly, he will come to our aid. He is most likely en route at this moment.”
“I don’t know, John,” Mr. Watkins interjected. “Every town along the river will be impacted, including Lows Hollow. He may be busy with injuries there.”
“Nonsense,” Snead countered, jutting out a stubborn chin. “Echo Ridge was nearest the jam and will be hardest hit. With so many of the county leaders living here, we will be a priority.”
His wife knelt over their limp child. “Please, John . . .”
“Charmaine, do you really want Emily lying among the colored? She deserves better. Fate will deliver her entitlement.”
I bristled at the venom dripping in his words, but I was too busy for it to matter. When their daughter succumbed to her injuries the following afternoon, I wondered if her death was the
entitlement
they expected. Sadly, it was what fate was forced to deliver on them because of their stubborn refusal of the nondiscriminating help offered them. What a horrifying price to pay for one’s ignorance. God rest the innocent soul of the child.
Eight days passed with me at Colt’s side, helping him in any way possible. I boiled water, redressed wounds, and dispersed the food rations salvaged from the area of town unharmed by the crested river. Soon supplies trickled in from the surrounding plantations, including a wagonload brought by Winston. Every landowner in the county spared small groups of slaves to aid in the recovery. Although the spring fields were in full labor, they knew their investments depended on the resilience of the town. The dead were buried, the debris stacked and burned. Each day was marked by the sound of hammer and saw busy reinforcing, rebuilding, rebirthing a town nearly lost. On the evening of the twelfth day, Dr. Waverly arrived on horseback.
“Colt, my boy, you look exhausted,” he said, dismounting his horse to shake Colt’s hand. “You appear overburdened as well, Miss Blessing.”
I motioned to the battered people stretched on blankets strewn on the porch of the schoolhouse, many with children, parents, or spouses in vigil at their side. “The sorrow and strain of the town is worn on every face here, sir.”
“Two of my colleagues will arrive tomorrow with a wagon of medical supplies. I apologize for the delay, but we were hit downriver as well, though not to the extent I see here.” Dr. Waverly hovered over a few of the fallen, checking bandages and examining swollen limbs. “Colt, you have done an exceptional job stabilizing and treating these wounds.”
“I am saddened to say we lost many as well, Doctor,” Colt said with distraught resignation.
He patted Colt on the back sympathetically. “It’s part of the profession, my boy. You never completely callus over those feelings. Learn to take comfort in knowing an untold number of these folks would have perished had you not been here, possessing the knowledge and skill of a healing man. You have a calling, Colt. Don’t let it go to waste slopping hogs.”
Colt was moved by the doctor’s words. There seemed to be a pause of understanding passed between them. Colt’s curls hung long and limp after more than a week of steady toil. Whiskers shadowed his face, and his clothes were musty and stained, yet the aura of a man who had found his passion in life glowed from him.
“Now go home and rest,” Dr. Waverly declared as he turned us around and nudged us toward the stables. He held up a firm hand when Colt started to object.
“Colt, I need you sharp and refreshed. I can take care of things for now. Come back in a few days to give me a hand.”
From nowhere, James appeared with Colt’s horse saddled and ready to go. Colt mounted, then pulled me up behind him. I had never ridden in this fashion, yet it seemed natural to lean between Colt’s shoulders and wrap my arms around his waist. Colt and I both shed what was left of our youth during the flood of Echo Ridge. We rode home in silence, our minds full and bodies exhausted. The crescent moon accompanied us on the last leg of the journey, until finally the outline of Hillcrest took form in the distance. The sound of our horse must have preceded us, because Winston and Livie both stood in the yard as we rode up.
They rushed to me when Colt lowered me to the ground. He and I held on to each other’s hands long enough to convey the good-bye neither of us had the willingness to speak. Words could never fully express what we had experienced together. My fingertips traced every crease and corner of Colt’s gentle hand as we finally let go of each other. Then, with a swift kick of his spurs, Colt disappeared into the darkness.
I have no recollection of speaking or moving from where I stood, but when next I looked around, I was sitting at the table in the kitchen. Livie sat alongside me with her arm firmly over my shoulder and holding a cup of tea to my lips. Winston and Elijah shuffled through the back door, both of them hauling a full bucket of water in each hand. Esther Mae tossed a log on the fire beneath a large cauldron of steaming water.
“Do you want this water in de pot or dumped in de tub with de rest?”
“Throw it in de tub,” Esther Mae said, motioning toward the second floor where Winston had carried the wooden tub to my bedchamber. “Dat should jes’ about do it. Once we pour this pot o’ hot water in with de rest, de bath will be soothin’ to de touch.”
I sipped the warm tea offered by Livie while my bath was prepared. They talked around me as though I was not there, or perhaps my exhaustion made it impossible for me to absorb any conversation directed my way. Livie helped me to my chambers, where she peeled the stained clothes from my weary body. The looking glass on the far wall reflected an unrecognizable image of tangled hair and dusty cheeks moist with perspiration. Sinking into the tepid water, I released a few tears as layers of dirt and sorrow lifted off my skin. I went limp, wishing to never move again. Livie dipped a pail into the water and raised it over my head. I tilted my head back and let the warmth flow through my matted hair.
“Stop, Livie,” I said softly. “Do not serve me.”
She gently ran her soaped hands through my wet hair. “I am not serving you. I am being your friend.”
I closed my eyes and let her care for me. By the time she rinsed the soap from me, I was more alert and rejuvenated. I opened my eyes and saw the tired strain of worry paling her.
“James is well and working on the bridge,” I whispered in gratitude, happy to ease her burdens as well. “The crest of the river is low. He is not in any danger.”
Her hands left me and pressed to her forehead. “Thank you, sweet Jesus,” she said with a sigh of relief. “I wish I could see him.”
“There is talk of the bridge being temporarily secured as soon as tomorrow; then the slaves in town will be sent back to their plantations and replaced by a fresh group to clean up and repair the buildings left standing. For once, the sight of Twitch’s wagon returning home will be a welcome sight.” I reached up and touched her cheek. “You look tired, Liv.”
“We all been through a lot. Miz ’Gusta was rendered to bed fo’ most of the week. Esther Mae says her ribs is hurt bad. She been up and about fo’ a few days now, but only to come down and sit in her chair.”
“And to check on my niece.” Aunt Augusta’s voice came from the doorway. She looked small and bent as she crossed the room. Livie and I stared at her as she approached. Much to my surprise, she sat on the stool next to Livie, and then reached out to stroke my hair.
“I was concerned when Mooney said there was a fever outbreak near town.”
“Yes,” I said, unable to hide my astonishment. “Colt treated two pockets of fever along the marshes of the Moffett plantation to the south. He did not bring the stricken into Echo Ridge, which prevented it from spreading beyond the affected area. His decision proved wise, because there were no outbreaks in town.”
Noting my uncertainty beneath her touch, she withdrew her hand as she spoke. “Thankfully, the sun has been bright and no rain accompanied the flood. Wetter conditions would have made it ripe for a widespread epidemic.”
I nodded in agreement as Livie combed through my scrubbed hair. Aunt Augusta’s sincere interest was difficult to digest. Colt had a way of engaging her in deeply layered conversations; however, my interactions with her reduced me to one of three roles: obeying, explaining, or apologizing. There were never exchanges like this, where my thoughts and observations seemed of value to her. Perhaps seeing me react with purpose in this experience changed me in her eyes, or maybe watching her pulled from the river as helpless as a drenched kitten changed her in mine. Either way, something between us had shifted, and I am sure she recognized it as well. I grew drowsy and must have nodded off during my conversation with Aunt Augusta, because when the tug of Livie’s comb in my hair awakened me, I opened my eyes and Aunt Augusta was gone.
“She is proud of you,” Livie said, holding open a towel for me to step into. “Even if you don’t think so.”
“I am not thinking anything except how wonderful my soft, warm bed will feel beneath these weary bones.” I held my grateful hand against Livie’s cheek. “Thank you, my dear friend, for being here, providing strength and love when I most needed it.”
Livie touched my hand and smiled. “Guess we jes’ like doin’ fo’ each other.”
The next morning I was greeted by the gentle coo of a young dove nested in the tree outside my window. Although the hour was early, I was rested and happy to be home. Livie looked at peace on the trundle bed next to me. In the time we were apart, a distinct bump appeared across her waistline, the first outward sign of the baby growing inside her. It comforted me to awake and find her here. In the months since Livie’s wedding, I missed the intimacy she and I shared as inseparable friends, so I lay awhile longer and cherished the serenity of the moment.
Eventually Livie stirred, and we dressed and went downstairs. Livie headed for the kitchen to help with the morning preparations. Granny poked her head through the door to greet me with a broad smile.
“Sho’ is good to see ya, Miz Hannah. Not a day passed without us frettin’ and worryin’ over you.”
“Thank you, Granny. Being home and breathing in the luscious aroma of your griddle cakes is like stepping through the gates of heaven.”
“Go on, now,” she said, cackling as she headed back into the kitchen. “Set yo’self down and get ready fo’ Granny’s finest. Miz ’Gusta is already started.” Even Esther Mae, who usually maintained a reserved demeanor, grinned over Granny’s shoulder.
No sooner had I joined Aunt Augusta than voices were heard in the front hallway. Livie greeted Colt at the front door and directed him to the dining room. We paused when we first caught sight of one another and exchanged poignant smiles. Clean, rested, and draped in fresh clothing, we were reborn from the wretched pair that rode in from town the previous night, although sleep and fineries would never redress the horror harboring in our memory.
“I came to check on all of you to be certain you are well before I return to town.”
“We are thankful we were spared from a worse fate.” Aunt Augusta winced as she gingerly shifted in her chair. “Bones and bruises will mend. Mabelle is staying in the root cellar with Granny. Her injuries are the most severe. She has been slow in coming out of her disoriented state.”
“I will go down and have a look at her before I leave,” Colt said, coming to kneel at my side. “I saw Livetta at the door. She appears strong and unaffected. Still, I would advise you to keep her settled and rested for several weeks. How are you?”