Becky's Rebel: The Becky Series, #1

By Sherry Derr-Wille

Becky's childhood comes to an end when the War Between the State takes her brothers from their Illinois farm. It isn't until a prisoner of war becomes her patient that she realizes she is no longer a child, but a woman in love.

Recuperating from pneumonia at the Larson farm, Joe finds the woman of his dreams. In the battle between North and the South, Joe must make Becky's brothers realize love is more important than politics.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9781590882368

Book preview

Prologue

The wind blew across the Illinois prairie, as only a January wind could blow. Snow, mixed with filtered sunlight, sifted through the cracks of the makeshift prison, only recently converted from a corncrib.

Through his fevered haze, Joe Kemmerman wished some of the flakes would fall on him, to quench the fire that burned just below the surface of his skin.

Beneath him, the thin mattress did little to cushion his body against the hardness of the floor. He’d gotten used to sharing his living space with not only the five other gray clad prisoners, but also with the rats who were free to come and go as they pleased.

A chill raced through his body. For days now the fever had alternated with the chills to accelerate the extent of his illness.

It’s numonie, Paul, I tell you, it’s numonie, he heard Backwoods say.

Joe mustered all the strength he could find to open his eyes and look at his brother. Am I going to die, Paul?

Of course you’re not. Pa sent me along to protect you, remember?

You can’t. A fit of coughing cut off his words.

Lay still, Paul cautioned. You need to save your strength. The guard said he was sending for a doctor.

Joe closed his eyes and listened to the conversation going on around him.

Don’t get yer hopes up, Paul, Backwoods warned. They ain’t gonna send no doctor.

But he said...

They say a lot of things. When are you goin’ to learn you can’t believe anything they say? They told us they’d ship us East, but they didn’t. They let us believe we’d get enough food and warm blankets. Have you seen any of it? They’re nothing’ but lying’ blue belly Yankees.

Joe agreed with everything Backwoods said, he just didn’t want to believe it.

How had all of this happened? Less than a year ago, he’d been nothing more than the youngest son of Mark Kemmerman. It was the war, this damnable war that had done this to him.

In his ramblings, he recalled his oldest brother, Luke. At the beginning of the war, he had enlisted. Letters were infrequent. Then, one day, they’d received word he’d been killed at Vicksburg.

Have faith, Joe Luke’s voice echoed in his mind. Paul knows Pa will make his life a living hell if you die. There’s no love lost between the two of them. He’s not like us.

Tears filled Joe’s eyes at the sound of Luke’s voice. How many months had passed since he could recall Luke’s face?

He turned his thoughts to the five other men who shared this nightmare with him. They had met just a week prior to being captured. At the time, only Backwoods was a seasoned veteran of many campaigns. His long dark hair and heavy beard hid his angular features in the same way his dirt and sweat stained uniform did his thin body. The other three men were as new to the business of war as Joe and Paul. He remembered them, not as they looked now, but the way he saw them when they first met. Billy Bob and Jimmy Roy Hastings came from a plantation in Virginia. Instead of standard issue, their uniforms were of fine quality material lovingly made by their mother. Even their hats carried a flare with a dark gray plume stuck into the band. In contrast, Bret Collier wore an expertly tailored uniform he said he had made by a tailor in New Orleans. He claimed to be a gambler, who enjoyed plying his trade on the riverboats that traveled the Mississippi River. With his means of livelihood temporarily gone, he decided to fight rather than starve.

We’re all so different, Joe thought, and yet here we’re all equal. Hard working, pampered, illiterate, none of it makes any difference. To these Yankees, we’re no better than animals.

He couldn’t help but remember their first military encounter. From that battle, there were only six men who weren’t killed. The memory of bodies which had, hours earlier, been his friends made him sick. The Mississippi field had been soaked in blood from gaping wounds and missing limbs turning everything red with the spillage of life.

Another coughing spasm wracked his body. His coughing brought up phlegm. To his surprise, it tasted salty and he realized his mouth was filled with blood.

Someone turned him onto his side, so the blood could run to the ground rather than down his throat. It would be better if I choked to death and died quickly, he thought to himself.

What can we do for him, Backwoods? he heard Paul ask.

Nothin’, all we can do is try to make him comfortable and pray the good Lord don’t let him suffer too long.

Pray, the word echoed in Joe’s mind. His mother and Maria were the ones who prayed. Even Paul took his religion seriously. Joe knew he was more like his father. Mark Kemmerman shunned traditional religion. With death inevitable, Joe wished he’d paid more attention to Maria when she insisted he accompany her to church.

A blast of cold air indicated the door to the enclosure had been opened. Joe couldn’t stop the coughing. To his horror, he couldn’t catch his breath.

Dear Lord, he thought as panic set in, I’m dying.

One

Dr. Tom Morgan finished his breakfast. After setting his dishes on the drain board by the sink, he checked the contents of his bag. Pleased he had everything he would need, he steeled himself to go out into the bitter January cold and begin his day.

Someone pounding at the door startled him. It was early, too early for most people to be out and about. Whoever was on the other side of the door must have real trouble. To Tom’s surprise, a Union soldier stood on the porch.

Can I help you? Tom asked the young man.

There’s a prisoner who’s sick. You need to come.

Prisoner? Where?

The captain calls it the Marrow Place.

The Marrow Place? Tom echoed. I thought the last prisoners left there in October.

They did, but another bunch came in right after the others left. No one ever authorized us to send them out, so they’re still here.

No matter, it doesn’t make any difference now. What did you say about one of the prisoners being sick?

He’s not much more than a kid. If he doesn’t get help soon, I’m afraid he won’t last much longer.

Why did you wait so long?

I—I didn’t know. Corporal Talons usually checks on the prisoners. My job is to tend the horses.

Then, why did you check on them today?

It’s cold. Corporal Talons didn’t want to go outside of the barracks. Look, my pa is a doctor. I know a sick kid when I see one. Are you going to help me?

Of course, I am. Give me a few minutes to get my bag and I’ll be ready to leave.

Tom rechecked the supplies in his bag then added more from his medicine cabinet, before he put on his coat and muffler.

Tie your horse on behind my carriage. It will be warmer if you ride inside with me.

The soldier agreed and insisted on hitching Tom’s horse to the traces. Before they left, Tom spread a buffalo robe over their laps. He watched as the young man ran his hand over the robe.

I certainly didn’t expect to see a robe of this quality so far east. The buffalo have been gone from Illinois for years.

Tom smiled at the comment. It was payment for services I rendered to a man who got sick while traveling North from St. Louis. I usually receive this type of barter, in lieu of money, from my patients.

The young man next to him said nothing further, leaving a silent void between them.

Tom realized the cold morning air penetrated not only the closed carriage, but the robe as well. The soldier must be even colder, considering he’d ridden the distance earlier and not taken time to warm himself before beginning the return trip.

You must be freezing, Tom said.

I’m used to the cold. My home is in northern Minnesota.

I’ve lived in this part of the country for a good part of my life, and I’m still not used to it, Tom confessed.

The young man nodded. With all the urgency, I never even asked your name, Doc.

It’s Morgan, Tom Morgan. What’s yours?

Alexander Pometere, Private Alexander Pometere, but my friends call me Alex.

Tom allowed Alex to ramble on about the town where he grew up and the family he left behind. The young man’s monologue helped to pass the time on the nearly hour ride to the Marrow Place.

He couldn’t help but remember the last time he’d visited Burt and Amy Marrow. They’d been the type of couple who did everything together. You didn’t think of one of them without thinking of the other. Even in death, they hadn’t been parted long. Tom sat with them as Amy quietly slipped away, after a long illness, only to have Burt collapse and die minutes later. He couldn’t prove it, but Tom knew Burt died of a broken heart.

I really miss my folks, Alex said, bringing Tom back to the present. We live in a farming community like this. Most of my friends live on farms. I guess I could have pulled worse duty. At least I don’t have to fight the Rebs, just guard them.

Tom looked up to see the buildings of the farm coming into view. The house stood as evidence of the neglect the property experienced ever since Burt and Amy’s deaths. It certainly needed a coat of paint. As for the outbuildings, they all looked like they were ready to fall down.

Where do they keep the prisoners?

In the corncrib, it doesn’t seem right to me, but my opinion doesn’t carry much weight around here.

Tom swallowed the bile rising in his throat. What were these people thinking of? This was no place for prisoners. He had little time to dwell on his dark thoughts, as he noticed two blue clad men warming themselves by a fire built just outside the barn.

Tom stopped the carriage. To his surprise, one of the men approached the buggy.

Just where in the hell have you been, Pometere? I thought you ran off somewhere. I was going to give you another hour then I was going to tell the captain you deserted. Get your scrawny ass into the barracks. I’ll deal with you later.

I see nothing to deal with, Tom commented. This young man came to town to tell me one of your prisoners is sick. I’ve come to treat him.

Treat him? What are you some kind of a Doc?

I’m Dr. Thomas Morgan, and if you’ll excuse me, I have a patient to see.

Patient? Hell, there ain’t no patients here. These ain’t men, they’re animals. I should have put a bullet in his head when he first got himself sick. I was foolish enough to allow nature to take its course rather than waste ammunition.

Tom held his tongue. To say anything would put him on the same level as the man he assumed to be Corporal Talons.

What’s going on here?

Tom turned to see a man wearing the uniform of a Union officer, striding toward them.

Just who are you? he demanded, pointing at Tom.

For the second time since his arrival, Tom repeated his name, as well as his reason for leaving the warmth of his house to travel for an hour to get here.

A prisoner is sick? the man, who identified himself as Captain Delos Courtney, asked. Why was I not made aware of this before now?

Beggin’ your pardon, Captain, but I saw no reason to bother you with something so trivial, Corporal Talons said.

Trivial! Tom spat. I don’t call a sick man something trivial. I’m certain the officials in Washington will agree with me.

Tom wondered if he imagined it or if Captain Courtney paled at his threat. No one in Washington gives a damn. If they did, these prisoners would have been sent east months ago, and we would be out of this hellhole.

At least your description of this place is correct. I want to see the prisoner.

Take Dr. Morgan to see the boy, Corporal. When he’s finished, report to me. Captain Courtney turned on his heel and returned to the house, leaving Tom alone with Talons.

The man said nothing audible, only grumbled under his breath, as he led the way to the makeshift prison.

Once the door opened, Tom blinked against the darkness. The smell of human waste combined with that of unwashed bodies, made him want to retch. To his right, he noticed a pail filled with the waste of these men.

When does this get emptied? he demanded.

At supper, Talons growled.

It should be done more often. It’s no wonder one of these men is sick. The smell is enough to turn your stomach, to say nothing of the cold.

Talons made no comment.

Who’s in charge here? Tom finally asked.

Reckon thets me.

Tom assessed the tall thin man who approached him. Who are you?

I’m Sergeant Nicodemus Langtree, but the boys here call me Backwoods. Captain Wallace got hisself shot. He died the day after we was captured.

He pointed to the rag clad man lying on the pallet then continued. Joe here, he’s got numonie. From what I can see, he ain’t got a snowball’s chance in hell. I know a death rattle when I hear one and he’s got it.

Tom brushed past the man and knelt beside the inert form on the mattress. Alex had described him as a boy and now Tom understood why. While the others stared at him with haunted eyes from behind full beards, this boy had only a few scraggly whiskers.

What is this young man’s name?

Joe Kemmerman, one of the other men said. He’s my...

The man’s words were cut short as Talons shoved the butt of his rifle into the man’s stomach then lifted it. Tom could hear the young man groan in pain as he sunk to his knees doubled over.

The Doc ain’t talkin’ to you, Reb. Someone should teach you to respect your betters.

Tom turned his attention from the sick man to the injured one.

Joe and Paul is brothers, Backwoods advised him.

Tom heard what Backwoods said and merely nodded, as he did a quick examination of the man called Paul. His fingers barely touched the man’s stomach before Tom noticed pain radiating from his eyes.

He listened as Paul gasped for breath. I’ll be all right, Doc. Joe needs you more.

I’ll take care of your brother. I’m taking him to a hospital. He will be well cared for there. As soon as I can, I’ll be back.

Turning to Talons, he said, Help me get the boy out to my carriage.

Why, Doc? Talons questioned. Let him die. He’s nothin’ more than Reb scum.

Tom wanted to hit the man. For the second time, he’d been tempted to lower himself to be an equal with Talons. I said, take him out to my carriage. I didn’t ask for your opinion and I’ll thank you not to give it so freely.

We’ll help you, Doc, Backwoods offered.

You animals stand back, Talons ordered. I’ll take the boy out to the carriage.

Tom followed Talons out of the enclosure. He felt as though someone had punched him in the stomach when he heard the door close, and the lock click into place behind him.

Once Joe had been placed in the carriage, Tom doubled the buffalo robe and tucked it around the unconscious young man.

The cold bit at Tom’s fingers, as he slapped the reins against the back of his horse. Once headed away from the farm, he allowed his mind to focus on the hospital where he would take Joe.

How would the Larson family accept the young Confederate soldier who rode beside him? With three sons fighting for the Union and a fourth killed only months earlier, could they find it in their hearts to care for Joe?

He couldn’t think about that now. If he’d left Joe in the prison, the boy would be dead by nightfall. There was no use in questioning his actions. As a doctor, he needed to do everything in his power to save Joe’s life.

BECKY LARSON GATHERED the eggs from the hen house. This had been her first job on the farm. She remembered the day her mother allowed her to do it, while she watched to be certain Becky did it right.

How simple things had been then. The word WAR had not yet entered their vocabulary. Becky’s brothers did the barn chores, help plant and harvest the crops, and broke the horses to saddle so they could be sold. Why had everything changed?

When the war pitting North against South first broke out, her three oldest brothers immediately enlisted. Ralph was assigned to a medic unit, while Herman and Edmund were given positions in the cavalry.

After a year of complaining of being left behind, Becky’s youngest brother, Teddy, lied about his age and joined the infantry.

The thought of Teddy caused tears to well up in her eyes. Letters from all of the boys were slow in coming, especially from Teddy. His last letter had been delivered on Christmas Eve, two weeks after they’d learned of his death,

If it hadn’t been for the recovery hospital Dr. Morgan insisted they open in the rambling farmhouse, she knew Teddy’s death would have destroyed her mother.

Thoughts of the hospital brought to mind the faces of numerous men who had occupied the upstairs bedrooms over the past two years. Each came with different problems. Each seemed to thrive under her mother’s expert care.

If the hospital gave her mother a reason for living, it had the opposite effect on Becky. In addition to helping her father with the barn chores and the farm work, she assisted her mother with the hospital. Every day there were beds to make and sheets to wash. She also helped with the cooking and cleaning, and often wrote letters for the men who were unable to do so for themselves.

Becky closed her eyes and saw herself as a young girl, begging her mother to allow her to help with the housework. How could she have been so foolish as to beg to help? Why hadn’t she been content to be a carefree child, loved and protected by her parents, as well as her brothers? What she wouldn’t give to turn back time, to once again become the innocent little girl she’d been.

She reached her hand under the last hen in the coop, only to have the bird peck at her in anger. The pain of the sharp beak piercing her skin brought her back to the reality of the moment.

You think I’m stealing your babies, don’t you? she asked aloud. I suppose I am, but we need your eggs to feed all of our patients. Someday, when this war is over, you’ll be allowed the luxury of raising a family. If that someday ever comes, I’m afraid none of us will ever be the same.

With the last of the eggs gathered, Becky opened the door to the hen house and stepped out of the enclosure. A gust of cold wind took her breath away. Ahead of her, the wind caused snow devils to swirl about the yard like smaller versions of summer twisters.

I hope this cold doesn’t stop the hens from laying, she thought. We certainly couldn’t do without all these eggs, considering the number of patients we have upstairs.

The jingle of horses’ harnesses caused her to turn. She smiled when she saw Tom Morgan’s carriage pull into the dooryard.

You’re late this morning, she said, when he got out of the carriage.

I had a stop to make. Is your Pa in the house? I’ve brought another patient for you.

You can’t be bringing another patient? You know we’re full up. There isn’t any more room.

Sorry, Becky, but somehow, your folks will have to find room for this one. Now, will you go in and get your pa? I need help getting this boy into the house.

Becky glanced toward the carriage. With the cold, the isinglass window had frosted over so she couldn’t see inside. Where would he have gotten another patient at this time of the morning? The riverboat didn’t dock until closer to noon, and with the weather, it might not dock at all.

The warmth of her mother’s kitchen embraced Becky, as soon as she opened the door.

Come over by the stove, her mother said. You look like you’re chilled to the bone.

I am. Tom is outside. He wants Papa to come out and help him with another patient.

Another patient? her father echoed, as she had moments earlier.

I told him we didn’t have the room, but he was insistent.

Her father grumbled as he pulled on his heavy jacket. We should have never agreed to this. Tom is working you into the ground, Emma.

Never mind, John. Just go out and help him bring in this patient. Becky and I will make up a bed in the summer kitchen. There’s certainly no more room upstairs. It’s the only place left.

Becky followed her mother into the room that in winter doubled as a storeroom. A day bed from the upstairs hall had been placed there when the last batch of patients came.

From the pile of sheets and blankets on the top shelf, Becky selected bedding to fit the single mattress and deftly made up the bed.

In the summer months, the windows brought in cool southerly breezes. Now they were shuttered against the cold and snow. Even though the cold blasts from outside could not penetrate the shutters, the room felt chilled.

Once she finished making up the bed, Becky turned to see her mother building a fire in the cook stove.

This should warm it up in here, Emma said, once the kindling caught fire.

I certainly hope so, Tom said, as he and Becky’s father entered the room.

Between the two of them, they carried a man with long brown hair, wrapped in the buffalo robe Becky knew Tom used in his carriage.

Once they placed their burden on the day bed, Tom unwrapped the robe, causing Becky to gasp.

A Reb! John shouted. How in the name of God did you think you could bring a Reb into this house and expect us to care for him? Take him out of here and do it now!

Becky watched in horror as her father’s face turned red with anger. Never before had she ever heard him utter an angry word, to say nothing of taking the name of the Lord in vain.

Calm down, John, Becky’s mother said, as she placed her hand on her husband’s arm. I’m certain Tom gave this matter a lot of thought. This boy can’t be much older than our Becky. How can we turn him away?

How can we keep him here? He could have been the one who killed Teddy. Can you honestly say you want him in this house?

I can understand your concern, Tom said. At least hear me out before you make your decision.

Becky listened as Tom explained about the prisoners being held at the Marrow Place. She could hardly believe anyone in their right mind would keep prisoners in a corncrib throughout the winter.

His name is Joe Kemmerman. I’m certain he has pneumonia. If I take him back to the Marrow Place, he’ll be dead by the end of the day.

We can’t send him back there, John, Emma agreed. What if it were one of our boys in a Confederate prison camp who got sick? What if a southern family turned him away? Could you live with yourself, knowing you’d turned away a dying boy?

Boy? John shouted. He was man enough to go to war, man enough to pick up a gun and fight boys like ours.

So was Teddy, Emma reminded him. He was only sixteen. Too young for such things, but he went anyway. Now he’s dead. I won’t allow this child to die as well. If you want no part in his care, so be it. Becky and I can see to his needs, as well as those of the others.

This one will be the end of you. You’re already doing too much. I won’t allow it.

Then I’ll care for him, Papa, Becky said, coming forward to voice her opinion for the first time.

I know when I’m outnumbered. He can stay, but the door will be bolted, from the kitchen side. I’ll not have any murdering Reb killing us in our sleep.

Becky watched as her father stormed from the room. She understood his concern, even worried about caring for someone she considered the enemy, but she knew it must be done. Like her mother, she could not allow Joe Kemmerman to die when proper care was available.

Bring some water in from the kitchen to heat on this stove then get me a clean nightshirt, Emma ordered.

Becky cast one last glance at the rag clad young man who lay on the day bed. Even wracked with fever and congestion, he appeared to be handsome. Her heart ached, as she realized her mother was right. He couldn’t be much older than she was.

In the kitchen, she found her father sitting at the table, a cup of coffee in one hand and a freshly baked cinnamon roll in the other.

What are you doing, Becky? he asked.

Mama wants me to bring in some water so she can heat it up to bathe Joe.

I don’t want you caring for the boy without his clothes on. I’ll take the kettle of water from the stove. It’s already warm. You go and get a nightshirt.

Becky was not surprised by her father’s change of heart. No matter how he felt about the uniform, she knew he would not let the man in the summer kitchen die.

Leaving the room, she went to the downstairs closet and took a clean nightshirt from the shelf. By the time she returned, her father no longer sat at the table.

From the summer kitchen, she heard the hushed voices of her parents and Tom.

How bad is he? she heard her father ask.

"It doesn’t look good. Those people out there consider these men little more than animals. This boy should have received treatment long before this. If that