stayed near Sarah, and Hixson went with Caleb to see.
A ragged man, wearing butternut Confederate pants and a Union shirt lay dead. This was one of those wartime renegades, stealing and looting from either side. They plundered the bodies of men killed in battle. They ransacked homes of civilians, always claiming to be soldiers. Those, it seemed, were the least of their crimes.
Looking around, Hixson could see that this was where they caught Sarah. She had a large block of wood she split firewood on, and a good-sized pile of kindling lay next to it. At some point, she hit this man with the maul and killed him. Towzer must have bitten the man: his shirt was torn in one spot and the arm beneath showed a severe bite.
The others must have grabbed her then: the marks of struggle were still in the soft dirt of the wood yard. Part of her torn clothing lay about, and the tracks of her being dragged to the cabin, struggling, showed. Towzer had attacked one of the other men, one wearing Union blue and been killed for it. Now he knew where the fabric in her teeth had come from. Hixson could see that the dog had tried to drag herself to the cabin, not making it.
They laid Towzer in the grave Caleb had dug, and covered it. Caleb wept for the old dog. She had been a true friend for as long as he could remember.
Hixson and Caleb dug another grave, thinking the man hardly deserved one. They chose a spot well off into the woods where Sarah was unlikely to stumble across it. Hixson didn’t like being so far from her at that moment, so they worked in double time.
Anger built into fury as he shoveled. He wanted desperately to go after the evil ones who had done this. Not that he had any idea which direction they had gone. Even if he had known, there was no possibility he would leave Sarah’s side when she was still in so much danger.
July 18th, 1865--Spotsylvania County, Virginia
Emma and Hixson took turns watching over Sarah as she lay unconscious. Caleb slept on the porch in the warm summer night. Around midnight, Hixson relieved Emma. He had not slept. Emma was wakeful too, but it felt good to lie down and rest.
He pulled the chair up close to where he could hold her hand and watch her. Hixson was afraid she would slip away and never wake up. Then he’d be afraid she would wake to her pain and have to suffer.
Hixson held her delicate hand in his rough one, gently stroking her arm or her hair. He hardly dared to look away. The swelling and bruises on her face did not matter. He still thought she was beautiful and could not get his fill of looking at her.
Deep into the night, Hixson was wide awake and holding her hand when she began to toss about, mumbling. Her cheeks began to show the flush of fever, flaming red on her pallid face. He could feel the heat of her rising temperature just by sitting near her. He bathed her face and arms with a damp cloth, trying to cool her.
By sunrise, she was in the feverish throes of a delirious nightmare, weeping and begging for help. Hixson tried to soothe her but she did not waken. Sarah would thrash around, move her dislocated shoulder or touch her wounded head, and cry out in pain.
The nightmares waxed and waned like storm waves on the sea, never going away completely. She screamed often, calling for Hixson to help her. Hixson was in turmoil. He was anguished to think she had called out to him and he was not there. He had let this horrible thing happen to her, when she was calling him. But she had called out for him. Called out for him. He had dreamed this. It was better in the dream.
There was no longer any doubt in his mind if it was love or gratitude he felt for her. He knew, when she cried out to him, that he would gladly die to save her this pain. Hixson kissed her perspiring face and spoke softly to her, hoping gentle words would break through somehow.
“Towzer! NO!” she screamed and reached out to the air. Later, a fading cry of “Oh, Hixson, please help me...” She could not be comforted.
Emma had an idea. “Hixson, why don’t you lay down next to her and hold her a while? Be very careful, but maybe if you put your arms around her, that’ll get through to her.” He had been longing to put his arms around her for months. It was entirely improper, but he could not have cared less. He carefully stretched out beside her, Emma helping to lift her slightly so he could slide his arm beneath her.
Hixson cradled her, gently stroking her hair and talking softly to her. She quieted, at last, and lay still. He looked down at her, feeling his love for her growing by the moment. She was resting easier. Hixson had never felt more needed.
He hadn’t slept all night, but with Sarah resting in his arms, Hixson was able to doze. Even sleeping, he held her gently and protectively. Later, when Hixson arose, he hated to leave her side.
Sarah woke near sundown. She had a raging fever, her shoulder and her other wounds were badly swollen and tender. There was no way for her to rest comfortably. All she could do was shift her position to alternate which of her wounds she irritated.
Sarah felt short of breath, it was so painful to take in a lungful of air. She also had a terrible headache. Any movement or light she saw was agony. She hated to complain, didn’t want to ask for help. She couldn’t stand to feel like she was being a bother to anyone. Sarah was going to have to give in, though. Her head felt like it was going to split open. Unable to bear it anymore, she asked for a cool cloth to put over her eyes.
Emma could see she was in terrible pain. Sarah’s breathing was rapid and shallow and her face was gray. Her heart raced, she trembled constantly and could not raise her voice above a whisper.
“Is there something I can give you for your pain? Tell me how to make it.” Emma didn’t know the remedies like Sarah did, but she could follow instructions.
“Bring that box on the shelf here.” Sarah whispered. She had the habit of keeping strong medicines on hand. If more than one person was hurt at a time, she may not be able to help all of them right away. She used ordinary pharmaceuticals as an emergency measure.
Emma brought the wooden box, opened it, and held it up for Sarah to see inside. Lifting her hand to point brought a moan to her lips, so Emma tried holding up the items one at a time. She held a small brown bottle, Sarah whispered an affirmative.
“Just a few drops.” The thick, sticky liquid in the bottle eased Sarah’s pain.
Emma had made a thin chicken broth, and Sarah was able to take a few spoonfuls before she slipped off into a drugged sleep.
July 19th, 1865--Spotsylvania County, Virginia
Emma could not persuade Hixson to go outside for more than a moment. He checked on Sarah constantly. Very conscious of her need for rest, he paced in his socks, making no noise. He was in fear for her life. He worried he might lose her, having never told her what was in his heart. Berating himself for not having come sooner, for not having written to her, he wrestled with his anguish.
Hixson and Emma spoke very little. Small talk was difficult, under the circumstances, and talking about what had happened made them each feel as if they would choke. A troubling thought preyed on Hixson. He felt he needed an answer.
“Did you know her mother? Was it this way for her?” Hixson’s hazel eyes were sad.
Emma’s expression matched Hixson’s. “We had been friends for years, when that happened. I think this is even worse: the bites, broken bones, more than one man… Yes, this is worse.”
“Can she gather light to use for herself? Could her mother?” Hixson asked.
“No, I don’t think so. I think it would hurt or burn or something. I’m not sure. They always seem to keep their hands away from themselves when they’re full of light like that. I’m not sure what would happen.” She took a deep breath, and changed the subject, but only a little.
“You know, Sarah learned something about that day. The man that had the broken ankle showed up here.” She told Hixson the story of Andrew Kayser, his brother David, the horses--everything.
Hixson in the chair by Sarah, thinking about all that he had heard. The turbulence that had taken place in Sarah’s life was upsetting. His heart went out to her, and he wished he had been there to comfort her. O
ne of the principal questions of his life, something that had always bothered him, perplexed him again. “Why do such bad things happen to good people?”
Emma was in a quandary of her own. Her mother was very ill and presumed to be on her death bed. Emma was needed with her family; Sarah was also in need.
Sarah was her dearest friend, almost a daughter. But Sarah had Hixson, and her mother did not. She finally decided to talk to Hixson about the dilemma.
“Hixson, lad. I’m in an awful pickle. I was going to me Mother’s because she’s about to die. I do not want to leave Sarah, but I can no’ let me Mother die alone. Do you think you can take care of Sarah by yourself?”
“Oh, Emma, I’m so sorry! I had no idea. Of course I can manage this. You need to be there with your mother. Don’t worry; I’ll take good care of Sarah.” Hixson said.
“Keep her resting, as much as you can. She’s still in terrible danger. If something goes wrong, ask Mr. Croshour on the next farm over to get me. He knows the way.” Emma hated to go, but could see no other choice.
July 21st, 1865--Spotsylvania County, Virginia
Emma was leaving the day Sarah thought she was ready to get out of bed. With Hixson’s help, she got to her unsteady feet.
She tried sitting in a chair, but she was still swollen, torn and bruised from the violations she had suffered. It was too