Into the Wilderness. Laura Abbot

hailed down upon him and the earth trembled with the reverberations of cannon fire. Moaning, he clawed his way to consciousness. Will Creekmore stood over him, his face illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the window of the officers’ barracks. “Montgomery, can you wake up?”

      Caleb tried to focus, then sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, groggy and disoriented. “The dream,” he croaked.

      “Again?”

      All Caleb could do was nod in disgust and humiliation. The ghosts of combat refused to relinquish him. He had come to dread sleep because of the horrific night visitors. He wiped beads of sweat from his brow even as he shivered in the cool night air. Mustering strength, he stood and clapped Will on the back. “Sorry to have disturbed you.”

      Will smiled ruefully. “You’re not alone. We all have our battle scars.”

      That was true, and Caleb understood each man’s struggle was personal. “Go back to bed, friend.” He drew on his trousers. “I’ll be fine. I just want to clear my head.”

      He stepped out on the front porch, needing to purge from his body and soul the terrors that sat upon him like lead weights. Would this torment ever abate? Could anything or anyone cleanse his poisonous memories? He leaned on the railing, gazing over the encampment. Others were sleeping, most, peacefully, he surmised. But on nights such as this, sleep was a luxury he could not afford to indulge, not when it might invite again such troubled dreams.

      He looked up at the sky, brilliant with moonglow and starlight. If there was a God, was He up there? Amid the countless stars, why would He concern himself with one tortured cavalryman? And yet... “His eye is on the sparrow...”

      He reminded himself of the good in the world. His family. His loyal troops, some risking their lives to carry wounded mates to safety. Lily—a lovely young woman acquainted with grief. He must not, however, come to depend upon her to be the light in his darkness. Rather he should spare her his demons.

      Such wisdom, though, was at odds with his instincts toward friendship. What could friendship hurt? Her frequent visits to her mother’s grave confirmed that a military outpost could be a lonely place for a woman, too. As he remained on the porch, surrounded by night sounds, gradually an image of Lily replaced that of his nightmares. He fixed on it, grateful for his clearing mind and slowing respiration.

      He didn’t know how long he stood there, but finally he went back inside, lighted the lantern and tried to lose himself in Charles Dickens’s David Copperfield. Unable to concentrate, he set the book aside and picked up a piece of paper and a pen. He held the pen in the air, gathering his thoughts. Finally he dipped it in the ink and began writing. With each succeeding stroke, he felt his torment subside.

      * * *

      May 1 dawned with the cheery songs of birds and the tantalizing aroma of hotcakes. Lily patted the empty space on the mattress beside her. Rose was already up and cooking. Cocooning herself in the covers, Lily lay listening to the avian reveille, soon joined by the bugle version. She found something predictably reassuring about military schedules, which, like clocks, remained constant.

      She had posted her letter to Aunt Lavinia and hoped she had been subtle but effective in saying how much she anticipated reuniting with her aunt and being introduced to the wonders of St. Louis. She knew such a trip would be expensive and that her father could not afford the entire cost. Months ago, Lavinia had offered to underwrite the expense. Had she forgotten? Or was the delay merely about timing? Lily appreciated that summer was not the season to go, but if she was to travel in the fall, plans had to be made.

      She sighed, then reluctantly left the warmth of the bed and moved to the pitcher and basin on the nightstand to make her morning ablutions. She chose her rose-colored dress, which seemed a fitting way to greet the new month.

      Her father was already sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee cradled in his hands. Rose bustled at the stove, pouring more batter into the sizzling iron skillet. “Good morning, everyone,” Lily said.

      Her father smiled. “Top of the morning, daughter.”

      “I didn’t mean to dawdle, but it was so cozy.” She moved to Rose’s side. “How can I help?”

      “Put the butter and honey on the table and I’ll bring the hotcakes.”

      When they were all seated, Ezra said grace. Lily had just picked up her first forkful of food when she thought she heard a light tap on the door. Rose, too, cocked her head toward the sound. “Did you hear that?” Lily asked.

      Her father looked up. “What?”

      “Perhaps a knock,” Rose said. “I’ll go.”

      When she didn’t return right away, Ezra called, “Was anyone there?”

      “Not exactly,” Rose said, a hint of laughter in her voice. When she came back into the kitchen, she concealed something behind her back. Ezra regarded her expectantly. “You look like the cat that ate the canary.”

      “A surprise was left on our doorstep.” Then she produced a small bouquet of wildflowers wrapped in a newspaper secured with twine. “Happy May Day, Lily.” Rose beamed, handing the bouquet to her sister and winking at her father.

      A blush rose to Lily’s cheeks as she studied the flowers. Nestled among the wild violets, primroses and sprigs of fern was an envelope inscribed with her name.

      “It would seem you have an admirer,” her father said. “I remember well the times I left a May Day bouquet at your mother’s door when I was courting.”

      Lily set the bouquet on the table and pulled a note from the envelope. Scanning it for a signature, she murmured, “Not an admirer, Papa. A friend.”

      Then engrossed in the message, she failed to see a knowing look pass between her father and sister.

      In strong masculine handwriting, the words blurred in her vision as she recalled her last conversation with Caleb at her mother’s grave.

      If when thy thoughts to gloom do fly

      And sorrow seeks thy soul to cloy,

      Mayhap these blooms may still thy sigh

      And serve as harbingers of joy.

      A friend

      “Well?” her father studied her inquiringly.