"What's wrong, Grace?" her mother demanded as she entered the house, quickly set down the pails and rushed into the bedroom.
"Gotta stop them getting Jamie," Edge yelled, thrashing his head from side to side on the sweat-soaked pillow, breaking free of the girl's tender caress.
"He's having a nightmare," Grace said, a helpless look in her beautiful eyes. "He won't be quiet."
"Delirious," her mother diagnosed. "Let him tire himself. He has little enough strength. It won't last long."
Grace drew back and both women watched anxiously as his body continued to writhe and fresh beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead with each new flood of words, which grew gradually less comprehensible until they were little more than rasping, disjointed phrases with no meaning. And as this inane rambling diminished into mere movements of the almost colorless lips, tired muscles gave up their struggle and his body became limp again.
"Was that the crisis?" Grace asked, not taking her eyes from the wan face of the stranger.
Margaret shook her head. "No, girl. Seems this feller has some bad memories. He was just fighting them. Reckon he won."
"Could we try him with some broth, now?"
The elder woman nodded. "Reckon so. Man like him is bound to have a lot in the past he'd rather forget. He'll have to be strong to keep winning."
Her daughter nodded and went into the other room, where a pot was already steaming on the fire. "Mother," she called as she ladled the thin soup into a bowl.
"Yes?"
"He kept calling out the name Jamie," Grace answered pensively.
"So what?"
"Maybe that's why he came here, him being so sick."
"Now it's you who are rambling, child," her mother accused. Grace carried the bowl of steaming broth into the bedroom.
"The name on the grave marker in the yard, mother," she said softly. "Its Jamie."
Margaret Hope caught her breath and stared hard into the lean face of the man on the bed. She swallowed hard. "It could be a different Jamie," she said without conviction.
"Perhaps," her daughter answered in a similar tone.
The eider woman continued to stare at the stranger for another few seconds, then shrugged and took the bowl from her daughter. "Well, even if this is Josiah Hedges and he's wanted for murder, that don't make him any less of a sick man. We gotta keep helping him, child."
"But I'll be glad when father and Allen get back," Grace said, shuddering as she recalled her shameless, night-time thoughts about the man.
"Amen to that," her mother replied.
CHAPTER FIVE
FOUR thousand five hundred men of the Confederate army had been routed at Rich Mountain and western Virginia seemed to be secure for the Union. Hedges did not know the tally, nor was he concerned with the political ramifications of the victory. To him it had been another lesson and if he derived any satisfaction at all from the bloody affray it arose from the fact that for some of the time he had been the teacher. He had gone on to the mountain as part of a rabble and when he came down from it he headed a group of men who, under his instruction, had learned to kill not merely with skill—many were already adept at the art—but with a purpose. And if he had any regrets they arose from the regrouping of these men into their own troops as the push to the Shenandoah Valley continued. Rich Mountain had proved that an officer was only at his best when he trusted the men under his command and Hedges had seen enough during the battle to realize that there were a great many troopers in Union blue too scared or too obstinate to accept the discipline of organized fighting. Inevitably Leaman's troop bad its fair share of these and Hedges did not relish the prospect of superintending further practical instruction in the heat of conflict. But, as the two sections of McClellan's army joined up and made camp in the valley, Hedges did not voice his opinion or his reservations. His parents better teachers than any army—had instilled in him the futility of complaint.
Not so Frank Forrest and his five compadres. Unwilling to accept the situation as it was, they gathered in their bell-tent close to the perimeter of the camp and soon the air was as blue as their uniforms as they vented their dissatisfaction with Captain Jordan's leadership. They were the type of men who resented authority of any kind, but they could recognize and respect fearlessness and strength in another and to such qualities there was due an allegiance which no mere insignia of rank could command. Thus it was that the power of Forrest's personality over-ruled Douglas's" chevrons and the big man with the cruel smile outlined the plan with which the others unhesitatingly concurred.
Forrest ran through it twice more, looking in turn at each man clustered around the flickering flame of the candle, drawing from every gaunt and grizzled face a look of excited anticipation.
"All right, Bob," he said at length. "Do your stuff and do it good." He leaned close to Rhett and grinned evilly. "Ain't no danger in this part, so you ought to be good."
Rhett drew back and stood up. "Why must you always malign me so, Frank?" he asked.
Forrest made a sound of disgust. "Go and use your Princeton words on the Captain."
Rhett could smile now, but made sure Forrest could not see and take exception to the expression as he went out through the tent flap. He was a shallowly handsome man with clean-cut features and bright eyes, the latter emphasizing his good looks and reflecting his natural intelligence. But it was easy for the more than simply casual observer to penetrate the thin facade and recognize the character defect that made him a cheat, liar and coward. But many who saw this found themselves charmed into disregarding it by the wit and charm of the man. This was a fact that had saved Rhett's life on more than one occasion.
He had a foppish, almost mincing gait and as he meandered among the tents, heading down to the bank of the river a number of ribald remarks were slung in his direction. He smiled lightly in reply to some and tossed back a verbal rebuttal to others. Rhett had long ago learned to accept such slights without taking offense and the men, drained by the fighting on Rich Mountain, welcomed the injection of humor and laughed too loudly at the New England dandy. Hedges, sitting on a tree stump outside his tent and smoking a cigarette as he cleaned his Spencer and Colt, watched Rhett come into view. He wondered idly whether Rhett was seeking a partner and found himself surprised that the idea did not disgust him. It seemed incredible that only a few short weeks ago the merest suggestion of an unnatural association would have generated a deep sense of shock. Hedges sighed and continued with the cleaning chore, resigned to the fact that when a man's character was changed, it altered in more than one aspect.
Jordan was inside his tent, stretched out on his blankets.
But it was a warm night and the flap was pulled back.
"Sir?" Rhett called softly.
The captain had been dozing, lulled to the edge of sleep by the gentle sounds of the flowing river.
"Captain Jordan?" Louder.
He came awake abruptly, his body jerking into a sitting position, his arrogant features showing alarm. Rhett knew precisely how the officer felt, but experienced no sympathy for him. Cowards, when they are in a position of strength, bear the most malice. He smiled into the mouth of the tent, enjoying the sight of the trembling Jordan trying to regain his composure.
"You want me, soldier?"
Rhett executed a limp-handed salute and forced himself to appear humble under the steady scrutiny of his superior. "Begging your pardon, sir. My buddies have captured a Confederate infantry officer. We feel it would be..."