Chapter 12

The Lord Giveth

“MISTAKEN IDENTITY STOP ADAM DECLARED MISSING STOP ARE SEARCHING HOSPITALS STOP WILL FIND HIM STOP FAITHFULLY JULIET”

“Are you reading that telegram again?”

Ben looked up from the sheet of paper, his most precious possession, to watch his youngest son descending from the second floor. Joe looked much better this morning; and although his way down the stairs still looked laboured and so distinctively less fluid than his usual gait, it filled Ben with gratitude and delight to see him do it unaided. Until three days ago, Joe had had to be assisted to get down—always being in danger of misstepping, twisting, stumbling against something, aggravating his freshly not-quite-yet-healed wound.

It seemed too early for Joe to be up, too soon. But, of course, after the recurring fevers had finally subsided and Joe had regained his strength and been alert—and bored—for whole days, nothing short of being strapped down on the bed would have kept him in it any longer, as much as Ben would have preferred him resting securely just there. And then his attempts at exerting fatherly authority at that had been thwarted by Doctor Martin, who’d declared Joe mended enough to be up and about—albeit not to be strained with any strenuous work whatsoever, and ordered to take it perfectly easy.

“No riding, no lifting anything, no crouching, no walking far, no jumping onto anything,” Paul had said and given Joe his best ‘follow the doctor’s orders—or else’ stare.

Joe had looked a bit abashed, and sulked, “That sure doesn’t leave much to do, does it?”

“No,” Dr. Martin had said cheerfully. “Next to resting on the sofa and eating three hearty meals a day—no. That’s the point of taking it absolutely easy, you know.”

“But—”

“But nothing. Either take it easy, Joe, or go back to bed.”

Joe had chosen to take it easy, and although Ben and Hop Sing had to remind him of that at least four times a day, he actually resigned himself to resting on the sofa, reading dime novels or repairing bridles and field-stripping and cleaning every single gun and rifle they owned.

Ben forced himself to stay seated as Joe made his arduous way to the settee and eased himself slowly and stiffly down. Stuffing a pillow behind his back, Joe gestured at the paper in Ben’s hand.

“The words won’t just go away if you don’t read them for a minute,” he said with a small grin. “And they won’t change their meaning, either.”

“No,” Ben said. “Certainly not. And even if they disappeared, I know them by heart already. It’s just…” He looked down, couldn’t help but read the words yet again, smiled, and laid the paper on his desk. Neatly, within easy reach, within reading distance, just in case he’d need to assure himself again that, indeed, he wasn’t dreaming. That, indeed, Adam could be alive—was alive. Was. Lord, don’t take him from me again, I couldn’t…Lord, please!

He gave the telegram another glance. “MISTAKEN IDENTITY STOP ADAM DECLARED MISSING STOP SEARCHING HOSPITALS STOP WILL FIND HIM STOP FAITHFULLY JULIET”

The words were easy to memorise, the telegram almost brisk in its curtness. It was so very much like Juliet in its precise efficiency. He had learned enough about his daughter-in-law to know that what sounded like cool aloofness was restraint. Her emotions weren’t put into flowery digression; they could be read out of her determined words, her clearly conveyed conviction: “WILL FIND HIM.” Yes, he could read the turmoil behind those words.

“I wonder why Juliet sent the telegram,” Joe interrupted his thoughts—as if he’d read them. “All the others were from Hoss.”

“MISTAKEN IDENTITY STOP ADAM DECLARED MISSING” Ben just couldn’t stop himself reading. “That’s because Hoss wouldn’t have send one at all,” he said, stroking his chin.

“Why…?”

Ben rested his elbows on the desk and leaned his head on his clasped hands. Hoss had sent half a dozen telegrams over the past few weeks. First to tell them that he’d caught up with Juliet, then to say that they were about to take a train east, that there was no way he could hold Juliet back from her quest, that they were well underway, that they’d reached Gettysburg, that they’d found Adam’s grave. They had noticed that Hoss had tried to keep them short, but had failed heartbreakingly. His soulful bulletins of the search had enabled Ben and Joe to accompany his and Juliet’s slow journey through grief and despair into something beyond friendship and kinship.

But Hoss would never have written this telegram. Ben was sure he and Juliet must have had a disagreement about it, must have fought and argued until Juliet’s obstinacy had won. For the first time, Ben was glad his daughter-in-law was stubborn as a mule and bossy as a goat.

“He wouldn’t want to get our hopes too high,” Ben eventually answered Joe’s question. “He wouldn’t want us to be hurt a second time if they…failed.” It hurt even to think of it. Perhaps Hoss should have won the argument after all. And yet…

“And you want to tell me Juliet wouldn’t mind hurting us?” Joe sounded incredulous.

It made Ben smile. Before this summer, Joe would have been outraged, appalled, readily believing his sister-in-law thoughtless of the family’s feelings, no, not thoughtless—detached from them. Now he was more forgiving, willing to search for what was hidden beneath her seeming imperturbability. Like Adam, Juliet wasn’t prone to great displays of affection, but Joe—well, they all—had learned that reading her small signs of attachment was well worth the effort. And Juliet had learned to open up to them a bit, to trust them.

“Of course not,” Ben said. “But I think she feels we have a right to know what’s going on, and that hope is better than despair. She’d be furious if we knew something and didn’t tell her—and just like everyone she assumes all people are like her.”

“I’d be furious, too, if she hadn’t told us, and I’d found out later. I don’t know if all people are like that, but I sure am.”

Ben could not fully conceal the grin. He had a hard time preventing himself from pointing out yet another similarity between the two. Joe was only just on the mend, and it wouldn’t do him any good to get worked up over that.

“Well, I prefer being informed, too. Even though I’m aware that knowing—and hoping—could come with a heavy price if the news turned out to be…not what we hoped it to be. The truth, Joe, is never too expensive.”

“Pa, do you think…” Joe wrung his hands. He wrung his hands! His features showed hope and misery, all mixed together on his still too pale face. As if he were six again, and asking his father if Maman would come home tonight, just once, just so he could properly bid her farewell, secretly knowing she wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

He hadn’t been able to give him any hope back then, and it had broken his heart. This time, though, he had something to offer. Not much, nothing substantial, just something seemingly small and fragile—and yet it had the power to carry them both through and beyond. “Dum spiro, spero,” he said. “As long as I breathe I shall hope. That’s what we can do: have faith. Faith that Adam is alive and that they will find him.”

“If only I could help—if only Billy-Bob hadn’t had it in his mind to come and…”

“To come and what?”

“Honest, Pa? I don’t know.”

“Joe, you have to make up your mind about that. The sheriff is waiting for your final testimony. Roy can’t keep Billy-Bob in jail forever. He has to face trial or be released, Joe. And it’s solely up to you whether it’s one or the other. Since Juliet isn’t available, you’re the only witness.”

“I know, but still…I don’t know what’s right. I don’t know how to…judge things.”

“Lord, no. It’s not yours to judge, Joe. You only have to remember what happened.”

“But I don’t know what happened!” Joe leapt up and made a few hurried steps towards the front door, stopped in mid-stride and, clutching his healing side, returned to the settee.

Ben wasn’t sure if the agony visible on his face came from the aggravation of his injury or from the painful realisation that he couldn’t delay this grave decision any longer.

“You don’t remember what happened,” he tried. “Or you don’t know how to deal with it?”

“I remember what happened; I’m not a fool,” Joe snapped, but then looked down at his hands. “I’m sorry.”

“So, what exactly did happen?”

“Billy-Bob…he suddenly was there. He said he wasn’t happy with me breaking his jaw, and that he couldn’t eat anything solid; and then he rambled about the high and mighty Cartwrights and drew his gun, and Juliet said we didn’t need no weapons. She took a step toward him, and then he shot at her. I tried to get her outta the line of fire—and then I was hit.” It sounded almost bored, as if he’d rehearsed his speech many times in his head.

“The point is, Joe, do you think Billy-Bob came to the Ponderosa to take vengeance? Did he come to kill you? Or was it, as he claims, an accident?”

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to judge?”

Ben smiled. “Well, perhaps you’ll have to do a little judging after all. Juliet said Billy-Bob was drunk, and that he seemed scared of his own shadow. Is that right?”

“He sure looked like a rabbit in front of a snake. He wanted to…maybe he just wanted to salvage his honour or something. He got the weapon out only when he realised it was two against one. Well, one was Juliet, but drunk as he was…”

“And he actually shot because…?”

“Because Juliet pointed at the gun. She was…well, you know how she waves her hands when she talks. She indicated the gun, made a step into Billy-Bob’s direction—and then he shot. He must have thought she was going for the gun.”

“He thought Juliet was trying to disarm him? A woman?”

“He was drunk. And Juliet is tall, and she was talking in that clipped accent of hers. She can be kinda scary, you know.”

“It certainly fits the way he acted after the shot.” Ben frowned as he recalled things beside the red stains on Joe’s jacket. “He was white with consternation, didn’t even try and run or fight. He was…horrified by what he’d done.”

“Do you think he’s innocent?”

“Do you think he is?”

Again, there was that look of agony on Joe’s face. “Pa, I can’t…I don’t know what…If I press charges Billy-Bob could go to jail for years. He’s not…not a criminal. He won’t do it again.”

“You mean he should be free? Facing no consequences?”

Joe studied the cloth on the table in front of him. He rocked forth and back on the settee, rubbing his injured side. “It would set a bad example, wouldn’t it?” He looked up, obviously searching for an answer in his father’s face. “Others could be inclined to think they’d get away with…things, too.”

Ben’s face remained impassive. He wouldn’t provide an answer, not this time.

“But still, Billy-Bob isn’t a bad guy, and I hurt him first…”

“Quite the predicament, it seems.” Neutral, stay neutral.

“Hoss would…”

Ben shook his head. “Not Hoss—Joe.”

Joe stared at him for a moment, then closed his eyes, took a deep breath and opened them again. “Adam would say ‘let the law handle it.’ He would press charges and then go to any length to prove that Billy-Bob didn’t want to hurt anyone. That it was an accident.”

“It’s not Adam who has to make a decision, Joe. It’s you.”

“But Adam would be right, Pa. And…and if he were here, I’d ask him, and then do what he’d said.”

“Because you always do what your brother says, right?”

Joe didn’t flinch, nor did he avert his eyes from his father’s. “I will, if he comes back,” he said, and it sounded like a vow. Or like a proposition.

“I’ll make sure to remind you of that,” Ben chuckled, ignoring the chill trickling down his spine. When, he thought, it should be when, not if.

Again, he must not have guarded his thoughts as well as he’d hoped. But then Joe had always been able to read his eyes effortlessly; he might never have stood a chance. Not with his youngest’s eyes still immerged so deep in his own.

“He will come back, won’t he, Pa? They’ll…they’ll find him, right?”

“They will.” The telegram was back in his hand, miraculously, and he read the words out loud, as if they were new and unacquainted, “Searching hospitals, will find him. Will find him. They will. Hoss…has he ever not found anything? He’s like a bloodhound: he never stops once he’s on the track.” He looked at the telegram, read it again, laughed quietly as he realised that they now had not one, but two sleuth dogs in the family. “And Juliet is just too persistent to not accomplish anything she decides to do. ‘Will find him,’ that’s her all right. She’d never accept anything less than a full victory.”

“Persistent? Or pig-headed?”

“Both, I’m afraid, but this time it might be for the best.” He nodded, more to himself than to Joe, and more to convince himself than to exhibit agreement. Nothing less than a full victory, he repeated in his head, and then his ratio provided him with the part he did not want to share with Joe and he wished he could ignore: but what if they failed? No, he wouldn’t go that way. WILL FIND HIM. He’d have faith.

“Pa, how long do you think it’ll take them? Maybe they already…what if they’ve already found him?”

“The Territorial Enterprise said there were more than fourteen thousand wounded Union soldiers, Joe. I have no idea how many hospitals there are, but there must be a good many. Some not even in Gettysburg…. I expect it’ll take them quite some time to search them.” More than fourteen thousand wounded Union soldiers, and Lord knew how many Confederates. Ben shook his head. The headlines spoke of forty to fifty thousand casualties on both sides. In one battle. It was unimaginable. What a waste of young men. Fourteen thousand wounded—Gettysburg must be one single gigantic infirmary.

***

There were more hospitals in Gettysburg than Hoss would have expected, and he’d been in more of them than he thought he could bear—and yet they still were at the beginning of their quest.

He poured himself another lukewarm cup of coffee. It was long after supper. Juliet, completely exhausted, had gone to bed already; Mrs. Milward had cleared the table and retired to her room, leaving him the slowly cooling coffee pot and some of her cranberry cookies. It almost felt like being at home, coffee and cookies, the quiet after a long work day, time to think things over, time to regain strength. And he needed his strength, desperately.

Every day, they got up early, had a short but hearty breakfast for him and a cup of tea for Juliet and, leaving Henry with Mrs. Milward, went to search as many infirmaries as they could manage, then returned in the early afternoon for a late lunch and some rounds of “Simple Simon,” “This Little Piggy,” or “Humpty Dumpty” before leaving again and continuing their hunt until the sun stood low and the nurses threw them out of the hospitals.

As much as he obviously liked Mrs. Milward, Henry had started to complain bitterly at his mother’s departure after a few days. It broke Juliet’s heart, and his own, too, but there was no way they could take Henry with them. They had tried it once, on the first day, when they hadn’t the least notion of what awaited them. The baby was too small to understand the strange mixture of utter misery and coarse keyed-up cheerfulness, but he seemed to sense that particular tension and reacted with becoming fidgety and cranky. The stench didn’t help, either. It was, mildly put, unpleasant for Hoss, and nearly impossible to stomach for Juliet, who struggled with bouts of nausea and vertigo almost constantly. For Henry, who didn’t even know why he had to put up with all those affronts, it must have been excruciating.

The final straw, though, was the hissed comment of a soldier who wore an eye patch, and an empty sleeve where his right arm had been. “Nigger lover,” he’d spat as they’d passed his cod.

Juliet had pulled Hoss away from the man, shaking her head and whispering he wasn’t worth any trouble, and that they didn’t have time to waste anyway. There and then they’d decided they wouldn’t take Henry with them anymore.

Later, at lunch in Mrs. Milward’s dining room, she had studied Henry for a long time.

“He is very dark, isn’t he?” she’d said, and Hoss hadn’t known how to answer.

“He looks so much like Adam. There’s not a single trace of me in him.”

She was right—and not right. Henry was dark, especially for a baby, with his olive skin and black hair and eyebrows. He had Adam’s nose, and his eyes had turned from baby-blue to a funny shade of dark greenish-brown, not completely like Adam’s eyes but close enough. He pursed his lips like Adam, he had the same half smile, and when he laughed he displayed dimples like Adam. But he also raised his stubborn chin when he wasn’t all satisfied with things, his long-fingered hands were delicate like Juliet’s, and his eyes threw sparkles at everyone when he was delighted.

“You’re both in him,” Hoss had eventually said. “Maybe Adam more than you—but Henry’s a boy, so what do ya expect?”

Juliet had sent him a few of her own sparkles at that, and kissed Henry and said she wouldn’t want it otherwise anyway.

“Maybe the next baby is a girl and looks like you?” Hoss had said nonetheless; and he wasn’t surprised at all when Juliet had sent him more sparkles and her first genuine smile since they’d left in the morning.

It had been the last genuine smile for a long time. While at Mrs. Milward’s, Juliet was stressed by Henry’s crankiness and clinging to her; the as yet unsuccessful search in the reeking, thick-aired hospitals, the ailing men and their desperate pleas for attention, the constant battle with her revolting stomach, the guilt of neglecting her child, and the knowledge that it would go on like that for an unforeseeable time took their toll on her at the rest of the day.

And they’d not even made it to searching the hospitals in the surrounding villages….

Hoss rubbed his hands over his face. He was tired, too. Time to go to bed. Finishing the last sip of coffee, he’d just gotten up from his chair, when he heard hurried foot steps on the stairs, and then Mrs. Milward rushed into the room.

“Mr. Cartwright,” she said with obviously forced calm. “Your sister needs you. Please go and see to her.”

“What…?”

“I can’t—just go and be with her until I return with the doctor.”

_________
There is no hope unmingled with fear, and no fear unmingled with hope. ~ Baruch Spinoza

***

The words given were: track, field, summer, agony, victory.