Charlie Martz and Other Stories: The Unpublished Stories

  “I’ll be all right in a few days, Olin. Let me just rest and think a little bit and I’ll be all right.”

  “You take your time,” Worrel said gently. “I know this will delay our plans, but I don’t mind. I’ve waited a long time for you, Virginia; longer than you realize. I watched you even before you were married, so I guess it won’t hurt me to wait a little bit longer.” He hesitated awkwardly. “Just how long do you think, honey?”

  “Please . . . we’ll talk about it later.”

  “I’m always saying the wrong thing. Virginia, sometimes I could cut my tongue out. I mean I can run a business, give people orders that work for me. But I swear, Virginia, I get with you and I’m like a twelve-year-old boy.”

  “It won’t be long,” she said patiently.

  He patted her hand gently. “You get a good rest and don’t worry about anything. I’ll keep an eye on the house. With all those Yankees marching through, you just don’t know. Oh, they’ll be back, I know that; but right now they’re skittery, nervous because of Forrest—” He broke off, looking suddenly past her.

  “I heard it again. Virginia, there’s somebody in your house whether you know it or not.”

  “Olin, it’s all right—”

  “I know there is. I heard it.” He shifted his position, raising his head and looking beyond the hall into the parlor. “There!” His hand tightened on hers. He was tensed, listening, but now there was only silence and his hand eased open slowly. “Virginia, you heard that,” he whispered earnestly. “For Lord sake, like somebody falling to the floor.”

  He hesitated, studying the girl suspiciously, then brushed past her before she could stop him, hurrying through the front room to the dining room, then through it to the sun parlor. There, in the doorway, he stopped.

  A man he had never seen before was lying on the floor with both hands pressed tightly to his side. A Dragoon revolver was on the floor an arm’s length away from him, near a basin of rust-colored water. Long strips of cloth, cut from a sheet, were draped over one end of the sofa.

  “Virginia, he’s a soldier!” Worrel stared at the man’s faded gray jacket, unbuttoned but held almost together by a belt that crossed his chest to holster beneath his left arm. His eyes were closed, held tightly closed, and his jaw was clenched so that Olin could see his teeth through the light beard stubble that covered his face. He was a young man, perhaps no older than Virginia.

  She moved past him, stooping over the wounded man, then glanced back at Worrel. “Help me get him onto the sofa.”

  Worrel was frowning. “How’d he get here?”

  “He came to the back door, not an hour ago.”

  They raised him by his shoulder and heard him suck in his breath. But once on the sofa he seemed to relax. His eyes were still closed, but now his face was composed and his chest rose and fell evenly with his breathing. Worrel looked over her shoulder, watching her raise the wounded man’s hands from the bloodstained bandage that circled his waist. “It’s bleeding again,” Virginia murmured. “The bullet went cleanly through his side; but every time he moves it starts bleeding.”

  Worrel shook his head. “He’s got to have a doctor.”

  Virginia said, “There isn’t a doctor in Okolona. You know that.”

  “Yes there is.” Worrel paused. “One in McCrilli’s Brigade I know of for sure. He’s billeted right down the street from me.”

  Virginia looked up. “You’d hand him over to the Yankees?”

  “I’m thinking about the man’s life.”

  She had unfastened the bloodstained bandage and now pulled it gently from beneath the wounded man. “He wants to get back to his company,” Virginia said quietly.

  “You talk to him?”

  “A little bit. He’s been asleep most of the time.”

  “Who is he?”

  “His name is McLean. A lieutenant in Tyree Bell’s Brigade.”

  “That’s Forrest,” Worrel said. His voice rose nervously. “Virginia, will you tell me why you ever took him in?”

  “Olin, the man came to my door bleeding to death.”

  Worrel stroked his mustache thoughtfully. “We’ve got to think of something.”

  Virginia looked up again. “I don’t particularly care what happens to him. I don’t care much if he lives or dies. But I’m not going to turn him over to the Yankees.”

  “All right, then send him away. Make him get out the way he came.”

  “Is that what you’d do?”

  “I wouldn’t hesitate a minute. Not with seven thousand Yankees in the neighborhood and all of them nervous mean because Forrest is breathing down their necks. No, sir, I wouldn’t hesitate even a second.”

  Virginia began, “If it’s certain Forrest will retake Okolona—”

  “Listen,” Worrel said. “The only thing that’s certain is the Yankees are here this minute and that’s reason enough to get rid of him.”

  “He wants somebody to take him through the Union lines.”

  Worrel stared at her. “Are you serious?”

  “It’s the only thing he talks about.”

  Worrel stirred restlessly, frowning, looking from McLean to the girl. “But how’d he ever get here in the first place?”

  “Early this morning he was west of town with a scouting party and they ran into Yankees.” Virginia was holding a fresh cloth to McLean’s side now, not looking at Worrel as she spoke. “Mr. McLean was shot, but he clung to his horse until back somewhere beyond the orchard he dropped off. He said that he passed out; then, just about an hour ago, he came to the back door.”

  “The Yankees could come here any time,” Worrel said absently, glancing toward the drawn curtains of the windows. He was thinking of what he would say next, building the words in his mind. He glanced at McLean and saw his eyes still closed.

  “Virginia, listen to me. Listen carefully so you’ll understand the situation.”

  “Olin, I’m aware—”

  “Just a minute, Virginia. Listen and think it over like a reasonable person. Here’s the thing. General Sooy Smith comes down here from Memphis with over seven thousand Yankees, marches the whole way here in a week and nobody stops him. In the meantime Sherman has marched from Vicksburg clear to Meridian and nobody stops him either. You see what I’m driving at? Two Yankee armies controlling just about the whole of Mississippi.”

  This isn’t real, Virginia thought. You are going to marry him and you can’t even bear his serious, whining voice.

  “All right. Sooy Smith doesn’t get all the way down to Meridian like everybody says he was supposed to. He gets as far as West Point and finds Bedford Forrest with his scrawny little brigades pecking at his flanks. Good. But not good enough. Smith doesn’t join up with Sherman, but they say he’s destroyed a million dollars’ worth of corn, cotton, and railroad and picked up three thousand Negroes on the way. Not retreating, Virginia, just backing up now he’s done a job. Next thing, Forrest with his brother and Tyree Bell and Richardson and them, they come flying at Sooy Smith’s rear, and everybody thinks they got him on the run.”

  “A moment ago,” Virginia said, “you described them being nervous mean, afraid Forrest would overtake them.”

  “Virginia, listen to me. That’s true. A rear guard action isn’t the same as fighting head-on. You’re at a disadvantage, sure; but it’s temporary and it doesn’t mean you’re going to get licked.”

  Virginia nodded patiently. “And what does that have to do with Mr. McLean?”

  “The point is, the Yankees have Mississippi. Whether we like it or not they’re here. And if Sooy Smith pulls out of Okolona today. That doesn’t mean he won’t come back tomorrow. He could come swinging back before you even unload your Mr. McLean and you’d be worse off than you are now . . . I’m saying, Virginia, accept the facts. The Yankees are here to stay, so you might as well try to get along with them.”

  Virginia shrugged. “If the Yankees find him here, all right. If he wants to leave here on his own, that’s al
l right too. I don’t intend to help him, and I’m past caring about the war or what happens to me or anyone in it.”

  “What about us, Virginia. You don’t care what happens to us?”

  “Olin, let’s stop.” She rose abruptly and walked past him, through the dining room to the front of the house. In the parlor she turned, waiting for him. “Just leave now, Olin. Forget you ever saw him.”

  Worrel shook his head gravely. “I can’t do that. Not while you’re in danger for even one minute.”

  “Don’t dramatize it, Olin.”

  “I’m serious,” Worrel said. “I’ll find a way to lick this and I’ll come back. Just trust me, Virginia.”

  For some time she stood with her forehead pressed to the door. Worrel’s footsteps had faded to nothing, but still she stood listening, gradually becoming aware of the silence and the dim emptiness of the house. I’m tired, she thought. And there’s no sense to this.

  But he’s still there, she thought then, and moved from the door, passing soundlessly through the soft gray rectangles of light that stretched across the rug from the curtained windows, seeing him then in the sun parlor, beyond the dim length of the dining room, seeing his head turned on the pillow to face her and with his eyes open.

  His eyes were clear and held her gaze calmly, though the lines of his face, the beard stubble and lean, drawn expression, told of days with little sleep.

  She stooped, picking up the basin of water, and placed it on the side table. She noticed McLean’s revolver and stooped again, glancing at him this time, and saw his arm extended.

  “How do you feel?” She stepped close enough to hand him the revolver.

  “I’m afraid to move to find out.” McLean slipped the Dragoon under the pillow. He lowered his eyes then as Virginia kneeled beside him. She pulled open his jacket and gently peeled the bloodstained cloth from his wound.

  “You shouldn’t have got up.”

  “You left the door open,” McLean said. “I wanted to get out of view, but when I stood up it was like I didn’t have any legs. I just fell over and the blood started coming again.”

  She raised her eyes briefly. “It’s stopped now.”

  With his chin pressed to his chest, McLean studied her profile and the dark gleam of her hair. He watched her fold a strip of the linen and arched his back when she slipped it beneath him and brought it around his waist.

  “Who is he?” McLean asked abruptly.

  “His name is Olin Worrel.”

  “He wants to turn me over to the Yankees.”

  Virginia looked up. “I didn’t think you heard.”

  “Every word.”

  She shook her head. “He wouldn’t do that.”

  “I hope you’re sure.”

  “I know he wouldn’t. He’d be afraid of involving me.”

  “And himself.”

  She looked at him coldly now. “Mr. Worrel and I are engaged to be married.” She was suddenly sorry she had said it and she lowered her eyes again.

  “Oh.” McLean paused. “Was he in the war?”

  “He doesn’t believe in fighting.”

  “Is that right? You just say you don’t believe in fighting and that’s all there is to it?”

  “A man is entitled to his beliefs,” Virginia said.

  “Would he help me?”

  “I’m sure he’d be against it.”

  McLean said, “He just waits to see who wins, then goes on like nothing’s happened. Is that what he’s doing?”

  “I don’t feel qualified to speak for Mr. Worrel’s beliefs.”

  “Even though you’re going to marry him.”

  “Which doesn’t happen to be any of your business.”

  McLean came up on his elbows. “Listen, my business is to get through the Union lines to the Tombigbee River and I’m trying like almighty hell to find a way!”

  Virginia pushed him back gently. “You’ll start it bleeding again.”

  For perhaps a full minute McLean studied her in silence, watching her tie the ends of the bandage now. He said then, “Will you help me?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t mean endanger yourself. Just show me a way where I won’t have to go near the roads.”

  “You got here,” she said quietly. “Go back the way you came.”

  “We came from Egypt Station. But my brigade was doubling back across the Tombigbee and we were to rejoin them somewhere just north of Waverly.”

  “Perhaps they’ll be in Okolona tomorrow.”

  “I can’t lay here on a perhaps.”

  “I’d say you’ve already done enough.”

  “Look—all I’m asking is you show me the direction!”

  Help me, Virginia. Staring at McLean she heard the words in her mind, looking at his eyes and the lean, hard-boned shape of his face.

  She made sure of her words before saying, quietly, without emotion, “Five days ago my brother was here, home on furlough from McCulloch’s Brigade. He was here the day the Yankees came, when their cavalry came down the road stopping at every house, and my brother said, ‘Help me, Virginia. Talk to them. Do anything, but give me time.’ So I helped him. I talked to them while he ran out the back door and was shot seven times before he reached the orchard. Yes, I helped him, Mr. McLean. I helped him die instead of talking sense into him. He could have surrendered and he’d be alive today. But I helped him.”

  McLean watched her closely. “You stand for Olin Worrel’s beliefs but not your brother’s, is that it?”

  Virginia closed her eyes wearily. “I’ve had enough, Mr. McLean, if you don’t mind.”

  “Did you stand for your husband’s beliefs?” Her eyes came open. “I noticed your ring,” McLean said. “He’s dead?”

  “He was killed at Shiloh, serving with Wirt Adams.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “That’s too bad,” she murmured, staring at him now. “You put it very simply, don’t you?”

  “I’m sorry.” McLean hesitated. “I didn’t know what else to say.”

  “You didn’t mention it was too bad about my brother,” Virginia said coldly. “Do you think it is? Or my father. My father was killed September 19, 1863, at Chickamauga. Seventeen months and eleven days after my husband was killed. Do you think that’s too bad?” Their eyes held, neither of them looking away or moving.

  “My mother died exactly nine weeks after my father. How bad do you think that is? She died of pneumonia, though I can tell you the pneumonia had little to do with it. She was a widow nine weeks. On April 8, I’ll have been a widow for two years. That’s too bad too, isn’t it?” She stopped abruptly. Then, more calmly, she said, “If there is anything else you want to say, please say it now. I’d like very much to go lie down.”

  McLean shook his head slowly. “All you can feel is sorry for yourself.”

  Virginia’s eyes showed quick surprise, but almost in the same moment she was composed, staring at him in stony silence.

  “You’ve had enough war,” McLean said mildly. “Like your friend, Worrel, you’ve washed your hands of it and you sit very quietly asking yourself why did it happen to you, and what is it all about anyway and why don’t the Yankees go home, and why don’t people stop saying they’re sorry and why don’t they go home too and just leave you alone to sit and think about all the awful things that’ve happened . . . First your husband. You started to get over it—and don’t tell me you didn’t, because you can get over anything. Then your father and your mother, and you even started to get over that. But now your brother. This one is still fresh and right now it’s too much because it makes you think of the others, all of them at once, and you say, ‘Oh, God, what did I do? Why did it happen to me?’ Like you’re the only woman in the world who’s lost people in the war.”

  McLean paused, not taking his eyes from hers, holding her with the raw truth of his words.

  He went on, “And during this time, Olin came along. The old family friend who’s all of a sudden a beau because now
you’re a widow and twenty years’ difference between you doesn’t look like so much. He got to be like a fixture, I’ll bet, and you leaned on him because he was the only man close by, and one day he asked you to marry him and you said yes because you were thinking of yourself shivering with loneliness and you wanted to be held. You wanted a man to hold you and stroke your hair and say, ‘Honey, it’s all over. Go ahead, cry if you want. I’ll just hold you and I won’t let any more awful things happen to you. I’ll help you take the terrible sting out of remembering and after a while you’ll just have good memories and everything will be fine.” McLean watched her. “That’s how it is, isn’t it?”

  Virginia had not moved. She stared at McLean with a look of patient hatred and said, “You’re inhuman. No person with even a shred of feeling could say those things.”

  McLean shook his head slowly. “Virginia, I’m the realest thing you know. I’m real and human enough to know how you feel. Admit that, Virginia, even if it leaves your pride feeling naked.”

  Abruptly she wheeled from the sofa and he said, “Virginia!” And as she hesitated he said quietly again, “Virginia, look at my side and see if it’s bleeding.” He watched her turn to him again, avoiding his eyes. She kneeled and raised his jacket and he said, “That’s real, isn’t it? I’m lying here holding the thing and I’ll testify before God Almighty that it’s real.”

  For a moment her gaze softened beseechingly. “Can’t you just leave me alone?”

  “I’m running out of time, Virginia.”

  Her expression tightened. “And I’m running out of patience!” She started to rise, not looking at him—not until he reached for her and pulled her down against him and she felt his arms around her and his hands pressed firmly over her back. She tried to push away, her eyes furiously alive and close to his face now, but he held her tightly against him.

  “Listen to me!”

  She stopped struggling, stunned by the sudden harshness of his voice.

  “Feel sorry for yourself tomorrow,” McLean said. “Feel sorry for yourself all you want then. But not today. I don’t have time to hold you and comfort you and make the numb feeling go away . . . I could do it though, Virginia, and you know I could. I don’t have a wife; I haven’t made any promises to anybody; I could comfort you good.”