Chapter 6

© Copyright 2008 by Elizabeth Delayne



“I can read you a story,” Rachel said as she and Matthew walked hand in hand back to her little house. “Or I can let you draw me a picture.”

“My dad has fast horses,” Matthew said, so seriously Rachel smiled. He was thinking of the horses and not of pictures or stories, she thought, because his father had to ride quick to get the doc.

“I heard you say that.”

“He has Belle. Belle’s our fastest horse.”

And from his voice, he knew the levity of what a trip to get the doctor meant. Had she—at four—known such serious ideas of doctors and death? Maybe so ... especially right before the soldiers arrived in Charleston. She remembered more from the stories her father told.

But men had died. There had been talk. They could hear the sounds of war as the army drew near.

And then it took awhile for things to stabalize. Still, doctors were close by, in town. Of course, she knew now that people outside the city had to ride into town for the doctor. There were not so many to share in the South.

As the war had happened, soldiers moving through Charleston, there wasn’t much of anything to share. Period.

She’d been not much older than four, but she’d known fear. She’d known people who’d died, known women left widows and children left as orphans. She’d known men who returned from battles without an arm or leg, then left again to return to the battle

They’d spent much of their time without—food or supplies. The war had started in the harbor at the fort, and when the union troops returned they’d shown their displeasure.

Adults talked around the children. They told of the horror. They argued over the little things. They said hateful things.

There had been worry and fear as a child. Maybe not for her, at four, but for others. For so many others.

Rachel frowned again as she thought of Millie. Her dear friend, carrying a child—a child she might lose.

Beside her Matthew kicked at a stone, sending it forward. It rumbled down the planked sidewalk.

“Do you like horses?” she asked.

“I have a horse. One my ma picked out. I’m going to name the baby horse General Washington.”

“So you told me.”

“We raise horses. And cows. Lots of cows,” his brow furrowed. “We have a dog. I like dogs best. I like horses best, too.” he reached the stone and kicked it again.

Rachel watched it tumble over itself down the planked walkway. “Pa’s going to get the doc. He can ride fast. Especially when he rides Belle.”

“I’ve heard people say as much. Your pa’s a good man.”

“The horses are fast. Not ...” he frowned. “They weren’t fast enough to save my ma. My pa tried real hard. His horse rode real fast. And the doc came. But she didn’t get no better.”

“She didn’t get any better?” Rachel repeated as they neared her house. “Matthew I’m sorry.”

He frowned.

“My pa can ride real fast. He rides without a saddle, sometimes.”

“Does he?”

“Yes. I dreams bad things,” he said and this time stooped to pick up the rock, turning it over in his hand. “Some ... Sometimes. I dreams and I miss my ma.”

It was the most the boy had ever said on his own, about himself, about the sadness that seemed to plague him. Sensing his need to talk, Rachel walked first to her rocking chair and sat down. She wasn’t surprised when Matthew simply climbed into her lap.

“What do you dream about?”

“My ma.” He pocked at the button on her coat.

“About when she died?”

Matthew shook his head.

“She’s with me. She likes hugs. But she has no face. I don’t remember ...” he squinted as if trying to do so, then reach up to touch Rachel’s cheek. “I ... I can’t see her. I see,” he held up his own hands, his face so worried, so serious, that Rachel felt tears rise in her own eyes, “her hands. I not see her face.”

“Oh, Matthew.”

“I not want to tell my pa. He’s so sad. But I wished I could remember.”

“Do you have a picture to look at?”

“No. I drewed one. But I didn’t remember.”

“So you dream bad dreams and you keep them to yourself. You don’t have to keep them to yourself.”

He lay his head on her shoulder. “I miss my ma.”

“I know,” she said, as she began to rock him.

“Your mom’s dead, too?”

Rachel shook her head as she rubbed his arm up and down. “No. She’s back east. I can’t see her or talk to her. It’s different, because I could go home if I really needed to see her. I miss her, though. I look at her picture just about every day.”

Or had, Rachel thought, in the last month.

“I want to see her picture, too,” Matthew said, then shook his head. “But not right now.”

“No. Right now, you just rest. Just rest,” she murmured as she pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

And rocked ... to comfort them both.

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