Sweetgrass: Book Iii: Prairie

By Patricia Ann Kuess

It is May, 1863. The Battle of Fredericksburg is over; it was a disaster for the Union Army. Johnathan Traver, a Union Army Sergeant, is badly concussed, Esher Coley, his Warrior Companion and the man he loves, is grievously wounded, and their fellow soldier, Luther, who knows the healing ways of plants, has been shot in the face. Their situation is desperate. They must get to Kentucky where Luthers vast supply of medicinals offer their best chance to heal and be whole again. But how? The Union Army is evacuating and there are no extra wagons or horses. Johnathan makes getting to Kentucky his mission, and after many adventures on the road, he succeeds; they arrive at Luthers home to his grateful family, who all pitch in to restore their health.

Johnathan and Eshers dream is to homestead on the Prairie in the Dakota Territory. Johnathan imagines the two of them traveling together, finding their land, and farming it. But that is not Eshers dream. Yes, he wants to farm with Johnathan, but he also wants children, a wife, and to travel by wagon train. When they leave Luthers for the Prairie, Johnathan is convinced there is no need for a wagon train, no need for a wife, and as for children, there have to be some orphans there that they will adopt. He has months to change Eshers mind as they journey north and west. They experience more adventures on the road, but Johnathan is unable to budge Esher from his conviction that it is too dangerous to travel alone. They join a wagon train. They begin the journey of their lives. It soon becomes evident that they are both rightand wrongas a new test for their love arises from the dust of the wagon trail.

Like all dreams, achieving them require hard work and enduring many bewildering dips and turns. Johnathan and Eshers dream is like any other: full of passion, confusion, and sometimes tears, but ultimately, their dream is a journey of love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491736241

Patricia Ann Kuess

Patricia Ann Kuess lives in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina with her dog, Luis, and all her characters. She can be contacted at patriciakuess.com.

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SWEETGRASS

Book III

Prairie

iUniverse LLC

Bloomington

SWEETGRASS: BOOK III

PRAIRIE

Copyright © 2014 Patricia Ann Kuess.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-3625-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-3626-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-3624-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014909942

iUniverse rev. date: 6/16/2014

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Epilogue

Dedicated to Tim and Charles, my first readers

PROLOGUE

Union Army rear echelon, after Fredericksburg, May, 1863

At any moment, I hear the bomb all over again. Quite peculiar, I think, since I never heard a thing when it hit. Just suddenly there was space. I was airborne, floating like a feather in a spring breeze. It seemed so normal to be as weightless as a feather, a natural state. I forgot about the earth, forgot there even was an earth. Now, however, I am a prisoner of it. I grovel on the ground. I cannot stand upright, I crawl. If I try to lift my head, the world spins and dips. So does my stomach. And the bomb I never heard explodes in my head, again.

What a debacle Fredericksburg has been for us. Such terrible losses, and we’ve gained nothing. I lie still and listen to the ear-splitting noise of an Army evacuating. We must regroup so we can fight again. Fight again. Hah! This war is interminable. It won’t end until we run out of men.

I risk turning my head so I can look at Esher. He hasn’t moved since I carried him from the battlefield. No flutter to his eyelids. Not the slightest moan. He doesn’t even appear to be breathing. I touch him. He’s warm. I put my hand on his chest. I feel his heart beat, he’s breathing.

God, do not take him. Let him live. I will do whatever it takes for as long as it takes . . . . Amen.

My prayer staggers me. I’m not a man who prays. God and I are estranged, to put it mildly. Yet ever since I found Esher on the battlefield, prayers have burst from me spontaneously. I cannot stave them off, as I never know when one will occur. But the truth is I don’t try to stave them off. God and Esher are friends. Esher talks to God every day. He knows how to listen to God. I figure my poor prayers will keep them in touch. And maybe God won’t take him from me. God doesn’t need Esher with Him. I do.

We have a plan, Esher and I. We’re going to homestead on the Prairie. We’re going to be farmers and work our land together. I used to find this idea ridiculous. I’m the son of a wealthy Squire from Vermont, and I know how to do nothing except be a Sergeant in the Union Army. Esher was raised on the Prairie. He loves the land with a reverence I find admirable. I’m hoping some of it rubs off on me. But whether it does or not, I’m looking forward to spending the rest of my life with Esher. In this ghastly war, we have found a true and beautiful love. It is time for our love to blossom, not wither. Again I say, God doesn’t need Esher, I do.

Luther is with me. He survived the bomb, but he is wounded. He knows the secret ways of plants and herbs, and he can make Esher well again. It is up to me to get the three of us to Kentucky where Luther has his storehouse of medicinals, what he needs to make Esher whole. Kentucky is my mission. I swear I will get us there come Hell or high water. I swear I will get us there or my name isn’t Johnathan Traver.

CHAPTER 1

Union Army rear echelon, three days after Fredericksburg, May, 1863

If I lie perfectly still I feel all right. But then I breathe. Ka Boom! My head explodes. Something explodes. The bomb? But it feels like my head. And the world starts spinning crazily.

I’m all right, I tell myself. I’m all right. And for a second or two, I am. Then I breathe again. Ka boom!

I refuse to moan. Moaning requires movement. I concentrate on being perfectly still.

Sergeant. It’s time.

Our Lieutenant drags me to my feet. I hang on him. Luther, with half his face bandaged, steps next to me. He stoops, being head and shoulders taller than me, and drapes my free arm around his neck. The three of us head for the cemetery. I stumble and flounder between them. My feet have forgotten how to walk. My head lolls. Drool slobbers down my uniform. I ignore my pitiful state, I’m determined to attend this memorial. Determined.

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I cry out and sink to the ground the moment I see the mound of dirt that is his grave. Our Lieutenant shows me a list, points to a name. Was this your Corporal?

Sammet, I whisper. Oh, Sammet.

He makes a checkmark on his list before he bows his head. Take him, Lord. He was a good man. A good soldier. And now he resides with You. Amen. He leans down to me. Would he want a Chaplain to say some Good Words?

No, both Luther and I answer.

Very well. He straightens and steps back two feet, snaps open his pocket watch, snaps it shut. Discreetly he clears his throat.

I know. We have five minutes, I say before he does.

That is exactly right, Sergeant.

I crawl to the mound and touch the loose dirt. Luther stands next to me. What happened to his Feel-Good stone, Luther? It was his son’s legacy. Tears inundate me at this additional loss. I should have told him to mail it to his wife a long time ago.

Don’t be blamin’ yerself, Sarge. Sammie always wanted it in his pocket. An’ that’s whar it be.

From my crouched position, I lower my head to my forearm and let myself weep. Sammet was more than my efficient and competent Corporal. He was my friend. Now that he’s dead, I see the truth of this. I don’t understand why I realize such important things so belatedly. I did it again with Esher. Initially I thought what we shared was adventure. I thought we were Warrior Companions. I was satisfied thinking this until the moment I wasn’t, the moment I realized that what we shared was love. How could I not have known? I ask myself. Esher always knew he loved me, in fact it was love at first sight, and he always knew Sammet was his friend. Am I slow-witted? Because now, too late, I’m realizing that I liked Sammet. I thought the high regard I had for him was because he was an excellent Corporal. It never occurred to me that… he was a friend.

I’m proud I got ta serve with ya, Sammie, Luther says at my side. I’ll never ferget ya. That’s the honest truth.

Weeping has prompted the nausea to return. I cry and gag at the same time. My hand clutches some dirt from Sammet’s grave and I hold it close to me. Good bye my friend, I manage to say. It was an honor and a privilege to serve with you. I throw my handful of dirt on his grave. Good bye, Sammet.

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Luther and I have erected a small tarp over Esher, who is still unconscious. He would bake in the blazing sun if not for this tiny bit of shade. But the sun is relentless, I see that his lips are parched and cracked. Carefully, with immense concentration, I drip water on them, drop by drop, praying that some will reach his throat.

We’re all that’s left of my squad, Luther, Esher, and me. We’ve served together just over a year. We met a few weeks after Shiloh, May, 1862. I’ve been in the Army eight months longer. That’s a lot of fighting. That’s a lot of battles. And here we are: Luther, who keeps calling his wound ‘nothing but a graze,’ when it’s perfectly clear he was shot in the face; Esher, his left side torn open from hip to knee, who sleeps the sleep of the dead; and me, with a sprained brain. What a crew.

Luther and I tend to Esher’s wound three times a day, but it continues to ooze and bleed despite our efforts. His wound defies description as well as our efforts. His face resembles a death mask. I never let myself say ‘death mask,’ but I can’t stop myself from thinking it. His pallor frightens me, and I’m not a man who frightens easily.

A wagon clatters to a stop behind me. I don’t look. I continue drizzling water into Esher’s mouth, a drop at a time.

We gotta take him, Sarge. Orders.

I do not respond. I’m busy.

Sergeant?

My hand quivers at the sound of our Lieutenant’s voice. More than a few drops splash on Esher’s face.

A word with you.

I don’t stand. Standing is still nearly impossible.

He comes to me. His injury is a grievous one. You have cared for him diligently, but now we must muster him North.

I look at the wagon, a flatbed ambulance that’s loaded with injured men. All of their wounds are grievous ones. Even from this distance I can see fresh blood seeping through bandages. I also see men lying torn and bleeding without bandages, as there is a scarcity of them. Some lie perfectly still, too perfectly still, others cry for help. I can’t let Esher get on that ambulance. It’s a waking nightmare. Lieutenant, he’ll die if they take him. It’s certain death.

He’s going to d—

No! My man Luther can save him. He knows about medicinals. Everything he needs is in Kentucky. Sir. We have to get to Kentucky.

Sergeant, be reasonable. None of the three of you will make Kentucky. An ambulance is coming for you and your man next.

I force myself to stand. Ka boom! The ground dips and sways. My stomach lurches, but I refuse to let my stomach have its way; I don’t retch in front of him. I refrain from speaking until the ground stops moving. Help us, Lieutenant. No ambulance, please.

It’s Captain. I’ve been promoted.

I make my eyes focus. The twin bars on his collar drift into view. Why so he has. I’m not surprised, sir.

He looks ten years older than when I met him at Camp before Fredericksburg. His uniform is frayed and filthy. At Camp it was brand new. His grey eyes are bleary from lack of sleep, he needs a shave. Just as I’m about to note, to myself, his general lack of crispness, a quality I noticed about him back at Camp, he nods: crisply. I’ve given you all the time I can give, Sergeant. We’ve got to evacuate all our wounded. All. His look my way is keen.

An extra wagon. A horse. Then we can—

There’s not an ‘extra’ anything, Sergeant.

One more day, sir. That’s all I’m asking.

He peers at me. And what’ll another day do?

We’ll see, sir. We’ll see.

He waves at the teamster on the ambulance to move along. Very well, one more day. He glances at the still-as-death form of Esher. He doesn’t say, ‘then maybe he’ll be dead,’ but he looks it. He leaves without a salute. I sink back down to the ground. Ka boom! But I don’t float. There’s no more floating. What bliss that was. What bliss. I roll over and puke bilge-water as there’s no food in me. I must be still. I’m all right. Be still. All right.

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Two men walk my way. Ah! Luther has finally found George. If anyone can help us get a wagon and a horse, it’s George. He’s loyal and trustworthy, also ruthless and cunning. In my estimation he’s the epitome of a Union soldier. Something about their pace arrests my attention. I stare at them. As they approach me, I see that Luther clings to George, and Luther is not a man who clings. I gasp aloud. My God, Luther is blind! I struggle upright, but move too quickly. Nausea overtakes me. I collapse, gagging piteously. I hold myself tightly. My ribs ache from too much puking. All my innards ache from too much puking.

Yer scarin’ me, Traver. Stop it. George lets go of Luther and bangs me on my back. I wave him off. Back-banging isn’t helping.

I cain’t see, Sarge. I found Sergeant Haag, then all a sudden…

I hear the fright in Luther’s voice. Shit! It’s all I can think to say.

Well good day ta you too, George says. I bin worried sick about ya. Din’t know if you wuz dead er alive.

I look at the robust form of George as he stands before me. His toothy grin belies the fret lines on his face. Then I realize he’s not grinning, his teeth just don’t fit in his mouth like teeth should. I’ve always wondered if he grew more than the normal amount and then left it up to his lips to accommodate them. That would be like George, he’s not a man who considers consequences. George looks at the motionless Esher, at me groveling on the ground, at Luther, his face bandaged, now blind, and exclaims, Holy hell!

I do not respond. I am holding my breath. I am willing the nausea away once again.

George squats by me. He jerks his head toward Esher. Is he dead?

I manage to shake my head. We’ve got to get to Kentucky, George. We need a horse and a wagon.

His guffaw is half snort.

A horse and a wagon, I repeat.

Lissen, Traver. You don’t unnerstand what it’s like. He leans into my face. We lost the battle. You hear? We lost an’ there’s nothin’. We’re tryin’ ta git the hell otta here an’ regroup. What you want is impossible.

I grab the side of his neck with one hand to keep his face by mine. A horse and a wagon. You can do this, George. I know it.

Our noses touch we’re so close. Our gazes meld into each other. Finally he wrenches his head free of my grip and stands. Shit, he announces resignedly.

Thank you.

He puts his hands on his hips and looks around as if he expects to see a horse appear. A wagon.

Dawn tomorrow, I tell him. Or the Lieutenant, I mean Captain, will muster us North. And Esher will surely die.

George squints at Esher but doesn’t say anything. He leads Luther, who has removed his bandages, the few steps to me, presses him down. Luther sits. No promises, Traver, George says with a sigh. I’ll do what I kin.

I hold up my hand. He clasps it and we shake. You’re a good man, George. I’ve always said that.

Yeah. Yeah. Sure you have. He leaves.

I put my arm around Luther’s bony shoulders and look at him. I see a gap-toothed grimace and it startles me. Not the gaps next to his front teeth, he’s always had those as long as I’ve known him, but the grimace. We’ve been through a war together, Luther and I, and I’ve never known him to grimace. Never. He is a stoic and steady man. I gasp when I see the rest of his face. His right eye is three times the size it should be, and big splotches of blood drip from his laid-open cheek. I stare at the gore that is Luther’s face and beat down panic.

Kentucky. Kentucky. I must get us to Kentucky. And Luther must live. He must live. Luther has to live.

I needin’ help, Sarge.

Yes! Should I get fresh bandages? Should I—

Feels lahk mah eye about ta explode right otta mah head.

What should I do? What do you need?

Some squeezin’.

For a second my blood stops. Everything stops. I know what ‘squeezing’ means. Pus. God, Luther.

Then mayhap I kin see again. It’s gonna take the two of us ta care fer ‘im, Sarge.

I close my eyes. I promised God I’d do whatever it took. But I forgot about pus when I said it.

I’ll squeeze, Luther says. You do the moppin’.

I wad up the bandages from Luther’s face and hold them poised for pus. He prods around his eye and soon gobs of pudding-like goo ooze from the corners. The smell is atrocious. I sop up the pus as Luther presses out more and more.

It’s workin’! I kin see again.

I immediately drop the odious bandages and give way to my wretched stomach that gives me no peace. There’s nothing in me to puke, but I heave spastically anyway. Soon there’ll be blood. Luther grabs my wrists and holds them tightly. His grip hurts but I don’t admonish him. The pressure is working; I feel the nausea fading away. When the spasm passes we look at each other. I see that his eye is swollen shut, but is nearer to a normal size. He sees that I am a puking, slobbering mess. My brain will not relinquish the bomb that blew us all up. I hear it and feel it, over and over. Luther looks from me to Esher and back again. Some outfit we are, huh?

Which way is Kentucky?

He points West.

Tomorrow, rain or shine, we’re on our way.

He nods as if he’s heard something sensible, then he tends to his face. We found his pack when we reached the rear echelon so he has some of his medicinals. I watch him swab an ointment on his cheek, cover it with what looks like a dried leaf, then he starts bandaging. I crawl to the pot of boiling water by the fire we built, and drop Luther’s filthy bandages into it. They need to cook for twenty minutes. When they’re done, we wring them out and hang them up to dry. Then it’ll be time to tend to Esher. I huddle next to the fire. I am exhausted. I am a repulsive wretch of a man, but somehow, regardless, I must get us to Kentucky. Reaching Kentucky and the entire array of Luther’s medicinals is the mission of my life. I know Luther can save Esher. Kentucky. Kentucky. That’s the word that fills my brain, claims my being. It is what drives me. It is what keeps me going. Kentucky. Kentucky. That’s the name of my mission.

We gotta reset the bone, Sarge.

I allow a groan to escape. This is the third time we’ve set Esher’s thigh bone. Each time has been a disgusting display of fetid blood, stinking pus, and rotting flesh.

You ready fer that?

I drag myself over to Luther who is by Esher. Feebly I salute my readiness, then I take my position. I’m Luther’s nurse. We’re a team. I do what he tells me and together we’re keeping Esher alive. Against all odds, Esher is alive.

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This is my favorite time of day, night. Everyone is asleep so I finally get to be alone, finally I get some peace. There’s no more tending to wounds. No more pus. No more blood. My duties are over. It’s quiet, I like that. Darkness appeals to me. I love gazing at the moon. When I was a boy she was my best friend. The moon, me, and my horse, Casimir, played together every night. We were splendid together. Splendid. That’s what Esher thought when he first saw me. What a splendid man! I smile to myself. He’s the splendid one.

I am wide awake. All day long I drag myself around half asleep, but at night my eyes snap open, my brain revives itself, my muscles twitch, and I am ready to—

Well I haven’t figured out what I’m ready for as actual movement is still a problem. However writing requires very little exertion. So here I am, propped against my pack, lying under a black dome of star-studded sky, though their sparkle doesn’t diminish the moon an iota, dipping penpoint into inkpot, and writing. I enjoy this pastime and it relaxes me. I used to have grandiose ideas about my writing. I thought my scribbled words mattered. I had a grand title, We Are the Adventure, the story of me and Esher, a Yankee and a Prairieman. I’ve let grandiose go, joy and relaxation are enough. What interests me now is Esher and the life we’ll make together. We are still the adventure, coupled with love.

I pause for a moment. I confess to feeling anxious about tomorrow. I hate being so dependent on others for what I need, a horse and a wagon. Yet I must count on either the Captain or George to bring me what I need to get Esher, Luther, and me to Kentucky. And I must lie here and wait for tomorrow. Me, who is so poor at waiting for anything. I touch Esher, as I feel compelled to do a thousand times a day. He’s warm. I feel the beat of his beautiful heart, the rise and fall of his chest, he’s breathing.

God, You’re good at waiting. Wait to take him. That is my prayer. You wait . . . . Amen.

I let my gaze wander, I look at the moon. She is particularly brilliant tonight. She shines on me, for me. I decide that she is a harbinger of good news. This is the news: tomorrow we’ll be on our way to Kentucky. I’ll count on it. Why not?

We have survived this brutal, and I’m beginning to think, pointless war. I used to think that with enough blood shed the Rebs would come to their senses and give up. A new United States would then flourish, one born in the blood of hundreds of thousands of valiant men. I believe that enough blood has been shed. I concluded this at Sammet’s grave. But there is no sign that either side will give up any time soon. Much more blood will be shed. And for what?

I lean back and gaze at the luminous moon. I bask in her brilliance. I feel bathed in her liquid silver light. I let it wash over me.

For what? I write the one answer I know: to stay a united country. That has to be enough of a reason for all this blood. I hold fast to this reason. It must be enough.

I smile at the moon. As I do, I realize it’s the first I’ve smiled since before Fredericksburg. I notice that clusters of stars have gathered around the moon, as though to pay homage to her. My smile becomes a grin. I want to pay homage to her too, but I don’t move; I don’t want to rile my stomach. In my mind’s eye, however, I move. I bow to the moon. And in my mind’s eye, I laugh.

CHAPTER 2

The next morning

I can stand. Here I am, upright. The earth’s not spinning and dipping, I’m not dizzy. My stomach no longer dominates my entire being, it’s just a part of me like everything else.

Sergeant Haag is comin’, Sarge, Luther announces.

I hear him before I see him.

I want no complainin’, Traver. George’s voice bellows forth from the early morning void: it’s too light to be dark, and too dark to be light. George eventually appears as though emerging from mist. A dark shape follows him. The shape is vaguely familiar.

This is all I could git, an’ I don’t want enny lip. Take it er leave it.

I realize the vaguely familiar shaped ‘it’ is a horse. Splay-footed. Squat-legged. Sway-backed. But a horse nonetheless. I crane to see the wagon.

Don’t be strainin’ yer eyes none. I said the horse is it, din’t I?

There’s three of us, George. How can we—

There are no wagons! he yells. Git that in yer head, Traver. No wagons, nowhars.

I force myself not to slump to the ground. It’s taken me four days to stand upright and nothing is going to beat me back to the ground. Nothing. So I will stand, and I’ll think of what to do. Dizziness threatens my brain. Possibly it’s too soon to be thinking but so what. I must figure out what we can do without a wagon.

Can we find a way to drape Esher over the horse? Can Luther and I walk to Kentucky?

I was thinkin’ a litter of some sort fer the kid, George says in a more amiable tone of voice. Spoke ta the Captain about it.

And?

Said he’d see what he could do.

One of the first things I realized about our Captain, this was when he was still a Lieutenant, is that he does what he says he’s going to do. He even does what he implies he’s going to do. I look at Luther and nod. You hear that? A litter.

We’ll need rope, he says. We’ll hafta tie him on.

Is rope a problem? I ask George.

He shrugs. I don’t got enny.

I approach the horse. Dust and mud cake its musty brown coat. Scars criss-cross its flanks. Every other breath is a wheezing snort. I pat its thick neck and it nuzzles my leg. Does she have a name?

Don’t make things difficult, Traver. Jist take the horse ‘n’ go.

Horse ‘n’ Go. I like it. I pat her again and receive another leg nuzzle.

George comes to me. Our Battalion’s pullin’ out tidday.

You know where?

He shrugs. I jist follow the line. Hope ta hell the lead soldiers know whar they goin’.

It occurs to me I may never see George again. The thought jolts me. Does this mean George is my friend? I stare at him as if I’ve never seen him before.

He leans close to me and speaks confidentially. They’s a rumor Lee plans on invadin’ us. We’ll be fightin’ on Northern soil soon. By summer fer sure.

His news stuns me. I can’t believe it! How did things get this bad?

Dumb luck, I reckon.

If we lose on Northern soil the war’s over, George. That’s it. The Country splits up.

He nods without looking at me. Suddenly everything is awkward. It’s time to say good bye and neither of us knows how to do it. Then it comes to me. George is my friend. I get to say good bye to a good friend while he’s still alive.

Ho, Sergeants! Our Captain rides up. A teamster driving an empty ambulance accompanies him. He dismounts and rummages around in back of the wagon, finally lifting up a stretcher and yanking it off. He waves the teamster on. George, Luther and I walk to the Captain. Luther takes the stretcher and peers at it with his one good eye.

Sturdy, he pronounces.

The Captain removes coiled rope from his saddle. You’ll need this to— He notices our horse and frowns