AT HOME AGAIN.
When their leader fell, the Confederate cavalry wheeled about and
galloped away toward the mountain. Uncle Dan ordered his men to cease
firing, as Irene was directly between them and the flying enemy, and her
life would be endangered by every shot.
Stunned, confounded, and nonplussed by Irene's sudden and unexpected
action, the old man, without loading his rifle, hurried after her. She
was kneeling by the side of the insensible soldier, holding his bleeding
head on her knee. The horse was struggling in the last throes of death,
the blood streaming from two wounds in his breast. Oleah had fallen
clear of his horse and had struck his head in falling on a large stone.
"Speak to me, oh! speak to me, Oleah!" cried Irene, bending over him.
"Oh, my love, it is I who have killed you! Save him, Uncle Dan. He must
not die!"
"I fear he'll never speak again," said Uncle Dan. He said no more, for
with one wild, long shriek the poor girl swooned on the breast of him
whom not even the avowal of her love could thrill.
"Come here, some o' you fellars what's a loafin' about there?"
commanded the old scout, as half a dozen soldiers approached the place.
The men were soon at his side.
"Now, some o' you pick up that gal, and the rest o' ye that fellar and
take 'em to the house. Lift 'em gently as though they were babies. This
has been a sorry job."
The soldiers obeyed, and Uncle Dan followed the group with both sorrow
and amazement plainly visible on his features. They carefully laid Irene
on the bed and called Mrs. Jackson to attend her, while Uncle Dan and
another member of the company examined the injuries of Oleah. They found
a gun-shot wound in his right side under his right arm. A rifle-ball had
passed through the muscles of his right arm, between the elbow and the
shoulder, but no bones were shattered and the wound was not a dangerous
one. The cut on the head, caused by being thrown against the stone as he
fell, seemed more serious, but an examination soon convinced them that
it might not be fatal. They dressed the wounded arm and washed the blood
from his head, and he began to show signs of returning consciousness
just as Irene, recovered from her swoon, started up, crying:
"Where is he, where is he?"
"Here he is on the floor beside you," replied Mrs. Jackson. "Lie still
until you are better."
"No, no," she replied, putting aside Mrs. Jackson's restraining hand.
"Let me go to my husband! Lay him on the bed," she said to the men.
"What kind of a deuced change has come over that gal," thought Uncle
Dan. "She hated him like pizen afore he got hurt, but now she loves him
to distraction."
"Please, Uncle Dan," pleaded Irene, "have him put on the bed, he must
not lie on that hard floor when he is wounded!"
"Boys, lift him up on the bed. She shall have her way."
Oleah, still unconscious, though breathing more freely, was placed on
the bed. His head had been bandaged, and a soldier stood by his side
dropping cold water on the wound from a cup.
"Give me the water," said Irene. "I am his wife."
As Irene took her station by his side, the wounded soldier opened his
eyes, and vacantly stared upon the group in the room. Irene bent over
him, with her soul in her eyes; his eyes rested on her with no gleam of
recognition for a moment, and then feebly closed again.
Uncle Dan had ordered a litter made and four men now entered with it,
and reported that everything was ready for departure. Oleah was placed
upon the litter, and Irene rode beside it, half the men preceding it and
half following. Mrs. Jackson, at her earnest request, had been left at
the cabin, and the guarded litter was not two miles on its way before
her red-headed husband came from the woods, suave and smiling, and the
two hurried away toward the gap between the Twin Mountains. When next
heard of the Jackson family was at Colonel Scrabble's camp.
The movements of Uncle Dan were necessarily slow, and it was late at
night when they arrived at the plantation. Irene with Uncle Dan rode
forward to prepare the planter and his wife for Oleah's coming, the
others following slowly. We will not attempt to describe the scene that
followed--their joy at Irene's return, their astonishment at her story,
their anxious alarm when she told them of Oleah's condition. She had
hardly ceased speaking, when they heard in the hall the slow, heavy
tread of men who carried a helpless burden. A fever had set in, and
Oleah was in a critical condition. A messenger was despatched to
Snagtown for the family physician, and Uncle Dan left his prisoner and
returned to his command at the Junction.
For ten weary days and nights Oleah was unconscious or raving in the
delirium of fever, and during all that time Irene was at his side, his
constant attendant. When the fever had subsided and the man, once so
imperious in his youthful strength, lay weak and helpless as an infant,
but conscious at last, she was still at this post.
It was on a cold, still Winter evening. The snow lay white over the
landscape, but candlelight and firelight made all bright and warm
within. As Irene returned from drawing the heavy curtains, he opened his
eyes and fixed them on her, as he had done many times during his long
illness but this was not a wild vacant stare, it was a look of
recognition. His lips moved, but her ear failed to catch the feeble,
fluttering sound. She eagerly bent her head. Again his lips moved.
"Irene!" was the faint whisper.
"Do you know me, Oleah, do you know me?" she asked, tears of joy shining
in her eyes.
Only his eyes answered her. Stooping she pressed a kiss on his pale
lips. With a smile of perfect content he raised his weak arm and put it
about her neck.
But there were other anxious hearts to be relieved, and Irene left him
for a moment, went swiftly through the hall, and her glad voice broke
the silence of the room where sat father and mother and physician:
"He will live! He will live! He knows me now."
They hastened to the sick-room. The favorable change was plainly
visible, though the patient could not speak above a whisper and only a
few words at a time. The doctor issued peremptory orders to keep him
quiet and to let him have as much sleep as he could get.
The recovery was slow and for several days yet not certain. The Winter
was well nigh spent before Oleah was sufficiently recovered to be
conveyed to the Junction. His young wife accompanied him.
Oleah was detained a few days before his parole could be signed and then
he was allowed to return. During the time he was in the Union camp, the
brothers were frequently thrown together, but not a word escaped their
lips of welcome or recognition. Abner passed silently and coldly by and
Oleah maintained the indifferent bearing of a stranger. Irene saw this
complete estrangement and it embittered all her joy.
On the day Oleah was paroled and was about to return home, Abner's
company was on drill. The sleigh passed the drill-ground and so near the
captain that his brother might have touched him with his hand. Abner,
seeing who was passing, drew his cloak about his shoulders and turned
coldly away. Winter passed and Spring came with its blooming flowers and
singing birds. And not only the flowers awoke, and bird songs thrilled
the air, armies, that had lain dormant all Winter, were in motion and
the noise of battle was renewed.
The farmers tilled the soil. Negroes, boys, and old men, and even women
toiled at the plows, while fathers and brothers, and husbands and sons
were engaged in grimmer work.
Oleah had been exchanged at last and had joined his company, leaving his
young wife to use all gentle endeavor to comfort and cheer the father
and mother, who watched with sorrowful anxiety the movements of both
armies.