The Sword (38 page)

S
ometime during the night, Clay struggled out of the black pit of unconsciousness that held him prisoner. There was a window across from him that revealed the moon and stars as they shone brightly, peacefully in the night sky, and he stared at it blankly for a while. His mind slowly and reluctantly swam to the surface.

The room was quiet save for the moanings and mutterings of his fellow patients. He glanced to his right, and there, far down the room, a medic sat at a desk reading a book by the pale yellow light of a lantern.

As he lay there, his mind in that place where it was not yet awake and yet not fully asleep, Clay became slowly aware that something was growing in his mind. It was like a tiny light from somewhere far down a dark road, so dim that it could barely be seen. It grew larger and brighter, and it was not, Clay knew, a physical light, not a real light at all, only something deep within him. But his spirit seemed to glow—there was no other way he could think of it.

As the sensation grew, he relaxed and let his body grow limp. He had kept himself so tense waiting for the next jolt of pain in his arm that every muscle in his body ached sharply. But now a sense of quietness, almost of ease, came to him. His eyelids became
heavy, so heavy he could not keep them open, and he slept again.

When he stirred again, and his mind once more started its torturous way to full consciousness, he saw through the window that the dim gray light of morning shone through. With a start, he awakened fully and looked down at his side. His right arm was still there; the doctors had obeyed Jeb Stuart’s order. He lay back on his pillow with weak relief.

“How do you feel, Clay?”

Chantel was sitting by his bed. He wondered if she had been sitting there long.

“Hello, Chantel,” he murmured. “I—I got shot.”

“Yes, I know. Are you thirsty?”

Clay felt a raging thirst. He licked his dry lips and nodded, and she picked up a pitcher on the table beside his bed, half-filled a tumbler, then reached under his head and held it up. The water was sweeter than any drink that Clay had ever had, and when he had drained the glass, she put his head back on the pillow, and he said, “That was good. Thank you, Chantel.”

Chantel replaced the glass and turned to look at him, her face grim. “Clay, I’ve got to talk to you, and you must listen to me.”

“What is it?”

“The doctors say that your arm has to be taken. There’s no other way.”

“No.” The word leaped to Clay’s lips even before she had finished talking.

“But Clay, they say you may die if you don’t. They think they see the gangrene started.”

“I’d rather die than be a cripple. I know that’s foolish, Chantel, but it’s the way I feel.”

He saw that her face was fixed in an expression of sadness, and he said, “Don’t worry about me. I’m not going to die, Chantel. But even if I do, I’m going to die a whole man.”

“But you may die, Clay,” she pleaded. “You will leave behind so much—your family, your friends. You will leave Grandpere—and … you will leave me.”

He stared at her, for Chantel had never expressed any endearments to him, had never shown him anything but common courtesy and politeness. His affection for her had grown much, though he worked hard to deny it, for he had always thought it was hopeless, that he had ruined any chance he might have had with her that night he had so clumsily tried to kiss her. Now she was watching him, her eyes great and dark, and suddenly he could see that she had feelings for him. But his face closed, and he said, “Chantel, I won’t let them cut off my arm. You have to understand. I don’t want to live like that. I won’t live like that.”

Chantel pleaded with him. “Many men have lost an arm, a leg, their sight, and they are still good men and happy men. That is not something an arm or an eye makes, Clay. You are a strong, handsome man, and you can be happy, even with one arm.”

But Clay merely lay there, his lips drawn tightly together, until she finished. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” He closed his eyes and drifted back into sleep.

Chantel continued her silent vigil, now with a sense of hopelessness. For she had seen that Clay Tremayne would never change his mind.

She went back to the wagon and asked Jacob to talk to Clay, and Jacob agreed at once. She went to the hospital with him but left the two men alone. She talked to others down the line but kept her eye on Clay and Jacob.

She got to one young man, and he said, “You want to get this letter off for me, Miss Chantel?”

“Of course I will, Leonard.”

He handed her the envelope and then said, “Maybe you better look over it to see if I spelled everything right.” She read the letter quickly and was amused, for it said:

“Are you sure you want to say this?”

“I purely do. I hate that Hardy Swayne. He’s a dead man if he don’t leave my sister alone.”

Chantel struggled to find something to say. Finally she offered, “Maybe your sister loves him.”

“Ain’t no sister of mine going to marry up with a no-account skunk like him. She can just find some other man to love.”

“But Leonard, a woman can’t just switch off love,” she said with a passion that surprised her.

“Why can’t she?”

“Well, when we love somebody, we can’t just stop loving him even if he’s not what he should be. What if our mothers, our fathers, stopped loving us when we do wicked things? What if God stopped loving us then?”

Leonard shook his head and said firmly, “God never told nobody to be stupid! Ain’t any woman who marries up with Hardy Swayne gonna have a good life. He’ll drink and steal and lie and beat her, and she’ll have to raise her kids by herself. It’s only a stupid woman would ask for that kind of life. Now, ain’t that so, Miss Chantel?”

Painfully Chantel thought of her stepfather and wondered for the thousandth time how her mother ever could have married such a man. Resignedly she finally answered, “I—I can’t answer that, me. But if you’re sure, I’ll mail the letter.”

“Thank you kindly, Miss Chantel.”

Leaving Leonard’s bed, Chantel went to visit another young man. She had become very fond of him. His name was Tommy Grangerford, and he was the same age that she was, eighteen years
old. He was terribly wounded, a chest wound that very few ever survived. She forced herself to smile brightly. “Hello, Tommy. How are you feeling?”

“Oh, I can’t complain.”

“You never do.”

“Do you have time to sit down and talk to me, Miss Chantel?” he asked hopefully. “I know you’re real busy and all, but I’ve been kind of lonesome.”

“I always have time for you, Tommy,” she said kindly.

She sat down and for twenty minutes talked to him. From time to time, the terrible pain that racked him would twist him almost into impossible positions, and she would dab the clammy perspiration from his face. Finally, in desperation she went to the medic and asked for more laudanum for him.

“Might not be a good thing, Miss Chantel,” the medic said reluctantly. “He’s had a lot of it already, and if you give a man too much, he can die.”

“He’s going to die anyway, he is,” Chantel said sadly.

The orderly gave in. “All right, ma’am. Here it is.”

She went back and gave Tommy a large dose of the strong drug, and soon he lay his head back on the pillow. His eyes fluttered, and he said softly, “I won’t be here long, Miss Chantel. But I’m tired, and I’m ready to go home. You know, in the Bible it says that man will go to his long home. That sounds so good, so restful. My long home …”

She waited until his breathing grew deep and even. From his bedside, she could see Clay’s bed and her grandfather talking earnestly to him.

After a while, she saw Jacob rise, motioning to her. She came down the ward and glanced at Clay, who was asleep. They left quietly.

When they got outside, Chantel asked anxiously, “What did he say, Grandpere?”

“The same thing he said to you, I’m afraid, daughter. He’s got his mind made up that he will not lose that arm. I talked to
him, because I know the doctors say he’s going to die if they don’t amputate, and asked him if he didn’t know he must come to the Lord and ask Him for salvation. But,” he continued with a sigh, “Clay Tremayne is a stubborn man. He says it would be a cowardly thing to come to God now that he’s helpless. I can’t make him realize that we’re all helpless.”

Chantel dropped her head wearily. “Then he is lost.”

Jacob patted her arm. “We don’t know that, daughter. The good God has His own plan for Clay Tremayne, just as He does for me and for you. We will wait upon God, and we will pray, and we will see.”

Two days later, Chantel sat with Tommy Grangerford, for she knew he was dying. It was late, and there was no one with him but Chantel. All of the other patients slept.

They had been talking quietly, and sometimes Tommy drifted off. But once he roused, and his voice, which had been thin and weak and thready, grew stronger. “I never told you how I got saved, did I, Miss Chantel?”

“No, you never have, Tommy.”

“Well, I heard a sermon, and it scared me. I was scared to death to face God with all my sins. The next day I was out in the field chopping cotton, and my ma and pa, they were down the row from me. My brothers and sisters were there, and I was doing my best just to think about chopping cotton. But somehow that didn’t happen. I knew all of a sudden that God was telling me something, and I couldn’t shut it out. I never heard any words, but God told me,
‘Tommy, this is your last chance. I died for you because I love you. You let Me come into your heart.
’ ”

Tommy shook his head and smiled. “I just couldn’t stand it, Miss Chantel. I knelt down right there in the dirt in the cotton field, and I cried out, ‘Oh God, I’m a sinner, but I know Jesus died for me. Forgive my sins, please, and come into my heart.’ ”