Moses Carries a Broken Body
From a wooded area north of town, a man watched as Della dragged a body through the field. She had pictured herself throwing him over her shoulder, but reality would not allow it. Though thin, indeed bony with the starvation of the war, he was too heavy for her. For she, too, was malnourished and weaker than she had been when she first left Boone. But she was sure, in healthier times, she could have easily carried him.
The sound of gunfire can travel long distances. But it grew fainter and fainter still while Della took John’s broken body southward through the valley. She fought discouragement. But the exhaustion was harder to overcome. Seeking to lighten her load, she laid down her pack and her rifle. Surely there would be some soldier who would put it to good use. And she looked forward to the moment when she could discard every last thing that had made her a soldier.
When she was far enough from her weapon, a voice startled her. “Are you in need of help?”
She raised her head to locate the source of the very deep voice, a kind to which she was unaccustomed.
He repeated, “Are you in need of help, young man?”
She moved her lower jaw as she stared at him. But, a little shocked, nothing came out.
Finally, she found enough nerve to answer. “I need help. Yes. We need help.” She was in no position to turn away such an offer, no matter who it was coming from.
The man bent down. He moved his large hands over John’s middle, examining him, surveying his wounds. Lifting his shirt, two burned and bleeding holes were revealed. With care, the man pressed and felt the area with his fingers, like a bird feeling for a worm beneath the earth.
“I can feel this one. The other one, I don’t know.” He motioned to Della for help. “We need to turn him over.”
Gently, they worked together, lifting him and turning him just far enough to see his back.
“That’s bad.” He showed her the damage. In his upper back, close to his shoulder, an exit hole. A large piece of flesh was missing. “But he might have a chance if we take care of it quickly.”
He lifted the dying child into his arms and carried him as if he were a baby. Della walked beside him filled with conflicting emotions. Fear. And hope. In the distance, the battle had ended.
It was a scary thought for her, to be walking into the woods with a black man. But, for whatever reason, he was helping them. And she had no choice but to take her chances. He was large and, apparently, strong. But his countenance was gentle. And she followed hoping…no, praying for the best outcome.
Lord, if this man be an angel from You, then I thank you and I ask you to bless him. If he is a bad man, I pray you deliver us from him. Something told her to keep on. And she did, while the man tirelessly walked with John’s body resting in his arms. The field had vanished from sight, and Della had no idea where she was or where she was going. But she was beginning to believe it was the right way. And, for whatever reason, this man was her guide.
He kept a moderate pace. Slowly enough to maintain, and fast enough to, hopefully, spare the young man’s life. He seemed to know every step. It seemed a well-worn path to him. But, really, it was thick with overgrowth and well-hidden. All the better for remaining undetected when called-for.
Neither spoke. In silence they moved ahead, sharing a mission. And when they broke through the woods, the moonlight shone on the ground. A faint candlelight flickered from somewhere inside a clapboard house. And he broke the silence. “Come.” His voice assured her that it was alright. And she followed.
It had been a while since Della had been inside a house. And being there reminded her of Twila. And now John lay dying. Perhaps it was Providence. Perhaps it was meant for John to go to heaven to be with the one he longed for. Or maybe this was the Lord’s way of punishing her. For the evil that she committed on the battlefield to men she did not know--and one she did know. She had been an instrument of death. And now, she feared, God would repay her with death.
Standing in the unfamiliar place, she watched the man work. The moon was almost full and it cast enough light to reveal the proceedings to her.
“I need to remove the bullet,” he explained to her. “It’ll be better for him to do it before he awakes…Lord willing he awakes.”
He retrieved a knife from somewhere in the darkness. Della watched as he ran it back and forth through the candle flame, covering every part of it. Wiping it with a cloth, he waited a few seconds for it to cool then brought it to John’s bared chest. Swiftly and with a surgeon’s precision, he stuck the knife into the wound. In a moment, it emerged, and he used his other hand to ease out the dark lump that didn’t belong inside a man. It made a clanking sound when he dropped it into a metal cup.
“You’ll find a bucket over there,” he said to her, motioning into the dark room. “Get it.”
She did as she was instructed, squinting her eyes to make her way through the small abode. “Here, Sir,” she said, handing it to him.
He dunked a cloth into the water and, almost tenderly, wiped the wound, cleaning away blood and gunpowder. He used another cloth to dry the area. And Della watched closely, hopefully, as he applied some sort of dressing and covered it all up. When fully bandaged, he laid his big hand over John’s chest and said a few quiet words with his head bowed down.
A sudden fatigue washed over Della. Her eyes became heavier and she called to the man. “Please, sir. Do you mind if I sleep?”
He said nothing, but guided her to a soft place on the floor and helped her to lay down. “Go to sleep, boy,” he told her. And the bloody day ended.
