Page 60 of Under the Tulip Tree
“Yes, thee can. I’ll be nearby should thee need me.”
She pushed the door open the rest of the way and offered me a sympathetic smile. My feet felt wooden and heavy, but I made them move forward. Two dozen or so beds with men occupying them lined the walls. I hadn’t thought to ask what Sam’s injuries were. Would I still recognize him?
At the very end of the row, I saw him, a blanket tucked beneath his chin with only his face visible. His eyes were closed and his skin had a gray tinge to it. I could detect no movement whatsoever.
Was I too late?
Before I had a chance to turn and run from the room, his chest rose and fell ever so slightly. Then again. He was alive, and all the fear I’d bottled up since he walked away from my tent before the fighting started came out in a feral sob.
His eyes slowly opened. Seeing me, he tried to smile, but a grimace came to his face instead. “Frankie,” he whispered. I could tell it took every ounce of strength to speak that one word.
“Oh, Sam.” I fell to my knees beside his cot. I didn’t know the extent of his injuries, so I didn’t reach for him.
“I told him I couldn’t go without seeing you.”
His voice barely made it past his parched lips, and I had to lean in to hear. “You ain’t going nowhere. You’re gonna stay right here and get better.”
He shook his head. “It’s time.”
I realized then he meant it was time for him to die. For some crazy reason, that ignited my anger instead of my fear.
“You listen to me. You is gonna get well. You promised me we’d marry up when the war was over, and I’m holdin’ you to it.”
A hint of a smile raised the corners of his mouth. “We woulda had us a good time, Frankie.” He sounded weaker, if that were possible.
Tears sprang to my eyes. “You hush now and get some rest.”
His gaze locked on mine. “I don’t regret it, Frankie. That boy. I don’t regret it.” His eyes fluttered closed and his body went limp.
“Sam?” My heart dropped to my toes.
“He’s still with us,” Illa said from behind me. “He’s been in and out of consciousness since they found him on the battlefield.”
I turned and gaped at her. “On the battlefield? What was he doing there?”
“He volunteered to help carry the wounded from the field.”
I looked at Sam’s ashen face again. “Fool man,” I hissed. “Why didn’t you stay where you’d be safe?” Hot tears streamed down my face and dripped onto my dress.
“Sam saved many lives, Frankie.”
I stared at him, wishing I could see that maddening smile again. “But now he’s gonna die because of it.” His words cameback to me. “What boy is he talking about? What doesn’t he regret?”
Illa sat on the edge of Sam’s bed near his feet. “From what I’m told, Sam saw a young soldier go down during the height of the fighting and rushed to pull him from harm’s way. The Confederate who shot him charged forward with his bayonet at the ready. Sam didn’t stop. He hoisted the young man onto his shoulders and tried to make a run for it, but the other man was faster. He stabbed Sam several times. When they found him after the shooting ended, he’d crawled on top of the young man to shield him.”
My chin trembled as I fought sobs that threatened to explode from me. Sam was a hero. And now God was going to take him away from me, just as he’d taken away everything I’d ever loved.
Illa left a short time later. She was needed back at the hospital where she’d found me. I knew I wouldn’t leave Sam’s side until his spirit slipped away. Nurses and volunteers came and went from the ward. No one checked Sam’s bandages, and I knew they expected him to die. I took it upon myself to bathe his face, wondering for the first time what it might have been like to be Sam’s wife.
Time passed, but Sam didn’t awaken again. His breath grew shallow and labored. I couldn’t sit here and watch him die. I needed a distraction. Glancing about, I saw a burlap sack underneath his bed and tugged it out. Inside were Sam’s worn hat and his Bible, muddy and wet but still intact. I guessedhe’d had it on him when the enemy tried to end his life. I carefully opened the small book, the pages parting on their own to the Psalms. How Sam loved the poetry of those words. We’d talked about them many a time over the years, relishing their beauty and discussing their meaning.
I stopped at the Twenty-third Psalm, Sam’s favorite.
“‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.’”
A lump formed in my throat and my lips trembled. I could almost hear Sam’s deep voice reciting the words.
“‘He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.’”
