* * *
Willard Smith waited a full half an hour after the men had gone before he decided it was safe to move. And then he moved only with great reluctance. He was terrified that some of the mob had gone into hiding and that the silence was merely a trap to draw out any survivors. But, on the other hand, he felt driven to find his family. The sun had gone down now, and knowing that it would soon be dark was enough to frighten him even more deeply than the thoughts of a possible trap.
From his vantage point behind the tree, he had watched the mob wreak their final havoc on the village. The shooting had finally stopped, but then, whooping and wailing as if the very legions of hell itself had been unleashed, the men fell upon the now deserted dwellings. It was a race among thieves to see who could loot the most spoils, then vandalize what was left. In a frenzy, they ran from one cabin to another. Men snapped and snarled at each other like dogs fighting over a dead hare. Furniture was thrown out and smashed. Tents ripped to shreds. Wagons tipped over. Horses stolen. Cattle, hogs, chickens driven off or shot.
Willard stood slowly now, hugging himself against the chill that was settling in the air. Slowly, tentatively, head darting back and forth, eyes jumping nervously at every shadow, he made his way across the board that bridged the creek at the millrace. He averted his eyes as he walked past the cabin of Father McBride, not daring to look at the still form that lay on the porch. Somewhere off behind him, a dog was howling. Some of the cows that had been driven off had made their way back to the creek. Smelling the blood, they were lowing with long, mournful cries. But the village itself was so quiet it frightened him.
Not knowing where his mother was, knowing only that he had last seen his father and brothers going inside the blacksmith shop, Willard Smith made his way slowly toward the heavy log shed that was now so dark and silent.
* * *
Jessica’s first awareness was that the sky was still light. Then the fiery ache in her left hand intruded, and the remembrance all came flooding back in an instant. Going rigid, she listened intently, not daring to raise her head. And then she realized that the mob sounds were gone. There were no gunshots, no shouting, no pounding of horse’s hooves. She could hear a dog howling plaintively, and the mooing of some cows.
Carefully she reached up with her right hand, got a grip on the log, and pulled herself up enough to peek over the decaying wood that had served as her shield. She nearly fell back. Lights danced before her eyes, and the landscape began to weave. But she steadied herself, taking deep breaths, letting her head clear, and then with a groan, she went up into a full sitting position.
A movement caught her eye. A man— She peered more closely. No, it was a boy, and he was making his way slowly away from her, moving along the front of the row of cabins. She felt a quick jab of relief. The fact that he moved unimpeded was the best proof that their attackers had gone. And with that relief came the pounding anxieties. Where was her baby? Had Amanda made it to safety? And what about John? She stumbled to her feet, looking around. The last she had seen Amanda she was running toward the nearest cornfield. It was about thirty yards away.
Moving carefully now, constantly looking over her shoulder to make sure there was no one still around, she walked through the brush and to the cornfield. Then keeping her voice in a low, urgent whisper, she began to make her way slowly along the edge of the stalks of corn. “Amanda! Amanda! It’s me. It’s Jessica.”
* * *
Jessica Griffith and Amanda Smith walked with heavy step. There had been another girl, a sixteen-year-old, hiding with Amanda. She was afraid to go back into the village this soon, and so Jessica had left the baby—finally so exhausted that he was sleeping in her arms—with the girl. Amanda also left her two girls behind. They were in a state of half shock themselves, and their mother knew they were not up to going back into the village yet.
The village green was a shambles—broken furniture; ripped bedding; clothes scattered every which way; bags of flour ripped open, leaving gaping trails of white. It looked like a tornado had struck the site. But that was not the most frightening thing. Twice Amanda and Jessica averted their eyes so they wouldn’t have to see the bodies that were lying on the ground or sprawled across porches and steps. Just inside the open door of one cabin they could see a man covered with blood, lying on the floor, being cared for by his sobbing wife.
Amanda and Jessica moved on woodenly. They had last seen their men running for the blacksmith shop, and to the blacksmith shop they were going. But with each step the dread settled in more heavily upon them.
Suddenly Amanda’s hand shot out and grabbed Jessica’s arm. “There’s Willard!”
Jessica stared. Coming around the corner of the log structure that belonged to the blacksmith, Willard Smith was staggering toward them. In his arms he carried the body of a smaller boy.
“Alma?” Amanda whispered. Then she was running, hair bouncing wildly on her shoulders, skirts flying. “They’ve killed my Alma!” she screamed.
Jessica followed immediately, running hard after Amanda.
“They’ve killed him!” Amanda cried as she slid to a stop in front of Willard and snatched her boy from the arms of her eldest son.
“No, Mama,” Willard said. “He’s alive.”
Two wet streaks had drawn lines through the dirt and dust on Willard’s cheeks, but he spoke calmly, and his voice had a curious detachment to it. As Jessica pulled up beside Amanda, she realized that this was a boy deep in shock. And then her hand flew to her mouth and she gasped. At the spot where Alma’s hip should have been, the trouser fabric had been cleanly shorn away. All that was left of the spot where the hip had once been was a mass of mangled, bloody flesh. A section about the size of a small cantaloupe had been blasted from the boy’s leg. Two jagged pieces of bone showed white against the redness.
With a sickening lurch, Jessica realized what had happened. As the men had fired into the blacksmith shop, one ball had hit Alma and blown the entire hip socket away. “Amanda!” she cried. “He’s been shot!”
Amanda was staring at the wound now, but shock had hit her too. “Warren. I’ve got to find Warren,” she mumbled. She started forward, haltingly.
Willard leaped in front of her, holding out his hands. “No, Mama. Papa and Sardius are dead. Don’t go in there. Please.”
Amanda stopped, staring with blank eyes past her son at the would-be fortress.
But Willard’s words brought Jessica back to reality. She reached out and took the boy gently by the shoulders, wincing as pain shot through her left hand. “Brother Griffith?” she asked softly. “Did you see my husband, Willard?”
The boy nodded gravely. “He’s dead. They’re all dead! All of them. Please don’t go in there.”
For one blinding moment, Jessica nearly dropped to her knees. Her eyes were burning. A numbness swept through her body with such swiftness that she felt faint. And then she straightened. Earlier in this day a man had burst into her cabin with a rifle. She had been terrified, but she had fought it down and stopped the man. Now she did the same with the smashing waves of grief. The awful realities of their situation hit her just as hard. The majority of the men were dead. The village was helpless. There were still spoils to be taken. The mob had gone, but they might return.
With a terrible clarity driving her now, she reached out with her good hand and grabbed Amanda’s elbow. “Alma is bleeding badly,” she said firmly. “We’ve got to help him or he will die.”
Slowly Amanda turned. She looked at Jessica, then down at her wounded son. Then she looked at Willard. “Are you sure they’re dead?” she whispered.
One stifled sob shook the small boyish shoulders momentarily, then he nodded gravely. “I saw them, Mama.”
Amanda turned to Jessica and nodded. “We must help Alma,” she said.
* * *
Miraculously the Smith tent that had been pitched behind Jessica’s cabin was still standing, though the main pole canted crazily to the left. Jessica had taken one step inside her cabin and immediately backed out again. It was a total shambles. The mattresses had been gutted and the feathers thrown everywhere. The table was overturned, chairs were smashed, broken pieces of crockery covered the floor. Her first thought had been of the man she had struck, but either he had recovered or his companions had found him and dragged him away. If he came back and found her . . . A little shiver ran up her spine.
So they carried Alma out back to the Smiths’ tent. Here too the men had done their work. Their luggage had been kicked open and clothes strewn about. The Smiths had taken a thin, straw-filled mattress from the wagon box and put it in the tent for the boys to sleep on. Someone looking for hidden valuables had ripped the ticking from top to bottom, scattering the straw.
Jessica quickly dropped to her knees, smoothing out the straw with her good hand. “Willard, quickly, get me some of the clothing.” The boy leaped to do her bidding. In a moment, Jessica had fashioned a rough bed. Amanda slowly went to her knees and laid Alma upon it. As he moaned with pain and began to twist and turn, Amanda went down on all fours, raking away the litter that surrounded them. A small box of sewing stuff had been turned upside down and the contents dumped out. She pawed through the pile, then turned, holding up a pair of scissors.
Moving carefully, telling Jessica and Willard to hold Alma’s leg still, Alma’s mother cut away the trouser leg from the wound. Alma jerked and his eyes flew open. For a moment he looked around wildly; then he saw his mother, and his movement stilled.
Amanda reached out and laid her hand on his cheek. “It’s all right, son. We’ve got you. You’re safe.”
His face was laced with pain, but Jessica could see the comprehension and instant relief come into his eyes. “I hurt, Mama.”
“I know, son. We’re going to fix it.”
He turned and found his brother’s face. That jogged his memory. He looked back to his mother. “They shot Papa, Mama. And Sardius.”
Amanda’s eyes were shining. “I know, Alma.”
“I pretended I was dead. A man grabbed me by the feet and dragged me across the ground. I wanted to scream, it hurt so bad. But I didn’t. I kept my eyes closed and pretended I was dead.”
“And that’s why you’re alive now, son.” She reached down and took his hand. “They shot away your hip, Alma.” She bit her lip, then forced a wan smile. “Do you believe Heavenly Father can make you another hip?”
The brown eyes were large and frightened. “Do you think he can, Mama?”
She nodded. “Yes, I think Heavenly Father can do that if he wants to.”
The eyes closed, and the small mouth tightened with determination. “Then I think he can too, Mama.”
Amanda looked at Jessica, then up at her oldest son. “Willard, come closer. We are going to pray.”
In a moment, they were kneeling in the straw around Alma’s makeshift bed. Amanda bowed her head, and Jessica and Willard followed suit.
“Dear Heavenly Father,” she began in a husky voice, “we kneel here around the bed of our son and brother, little Alma. And Father we supplicate thee for faith and guidance. This is a wonderful boy thou hast sent to our family, and we are grateful for his sweet and wonderful spirit. We dedicate his life to thee for thy service.”
She took a breath. “We ask thee, O Father, that Alma be restored again and that he be made well and strong. We know thou canst do this if it be thy will. And if not—” Her voice caught and she had to swallow. Jessica felt the tears spill over her own eyelids and trickle down her cheeks.
“If this is not possible, then wilt thou take him in his innocence. Take him home to thee and keep him safe in thy care until we can see him again. We ask this of thee, in the name of our Savior, amen.”
She rocked back on her heels, brushing at her cheeks with the back of her hand. Alma’s eyes had closed now, and he was breathing deeply. Jessica started to get up, but suddenly the look on Amanda’s face stopped her. Her friend was staring past her, her head partially cocked to one side, as if she were listening to something.
“What is it, Amanda?”
But Amanda waved her to silence. Then after a moment, she turned and reached out and grabbed Willard’s hand. “Willard, you must do exactly as I say. Swiftly. Willard, get the ashes from the fireplace. I’ll also need some water and a pan.”
Jessica was up in an instant. “There’s a pan in the house. I’ll get the water.”
“Pour the water over the ashes and into the pan. I need a mild lye solution. Then bring it to me.”
In a few minutes they were back, crowding into the tent. In their absence, Amanda had torn a shirt into long strips. The moment Jessica set the pan of dark water down, Amanda dipped the first rag in the solution and began to cleanse Alma’s wound. Jessica immediately took another strip of cloth and followed suit, taking turns with Amanda. It was a ghastly task, mopping out the pieces of bone and flesh. As they talked, Willard added to their horror as he quietly told them of his experiences in escaping the hands of the mob. But as they continued to work, to Jessica’s amazement the bleeding stopped. The flesh began to bleach until it was as white as a chicken’s breast.
Amanda tossed aside the rag she was holding and looked down at her son. Mercifully, he had fallen into unconsciousness again and was oblivious to their ministrations. She bowed her head for a moment, her eyes closed, then again the strange look crossed her face. Jessica watched her closely. After a moment, Amanda straightened. “Willard?”
“Yes, Mama?”
“I need some roots from the slippery elm tree to make a poultice. Do you know where there is some slippery elm?”
Willard seemed surprised by the question, but he was nodding almost immediately. “Yes, Mama. There’s some down by the creek where it goes into the millpond.”
“Good. Get a shovel, Willard. Go down and dig me some of those roots.”
Willard stiffened. His head shot around and looked out the opening of the tent. By now it was full dark, and the thoughts of going out into the night clearly frightened him deeply.