He nodded obediently, but then his attention was stolen by Mr. Carpenter, who was working his way up from the line. Trudy’s was, as well.
“No smallpox or typhus,” he whispered as he bent his head toward her ear.
Trudy breathed a sigh of relief, then watched as Mr. Carpenter turned and started working his way back down the line. He was leaning heavily on his good leg. She knew his other must be hurting. Presently Mr. Carpenter was taking names and asking questions concerning the local authorities and the missing food.
“That lieutenant over there at the garrison don’t concern himself with our matters,” Trudy heard one man tell him.
“Wouldn’t want no help from him even if he was,” another said.
“That man a Yankee?” Charlie asked her, his eyes apparently still focused on Mr. Carpenter. Trudy quickly turned her attention back to the boy. She wasn’t certain of the best way to answer his question, given what had happened on the road. “He’s not a soldier,” she said. “He’s a newspaperman. He is trying to find fathers and brothers who are missing.”
“Oh,” Charlie said. “I wanna be a newspaperman when I git big.”
At that, Trudy couldn’t help but smile. She gave the boy’s dark hair a loving tousle, then moved to the next family in line.
Blisters and minor skin infections were common sights, but there were plenty of coughs, bleeding gums and bruising, as well. The people’s lack of nourishment was manifesting itself in ways beyond thin faces and prominent ribs. Despite the blessed lack of a potential epidemic, her hope was low by the time she reached the end of the line.
A few sacks of cornmeal and Mrs. Webb’s soup, generous as it was, aren’t going to stem the tide. These people need meat and a regular diet of good nutrition, but she knew full well there wasn’t a chicken to be found in all of Virginia, and as for fresh vegetables, there were few now to offer. Still, faith compelled her to remain positive.
If God by his grace will sustain them a few more weeks, Dr. Mackay will send for more seed, more food, more medical supplies. We just have to do the best we can until they arrive.
Lifting her skirt, Trudy marched up the porch steps, intent on helping Sarah Webb distribute the soup and rations. It did not take long. When the last of those in need had been fed, Mrs. Webb offered her and the others a cup. Trudy was most grateful for the meager meal, as were her friends. They eagerly ate what was given—all, that is, except one of them. Mr. Carpenter had accepted his portion, although Trudy noticed he discreetly gave his cup to little Charlie when he thought no one was looking.
* * *
By the time darkness had fallen, most of the people had been tended. Miss Martin had efficiently assessed and directed those in need. Peter was relieved. There had been no trouble, socially speaking—no attempt by Zimmer, O’Neil or Jones to collect more food than allotted to them. Reverend Webb had insisted Zimmer was a bit of a bully but not one of serious action. Blustering was about all he would do.
What man with a hungry family in these conditions wouldn’t do the same? he thought. As for Zimmer’s family, Peter had not met them. The distance across the mountain was too far for them to travel and, apparently having no pressing medical needs, they had remained at home. Peter would have liked to have spoken to Zimmer’s wife, but he had through his conversations today learned one important detail. Mrs. Zimmer’s name was not Caroline. Unfortunately, Peter hadn’t met any other Carolines today and no one he had talked to had ever heard of anyone by the surname Carpenter.
His leg was aching and his belly rumbling. Peter found a quiet spot in the corner of the room and sat down. The most serious medical cases, coughs and reinfected wounds, remained. Those patients were destined to sleep on the floor or pews softened by what blankets Mrs. Webb could spare. He glanced about. The place looked as pitiful as any wartime field hospital, except the majority of those in distress were not soldiers. They were women and children.
Two of the widows in relatively good health had remained for the night rather than risk walking home in the dark with their small children. Peter wondered if the real incentive wasn’t the opportunity to share in the church’s store of lamp oil and the hope that the reverend’s wife might produce more food come morning. If that was the case, he couldn’t blame them. Remembering his frock coat on the back of his chair, he picked it up, rolled it into a ball and gave it to a particular dark-haired little boy. He had seen the child eyeing him a time or two today. Earlier he had given him his cup of soup because he knew that more than likely, the boy was still hungry after eating his own share.
“Here, young man, this will serve as a pillow. The floor can get hard.”
The child offered him a crooked, albeit appreciative, smile. His mother, sitting beside him and cradling a small baby, looked up at Peter with a measure of surprise and thankfulness. “Bless you, sir,” she said.
Ignoring the “sir,” Peter crossed back to his makeshift desk, inadvertently casting a glance in Miss Martin’s direction. Despite his doubts about her abilities, particularly after her initial shock, she had done well organizing the people. It had made the day less confusing. After directing each person where they needed to be, she had served as a general steward, floating from station to station, serving food, washing cups and bowls, fetching bandage rolls and emptying basins.
Presently she was seated on the floor, her skirts spread out around her, tearing a piece of faded fabric into bandage strips. She was studying him, with a somewhat puzzled expression on her face, almost as if she were trying to decipher his actions.
No doubt she saw what I did with my coat. Peter offered her a look in return. One that said, No, I have not changed my mind on bringing children into this world. It had the effect he had hoped, for Miss Martin then quickly returned her attention to the bandage rolls.
He went back to his unfinished article, which he was certain would not remain unfinished for long. I have plenty to say and plenty of fire to fuel it.
He planned to work on it through the evening and then, as soon as it was light, ride to Larkinsville. From there he would wire the article back to his staff in Baltimore, and give notice of the missing supplies so that a new shipment could be arranged. Afterward he planned to have a chat with the local garrison commander. From that he hoped to discover what had happened to the Federal escorts that were supposed to protect the wagon convoy.
He settled himself at his desk and picked up his pencil. Words, however, would not come. His thoughts were in a tangle. Peter had expected his sister-in-law to be heavy on his mind, but for some reason Caroline’s image, the face he had tried so desperately to properly assemble based on his brother’s written descriptions, was hopelessly crowded out by the very real, very near and very maternal image of Miss Martin. She was now bending over the little boy he had just visited and she was kissing him good-night.
Peter did finish the article, although it took much longer than he had anticipated. His thoughts didn’t clear until Miss Martin left the church building. She and Mrs. Webb went to the parsonage to gain a few hours of much needed sleep.
With the medical supervision squarely in the hands of Dr. Mackay and the night watch falling to Reverend Webb, Peter completed his article, then claimed the empty corner behind his makeshift desk. Curling up on the floor, he closed his eyes. Sleep however, came only in snatches. Thoughts of Daniel, of Caroline stole most of the night.
Daylight was just beginning to break over the Blue Ridge Mountains when Peter saddled his horse and prepared to mount. A polite greeting, however, kept him from doing so.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir. This be the place to git some help?”
Peter blinked, trying his best to focus on the figure emerging from the darkness. It was a freedman.