The Reading Garden - Historical7
Important notice: All excerpts have been submitted by the author.
Author: Lorraine Heath
PROLOGUE
Autumn, 1862
Beyond the stone walls, the days melted into twilight.
But within the dark void that the walls created, Clayton Holland
knew only the inky blackness of a starless night. Days contained
neither dawn nor dusk but were filled instead with the monotonous slow
passage of time as he waited, his conscience his sole companion.
Kneeling beside his cot, he pressed his forehead against his
clasped hands and rested his elbows on the thin mattress. The foul odor
of the men who'd come before him wafted around him. In a raw voice, he
prayed for his trembling to cease, for courage, and, most of all, for
the strength to stand firmly by his convictions in these final hours.
After so many repetitions, the prayers should have come easily,
but each prayer was different from the one that came before it. With
each passing moment, the lingering doubts surfaced, taking on different
shapes: the love in his mother's eyes turning to ravaged grief; his
father's guiding hands drifting away and leaving him to journey along
his own path.
His latest prayer went unfinished, his body involuntarily jerking
as someone jammed a key into the lock of his cell door. As the door
squeaked open, a sliver of light spilled into the blackened abyss.
Raising a hand to shield his eyes from the pale glow, Clayton
struggled to his feet. The door closed, a key grated, but the light
remained. Slowly, as his eyes adjusted, he lowered his hand, and a
stout man carrying a lantern came into focus. "Dr. Martin?" he rasped.
The man cleared his throat, the harsh sound filling the dismal
silence. "Yes, it's me, Clay."
"Is it time?"
"No, not yet. I just thought you could use a little company for a
spell."
Clutching the waistband of his threadbare woolen trousers with one
hand, Clay extended the other toward the man who had brought him and
most of the boys of Cedar Grove, Texas, into the world. He almost wept
as the doctor's hand warmed his. "Thank you for coming, sir. Do you
want to sit? It's not fancy." He released what he hoped was a laugh
and not a sob. "I'm not even sure it's clean."
"It'll do fine," Dr. Martin said as he sat on the wobbly cot and
set the lantern on the floor.
Clay eased onto the cot, leaned against the wall, and studied his
visitor. Dr. Martin appeared older in the shadows, yet Clay could still
see the wrinkles the doctor's kindly smiles had carved into his face
over the years.
As a boy, whenever Clay had been ill, he'd always felt better once
he heard Dr. Martin was on his way. He found comfort in the man's
presence now even though he knew the doctor could do nothing for him.
"Do you think it'll be a clear morning?"
"Appears it will be."
"Do you know if I'll be facing east? I sure would like to see the
sunrise before I --"
"I don't know."
"Why do you think they execute people at dawn anyway?"
Dr. Martin's shrug was lost in the shadows. "I truly don't know."
A strangled laugh escaped Clay's lips and wandered around the cold
cell. "Hell of a way to begin the day." He scratched his bearded chin.
"Sir, do you know what became of Will Herkimer?"
"He --" Dr. Martin released a harsh breath. "He died. Pneumonia
set in shortly after they brought you here. I'm sorry."
Clay nodded, unable to speak for the emotions clogging his throat.
He bowed his head in a silent moment of remembrance. "He had a wife,"
he said quietly. "And two boys. I always wanted a son." A sad smile
crept over his face. "And a daughter." He searched the gloom for
anything to take his mind off the dreams that would never come to pass.
"Dr. Martin, how come you never married?"
"Never could find a woman willing to put up with the life I had to
offer, gallivanting around the countryside in the middle of the night to
tend sick folks. That's hard on a woman."
"Have you . . . have you ever been with a woman . . . through the
night?"
Self-consciously, Dr. Martin cleared his throat. He never
disclosed personal information about his patients' lives that he
unwittingly discovered in the course of their treatment. He'd always
applied the practice to himself as well. "Yes, yes, I've been with a
woman."
"What'd she smell like?"
Dr. Martin heard the deep longing mirrored in a voice that should
have reflected the vibrancy of youth. "Lavender," he replied.
"Lavender. I don't recall ever smelling lavender."
A keen sense of loss whispered across the small expanse separating
the old man from the young. Dr. Martin felt the loss as though he'd
experienced it himself. He wanted to ask Clay what the hell he had
smelled so he could lie and tell him the woman smelled of it.
"Honeysuckle," he said after a time. "Once I slept with a woman who
smelled like honeysuckle."
"Honeysuckle," Clay repeated in reverence, relief coursing through
his voice. "I can imagine a woman smelling like honeysuckle. Was she
soft?"
"Very."
"And warm?"
"As warm as a Texas summer."
Silence eased in around them, and Dr. Martin was saddened to think
that in this young man's final moments, he was thinking of a woman he'd
never met and never would meet. He reached into the deep pocket of his
coat, withdrew an apple, and gave it to Clay.
Wrapping both hands around it, Clay relished the fruit's smooth
skin against his unnaturally frigid fingers. Bringing the apple close
to his face, he cupped his hands over his nose and mouth, blocking out
the odors mingling in the cell, as he inhaled deeply. The apple smelled
so sweet, so deliciously sweet. As sweet as life.
He swallowed his sob and ground the heel of his hand into the
corner of his eye. He refused to walk out of this room with tears
trailing down his face.
Leaning forward, Dr. Martin planted his elbows on his thighs.
"Clay, all you have to do is hold the damn rifle. You don't even have
to shoot it. They're gonna fight those damn Yankees any day now.
Wouldn't it be more honorable to die on a battlefield? I could talk to
Captain Roberts, have your sentence revoked --"
Slowly, Clay shook his head. For months Captain Roberts had
insisted he would follow orders and carry a rifle. For months Clay had
steadfastly refused. "I will not take up arms against my fellow man."
"What am I to tell your father?"
"That I died with honor, fighting for what I believed in."
Dr. Martin sighed heavily. He couldn't deny the boy had fought.
His body carried the wounds from his battles. "Are you in much pain? I
could give you some laudanum."
"My misery will end soon enough. You'd best save your medicine
for those boys whose misery will just be beginning." He extended the
apple toward the doctor. "Don't think I'd be able to keep this down.
Imagine you'll be able to find someone who could appreciate it a little
longer than I could."
The key grinding in the lock caused Dr. Martin's heart to slam
against his ribs as though he were the one about to be placed before a
firing squad. He took the apple because he didn't know what else to do
with his hands. His noted bedside manner had deserted him.
The door swung open, and a sergeant, with two privates in his
wake, stepped into the room. The sergeant's deep voice bounced off the
stone walls. "It's time."
Standing, Clay extended his hand toward the doctor. "Thank you,
sir, for coming."
Clasping the young man's hand, taking note of the slight tremor,
Dr. Martin wished he could offer more than a handshake. Clay stepped
toward the open door.
A rope dangling from his hand, a private moved to block his path.
"You need to put your hands behind your back."
Despair flooded Clay's face. "I've lost weight," he stammered.
"My trousers --"
The private turned to the sergeant who was already shaking his
head. "He's gotta be bound."
"I'm not gonna run," Clay assured him.
The sergeant appeared on the verge of relenting when he suddenly
barked, "Orders is orders! Bind him."
"Wait a minute," Dr. Martin said as he shrugged off his coat. The
young man had clung tenaciously to his dignity throughout his ordeal,
and now they had the power to strip him of it. They'd fed him nothing
but bread and water for so long that Clay was little more than a shadow
of the robust man who'd once farmed the land in Texas. "He can use my
suspenders."
For the first time in his life, Dr. Martin fought a strong urge to
strike someone -- anyone -- when gratitude filled Clay's eyes as he
attached the suspenders.
Clay placed his hands behind his back, fighting off the
helplessness consuming him as the private wound the rope around his
wrists. He wished they'd given him an opportunity to bathe, to make
himself presentable. He reeked to high heaven and no longer remembered
the feel of freshly laundered clothes against his skin.
He followed the sergeant out of the room and along the dim
corridor. Squinting as they stepped into the bright sunlight, he took a
deep breath of outside air. He smelled horses, leather, and gun powder.
The world had turned brown, orange, and gold. Autumn had come without
his knowing.
The men had gathered at one end of the compound. He could feel
their eyes boring into him. They knew he was a man who refused to
become a soldier, who refused to carry a rifle. They thought he was a
coward. They'd branded him a deserter.
The small procession approached the wall. Clay smiled. It faced
east. He didn't look into the faces of the six men standing before the
wall, but moved into position silently.
Captain Roberts, a West Point graduate who could trace his
family's military history back a hundred years to the Revolutionary War,
stepped forward. "Do you have a final request?"
"A prayer," he croaked. "I'd like to say a prayer."
Roberts nodded his approval of the request.
As Clay bowed his head, his voice became clear, strong, and
certain. "Heavenly Father, please forgive those who stand before you
today for they know not what they do. Amen."
He lifted his brown gaze to the blue heavens.
"I'm sorry, son," the sergeant said quietly before he stepped away
to stand beside Captain Roberts and issue his first order. "Ready your
rifles!"
Clay's mouth went dry.
"Aim!"
He felt the wind caress his face, heard the leaves rustle --
"Fire!" © 1996
***
*About the author: Lorraine Heath began writing at the age of seven when she fell in love with
the magic of words. She wrote lengthy letters to any relative with an
address, kept diaries, and rewrote the endings to her favorite stories. Her
secret dream was to one day write a novel. School, marriage, work, and
children put that dream on hold until she read Morning Glory by LaVyrle
Spencer. Lorraine wanted to touch readers’ emotions as hers had been touched
by Ms. Spencer’s story. She began writing seriously and sold her first
manuscript in 1993.
Lorraine's next release will be TEXAS DESTINY, available Mid-May from Topaz,
to be followed by TEXAS GLORY in March, 1998. She is currently working on the
final book of the trilogy, TEXAS SPLENDOR. Her novels have won awards and
recognition from Romantic Times, Affaire de Coeur, and various readers’
groups, as well as being listed on Walden’s Romance Bestseller List. Write to Lorraine Heath.
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