Jan 14, 1863
Kirkwood County
The dirty and disheveled band approached the house carefully. Mac's skirt was torn in several places, and burrs stuck to her shawl. Harriet didn't look much better; her usually perfect curls were hanging loosely at her shoulders. Bud's pants were stained with mud and his equally dirty jacket was wrapped tightly around little AJ, who rested his pouting face on his shoulders.
Harm looked even worse; with arm in the smudged sling and his skin pale from the exertion, he actually looked dead. They'd only gone about a mile, when Mac noticed that his breathing was fast and labored, and he'd begun to lag behind. Mac paused when they had come to a shallow creek.
"Harriet, Bud," she said, "We've got to rest for a minute. I'm exhausted." She added the last part to spare Harm's pride, and he gave her a thankful grin as he sat down heavily, even though they all knew he was the one who needed to rest. Harriet took little AJ from Bud and sat down with him. She cradled him against her chest as Bud sat down behind her letting her lean back onto him.
Mac knelt down next to Harm and started to undo the sling. "Mac, I'm alright," he protested and tired to shrug her off, but the movement cause a sharp stabbing pain he hadn't felt since he'd pulled out the stitches.
"Like hell you are," she responded and pushed him back against the thick trunk of a magnolia tree. He surrendered and allowed her to remove the cloth sling. He used his good arm to cradle his injured one as she untied the cloth tethers tying his shirt shut. She opened his shirt to reveal his muscular chest and wounded shoulder. The stitches were still in place but there was a pale yellow pus oozing from beneath them, and the entire shoulder was an angry red. "You haven't ripped the stitches, but it's infected."
Harm closed his eyes against the pain Mac's short examination had sent shooting through his entire chest. "I know," he said, "It started a few days ago."
Mac raised her wide and dismayed eyes, and looked at him. "Why didn't you say anything?" she asked, her face quickly changing from worried to furious. "Did you know that infections like this can lead to fatal diseases? This could have killed you if it had been left untreated."
"Mac, enough," he reasoned in a pleading tone, "I noticed it yesterday, just before Brumby." He broke off the statement as a different shadow came over her face. Harriet and Bud looked over at them. Their gazes went from one to the other; the tension between them could have been cut with a knife. Harm sighed and shook his head. "I didn't want to worry you."
"Well, if you die, you'll have no one to blame but yourself," she seethed as she re-threaded the tethers of his shirt and replaced his arm in the sling. Regardless of her anger, she was very careful with his injured arm; after all, the injury wasn't responsible for this man's stupidity, she thought.
She left him sitting there and went to the creek where she tore a wedge of fabric from her skirt and dipped into the icy water. The temperature of the water sent a shiver rippling down her spine and cleared her turbulent mind. She knew Harm was only trying to spare her more pain, and that she was only directing her frustration at him because he was at hand.
She had closed the last hours from her mind, but as she knelt there by the water, they came broke over her like waves, each one more painful than the last. Brumby's men in the distance, their torches lighting up the dusk, Harm running with the hands toward the trees, the house burning, the sound of footsteps. She hadn't realized it but she'd twisted the small square of fabric tight and her knuckles had gone white with tension.
Harm watched her from his seat under the tree. He knew what she was thinking of by the set of her shoulders. He struggled to his feet and wandered over to her. He hesitated a moment before putting a steadying hand on her shoulder. He was rewarded when Mac placed her own hand over his.
She didn't know why she had responded like that. As soon as she felt his warm hand on her cold and tight shoulder she was reminded of the way relief had cascaded over her the day before when she realized the footsteps were his. She twined her fingers into his, and for a long moment they remained linked, she kneeling and he standing tall behind her. The moment was broken when little AJ gave a small cry. Mac released Harm's hand and rose to her feet. "We should get going," she said, her voice even and calm.
They had been forced to travel at an excruciatingly slow pace because of Harm's weakness. Hours later they approached a small farmhouse; a lantern hung outside the door, a signal Mac joyfully recognized. They quickened their pace, and were climbing the stairs of the porch when the door swung open.
An old man with a face like an elf stood before them. His white beard was disarrayed and his long nightshirt hung over his knees, giving him a child- like appearance. "You must Mem Sarah," he said, imitating a voice Mac knew to be one of her hands and she smiled tiredly. The old man smiled back. "Please, come in and rest," he said as he ushered them inside.
When they were all settled in the kitchen, the old man introduced himself. "I'm Charles Whitfield," he said as he placed steaming cups of tea before them. "I've been expecting you since late last night. One of you hands came by and told me to expect you. I understand you've had a bit of a hard time recently."
Mac snorted softly. "That's an understatement," she told him ruefully, "I am the stationmaster at Sweetfern Farm. The farm was burned last night. My hands, my friends, and I barely escaped. I don't know if the sheriff is still looking for us." She turned her worried eyes to the man. "I don't want to bring trouble to you, but we had no where else to go."
Charles shook his hand at her, brushing aside her fears. "I wouldn't worry," he said, "You'll be perfectly safe here. As long as you have need to stay, you are welcome." Mac had barely smiled her thanks, when Harm collapsed forward onto the table.
The dirty and disheveled band approached the house carefully. Mac's skirt was torn in several places, and burrs stuck to her shawl. Harriet didn't look much better; her usually perfect curls were hanging loosely at her shoulders. Bud's pants were stained with mud and his equally dirty jacket was wrapped tightly around little AJ, who rested his pouting face on his shoulders.
Harm looked even worse; with arm in the smudged sling and his skin pale from the exertion, he actually looked dead. They'd only gone about a mile, when Mac noticed that his breathing was fast and labored, and he'd begun to lag behind. Mac paused when they had come to a shallow creek.
"Harriet, Bud," she said, "We've got to rest for a minute. I'm exhausted." She added the last part to spare Harm's pride, and he gave her a thankful grin as he sat down heavily, even though they all knew he was the one who needed to rest. Harriet took little AJ from Bud and sat down with him. She cradled him against her chest as Bud sat down behind her letting her lean back onto him.
Mac knelt down next to Harm and started to undo the sling. "Mac, I'm alright," he protested and tired to shrug her off, but the movement cause a sharp stabbing pain he hadn't felt since he'd pulled out the stitches.
"Like hell you are," she responded and pushed him back against the thick trunk of a magnolia tree. He surrendered and allowed her to remove the cloth sling. He used his good arm to cradle his injured one as she untied the cloth tethers tying his shirt shut. She opened his shirt to reveal his muscular chest and wounded shoulder. The stitches were still in place but there was a pale yellow pus oozing from beneath them, and the entire shoulder was an angry red. "You haven't ripped the stitches, but it's infected."
Harm closed his eyes against the pain Mac's short examination had sent shooting through his entire chest. "I know," he said, "It started a few days ago."
Mac raised her wide and dismayed eyes, and looked at him. "Why didn't you say anything?" she asked, her face quickly changing from worried to furious. "Did you know that infections like this can lead to fatal diseases? This could have killed you if it had been left untreated."
"Mac, enough," he reasoned in a pleading tone, "I noticed it yesterday, just before Brumby." He broke off the statement as a different shadow came over her face. Harriet and Bud looked over at them. Their gazes went from one to the other; the tension between them could have been cut with a knife. Harm sighed and shook his head. "I didn't want to worry you."
"Well, if you die, you'll have no one to blame but yourself," she seethed as she re-threaded the tethers of his shirt and replaced his arm in the sling. Regardless of her anger, she was very careful with his injured arm; after all, the injury wasn't responsible for this man's stupidity, she thought.
She left him sitting there and went to the creek where she tore a wedge of fabric from her skirt and dipped into the icy water. The temperature of the water sent a shiver rippling down her spine and cleared her turbulent mind. She knew Harm was only trying to spare her more pain, and that she was only directing her frustration at him because he was at hand.
She had closed the last hours from her mind, but as she knelt there by the water, they came broke over her like waves, each one more painful than the last. Brumby's men in the distance, their torches lighting up the dusk, Harm running with the hands toward the trees, the house burning, the sound of footsteps. She hadn't realized it but she'd twisted the small square of fabric tight and her knuckles had gone white with tension.
Harm watched her from his seat under the tree. He knew what she was thinking of by the set of her shoulders. He struggled to his feet and wandered over to her. He hesitated a moment before putting a steadying hand on her shoulder. He was rewarded when Mac placed her own hand over his.
She didn't know why she had responded like that. As soon as she felt his warm hand on her cold and tight shoulder she was reminded of the way relief had cascaded over her the day before when she realized the footsteps were his. She twined her fingers into his, and for a long moment they remained linked, she kneeling and he standing tall behind her. The moment was broken when little AJ gave a small cry. Mac released Harm's hand and rose to her feet. "We should get going," she said, her voice even and calm.
They had been forced to travel at an excruciatingly slow pace because of Harm's weakness. Hours later they approached a small farmhouse; a lantern hung outside the door, a signal Mac joyfully recognized. They quickened their pace, and were climbing the stairs of the porch when the door swung open.
An old man with a face like an elf stood before them. His white beard was disarrayed and his long nightshirt hung over his knees, giving him a child- like appearance. "You must Mem Sarah," he said, imitating a voice Mac knew to be one of her hands and she smiled tiredly. The old man smiled back. "Please, come in and rest," he said as he ushered them inside.
When they were all settled in the kitchen, the old man introduced himself. "I'm Charles Whitfield," he said as he placed steaming cups of tea before them. "I've been expecting you since late last night. One of you hands came by and told me to expect you. I understand you've had a bit of a hard time recently."
Mac snorted softly. "That's an understatement," she told him ruefully, "I am the stationmaster at Sweetfern Farm. The farm was burned last night. My hands, my friends, and I barely escaped. I don't know if the sheriff is still looking for us." She turned her worried eyes to the man. "I don't want to bring trouble to you, but we had no where else to go."
Charles shook his hand at her, brushing aside her fears. "I wouldn't worry," he said, "You'll be perfectly safe here. As long as you have need to stay, you are welcome." Mac had barely smiled her thanks, when Harm collapsed forward onto the table.
