41. Hyssop and Licorice Root

1865 SEPTEMBER 9, SATURDAY

41

Dark clouds covered the afternoon sky, causing nightfall to arrive prematurely. Rain had been falling for nearly a week now, and the roads were muddy and sodden. Seth entered the back door into the kitchen, letting in a wind gust before he shut the door. The fire in the hearth flickered with the bluster. Kay and I glanced up from shucking corn cobs, and Katie's face bloomed at Seth.

"Well?" Louise asked, turning away from the boiling pot of chicken and vegetables to look at the soaked, young man.

He stomped the mud from his boots.

"What in heaven's name are you doin'?" she scolded. "Not in my kitchen! You know better than that!"

"Ugh! I forget my manners when I'm stressed."

"The hell you do! That's a lousy excuse, Seth Mathis, and you know it. Now clean that up before you take another step in here."

Louise threw a rag in his face, and he hustled to clean up the tracked-in mud.

"So? Were you able to get the herbs?" Louise planted her hands on her hips, impatient.

"Here." He pulled out two little, glass jars from his coat pockets labeled hyssop and licorice root. "Doc is standing by, too, just in case he's needed."

Louise didn't say another word and went right to making the tea.

"Thank you," Kay said.

Seth bowed his head, finished cleaning up, and went back out to help Thad untack the horses.

"This should do the trick." Louise put on the kettle, adding the herbs with some thyme into a tea strainer.

Once the kettle hissed steam, she placed the strainer in a clay mug and poured the steaming water over the strainer. "Ella, let this steep for a while and then carry it up to John."

"You should probably have Kay do it," I told her.

Louise shook her head. "I need her down here to help me with supper. You take it up."

Nora and Mrs. Mathis entered the kitchen with a basin of wet rags.

"Have Seth and Thad returned yet?" Mrs. Mathis was flushed, but she did not look concerned. I suppose John's fever was the least of her worries now that she realized she could survive his death.

"Yes, ma'am," Louise replied, stirring the broth and then going over to check the roast on the stove. "Supper will be ready in about half an hour. I still have to boil the corn, but we need to wait for the broth to be done."

Mrs. Mathis eased herself into the chair beside me, and Nora followed suit.

Louise fetched a tray to dish out a bowl of broth. I took out the tea strainer from the mug and placed it beside the bowl. When the tray was set, she gestured for me to take it. I hesitated, but Mrs. Mathis gave me an encouraging smirk. Straightening my shoulders, I left the kitchen.

John's room was dim and warm, lit only by the fire in the hearth and the lamp beside his bed. He opened his eyes when I came in. His eyes were heavy on me as I set the tray next to the lamp. His wavy hair was damp around his face. The blankets piled on top of him were pulled up to his chest, his bare shoulders rising with each breath. He scooted up onto the propped pillow and pulled the blanket up around his collarbone.

I took up the mug, blowing on the hot tea. I watched him over the rim, his eyes resting on my pursed lips. A glint of heat I had yet to see from him flickered in his gaze, sending a little thrill down my spine. A hint his feelings for me were not entirely absent.

"Here, drink this." I brought the tea to his scabbed lips.

"I can do it." Affronted, he took the mug from my hands, causing the tea to slosh over his hand. His eyes blazed for another reason. "Were you going to scald my throat with this?" he asked, wiping his hand on the sheet.

"Sorry," I murmured. A red scar puckered above his right nipple, still pink with new skin. A near-fatal bullet wound? Silver lines, like hatch marks, marred his chest. It looked like a knife was taken to him, meant to cut him into ribbons. I averted my eyes, wondering which ones were from Ethan and which ones were from war. He brought the mug to his lips.

His face pinched and he spat. "What vile drink did you give me?" He pushed the mug back into my hands. "Are you trying to poison me?"

"It's an herbal remedy to bring down your fever."

John coughed, hard and rasping, an old-sounding cough I had heard from the hallway. I waited as his lungs spasmed. When the attack subsided, he moaned, pained and spent by the wracking coughs. He reached back for the mug, but I pushed his trembling hand away.

"Let me. Please." He must have seen the pleading in my eyes because he relented, allowing me to bring the tea to his lips. His muffled cough sounded painful as he closed his mouth over the rim, drinking until it abated.

"Enough," he croaked, and I placed the mug back on the tray.

"Broth?" I asked.

He shook his head and plopped back onto the pillow. He closed his eyes, and I waited for a while before I got up to leave.

"May I ask," he said, "why you aren't home in Pennsylvania, back at Woodhue? Is your threat not gone? Aren't you now a widow? You could be back home with your family." He was not being cruel, but his deep-brown eyes showed obvious curiosity. I wondered if he knew about the Raid, and how I left a bullet in Ethan's back. He obviously knew about Brett.

"Yes, he's gone. There was a raid last October?—"

He winced. "I'm sorry."

"Why? You couldn't have been here to defend me or St. Albans. I should be the one apologizing. They could have chosen any northern town to raid, but they chose here … because of me."

He didn't say more, but the shame on his face confirmed that what Ethan said was true. John surrendered my whereabouts under torture. Guilt washed over him like a tidal wave. I ached for him. My fingers and limbs itched to touch him. To smooth the pinched wrinkle between his brows, to massage the tightness from his jaw. To feel his warmth again, even just to ensure he was real.

Instead, I changed the subject. "Mother died last year. And Pa … well, Woodhue is nothing like it used to be."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

We sat in silence for a time. Him taking another sip of the tea.

"Some whiskey may improve this."

I shook my head. "The doctor said to avoid spirits and coffee."

"Did you love him … Brett?" he asked, frowning into his mug.

I sighed and cleared my throat. "He was good to me. I cared a great deal for him. I was alone. You were dead. And he offered protection and support for Katie and I. He was a good man, and we could have been happy." I didn't know what else to say. His eyes drooped with sadness, still avoiding my own.

We still did not know everything that happened to John, and we probably never would, but he was not the same man I had met in '63. Ethan, war, and imprisonment broke him. My chest was tight. I ached to hold him, to touch him, to force him to look at me. To see the love I still bore for him. My throat was thick with emotion, and I swallowed.

"I wrote to you. Did you receive it?" It was the question that had haunted me since the moment we learned he was missing.

"I've been imprisoned since the Wilderness." His eyes were on me now. Hard and cold. "Did you expect the damn Rebs to give out federal mail to Yankee prisoners?" The furrow between his brows deepened. "Ah, I see. You expected a very different reunion if I had received this letter? Would I have changed for the better if I had?"

Tears pricked at my nose now, coming dangerously close to seeping out. "Of course not. I just …" I sniffed.

"You just wanted to apologize and hope I would completely forget about Christmas night, and we could go on with our friendship as before? Or"—he smirked—"perhaps you realized your deep, undying love for me and wished we could make a happy home together? Or maybe it was just that you felt guilty for rejecting me, and you were feeling sorry for poor, ol' me? Well, my dear, Mrs. Chisholm, I need nothing from you, and I especially do not need your sympathy."

I frowned; his words stung. I hated hearing him call me by my married name. "My letter … my letter …" I couldn't get the words out, too taken aback by his own. Would he reject me now if I told him what it said? "You've changed, John," was all I managed to get out.

John snickered as though I had just recited a silly joke, as if he were laughing at my expense. "Of course I've changed. You're so naive. Did you expect Brett to return to you unscathed as well?"

"Of course not. I?—"

"No man who has lived through this war of hell or the Rebel prisons can return a whole man! You women are all the same. Romanticizing us soldiers as heroes, while ignoring the husks that return."

"Oh, don't flatter yourself. Romanticizing? Indeed!" I shook my head vehemently. "You might have gone through hell and back, but we were all left to tend to things while our hearts were away fighting this damn war." I pointed a finger at him. "You insult me, John. How dare you belittle what I've been through, what your mother's been through, what Nora's going through with Bradley."

"I simply state the facts. You know nothing of the horror I witnessed."

"Nothing? You tell me I know nothing? When you brought me to Gettysburg to sit beside Robert for hours, watching him die? I nursed so many boys while they'd suffered bullet wounds, infections, and disease. I held their hands as they cried for their mothers and asked for their wives.

"Brett was killed while we were still newlyweds, leaving me a naive widow and Katie fatherless, still. I had to be strong for everyone who was mourning around me, dying around me, and despite the compassion and sympathy I showed others, I was ridiculed for being a mother to Katie and allowing Brett to marry me. Clara thinks it's all my fault … that if it weren't for me, you and her brother would still be alive. They blamed me for it all. And yet, I stood strong, comforting your mother and sisters when they'd heard you were missing, trying to give them hope. And then when we were told you were dead, it was as though the rug was pulled out from under us. I was alone, unable to stand on my own two feet. Then, when the Rebels invaded, I did what I could to protect those they wished to harm."

Tears stung my eyes now as I thought of that day. Remembering Ethan's face, hard with anger and revenge, his breath sour with ire. I shivered, recalling his hands on my breasts and my legs.

"Ethan Harris helped lead the raid," I told him, his face growing white despite the flush from his fever. "He found me and nearly raped me, if it hadn't been for Brett and your brother." I blinked my eyes, hoping to ward off the tears that threatened to spill. I hated telling this to John. He had been punished enough just by knowing he was the one to leak my location. I could only imagine him lying in a cold, lonely cell, possibly bleeding to death, knowing Ethan was on his way to St. Albans and he could do nothing to stop him. "You're right. How can anyone live through war and not change?"

The lines of his mouth were firm, and his jaw was clenched. I wanted to say more, to soothe his anger, but I was angry too.

I would not cry in front of John.

"You know nothing of war," he reiterated. His eyes were dark and glaring. His hands balled up into fists in his quilt. "Did you march, day in and day out, rain, sleet, heat, or bone-chilling cold and then fight to the death? I think not! You have no notion of lying in trenches, waiting for enemy fire to rain down on you. You don't know what it's like to march out onto the battlefield, your life hanging in the balance, your life in the hands of God, and you are helpless to save yourself, and you have to admit to yourself that you may die in the next second, in the next hour, tomorrow, or next week.

"I watched as men fell around me, as cannons blasted through our lines, killing dozens at once, and all the time, Rebel bullets were whizzing past my head, capable of striking at any moment, yet my life was spared each time. You saw a mere effect of war, but you did not see the surprised, paralyzed faces the very instant they were hit and then hear their bloodcurdling screams when they realized they were missing a limb or their guts were hanging outside their bodies."

I shivered at his words.

"No, you neither witnessed war nor do you know what I went through. You have no idea what it was like to be imprisoned in so many cells I cannot remember them all. They seemed to all melt into one never-ending nightmare, where hunger is eternal and fear of whether you would be the next to die in your own filth and others' grime is continually present.

"I won't go into any further detail. Neither do I wish to recall the images, nor do I wish to make you sick with every scene and sight and thing I heard in prison. We became greedy, skeletal animals. I have changed tremendously from the person I once was, and I fear you shall never know me, nor do I wish for you to know who I've become. There is no going back to the way things were."

I stood up and backed away from the bed. "I suppose you're right," I snapped, straightening out the creases my sweaty hands caused on my black dress. "I'll leave you to rest."

John did not say a word to stop me as I left.

I angrily brushed my wet cheeks as I marched to my room, slamming the door behind me.

That evening, John grew steadily worse. The rain returned, and Thad went on horseback to fetch the doctor. Nobody slept that night except for Katie. Mrs. Mathis and Nora stood beside the doctor while he assessed John's condition. Seth and I placed chairs in the hallway, attempting to read while eavesdropping.

"I'm surprised he lived through his imprisonment. If he completely succumbs to pneumonia, I fear he will not survive. He's too weak and undernourished. I'm not sure his body will withstand it," the doctor told Mrs. Mathis and Nora behind the closed door.

Did John only come home to die? He survived all odds, and now he was going to die from congested lungs? I did not pretend to understand it.

"Have him gargle with saltwater and take hot baths to loosen the mucus. Hot and cold compresses are necessary, but for short periods of time. Keep his chest and neck fully covered. It is also very important that he moves, so make sure he rolls on either side and sits up in bed. Continue with the broth, and he can drink any fruit juices. If his condition worsens, let me know. I'll be by to check on him in the morning."

The door opened and I peered inside. The doctor had put on his coat and gathered up his bag and hat.

"Thank you, Doctor." Mrs. Mathis followed him out the door. He acknowledged both Seth and I, and then they walked down the hall to the foyer.

Nora sat on the edge of the bed with John's hand in hers. Seth and I went to his bedside.

"He's going to be all right, isn't he?" Seth asked.

Nora shrugged. "I'm not sure. We just have to wait and see. At least he's sleeping now."

His face was pale and glistened with perspiration. His breathing was shallow and rattled when it went through his chest.

"Those damn Rebels!" Seth cursed.

Neither Nora nor I said anything but watched John's every breath. We both wanted to curse the enemy too.

Mrs. Mathis returned to the room, a tattered, leather-bound Bible in her hand. "I found it in his belongings."

It was the Bible I gave him back in Pennsylvania. Robert's Bible. He kept it with him all this time. Even through imprisonment. My heart warmed at the thought.

"It was Robert Moore's," I croaked. My throat constricted and my nose stung.

Mrs. Mathis beamed and handed the Bible to me. I opened it and saw new markings, obvious bookmarks and penciled underlines that John added—markings that weren't there when I gave it to him. There, tucked between the pages of Matthew 11, was a letter I sent to him.

"Thank you for encouraging me to stay the course. I don't know if I could stay here if it were not for you. I'll forever be grateful for the safe haven you've provided me. John, I look forward to the day I can show you how much your protection means to me," I wrote. There was so much hope in my words.

"Please read a passage," Mrs. Mathis requested, taking a seat.

I found another letter marking Romans 3. My eyes landed on my scrolled script, "there is not a day, a moment, when I don't think of you. I shudder in imagining where I would be now if you didn't come to find me after Gettysburg." In reading back my words—how could I ever not realize I was in love with him? John had been sure of his feelings then, confident I would share his love when he confessed that Christmas night.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, turning the letter over to read the scripture. Through blurred eyes I recited,"For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God; being justified by His grace through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus: whom God hath set forth to be a propitiation through faith in His blood, to declare His righteousness for the remission of sins that are past, through the forbearance of God; to declare, I say, at this time His righteousness: that He might be just, and the justifier of him which believeth in Jesus."

"Oh, I hope he has found peace." Mrs. Mathis sighed. "It was never his fault."

I wondered if she knew he had told Ethan where I was, and that I was the cause of last year's raid. But I did not think so, so I assumed she was speaking of Robby Chisholm's death.

"He's a good man." Nora grasped her mother's hand. "I wish Pa could've seen that."

"I think he saw it, dear. I just don't think he fully understood your brother." Mrs. Mathis rubbed her forehead and closed her eyes for a moment.

"Tired, Ma?" Nora asked.

"It's been a long day."

"Why don't you go to bed? Ella and I can stay up for a while and keep an eye on him."

"Certainly," I agreed.

"Thank you, dears." Mrs. Mathis hoisted herself out of the chair and rubbed her weary eyes.

"Here, Ma," Seth said, holding out his arm for his mother to take.

Mrs. Mathis put a tender hand to his cheek. "Thank you, Seth."

"Do you think he has found peace?" Nora asked once Seth and Mrs. Mathis left the room.

"I hope so." I turned to drape a cool cloth across his forehead while I wiped the silent tears that escaped. His brow pinched even as he slept. "Oh, how I wish things were different," I whispered, more to myself than to Nora.

"Me too."

"I just imagined things would be different if he ever returned." I breathed deeply, sucking back the tears. "He hates me for not reciprocating his love when he gave it to me. That I went on to marry Brett. Nevermind that I only ever loved him."

"But you still do!"

I shushed her. "You'll wake him. I don't think he really knows how I feel. He never got my last letter. So as far as he knows, I've never loved him. I've loved Robert and Brett, but I've never loved him."

"You have to tell him, Ella. You have to tell him that you've loved only him all these years. You should give him a reason to fight."

"But I don't know if he still loves me." My chest ached voicing my fear aloud.

"Of course he does. He wouldn't be so angry if he didn't still love you."

I scoffed.

"Well, it's true," Nora insisted.

"That sounds absurd."

"He talks about you—when it's just him and me. He always asks after you and Katie. He hasn't said it outright that he still loves you, but I know my brother."

"Well, if I tell him that I love him, will you tell Bradley House?"

Nora bit her lip in thought. "That's a little different."

"Not completely."

"I plan on talking to him anyway, as soon as I get the chance."

"Well, as soon as I get the chance—when he stops hating me—I'll tell him."

"You're as stubborn as he is." Nora's lips tipped up, her eyes glinting with silent laughter. "I'm going to get some more hot water." She took up the basin and damp rags and left the room, giving me a very unladylike wink as she closed the door.

Nora had been gone for nearly an hour, and I had to fight the pull of sleep in the quiet room. To keep from dozing, I hummed "Oh Shenandoah."

John's eyes fluttered open and peered at me beneath sleepy lids.

"Ella?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

"Why are you still here?"

"Er—Nora and I are supposed to stay up, but Nora went down to the kitchen a while ago. She should be back soon." Or she purposely left us alone in this room together.

"No, what are you still doing in St. Albans?"

"John …"

"Why are you still here?"

"There is no home to go back to. Pa turned himself over to the authorities weeks ago."

"Oh," he said, his voice raspy with sleep. I didn't blame him for not having the words. I didn't either.

Of course there was more to it. Maybe I still hoped John would show up alive. Maybe fate kept me here to see him return. I didn't know. Was that what he was wanting me to say?

"I'm very glad you're home," I told him. "It broke everyone's heart to learn you were dead."

"Did Ethan tell you he killed me?" he asked.

I nodded.

John grimaced. "He nearly did." He pointed at the gunshot wound on his chest. "I'm so sorry, Ella. After beating me to submission and finding out the necessary information, he shot me and left me for dead. I thought I was going to meet my Maker. I don't know how much longer afterward, but the next thing I knew, I awoke in a damp, dark cell in some Virginian prison. A fellow Union prisoner, a surgeon, took care of my wounds while I was unconscious, and by some miracle, God spared me. He said I should have died immediately after receiving that bullet. He said it was divine intervention the bullet missed my lungs. I really don't know how I survived my wounds in those putrid conditions, but I did."

"I'm glad you did," I told him.

"Are you?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry for this," he apologized, gesturing to us. "I won't be here much longer."

"Of course you will."

He shook his head.

"Of course you will," I said more firmly.

"As soon as I regain my strength, I'm going west. They need Lieutenant Mathis out there."

"John … what about us? What about your mother?"

"She will be saddened, but she'll understand I need to do what I feel is necessary. I can't stay here. You wouldn't want me to stay here. I would be a constant reminder of your hardship."

"That's not so?—"

"Is it?"

He began a coughing fit just as Nora entered the room with a large basin of steaming, fresh water, followed by Kay, who brought in towels and a mug of the tea concoction.

"Just in time, I wager?" Kay said.

The timing couldn't have been worse.