This Savage Heart (21 page)

On the morning of the third day, as the sun rose in a fiery blaze, Elisa said, “I’m not staying here any longer, do you hear? I’m getting out of here.” Her hair hung listlessly about her dirt-streaked face. She was exhausted. And she could no longer stand Julie’s eerie, silent staring at the decomposing bodies below. Even the vultures had gone. “If the Indians were coming back, they’d have been here by now. Fort Bowie is north, and that’s where I’m heading, no matter how long it takes me. If you want to stay here, it’s up to you.” She looked down at the baby, who was, thank God, sleeping for the moment. She supposed she would have to take him. Something was tickling her mind, something she could not quite put her finger on, but it had to do with the baby, she was sure. She would figure it out later.

Julie didn’t answer. How could she even hear Elisa when she was on Derek’s ship, moored off the coast of Bermuda?

Shaking her head, Elisa set about gathering what supplies remained. The baby whimpered, and she railed, “Damn you, shut up! I’ve enough misery heaped on me without your whining!”

Hurt, frightened, hungry, the baby began to howl. Elisa slapped him. “If you don’t shut up, I’m going to wring your goddamn neck, you little brat!”

Julie turned to look at the baby. “Don’t hit him,” she commanded coldly, ominously. “Don’t hit him again.”

“Then you tend him,” Elisa cried, picking him up and thrusting him roughly into her arms. “Keep him quiet, and let’s get moving. If we must die, at least we’ll die moving.”

She started down the rocky incline, and Julie stumbled along behind, clutching the baby. He snuggled his little body close against her bosom, feeling better.

Elisa remembered the direction in which Lonnie Bruce had been told to ride, decided that was north, and began trudging that way. Julie walked behind, allowing her to lead their way.

When the shadows of night spread across the flat, vast plains, the pitiful trio was hardly out of sight of the wagon train massacre. There were no mountains, no shelter, and they lay down on the rock and sand floor and slept in exhaustion, the cold desert winds whipping across them.

The next morning, Elisa chewed a piece of hardtack till it was mushy, then forced the baby to eat it. He promptly spat it up, and she cried, “We don’t have food to waste, you little bastard!”

“Don’t you call him that!” Julie said quietly. “I’ll kill you if you hurt him.”

Elisa stared at the woman threatening her and felt chilled. Was Julie insane? Her first impulse was to leave both her and the baby there, but if they did encounter Indians, she might use them in some way. And she didn’t want to be alone in the desert, so she would keep them with her.

Julie drank water, but she couldn’t eat. Food had no appeal. She was in the bottom of a deep, deep pit, with walls of sand that collapsed upon her each time she tried to climb out. It was easier just to stay in the pit, allowing the tiny grains to slowly cover her, bit by bit. At some point, she supposed, she would disappear.

“Drink some water and let’s go.” Elisa got up when Julie had finished drinking, and began to plod along, shoulders already hunched against the merciless sun.

That scorching day bled into cold night, and the next day was horribly hot. It was midmorning on the third day when Elisa fell to her knees and sobbed, “I can’t go on. I can’t. We’re going to die here.” Her fingers opened and closed in the tiny rocks as though grasping for strength and finding none.

Julie stared down at her in confusion. The warm buzzing that had been filling her for the past several days had become a hot, giant roaring. She could not see, could not speak. It was becoming difficult to understand anything at all. Who was this woman?

She continued to watch the woman beating her fists against the ground, and after a while, she laid the baby down beside her. Maybe he would like to wriggle and kick, too. But, no, he just lay there, opening his eyes against the glaring sun, then squeezing them shut and moaning.

Shading her own eyes against the glare, Julie gazed toward the ridge in the distance. They had wanted to reach it by sundown, but they weren’t going to if that woman didn’t get up again. She could not understand why they were going to the ridge, anyway.

With parched, painful lips grinning, Julie waved at a man who was waving wildly at her. He was on a big horse, and he was wearing blue, a blue uniform. She watched quietly as other soldiers appeared on the ridge and then began to ride down after him. One of the men carried a flag that snapped smartly in the wind. There were two dozen men riding hard, fast, headed straight toward them.

The soldiers descended the reach and kicked their horses into a full gallop, their shouts of triumph splitting the air across the plains. Elisa struggled slowly to her knees, eyes wide. As realization swept over her, hope lifted her to her feet and raised her exhausted arms above her head. The cavalry! Dear God, the United States Cavalry!

“Thank God!” Elisa cried as the big burly man with the stripes on his shoulder brought his men to a halt, then dismounted. “I thought we were done for,” she called to him in a quavering voice.

The soldiers all got down off their horses, and the sergeant motioned to one of them to see if the baby was alive. The soldier lifted the child in his arms and called, “He’s breathing, Sarge, but he seems awful weak.”

The sergeant stared at Julie, who continued smiling at him vacantly. One fine-looking woman, he thought, despite her haggard appearance. Too bad she was so…wretched. Something was very wrong. He had seen it happen before, out there. He turned to the other one. “I’m Sergeant Lasker, A Company, Fort Bowie. Are you from the wagon train that left El Paso a few weeks ago?”

“Yes, yes,” Elisa sobbed. “We’re all that’s left.” Tears of joy streamed down her cheeks, which the soldiers mistook as grief for her lost companions. “The Apache attacked back there. Four days ago. Five. I’ve lost track.”

“Apache Pass,” the sergeant said, sighing. “Damn, I wish we’d gotten word sooner. Maybe we could have gotten here in time.”

Elisa blinked. “Word? You heard about the attack?”

“Not about the attack, ma’am,” he explained, motioning her toward his horse. “We just heard there was a wagon train on the way. We were on alert for it. We’d better start back now. The baby needs tending to. We can talk on the way.” He looked worriedly at Julie. “What’s the matter with her? She don’t seem hurt, but—”

“She’s tetched,” Elisa said, dismissing Julie. “I’m Mrs. Elisa Thatcher, Sergeant. My husband—”

“Hot damn!” The sergeant released her suddenly, jerked off his hat, and threw it to the ground to stomp on it. “Did you hear that? We got her! Only three survivors, and the captain’s wife is one of ’em. Boy!”

Elisa stared. “I don’t understand,” she said slowly. There had to be a mistake. “My husband is Lieutenant Adam Thatcher, and he’s stationed on the Gila River, almost on the California border.”

“No, ma’am!” The sergeant informed her importantly. “Your husband is now a captain, stationed at Fort Bowie. He received a telegram from Fort Bliss saying you had passed through there a while back, and we been riding patrols looking for you. He wanted to make sure he intercepted you before you went on out west with the others.” He looked at the soldier holding the baby, and smiled. “So that’s the captain’s baby! Well, he hoped your time wouldn’t come till you got here, but seems like everything’s okay, huh? There’s a doctor back at the fort, and he’ll take good care of you. Gee, you’ve sure had a rough time of it, ma’am.” Elisa looked down at the ground modestly.

As they rode back to the fort, Elisa’s mind worked frantically. Julie might never come out of her stupor. And if she didn’t, what would happen to the baby? An orphan’s home. No need for that, not when she could pass him off as her own. Who would know differently, or care? Everyone else was dead. Myles surely was. He would be no trouble, and the only reason Adam had agreed to take her back as his wife was the baby—which was dead. She had not wanted Adam to know she had lost their baby and hadn’t allowed Derek to send Adam word when she gave birth. By letting everyone think Darrell was hers, her marriage was secure for as long as she wanted it to be. Later, if someone better came along, well, who could say what might happen one day? For the moment she was safe.

She reminded herself that had it not been for her holding herself together they would probably all be dead. That baby owed his life to her, by God.

Chapter Twenty

Julie stared pensively through the narrow window. The sweet-faced woman who had helped her with a hot, delicious bath the night before and brought her a clean pale-blue wool dress had also explained where she was, but it meant nothing to Julie.

She watched as six cavalry companies filed out of the stables toward the parade ground, the officers’ harks crisp in the still air: “Column right! Left line! Company, halt!” Horsemen paced briskly, raising dust from the hard ground. Each of the six companies marched into regimental front lines, mounted on horses of matching colors, the guidon of each waving colorfully from a pole fixed into the stirrup socket of the guidon corporal’s stirrup. The men sat in disciplined form, double ranks of mostly mustached and sunburned faces, all stern. They faced the company commander and the adjutant, who took his report. Then the adjutant turned his horse and trotted him about fifty feet forward, halting before a man who sat regally atop his mount, apart from the others.

Lieutenant Colonel Wendell Manes answered the adjutant’s salute with one of his own. Words were exchanged, and then the band exploded into quick, spirited march. The band marched down the front of the regiment, wheeling and returning. Finally the buglers lifted their trumpets to the sky and sounded retreat.

“It’s a lovely ceremony, isn’t it, dear?”

Julie whirled around to see that Mrs. Flora Manes had entered her tiny cubicle. A small fluff of a woman, she was all kindness. Apparently, she saw only the good in things. She reminded Julie of someone—but who? “Yes,” Julie responded finally. “It’s quite lovely.” She heard how hollow her voice sounded.

Mrs. Manes rushed forward to give her a hug. “How terrible it must be not to remember anything, my dear, but it will all come back to you one day. Doctor Mangone says you’re suffering from shock, and no wonder. We must give thanks to God that you and Mrs. Thatcher and her baby were spared. One day it will all be behind you. We must think of the future now.”

The future. Julie turned back toward the window. How could she think of the future when she couldn’t remember the past and didn’t understand the present?

“Come now,” Mrs. Manes was saying. “My wonderful Mexican cook has prepared a delicious meal for you.”

Julie did not want to eat, did not want to do anything but sit in her sparsely furnished room and try to sort out her thoughts. That dreadful roaring in her head had subsided, leaving a void in its place. Something told her that, if she were given enough time for thinking, she would figure out who she was and where she was and why things were the way they were.

But she obediently followed Mrs. Manes down a short corridor and into a larger room. The walls were of thick, splintery planks; the floor covered by smooth stones, dirt packed between to hold them in place. A large flag adorned one wall, and beside it was a large portrait of President Abraham Lincoln. Julie stopped. “Why is the portrait draped in black crepe?”

Mrs. Manes turned around and saw what she was looking at. “Oh, my dear child, our president is dead. Assassinated. Such a terrible thing. He was a great man.”

Julie continued to stare at the portrait. Bits and pieces were coming back. There had been a war. Between North and South. She was a Southerner. “The war,” she felt a sudden, driving need to ask. “Is it over?”

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Manes said. “At least Mr. Lincoln lived long enough to see the war end. General Lee surrendered to General Grant on April ninth, just five days before Mr. Lincoln died.”

Julie blinked. “But what day is this? What month? What year?” She felt tears spring to her eyes, and she didn’t know why.

“It’s 1865, dear.” Mrs. Manes took a step backward, suddenly a bit apprehensive. “And it’s April twenty-seventh.”

“Correct.” Lieutenant Colonel Wendell Manes’s voice boomed as he walked to the end of the long trestle table. Thick wooden benches ran down each side of the dining table. “And I have just received two wonderful items of news. The Confederate Army in North Carolina surrendered yesterday, and the President’s assassin has been shot and killed.”

Flora Manes led Julie to her place on the bench and gently scolded her husband. “You know I don’t like to discuss anything distressing at the table, Wendell, dear.”

“Yes, Flora, yes.” He gave a mock sigh. “I know your feelings about dinner table conversation. I’ll wait until brandy and cigars with my officers.” Smiling at Julie, he asked pleasantly, “And how are you feeling, Miss Marshall? I must say you look much better today.”

Julie was glad they talked so much. She wasn’t up to talking at all.

The outer door leading to the parade ground opened, and Captain Adam Thatcher and Elisa entered the dining room. The captain gave a sharp salute, which was returned by his commanding officer. Adam Thatcher made a fine show in his dress uniform. His broad chest displayed a tight, brass-buttoned coat with a white wing collar and black cravat. His long legs stretched the straight sweep of dark blue trousers with broad yellow stripes. Adam’s face was lean, angular, with an olive complexion. He wasn’t as deeply tanned as the other soldiers. A neatly trimmed mustache rimmed straight, firm lips. His eyes were dark and narrowed, as though constantly brooding. He was a military man through and through, rigid posture, a no-nonsense set even to his jaw. And though his skin had not darkened to a leathery hue from constant sun, his hair was bleached to a cotton white. It curled in a mischievous little-boy style about his ears and collar, the only hint of spontaneity in Adam Thatcher’s austere manner.