Unstrained Mercy

By Jerry James Rempp

My name is Jonathan Edward Ambrose. I am eleven-years-old, nearly twelve, and very astute for my ageto my notion. Im confined to a wood and metal contraption called a wheelchair.

The year is 1910. Jonathan dream leaps to events of the Second Battle of Newtonia in southern Missouri occurring October 28, 1864. His dreams appear vivid realities in which Aurelia Sutton, a young woman who died during childbirththat same fateful dayappears to him. She passed in the same bedroom Jonathan now occupies nearly a half-century later.
Aurelia becomes the angelic mediator assisting Jonathan to cope with his brothers deteriorating brain injury.
Jonathan, in turn, becomes his brothers hope. Young Jonathan also believes in his own healing. Maybe he will not only walk and runmaybe he will fly.

The aeroplane [Golden Flier] has arrived! It has yet to feel the sky beneath its wings.
the arrival of a 1910 Curtiss aeroplane to the Ambrose farm.

Jonathan considers mercy to be raining not only on his family, but, considering events, the entire 320 acres of the family farm.

I have not been entirely candid; mind you, it is not some great breach of literary ethics.
Jonathan, 1999

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9781468530957

Book preview

Unstrained

Mercy

Jerry James Rempp

US%26UKLogoB%26Wnew.ai

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2011 by Jerry James Rempp. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 12/17/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4685-3097-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-3096-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-3095-7 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011962817

Printed in the United States of America

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Forward

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

The quality of mercy is not strained; it falls, as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath; it is twice blessed; it blesses him that gives and him that takes… .

—William Shakespeare

Forward

Unstrained Mercy is not a Civil War tale; however, the story’s principle character, eleven-year-old Jonathan Edward Ambrose, discovers himself linked to events of the Great Battle, and to a young woman who died October 28, 1864.

On October 28, 1864, the Second Battle of Newtonia occurred in Newton County, Missouri. In the Old Newtonia Cemetery, section C9, is the grave of Robert H. Christian, born February 12, 1830; died October 28, 1864. He was an officer in the 15th Regiment of the Missouri Cavalry, and died during that second battle. In Unstrained Mercy, a fictional character, Captain Edward Christen, comes to life. There are no intended similarities to Robert Christian: his appearance, character, events surrounding his death, or any description attributed to Edward Christen.

My wife and I visited the battle site on a steamy August morning in 2008. An uninformed passerby would little suspect the hallowed character of such unadorned ground. But yards off the rural road, a modest wood and stone testament beckons inquirers to pause, to experience impressions of that fateful day.

Having researched the battle, I vividly imagined startling flashes, thundering discharges, rolling, cinereous clouds—and the insufferable confirmation of six hundred and fifty dying soldiers.

The topography surrounding Newtonia is depicted as rolling; it is, in fact, flat.

In chapter two, Jonathan begins his story of merciful and miraculous events. His story intersects time: the turmoil of 1864, his youth during the industrial era of 1910, and lastly, in the year 1999, Jonathan concludes his mercy-filled story.

—JJR

Chapter One

OCTOBER 28, 1864

IT IS BEYOND THE OLD DOCTOR’S WISDOM AND pedestrian skills. Fifty-four years ago his medical training embodied a meager thirteen weeks in a diploma factory, respectable for the early nineteenth century. Such training constituted the summation of formal medical education available. His skills grew tenfold over the years, learning from those he helped and those he could not. But Lord knows he couldn’t perform miracles.

It’s warm for late October, temperature in the upper eighties. Heat and moisture from boiling water on the kitchen stove ascends through the second floor heat grate; the small bedroom is stifling. The old doctor’s tatty white shirt clings from perspiration, and his thinning white hair hangs damp. His eyes are afire from sweat and stress; while his whiskey complexion flushes. He mumbles to himself words that sound God-fearing, or is he cursing himself, his limitations—or the damnable state of affairs that slay the human spirit? He cannot save the young woman. Paying for one’s indiscretions may be just in the grand scheme—but to die? Even an aged doctor who’s witnessed rival sides of life, experienced suffering and death as parcel to his profession, even he cannot reconcile the premature passing of youth.

It is now his compassionate and ethical duty to ease the young woman’s suffering. Earlier he had given her opium by mouth, only to be vomited. What else to do but dust morphine on the wound. In the War Between the States now waging, field doctors sprinkle the powdery substance on bloody stumps, rushing its numbing essence to the brain.

Aurelia’s wound is deep inside—between her thighs. The old doctor spoons the powdery sedative around the torn cervix. The infant yet lies within the holy cavity. One angelic foot has sought redemption beyond the womb. Bloody clots appear, followed in warm pursuit the issuing of fresh blood. Aurelia is hemorrhaging! The harried doctor knows little time remains for the youth he delivered into this cursed life, on this very date, seventeen years earlier. He’s grievously aware he cannot save her. How he despises such times. My calling to be a healer! As a young doctor he believed he could save the dying—that messianic tip latent in the mind of inexperienced healers. But some years back, his faltering self-compassion became excuse to take up the bottle. It seemed to the doctor, the whiskey flask affirmed more than the cosmos did. In his maligned thinking, God acted on stern admonitions; while the blessings pouring forth from the sanctified container enabled him to sleep, and temporarily forget his feeble humanity.

The Great War is near, not merely read about in the Neosho News; the fighting now wages on home fields. Soldiers on horseback, parched to the bit, ascend on farmstead wells to replenish barrels and canteens with precious water. The wind now carries grave commotions of battle. Gone are the once wistful currents that carried songbirds and flying nymphs, and which offered nurturing breath to the pastoral countryside.

The old doctor had only heard of babies birthing in such manner. He had successfully delivered breech, but cross birth, never. The length of the infant lay crossways to the long axis of the mother. Unless such babies were very small, or been dead for some time and become greatly softened, birth through the natural passage was impossible.

Do something! Please don’t let her die! pleads Cordelia, the young woman’s mother.

Sweet Mother, if only I could, replies the old doctor in a hoarse and exhausted voice. The baby’s wedged inside her.

Cordelia falls into the rocker across the room, swooning in grief, her apron concealing her face.

She suddenly bounds from the chair to Aurelia’s side. Her lips near Aurelia’s ear, she whispers adamantly, over and over, words intended to cleanse her own suffering soul. Aurelia, please forgive me for the terrible things I said!

Aurelia is subsiding from morphine and blood loss. Through glazed eyes beneath settling lids, she fights to focus on her mother’s grief-stricken face. The young woman knows her long sleep is imminent, but it now seems an uncomplicated resolve; the one she loves more than life, her beautiful captain, is away in the Great Battle—perhaps never to return—and she’s lost their child.

Outside the bedroom, youthful ears press against the closed door. Aurelia’s brother, Uriah, is ten years old, barely that. He cannot comprehend the tragedy unfolding, but he knows what his mother means by, Please forgive me for the terrible things I said! He remembers the hateful accusations spoken to his sister. He once asked Aurelia what the word whore meant. Her adamant reply was, Something I’m not!

Uriah greatly admires his sister’s boyfriend, even though he’s twice her age. He does think it strange that Aurelia would like someone so old. But even young Uriah finds the captain handsome in his uniform. The jacket dazzles with yellow tape braiding, and a flashy sword drapes against his left thigh. Sheathed in a steel scabbard, its grip is layered in black leather with branches of brass circling to protect the warrior’s hand. Uriah’s compulsion to touch the cavalry saber was at times irresistible. The captain resisted him as kindly as possible, dutifully instructing the innocent youth that its cutting edge was lethal; that men died from its crescent lunge. Uriah keenly imagined the bad soldier’s head toppling off as Captain Edward Christen dealt the dirty rogue a mighty one-fell-swoop with his silver blade—from atop an intrepid mount.

But events on the other side of the door appear nightmarish to Uriah. He knows people die, at least old—and others—but certainly not his sister who is youthful and with child. Grandparents, aunts and uncles pass away; that’s part of the human scenario. Though painful at the time, a person’s passing was shielded by older family members taking over the distasteful duties. He was never up-close to such events. Yet, through the closed door, his resisting young mind vaguely absorbs proceedings filling him with horror and pending loss.

In the twilight of consciousness, Aurelia hears her mother pleading forgiveness. But the words only swirl in a delusional vortex; neither Aurelia’s voice nor her will can bend to a brain command. Could she respond, she would extend to her mother words of grace; despite her mother’s accusations the last many months.

Aurelia Sutten met Edward Christen two years previous. Edward’s wife died during a flu epidemic a year prior to meeting Aurelia. Siskin, my green-eyed songbird, was sentiment expressed when speaking of his wife. She was with child at the time illness took her. He was still grieving the losses when he met Aurelia. Edward was worldly-wise at thirty-two; Aurelia was but a youth of fifteen. He’d fought valiantly in a number of Missouri battles: Wilson’s Creek on August 10, 1861, the winter siege at Mount Zion Church; the battle of Independence in ’62; and the first battle of Newtonia on September 30, 1862. He was a captain in the 15th Regiment of the Missouri Cavalry. He fought with abandon, with little concern for life or death, charging and shouting to heaven—or hell—all the boiling vengeance within him. He led his troops in battle while all about young men fell. He came to be called Lord Christen by his men; he had survived all the battles—unscathed.

On a warm August afternoon in 1862, Edward eyed the bloom of sweet Aurelia. Briefly away from the war, attending a church social, he was captivated by her youthful charms. Admiringly, he observed her talking with friends; how she carried herself with a grace uncommon for one so young. Habitually and coyly, she brushed strands of long auburn hair away from enticing pink cheeks. He smiled at her twice but each time her gaze averted his, believing it for someone else. When Edward finally reconnoitered himself into close proximity, his smile was unavoidable; it was intended for none other than her. His face was burnt from the scorching sun and his dark mustache tilted as he grinned one-sidedly at her. He introduced himself to Aurelia with far less abandon than when facing the heat of battle.

Aurelia remembers those precious moments even now as dusk settles over her and cold extends her length. She imagines Edward’s face clearly, and his smile shining down on her. To Aurelia, it’s as vivid as her awareness of death.

Outside the bedroom where Aurelia’s spirit languishes, down a sloping yard with cottonwoods, tall grass, and reedy cattails, there beckons a pastoral scene of reluctant autumn bloom. Within that serene spot nestles a small but most welcoming butterfly pond.

Aurelia’s father, Samuel, constructed the fishing pond shortly after the house was built. Although only an acre, the pond became his fishing haven and great portion of contentment. It also became a sanctuary for winged creatures, especially butterflies of innumerable species: mourning cloak, pearl crescent, painted beauty, orange and clouded sulfur, common wood nymph, red admiral, and the viceroy along with its bitter-tasting cousin, the monarch. From summer to summer the hushed hollow grew in popularity with those fragile whiffs of blush, as if the word was out that it was a most welcoming place.

During late spring, summer, and early fall, cattails and leafy water lilies surrounded the pond’s shallow perimeter. Fragrant lilac bushes grew near sitting stones that Samuel placed to lazily fish from. Nectar-rich flowers danced profusely around the pond. A variety of trees bordered the area, including willow, oak, cottonwood, also fruit-bearing apple and succulent plum.

Aurelia treasured this hallowed place. As a child she loved sitting on the largest rock; it dwarfed her small figure. She reached full measure and shimmied to its top. Those were sunshine days. As she grew older, it was evening that beckoned her to the pond. The sun setting across its placid face painted light and shadow in dramatic transition. It became a pensive place to dream of becoming a woman. She wrote in her journal and sketched in her drawing pad all that captured her imagination—personal minutiae no one was privileged to see.

But also, it was the butterflies; the immense congregate of butterflies lured Aurelia to the pond. They mysteriously befriended her. Only when she was alone did they gather collectively and fly in unison about her. If she sang or hummed, they staged a performance of winged dance. As the melody rose, they collectively rose; when the melody descended, the lovely nymphs wove graceful ribbons just above the water’s surface. Over time their spirited performance became routine to Aurelia. She expected no less than sharing the dwindling light of dusk with them. She never told another soul about the experience; besides, no one would believe butterflies could be taught to perform, let alone prompt it themselves. [There is a sense in the universe that is revealed when least expected, when we seek nothing and are peculiarly at ease, that events are woven together between the past, present, and future; a synchronicity that dumbfounds the intellect, but enlightens the niches of the soul.]

The season is late for butterflies, but the late fall days have been warm. This 28th day of October in the year 1864 experiences an autumnal sun warming the earth and sheer surface of the pond. The plentiful butterflies quicken to instinctively resume their rounds before the great sleep or lengthy migration. But there appears some peculiar awareness quickening them. They begin anxiously fluttering about, without a sense of direction, in the otherwise tranquil surroundings.

Inside the second-story bedroom, Aurelia suddenly draws a startling breath, as if reviving to share in the vigorous stir of the multitude. But the twilight of consciousness flickers out like a low burning wick, and her tribulation ceases. Her mother collapses, weeping, in the chair across the room. The old doctor once more surrenders himself to mortal affairs. Removing a sweat-drenched handkerchief from his back pocket, he wipes his forehead, stalling time against words what will be of little comfort.

Good God almighty, he fitfully mutters. I’ve lost two babies!

I’ve killed my daughter! wails Cordelia. The wrath of God is upon me! Her face contorts and her body seizes convulsively as if inhabited by an evil spirit. Her sin! My sin! Which is worse?

No, no, Mother, says the distraught old doctor, it was an act of nature. It’s not your fault—it wasn’t even Aurelia’s. It’s just one of the god-awful things that happen in this life. No one’s to blame. They are appropriate words, perhaps wise words, but they do not ease Cordelia’s suffering.

Aurelia awakes in familiar company, a most blissful reunion.

She observes hundreds and hundreds of brightly colored butterflies gathering at her bedside, passing through the portal window without resistance. A flurry of noiseless wings enfolds her. She is weightless and radiant as are they and, by mere intention, her sustaining essence emerges out of its mortal chrysalis; her eternal presence passes through the window into the cascading light of late afternoon. Silently they carry her over the garden yard, past the low spot of brushwood, tall grass and cattails, to the serene acre pond. There, Aurelia’s winged companions rhythmically dance with enchantment to a heavenly, humming chorus. They amass into a tempestuous whirlwind of their own delight… . Aurelia’s trace disappears.

[Now, you may think this pure fantasy or sentimental dribble. But there are some folks of rare gift that perceive spirit, or energy, or whatever it’s called. They disturb those of us standing at the edge of disbelief. I’m not one of those gifted; but, by the grant of imagination, I reserve the right to deem wonderful possibilities outside awareness thus far. From popular thought comes the stuff we call real, that seemingly substantial stuff that causes pain if we stub our toe against it. But should an unqualified boundary be drawn between real and imaginary? If the toe is amputated, its presence is felt when its absence is stimulated.]

Captain Edward Christen was dealt a bad hand at the Second Battle of Newtonia; his reputation as Lord Christen ceased to be appropriate. Was it because of some rare coincidence, was it by reason of reckless insanity in the face of battle, or was it a merciful act too mysterious for the mind to fathom? He didn’t suffer as Siskin and Aurelia, both dying with child. He charged his brawny mare through ranks of faltering foot soldiers, his saber renting the battle-shrouded air. A mounted soul could but deal the devil’s hand in atmosphere so bullet-logged. A four-pounder from confederate thunder lacerated the top of his head. He experienced no pain; rather, he left the field of battle to those who may have wished a similar, painless, transformation in the midst of such calamity: Hot lead screamed past, scorched past, and the most maligning—indiscriminately pounded at the door of death!

His beautiful form lay in the trampled, crimson grass—a place once a most pastoral spot. The gray clouds of battle rebuked the healing strength of the sun; the stench of gunpowder permeated the landscape, and the sights and sounds of suffering were incommunicable. With their legendary captain gone, the 15th Regiment mustered extraordinary valor and fought with reckless abandon in tribute to his superb feats. It was believed, later, that the death of Edward and Aurelia might have been concurrent.

As if that infamous day had not extracted heavy enough tolls on the Sutten family, Aurelia’s father also died in the battle, only a short distance from home and the beautiful butterfly pond he loved. Cordelia would go insane when she received the news a day later.

[The battle was considered a Confederate victory—or a Union victory—depending on how one considered the matter. The US troops suffered the greater number of casualties, four hundred losses, versus two hundred and fifty confederate losses. It was said the decisive moment occurred when Brigadier General John B. Sanborn arrived with Union reinforcements. The Confederate Brigadier General Joe Shelby was forced to withdraw his division, including his Iron Brigade. While the Union army forced the Confederate troops to retreat, they failed to destroy or capture them.]

Cordelia continued living in the home until her death in 1886. During the shattered years following the war and her paltry earnings as a clerk at Newtonia Mercantile, the house succumbed to a mere shadow of its once stately bearing. The area surrounding the acre pond became a habitat for weeds. They strangled the once adoring glory that crowned the pristine setting. But butterflies continued to make a home at the pond every spring, summer, and fall, as if mercy abided there more than wherever else mercy abided.

The President of the Granby Bank purchased the house and property in 1890. The three hundred and twenty acres were purchased for the paltry sum of twelve hundred dollars. The house was renovated with defining Victorian features: A covered veranda was constructed around the front and east side, and on the second level was added a turreted sitting room and private deck. Three upper bedrooms were left untouched. The bedroom on the northeast corner was the one in which Aurelia passed from mortal life.

Chapter Two

THE PAST IS HIDDEN

BEYOND THE REACH OF INTELLECT

BIZARRE EVENTS OCCURRED BEFORE MY PRESENT life. They survive in a nebulous realm without practical evidence. I couldn’t substantiate such events if my young life depended on it. My family’s Protestant, Methodist in fact, so why should I have such disturbing, lifelike, impressions? Be that as it may, I suffer recollections of an attempted previous birth. It was a violent effort. Recounting my sense of it, my former mother—if that’s the state of affairs, appears in much distress. I feel her trying to push me out; her agonizing cries frighten me. There’s a light I verily perceive. It’s not balmy where events are attempting to draw me. My one foot senses dampness, and there’s a tugging sensation. It hurts! I’m crying! I’m suffocating!

My mother’s heart is throbbing recklessly and laboriously. I would liken it to the rage of spring thunder when dull winter breaks, the distant, vociferous echoes concurring over and over. But I had never heard such defiance against the calm of her comforting bosom, nor could I possibly know I was the one breaking her world—and mine.

I don’t wish to leave her. The rebelling thunder ceases. There are no more excruciating efforts to expel me out of her presence. Her soft inner tissue ceases renting and falls silent. I only hear

my own frantic laboring to live; my defiant, breathless lungs, and my miniature heart hammering against its lost birthright.

The obsessive nightmare fades. I’m not sure it’s the dream moving out of conscious boundaries or—am I to suppose—I’ve died? There are times I believe I hear her crying; my heart again races; my lips and eyes contort—though no sound emerges.

How often I cross this spectral boundary; mostly when I am alone by the pond; when the light is fading and insects and frogs begin evening chorusing. But, there are other times it frightens me.

I’m not altogether healthy. Birth presented me with unusual weakness in my legs. The muscle atrophy affects only my lower body. I’ve never walked or ran; those effortless pleasures most children take for granted. I’ve perfected observing—and imagining. I vividly imagine running the perimeter of the pond chasing butterflies and other low-flying insects, especially dragonflies. To climb a tree, that would be jubilant. I want to sense the scabby bark between my inner thighs, my boyish hands stretching toward the lowest branch. To pull myself up and over to a magical vantage would be to observe as the red-breasted thrush or meadowlark.

The year is 1910. My name is Jonathan Edward Ambrose. I’m only called Jonathan Edward when Mother’s upset with me. I am eleven-years-old, nearly twelve, and very astute for my age—to my notion. I’m confined to a wood and metal contraption called a wheelchair. It’s a mobile, though confining, vehicle of sorts with two large front wheels and two small, swiveling, wheels in back. Uphill the going is cantankerous but downhill it’s exhilaratingly fast. I scare the pee-wade out of Mother with my daring on level spots, and especially downhill. But I know my vehicle most precisely. I judge my balance keenly; I can go like thunder and stop on a silver dollar. Sometimes I take Buck for a ride. He doesn’t like flying down bumpy slopes. He scrambles off my lap; even though he knows he won’t land on all fours, but rather roll and skid to a halt unbecoming a fox terrier. Seems he would rather lose pride than life. But I wouldn’t let anything happen to Buck; he’s my best friend. He’s cuddly, wiry, and full of life. Sitting on my lap, he likes to lick my face. I figure his tongue’s as clean as mine. Buck doesn’t mind the best; he knows what NO! means, but extends to himself a great deal of latitude. He reckons the third command the most legitimate. I don’t consider repeating myself a hardship. We get along great.

I don’t receive public education. My teacher comes to our house five days each week and I learn what other children learn in their schoolhouse. I may even learn more; since I have my teacher’s undivided attention. She’s nice and like one of the family. Mother often asks her to stay for supper, which Miss Anne seldom refuses. I think she’s pretty, but she doesn’t have a boyfriend. At twenty-three—she’s getting pretty old not to have a boyfriend.

Father not only farms three hundred and twenty acres, but we inherited gobs of money when his father and mother died in a train derailment six years ago. My grandfather Ambrose was a banker. Dad said he loaned money to railroads. Anyway, Dad didn’t want an in-town job or to be a banker; even though he was a banker for nine years. He saved his money to buy the