When the Clouds Roll By (3 page)

The padre covered Gilbert’s fist with his palm. “What are you afraid of, son?”

Son
. The man couldn’t be more than a couple of years older than Gilbert. But then the war had aged them all—the ones it hadn’t killed, anyway—stolen their youth while turning thousands of them into little better than helpless infants.

“What am I afraid of?” Gilbert raised his eyes to meet the padre’s. “Her pity.”

3

Hot Springs, Arkansas

A
nnemarie spread peach preserves across a bite-sized piece of a plump, golden roll. “These are delicious, Mrs. Ballard—so light and flaky.”

“Marguerite’s special recipe, dear. I’m sure she’d be delighted to share it with you.”

Marguerite, the Ballards’ longtime servant—of course. Gilbert’s mother probably hadn’t lifted a finger in her own kitchen in years. “I’ll be sure to ask her before we leave.” Not that it would help. Annemarie’s own culinary skills left much to be desired.

The older woman chuckled. “And how many times must I ask you to call me
Mother
Ballard?”

“I suppose I’m still getting used to the idea.” An uneasy shiver traveled Annemarie’s spine, but she covered it with a smile. “I can hardly believe Gilbert is finally coming home.”

She couldn’t admit her deepest fears to her future mother-in-law—that there would be no wedding, that Gilbert’s feelings toward her had cooled. Every time she reread his recent letters, the dearth of any words of affection, much less even the slightest reference to their future together, made her heart lurch.

Annemarie’s mother cleared her throat softly. “Perhaps you’d pass me the preserves, dear?”

Annemarie looked up with a start and realized she’d been staring into space. “Sorry, Mama.” She reached across the table with the crystal bowl of preserves, but the dish clipped her mother’s water glass, toppling it and soaking the white damask tablecloth.

Annemarie jumped up with a gasp and mopped at the spill with her napkin. “How clumsy of me! Here, Mama, let me refill your glass.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, Annemarie.” Mrs. Ballard caught her arm. “I’ll ring for Marguerite.”

“No, please. I insist.” Hurrying to the kitchen with the empty glass, Annemarie collapsed against the counter and berated herself for acting like such a ninny.

She felt even sillier when Marguerite stepped through the back door with an empty dishpan. A gust of chilly December air nipped at Marguerite’s skirt as she kicked the door closed with her heel. She cast a nervous smile toward the swinging door to the dining room. “Oh my, did Miz Ballard ring for me and I didn’t hear?”

“Don’t fret. I upset my mother’s water glass and came looking for the pitcher.” Annemarie spied it on the end of the counter and went to fill the glass.

Marguerite set the pan in the sink and wiped her slender, coffee-colored hands on a dishtowel. “You look a mite flushed, Miss Annie. You feeling okay?”

“Me? I’m fine.” Annemarie gave a pained laugh and set down the glass and pitcher. “Well, maybe not so fine. Honestly, Marguerite, all this talk of Gilbert’s homecoming and wedding plans—shouldn’t we at least wait until he’s home and has a chance to recover and get his bearings?”

A look of understanding narrowed the servant’s soft brown eyes. “Getting cold feet, are we?” Marguerite pressed her cool palms against Annemarie’s cheeks. “Why, honey-girl, you and Gilbert was destined to be together. I knew from the time you was both in diapers, and I was powdering your sweet little bottoms.”

If Annemarie wasn’t flushed before, she certainly was now. She rolled her eyes and drew Marguerite close for a hug before striding across the kitchen and sinking into a chair at the long oak table. “It isn’t that I don’t want to marry Gilbert. I love him as much as ever—more, if possible! It’s just . . .” Her chest ached. She dropped her forehead into her hands. “I’m afraid he no longer wants to marry me.”

It was the first time she’d voiced her fears aloud, and now, as the words echoed in the quiet kitchen, Annemarie knew what she had to do. She had to convince both her mother and Mrs. Ballard to postpone any further discussion of a wedding until she and Gilbert could talk face to face.

Marguerite settled into the chair next to Annemarie’s. She eased Annemarie’s hands away from her face and pressed them to her own bosom. “Now what would make you say such a thing, Miss Annie? You know Gilbert loves you with heart and soul, always has. Just ’cause he went off to war and got himself shot up don’t mean he’s changed his mind about marrying you. Yes, it’ll be hard, him losing his leg and all, but you’re both strong of character with a firm faith in Jesus. If that don’t see you through, then—”

“Annemarie, dear? Did you find the—” Stepping into the kitchen, Mrs. Ballard gave a surprised sniff. “Is everything all right?”

Marguerite popped up from her chair. “Everything’s just fine, Miz Ballard. We was just talking.”

Annemarie rose with a shaky smile and went to retrieve her mother’s glass. “My goodness, I completely lost track of what I came in here for. By now Mama will think I hiked all the way to the Mountain Valley Water Company and back.”

“I should think so. I began to worry Marguerite’s spicy rémoulade might have caused you dyspepsia.”

“Absolutely not—it was delicious!” Annemarie sidled toward Mrs. Ballard. “Shall we go back in to lunch? I’m so sorry for the interruption.”

“Very well.” Mrs. Ballard cast Marguerite a disapproving glare. “You may serve dessert now, if you’re finished monopolizing my guest.”

Marguerite lowered her gaze and curtsied. “Sorry, ma’am. Be right in to clear the table and fetch dessert.” She winked at Annemarie. “Bread pudding with lemon sauce, your favorite. I’ll serve you an extra big portion.”

Halfway through the door, Mrs. Ballard turned with an arched brow. “Not
too
large, Marguerite. Annemarie must watch her figure if she’s going to fit into her mother’s lovely lace wedding gown.”

“Yes’m.” Marguerite glanced at Annemarie and whistled out a breath. As soon as Mrs. Ballard left the room, she whispered, “Between you and me, girl, that is one bossy woman. If she didn’t pay so well, I’d—”

Annemarie couldn’t suppress a laugh. “I know, I know. You’d quit and go to work for Mr. Fordyce at his fancy new bathhouse.” She gave her head a small shake and started through the door, then paused to smirk over her shoulder. “And make my dessert a triple-sized portion, with extra lemon sauce, if you please. I’m going to need the fortification.”

“
Padre! Ya gotta help me! I don’t wanna die!”

“Hold on, son. Help’s coming—just hold on. ‘The Lord is my shepherd’—say it, son. Say it with me.”

“I can’t—it hurts! Oh, Jesus, it hurts so bad!”

Samuel awoke with a start, the smell of smoke and blood burning his nostrils. His gaze darted right, then left. Soldiers everywhere, a sea of army green. A constant clack-clack enveloped him, then a mournful whistle in the distance.

“Padre?” Someone was patting his arm. “Hey, it’s okay. We’re still on the train.”

“The train . . .” He gave his eyes a violent rub and focused on the face of the soldier next to him. “Guess I dozed off. Where are we?”

“Somewhere between Richmond and Nashville.” The soldier slanted his lips in a sympathetic smile. “I suppose it’ll be awhile before we quit hearing the sounds of war in our sleep.”

“Guess so.” Samuel sat up a little straighter. He tugged at the collar of his uniform and tried to draw a full breath. His thumb scraped the tiny gold cross, and he clamped his jaws together with a shudder.
Where were You, God? Where were You in all this horror?

As usual, he got no answer.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . .

He tried hard to believe the Scriptures, but sometimes—too often of late—they seemed like empty words. Empty promises for a world gone crazy.

He cleared his parched throat and stood, grabbing the seat back to steady himself. After finally growing accustomed to the ship’s rise and fall, now he tottered to the lurch and sway of the train.

He edged up the corners of his mouth in a semblance of a smile and glanced at the soldier. “I’m going to find some water and then check on a friend. May I bring you anything?”

“Thanks, I’m fine. Gonna try and catch some shut-eye myself before the next stop.” The doughboy scooted lower in the seat, tipped his hat to Samuel, and crossed his arms over his chest.

Samuel nodded and stepped into the aisle. As he started toward the rear of the car, the men he passed glanced up to offer smiles and handshakes. These were the lucky ones—the ones who’d survived—the ones released to go home while thousands more remained behind as part of the Army of Occupation. The journey had been a long one, and fatigue shown in their eyes, mixed with joy and relief . . . and no small amount of sadness for those who’d never see home again.

Making his way to the dining car, he found himself in another sea of bodies. Here the laughter and celebration rose to an ear-splitting cacophony. Civilians reveled with doughboys, sailors, and marines, many still sporting bandages and crutches. Only a few wore the ubiquitous white gauze masks that supposedly protected against the Spanish influenza. Instead, they lifted glasses and beer steins high to toast the end of the Great War.

It struck Samuel as ironic that a microscopic organism could prove almost more deadly than the worst firepower the Germans had thrown at the Allies. Over the past several months, the disease had reached epidemic proportions, claiming thousands of lives at home and abroad, many of them soldiers who never even made it to the front.

As for Samuel, he was almost beyond caring about an enemy he couldn’t even see. Death had stared him in the face too many times already. With a nod at a half-drunk sailor, he wedged himself up to the bar. “Just a glass of water, please.”

“Sure thing, Chaplain.” The bartender filled a glass and slid it across the counter. “Rowdy bunch we got here, eh? Guess they got plenty to celebrate.”

Samuel thanked the man and downed the water in three quick gulps. By the time he wove through the jostling crowd to the next coach, his ears were ringing almost as badly as in the trenches amid the deafening explosions of grenades and artillery fire.

It was quieter in this car, more subdued. These men, still healing from massive war wounds, faced months of recuperation. Many had already departed the train in Washington, D.C., to be admitted to Walter Reed Hospital for further treatment. Others would continue their recovery either with loved ones or in a medical facility closer to home.

Samuel had barely stepped through the door before a soldier in the first row recognized his cross and insignia and stopped him to request a prayer. Samuel obliged—what else could he do? It was his job, after all.
Lord, give me strength.

Another soldier, another prayer, and finally he reached the seat where Lieutenant Gilbert Ballard reclined. As Dr. Russ had predicted, they’d formed a bond of sorts while aboard the
U.S.S. Comfort
, and when Samuel learned the lieutenant was shipping home to the Army and Navy Hospital in Hot Springs, he decided maybe he’d like to go there, too. The thought of returning home to Fort Wayne held no appeal, nor did the idea of serving at one of the larger military hospitals, where ministering to hundreds of wartime wounded day after day would only extend his torment.

No, according to Gilbert, the much smaller facility at Hot Springs treated mainly older veterans for chronic conditions such as arthritis, rheumatism, gout, and various skin diseases and would receive few returning wounded from the Great War. To Samuel it sounded like the ideal situation—a chance, with God’s help, to rest and heal and find his way again. At his first opportunity he’d put in a request for new orders, and his commanding officer had quickly agreed.

No doubt all it took was one look at Samuel’s recent service record. He should probably thank God they had not stamped it UNFIT FOR DUTY.

Gilbert looked up with tired eyes. “You look worse than me, Padre. At least you’ve got two legs to stand on.”

The train gave a sudden jerk, and Samuel had to grab for a handhold to stay upright. He forced a chuckle. “Not so sure my two legs are doing me much good at the moment.” He lowered himself into the empty seat next to Gilbert. “How are you holding up, Gil? Much pain?”

“You mean besides this headache that won’t quit?” Gilbert grimaced and rubbed his left thigh, now just a stump. “They said I could have phantom leg pain for a long time to come. Just this morning I tried to scratch an itch on the bottom of my foot, but my foot wasn’t there.”

Samuel couldn’t even imagine. “Can I get you anything? Water? Something to eat?”

“I’m okay.” Gilbert swiveled his head toward the window. He clenched and unclenched his right fist in rhythm with the clack of the train wheels.

They were in the mountains now, somewhere in Tennessee. “We should be in Little Rock by tomorrow, then on to Hot Springs. You’ll be glad to be home, finally get some rest.”

The lieutenant’s lips flattened. “I wish they’d killed and buried me in France.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“You bet I mean that.”

The conversation was one they’d had a hundred times already, and Samuel struggled to come up with new arguments against Gil’s defeatist attitude. His thoughts drifted to the tattered photograph of Gilbert’s fiancée, the beautiful Annemarie. What Samuel wouldn’t give to be going home to his sweetheart, to drown in her welcoming kisses, to fill his senses with the scent of her perfume and the feel of her glossy hair sliding through his fingers.