The sound of Sam’s barking brought Abigail sharply from her reverie. The black dog bounded toward her from a nearby copse of trees, stopping a few feet away from her and raising a noisy racket. The intensity of his barking was unusual, and Abigail narrowed her brows in concern.

“What is it, boy?” she wondered.

Sam took off in the direction of the woods. As they approached the thicket, Sam lunged ahead, forcing Abigail to lift her skirts and break into an unladylike run. Still, Sam reached the site of his concern before her.

Abigail arrived panting, her chest heaving as she stepped around a dense shrub to see the source of the dog’s distress. Her hand flew to her mouth as a gasp escaped her lips. A man lay face-forward in the leaves, his head resting on his forearm. A stain of crimson colored the right side of his gray uniform.

Staring at the wounded man, a million thoughts raced through Abigail’s mind. Why was he here? How had he been shot? And who was he? But all these were quickly erased by one more pressing question.

“Is he still alive?” she wondered, taking a tentative step toward him.

Leaning cautiously over him, she noted the shallow rise and fall of his chest. Peering over his shoulder, she could see the contours of his left cheek. “Barely,” she whispered, horrified. Gaunt, his skin as gray as his uniform, he appeared to be clinging to life by only a fragile thread.

“Oh dear God,” Abigail whispered. “Sam, you stay with him,” she ordered the dog, who seemed to understand as he lay down next to the injured soldier and licked his hand.

Turning on her heel, Abigail hurried back to the house, rushing into the kitchen in a hurricane of whirling skirts and rushing words.

Lizzie huffed, wiping her dark hands on her apron as she stepped away from the stove to command, “Calm down, child!” Taking in Abigail’s wide eyes, she queried, “What on earth’s the matter?”

“A man!” Abigail tried to explain, “in the woods—“ she pointed in the general direction where he had been found. “He’s been shot, and he’s barely breathing!”

“Lawd have mercy!” Lizzie exclaimed. Turning to the young black girl sweeping the kitchen floor, she snapped, “Ruthie, you take those biscuits out when they gets gold brown on top and stir that pot, you here?”

Ruthie nodded obediently, the broom held immobile in her hands.

“We gonna need some help bringin’ him in,” Lizzie thought out loud. “Better see who’s in the stable.”

Abigail followed Lizzie breathlessly to the barn, standing back as the cook explained to the stable master and groom, “We gots a ‘mergency what needs your help. Follow me!”

Washington and Abel immediately dropped their tasks and made to follow her. Lizzie turned to Abigail, who quickly led them to where Sam waited with the invalid. They found him exactly as Abigail had left him, head resting on his arm, unconscious.

“Good boy, Sam,” Abigail patted the dog’s head as he left his vigil to stand beside her.

Washington lowered his bulk to the ground beside the young man, shaking his head. “He ain’t too good off, Missy. I think he half-dead already.”

Lizzie knelt down beside Washington, her nimble fingers pulling back the layers of clothes which covered the wound to examine the bullet’s point of entry. “I bets I could get that shot out,” she mused. “Ain’t infected yet… I’s thinkin’ he just plumb worn out from runnin’ and never havin’ no good food.”

The stable master stared at the cook incredulously, his dark eyes round and his second chin wobbling beneath his first. “This here ain’t no kitten, Lizzie. That’s a Rebel soldier!”

“You think I don’t know that?” the little woman retorted, unperturbed by the large frame towering over her. “Bring him to the house. I hide him in the cellar.”

Abigail released the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

“You can’t hide no Rebel at Bloomin’dale!” Washington sputtered. “You out of your ever-lovin’ mind!”

“What you gonna do?” Lizzie came to her feet, just barely taller than the big man when he was kneeling. Hands on her narrow hips, she lifted her black eyebrows in challenge. “Shoot ‘im? He ain’t one of your horses.”

The stable master’s black skin flushed red as he growled in reply. “You gots to promise to tell Mastah Sterret. I ain’t risking my hide for no damn Johnny Reb.”

Abigail stepped forward. “I’ll tell Papa. I know he’d want us to help.” Her mother, on the other hand, was an entirely different story.​

The air was cloying even though the temperature had cooled since the sun went down. On the back porch at Laurel Hill, Clara rocked a slow and measured rhythm by the dim light of the twinkling stars and crescent moon. The humidity curled the loose tendrils which had escaped her braid, and perspiration dampened her skin.

Since Jeremiah had been sent to the front, Clara hadn’t slept a night through. Every time she laid her head upon the pillow and closed her eyes, her mind began racing with a myriad of awful possibilities. Finally admitting that rest was an elusive wish, she had given up on the effort and taken to passing the sleepless hours of the night in the rocking chair. At least there she could see the open expanse of the sky and hope that somewhere her husband was gazing up at it too.

Of all the bloody battles the Civil War had seen, the battle at Gettysburg had been the bloodiest. The Union had claimed it as a victory, but with the ever rising toll of the dead and wounded, there was no glory to be found in it.

Every day the casualty list grew as the reports trickled in from the front. Jeremiah’s name had not appeared in the paper, but that was little assurance when so many injured were still being found, and the identity of many deceased would remain forever unknown. Clara couldn’t explain it, and she didn’t even try, but she knew her husband had been present at the battle and was wounded there.

As the hours of the night grew long, Clara’s eyes finally grew heavy. She waited until she could barely carry herself up the stairs to fall into bed, grateful for a brief escape from the suffocating black cloud of foreboding that pressed in on her.

Morning came too quickly, and Clara dragged herself wearily from the comforting oblivion to meet another day. Her mind was numb with exhaustion and she fumbled through her morning routine in a trance. The sunlight streaming through the muslin curtains told her she had already slept longer than she should have, and she felt a twinge of guilt as she rushed down the stairs.
The sound of a man’s voice in the parlor brought her to a halt, heart thumping wildly against her ribs. Despite the warmth of the day, she could feel the blood draining from her face and her fingertips felt cold as ice.

“She hasn’t come down yet. I’m afraid she isn’t going to take it very well,” Francis replied, an edge of pain layering his words.
“I’ll wait so we can give her the news together,” her father’s somber voice replied.

Clara closed her eyes, taking a deep breath before she squared her shoulders and willed her feet to propel her forward. She dreaded hearing the words, but the truth would find her sooner or later.

She entered the parlor as if she was facing a firing squad, determined to meet the pain with as much dignity and courage as she could muster. Her father stood rigidly by the window, a newspaper crumpled in his hands. Francis sat in the armchair as if he had collapsed there, shoulders stooped and face drawn.

“What’s happened to Jeremiah?” Clara demanded in a quiet, steady voice.

The men’s gaze met, then shifted slowly back to her. It was her father who answered, “He’s been wounded at Gettysburg.”
​
Clara’s breath left her lungs in a rush. At least he was still alive, or had been at the time the information was released to the paper. Instead of the tears they expected, Clara lifted her chin stubbornly as she announced, “I’m going to be with him.”

(Excerpt from ON GROUNDS OF HONOR, MY BROTHER'S FLAG, BOOK 1)