The Seeker (44 page)
When they had the wagons loaded, Sister Altha looked at Charlotte with a bit of challenge in her eyes. “We have been told there is also need for some to help nurse the wounded. Since you seem to want to keep one foot in the world, Sister Charlotte, and not make a full commitment to our way, I thought you might suit that duty better than a fully committed sister who would surely shudder at the thought of going into the world.”
“I will go.” Charlotte didn’t refute Sister Altha’s words. There was nothing to refute, for what she said was true.
Some noise pulled Adam back to consciousness. He lay on a narrow cot in a room surrounded by moaning men on other cots. Just like Jake. Except here the heat gathered and pressed down on Adam until it was hard to keep breathing in and out. As he had done every time he regained consciousness since he first awoke in this oven of misery, he shut his eyes and then lifted up his wounded arm where he could see the bandage covering it.
Please, God.
The words ran through his mind before he forced open his eyes to see if his hand was still there. A rush of relief swept through him when he saw the bandage had not been shortened while he slept his fevered sleep.
He didn’t know how he ended up on the cot in the dim church building surrounded by wounded Confederate soldiers. He knew it was a church because he could see the altar at the front of the room. He remembered going down into the field of battle to help the reckless young reporter. He remembered that the man was still alive when he left him at the house the army surgeons had commandeered. He remembered riding away from there. He remembered how he could think of nothing but Harmony Hill so near. They had a doctor. They had medicine. They had Charlotte.
He remembered turning his horse’s head that way, but he remembered nothing else until he woke up on this cot and little since except looking at his arm each time he woke to be sure his hand was still there. He’d seen enough wounded soldiers with empty shirtsleeves and pant legs to know that often as not a raging fever was reason enough for the doctors to get out their knives and saws. But he could not lose his hand. Not his right hand. His drawing hand. It would be more merciful for the doctors to cut out his heart.
If only he’d made it to Harmony Hill. Then at least if the fever conquered him as it had Jake, perhaps before that happened he would have seen Charlotte. Her touch would have been on his brow, her voice in his ear, and her beauty in his eyes before death took him.
Plus he was confident the Shakers wouldn’t amputate his arm. They believed a man should use his hands to work for God. He did not think they would rob him of that ability. But the surgeons who moved between the cots here to check on the wounded were different. They might cut first and ask questions later.
So far they had left him alone except for a few draughts of a vile-tasting medicine that did nothing. But then he was still breathing. He did still have his hand. And the fever came and went. He just needed to get strong enough to get off the cot and walk away from this sick room.
He tried to lift his head up off the pillow, but everything started spinning. He felt so odd that he wondered if he was actually awake. Perhaps he was in a feverish dream. Perhaps he was already dead and it was his eternal punishment to forever dread the loss of his hand.
Please, God.
He couldn’t seem to pray further than that, even though the Lord would surely expect more words of pleading from someone who had ignored him for so many years. Was it even right to try to jump back into the Lord’s camp simply because he needed help so desperately? All the men around Adam needed help every bit as much. And all those who had died. What made him think the Lord would favor him more than them? He had no right to pray, but yet the words welled up inside his mind again.
Please, God.
His grandfather would say he was getting no less than he deserved. He’d tell Adam that a man couldn’t step away from God and then expect mercy just for the asking. Just by saying “please, God.” Surely he would have to earn it with righteous living the way his grandfather had.
The old man had given Adam a curt nod when they’d come face-to-face after Jake’s funeral. When Adam asked if he’d seen his illustrations of the war in
Harper’s Weekly
, his grandfather’s eyebrows had almost met over his eyes in a frown as he fondled the round knob top of his cane. He refused to acknowledge Adam’s success as an artist. Instead he said, “But what have you done as a man? All I can see is that you’ve brought your brother home a corpse.”
Adam had brushed off the question then as the sour words of an old man who had never liked him. But now lying there on the cot soaked with his own sweat the question came back to poke at him. What had he done as a man? Why should the Lord listen when he sent up his plea for mercy? The Lord gave him his hand. The Lord gave him his talent. He could take it away.
Please, God.
A man somewhere in the room cried out in pain. Adam wondered if he had cried out when he was unconscious with no control of his mouth. The pain was like a live thing devouring him. He thought about how he might draw it. A monster from the deep with pointed teeth and long sharp talons on a dozen arms clawing at Adam. But he could bear the pain. He could overcome the pain. As long as he could stay awake and keep the surgeon’s knife from his arm.
The man continued to scream and Adam raised his head enough to see the doctor and a nurse standing over him. He wondered if the man was screaming because of what they were doing to him. Adam let his head fall back down on the sodden pillow while the man in the bed next to him began to loudly recite the twenty-third Psalm.
“The Lord is my Shepherd,” the man said.
Adam could have said the Psalm with him, but he didn’t. Instead he tried to remember other Scripture just to shut out the man’s screams. He thought about the stories of healings, of the blind man, of the lepers, of the demon-possessed man in the tombs. And then the story of the Prodigal Son popped into his mind. He had not earned his father’s forgiveness with righteous living. He had lived riotously instead. And yet the father had welcomed the contrite son home with joy.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil: for thou art with me.” The man beside him repeated that line three times until his voice lost its tremble and grew stronger as he continued. “Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”
Please, God, forgive me.
“Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.”
As Adam listened to the man, a peaceful feeling came over him. It didn’t take away the pain or even the fear of losing his hand, but it was there like bedrock under a flooding stream. It would not be washed away. It did not have to be earned. It was just there. His because the Lord heard his prayer.
Please, God.
As the man went on with the last of the Psalm, Adam whispered the words with him. “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.”
When next he woke, he had no idea how much time had passed. He shut his eyes and raised his hand up. This time it didn’t take quite as much courage to open his eyes. His hand was there. But so was the pain and the fever. He wanted to beg someone for a drink of water, but his mouth was too dry to form the words. All he could do was grunt.
When she leaned over him, he was sure he was hallucinating. The nurse wore a white Shaker cap and collar. And Charlotte’s face. His mind was imagining her face there on the nurse even as he had drawn it in a hundred sketches. Her beautiful green eyes now brimming with tears. The scattering of freckles across her nose. Her soft and inviting lips. He wanted to reach up and touch her, but he feared that would make the image fade and the nurse would turn back into the same older woman with the bulbous nose who had poured the noxious medicine down his throat the last time he awoke.
“Adam.”
Even after she spoke his name, he still thought she was only a vision drawn from his desire. It wasn’t until her teardrops fell upon his hot cheeks that he realized she was really there looking down at him, bathing his forehead with a damp cloth.
“Adam, can you hear me?”
He reached up with his uninjured hand and touched the tears on her cheeks and then traced his own lips with his dampened fingers. His tongue tasted their salt. “Charlotte,” he managed to whisper. “Not much of a garden here.”
“A garden needs sunshine and rain.” She smiled through her tears, then she lifted his head and held a cup of water to his lips. “And a loving hand to plant the seeds when spring comes again.”
“My hand,” he whispered as panic at the thought of losing his hand grabbed him once more. He clutched her arm with his left hand and held up his injured arm. He moistened his lips as best he could with his tongue. “Don’t let them cut off my hand. Even if they tell you I’ll die, don’t let them.”
Her eyes widened at the fierceness of his words. “But they might not listen to me.”
He tightened his hold on her arm. “You are Charlotte Vance, the senator’s daughter, the owner of Grayson. You make things happen.”
“But I have no right to speak for you.”
The darkness was creeping back, making everything disappear but her beautiful face. He clung to the edge of consciousness long enough to push out the words. “You have every right. You own my heart. Promise me.”
He could see her eyes on him as he began to slip down into the tunnel of darkness. Her words followed him. “I promise.”
I am Charlotte Mayda Vance
, she repeated silently in her head as his fingers relaxed their grip on her arm and he slipped away from her into unconsciousness.
Charlotte Mayda Vance. Daughter of Charles Vance. Granddaughter of Richard Grayson. The owner of Adam Wade’s heart.
But could she keep his heart beating? He was burning with fever. Perhaps the wound was septic. Perhaps the only way to save him was to take his hand. Why had she promised? A binding promise the same as the one she had made young Landon. Dulcie was right. She did think she could fix everything when she couldn’t even fix herself.
There was only One who could fix everything. She knelt by Adam’s bed and kept her hand over his heart. “Dear Lord, I will do whatever you want if you will help Adam. Whatever I must.”
She didn’t realize she’d prayed the words aloud until the man in the next bed spoke. “Ain’t no use trying to bargain with the good Lord, miss. He done owns it all, you know.”
Charlotte turned to look at the man. He had a bandage around his head and his chest. “Are you a preacher?” she asked.
“The men in my company think so, but I never called myself such. But my sainted mother taught me the Scriptures, and believe me, knowing the Word has been a powerful comfort these last few months.”
Adam groaned and Charlotte turned her eyes back to his face. She didn’t look back at the other man even as she asked, “What should I do?”
“Be not afraid, only believe.”
“Is that Scripture?”
“The Lord’s very words. Ain’t no reason in the world not to trust them. Just say your prayers and get still in your heart and you’ll know what to do.”
“But what if he dies?” Charlotte whispered the words.
“Been a lot of dying going on and some more in here will be going to meet their Maker afore the day dawns tomorrow. A trip all of us has to make come our time.” The man’s voice softened. “But you just do your praying. I’m thinking it may not be his time.”
Charlotte glanced over at the man with gratitude. “Is there something I can get you?”
“A new ear would be nice.” The man attempted a smile as he touched the bandage around his head. “But failing that, a drink of water would be good, and then maybe later between your prayers for your sweetheart there, if you could find me some paper to write to my sainted mother in Alabama, we’d both be much obliged, I’m sure.”
Her prayers were ongoing. Even as she walked among the other men, helping them take a drink, turning their pillows, spooning broth into their mouths, her prayers never left Adam. When the doctor came to stand over Adam, she was there by his bedside. She helped unwrap his bandages without quaking. She stared at the wound and felt a turning sickness in the pit of her stomach, but she didn’t look away. She couldn’t turn her eyes away.
“We may have to amputate,” the doctor muttered more to himself than to any ears listening.
“Nay,” Charlotte said. She shook away the Shaker word. She couldn’t be Sister Charlotte who bent her head and practiced obedience. She was Charlotte Mayda Vance. The owner of Adam Wade’s heart and she had made him a promise. She cleared her throat and pushed strength into her voice. “No. You can’t cut off his hand.”
The doctor looked up at her with some surprise and more than a little irritation. “Miss, I suggest you leave the medical decisions up to me. While it is certainly tragic for a man to lose one of his extremities, it is my duty to keep the men here in my care alive.” He wore gray Confederate trousers under a surgeon’s wrap that showed the evidence of many wounds treated.
“You can’t amputate his arm. He instructed me to tell you that.” Charlotte looked down at Adam’s face in the dim light. What if he couldn’t fight off the fever? Nevertheless, she kept her voice firm and sure. She had promised and she had prayed. “I know him. He’s Adam Wade, an artist for
Harper’s Weekly
.”
That seemed to give the doctor pause. “Hmm,” he said as he turned his eyes back to Adam. “Adam Wade. I’ve seen his illustrations.”
“You have to give his arm a chance to heal.”
“Or to kill him,” the doctor said so grimly that it almost wiped away his Southern drawl.
“There are many ways to die,” Charlotte whispered.
“And this way won’t be a good one.” The doctor’s frown grew fiercer as he shifted Adam’s arm a bit to better study the wound. He was silent a moment before he gave in. “But I suppose we could wait a few more hours if you’re sure he would want to take that chance.”