The Dixie Widow (22 page)

Davis felt as if he were in a dream. He had spent months hating Belle Wickham; now she was bending over him. He had an impulse to shout, to scream, calling her all the names that had run through his mind. He glanced at Thad. The agonized look on Thad’s face stemmed the vitriolic flood. He took a deep breath and nodded slightly.

“I’m glad to meet you, Miss Wickham,” he said weakly.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

BACK TO THE WORLD

Day arrived with piercing light and the noise of movements about Davis. Hands touched him, and sometimes when his leg was handled, great fiery shards of pain seemed to devour him. The light hurt his eyes, and he would try to slip back into the warm darkness—but the hands would not leave him alone. He grew angry, thrashing his head from side to side as they put food into his mouth, but they kept on relentlessly until he swallowed it. The hands were soothing, sometimes applying cool cloths to sponge his fever-hot body. This was the best part of his day.

The nights were long tunnels of blackness, a warm hiding place to slip into and be oblivious to everything until the light returned to disturb him. He dreamed often, but could not distinguish between the visions that fluttered through his mind and the times he knew he was lying on a real bed in a body that cried out with every movement.

One face appeared in both his dreams and his infrequent moments of consciousness. More than once a vision of a woman with dark hair and eyes like ebony pools would flicker through his mind—then he would open his eyes to find himself looking into that face. And he was always disturbed when he saw her, either in a dream or when conscious, her face so close he could see the tiny flecks of light in her dark eyes. During those times, he would stare at her, wondering why her face confused him. He wanted her to tell him something, but didn’t know what it was. Sometimes she spoke, urging
him to eat; other times she would sit silently beside him, and he would lie there studying her face until finally sleep would overtake him and he’d drift off into a dream of some time in the dim past—and she would be there, too.

One day he awoke—suddenly. One moment he was in the dark tunnel; the next, lying on a bed staring at a man and a woman who were standing beside him.

The man was tall and thin, and had a shock of snow-white hair and a pair of steady hazel eyes. “Well, now,” he said in a rumbling bass voice, “he’s decided to come back to the real world, Miss Belle.”

Davis glanced at the woman, and memory flooded back. He remembered some of the escape from Libby, and Thad warning him to be quiet, that he was here under the guise of a Confederate officer. What was the name? He couldn’t remember, but Belle furnished it.

“Well, Lieutenant Morgan, how do you feel?”

Davis licked his lips, considered the question, and replied, “Hungry.”

The doctor chuckled deep in his chest. “Well, he’s going to make it, I reckon.” He picked up a black bag from the bed. “Get some real food down him, keep the dressings changed.”

“Yes, Dr. Stevens.”

He started walking to the next patient, then swung back. “Lieutenant, you behave yourself! I’ve invested too much time and effort in you to lose you at this stage—and Miss Belle’s done more, so you mind her, you hear?”

The doctor turned to the patient on the next bed, and Belle said to Davis, “I’ll get you some solid food for lunch.”

He nodded. Davis lay studying his surroundings as the doctor and nurse moved from patient to patient. It was a long, narrow room with windows along one short wall. He could see the black, bare branches of large trees, dripping with the slow rain that fell slantwise. The other three walls were bare except for shelves over the beds, some of them holding lamps with blackened chimneys. Two rows of beds
stretched the length of the room—all occupied by patients in gray gowns. Some of them, he saw, were sitting up, but most were lying down.

“You finally woke up, didn’t you, sir?”

Davis turned his head to find a young soldier with yellow hair and blue eyes looking at him shyly. He had a thin face with a childlike countenance, and Davis said, “Guess so.” He remembered the name Thad had spoken. “I’m Owen Morgan.”

“Yes, sir. My name’s Lonnie Tate.”

“How long have I been here, Lonnie?”

“Why, it’s been nigh onto a week since you got here, Lieutenant.” He lifted a hand so thin Davis could see the blue veins like a lacy network on the back, and counted the days off on bony fingers. “That’s right, sir, this is Tuesday and it was last Tuesday they brought you in.”

Davis blinked his eyes. “Don’t remember much.” He looked down at his leg, which was not very swollen anymore. Moving it cautiously, he grimaced at the pain, though it was no longer as fierce. Carefully he rolled over on his side facing the boy, and asked, “You get hit bad, Lonnie?”

“Well, my arm’s all right now, just about—but my belly’s still not right.” He lifted the blanket and exposed a mass of bandages crusted with blood. He studied his abdomen, then shook his head. “Most fellers would have been dead already with a hit like I got—but Miz Belle, she jest wouldn’t give up on me.”

A shiver ran through Davis at the sight of the wound, and he was glad when the boy lowered the blanket. He knew Lonnie had spoken the truth—that intestinal wounds from the tearing action of mini;aae balls were usually fatal. The balls were conical lead slugs weighing over an ounce, and caused fearful damage—smashing long bones into fragments and ripping through the body with deadly effect.

“Where’s your home, Lonnie?” he asked.

“Jasper, Arkansas. Guess maybe you ain’t never heard of it?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Well, it’s in the mountains. We got us a farm there, some of it’s sort of hilly, but we got ‘bout forty-five acres of good bottom land. And Pa’s got his eye on a farm that jines ourn. Reckon he’ll buy it—and when I get home, I’m goin’ to get to farm it myself.”

“That sounds good.” Davis smiled at the boy’s excitement, and lay there as Lonnie outlined exactly how he would plant his crops and raise what he called his “critters” for meat. The monotone made Davis sleepy, and he was paying little heed to the boy until he cried out. Lonnie was clawing at his stomach, his face contorted in pain.

“Doctor!” Davis called, looking wildly toward the door. He continued to yell for help until Belle came running into the room. She saw the boy’s distress and rushed over to pull his hands away from his abdomen.

“Let me be!” he screamed. “It itches!”

But she restrained his hands with all her strength. “Don’t fight, Lonnie!” She looked up and saw an orderly entering the ward. “Elmer,” she called, “come hold his hands.” When the man had a firm grasp on Lonnie, Belle reached up to the shelf over the boy’s bed, poured some cloudy liquid into a glass from a brown bottle, and forced it between his jaws. “Don’t let him go,” she whispered in prayer, her hands trembling as she worked.

Finally the orderly said, “It’s taking hold now, Miz Wick-ham. You want me to stay with him?”

“No, Elmer. You go on with your work. I’ll change his bandages while he’s asleep.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Elmer Gibbs was in his sixties, a small, kind-looking man. He studied the boy’s twisted face, saying quietly, “Poor boy!” Then he left the room, and Belle pulled a chair to the bedside and sat down.

She was very pale, Davis saw, and her upper lip beaded
with perspiration. When Tate lay still, she rose and went to a cabinet beside the door, returning with bandages and a basin of water. She removed the soiled dressing and washed the wound. As she worked, Davis noted that the flesh was pulled away from the raw lips of the wound, exposing the intestines. Finally she applied some medication and put on fresh bandages.

Putting the blanket back over the boy’s slight form, she leaned back and closed her eyes. As she sat there, Davis studied her, and memories of Lowell swept over him. He had been admiring her skill—and her willingness to face a raw wound—but now he thought of how she had brought about the death of his brother, and the hatred that had been dormant during his sickness revived.

He rolled over on his back, closed his eyes, and didn’t look up as he heard her walk away. For a long time he lay there, thinking of Lowell, and the anger and bitterness grew. He tried to think of something else, but he could not quell the rage that rose when he thought of Belle Wickham.

Finally he napped, and was wakened by Gibbs, who fed him some boiled chicken and a bowl of peas, which he ate hungrily, then fell into a deep sleep. He was awakened later by another orderly, and saw that it was dark outside. “Got some supper for you, Lieutenant,” the man said, and Davis roused himself to eat more chicken and drink some buttermilk. “What time is it?” he asked.

“Six-thirty.” The bushy-browed orderly with a droopy mustache answered. “You want some more? Miz Wickham says to give you all you want.”

“No, thanks. That’s plenty.”

The orderly left and Davis looked up to see a man with one arm missing regarding him curiously from the bed directly across the room. “Howdy, Lieutenant,” he said. “I’m Coy Willing—Third Mississippi.”

Davis nodded and gave his name, and the lanky Willing said, “You sure gave everybody a time around here, Lieutenant
Morgan. We all thought you must be a general at least, the way Miz Wickham had everybody hopping. You must be real important.”

“No, not very,” Davis replied. He moved his leg, and pain shot through him, catching him off guard. He groaned, and lay back until it passed.

“Leg still bothering you, ain’t it, sir?” Willing nodded. “Dr. Stevens wanted to take it off. You know that?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Wal, he did. Him and Miz Belle got into an orful fuss ‘bout it. Never seen Doc Stevens get so mad! They stood right there over you and fought like two yard dogs!”

“I didn’t hear it.”

“Naw, you was out, but you gotta thank Miz Belle, ‘cause she just stood there and let Stevens holler, and just kept saying no until he give up.” He shook his head in admiration. “She sure is a stubborn woman.”

Davis looked down at his leg with a strange feeling. He had never feared death, but he
had
feared being left a cripple. The thought of it had haunted him, and he remembered saying to Perry Hale when the leg had become swollen and infectious, “Don’t let them cut it off, Perry. I’d rather die than drag myself around for the rest of my life.”

Willing asked, “What’s your outfit, Lieutenant?”

Davis suddenly realized he had no idea. A wrong word could be fatal, so he closed his eyes, murmuring, “Sure am weak . . .” and pretended to doze off. He heard Willing say, “He’s weak, ain’t he, Frank?” but lay there quietly until somebody came and turned out the lamps. He did sleep then, but it was no longer like a long black tunnel with no end.

****

The next morning Davis awoke to falling snowflakes lacing the black branches with intricate patterns and thickening the limbs like blankets of down. At ten o’clock he looked up to see Novak coming toward him.

“You look good,” Thad said, noting the improvement. Then he added for the benefit of the other patients, “How do you feel, Owen?”

“Going to live, Lieutenant,” he replied. “Sit down.” When the young man had pulled a chair close, Davis said carefully, “I’ve been pretty sick. Can’t seem to remember much.”

“Well, you were in bad shape, but things’ll start coming back.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a paper, and said with a slight wink, “Letter came for you.” Davis looked puzzled, then opened the envelope and read the words: “Second Lieutenant Robert Owen Morgan, Company H, the Maury Grays, First Tennessee Regiment. Colonel Hume R. Field, commanding officer.” Running his eyes over the paper, Davis realized that it was the information he needed about the real Morgan’s background. He glanced at the bottom of the page and saw the personal data, such as the fact that Morgan came from Wales and had been a gambler on a riverboat.

He looked up with gratitude. “Thanks, Thad. I needed this.”

“Reckon so, Owen,” Thad said with a droll look in his eyes. Then he smiled. “I got a note from Hale and Lee. They made it home all right. Said for you to take care of yourself.”

Davis’s eyes widened, and he said softly, “Thank God for that! I’ve had some anxious thoughts about it.”

“ ‘Course, you know how Hale is—always thinking that God’s in control of everything.” Thad added, “The more I think about it, the more I’d like to agree with him.”

Davis glanced cautiously at Lonnie, who was sleeping soundly, and at Willing’s bed, empty at the moment. Not wishing to take any chances of being overheard, Davis lowered his voice. “My family will get a report saying I’m dead, Thad. I’ve got to get word to them.”

“Better wait till you’re on your feet and we can figure a way to get you out of here, Davis. If the record keeping is as bad at Libby as it is everywhere else, you could be back
home before your folks get a letter. I’ll think on it, but right now it’ll be better to lay low.”

“Guess that’s right,” he replied, casting his eyes at his leg, trying to estimate how long it would keep him down. Frustrated, he groaned. “Got to get out of here as soon as I can.”

Novak studied him shrewdly. “You’ve got a pretty big hate for Belle, don’t you?”