Jodi Thomas - Northern Star

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© 1990

Hunter Kirkland collapsed in the damp, dusty hay of the abandoned loft. The wind blew over him, unhampered by rotting boards that marked the aging barn walls. The roof stood firm above, like a stubborn old man refusing to bow to the wrath of the storm. Slowly, with pain showing in his tired gray eyes, Hunter removed his uniform jacket. He laid it in the hay tenderly, not seeing the blood and dust of the present, only the pride of three years past when he'd been commissioned in the Union Army. The coat, like its wearer, had aged and suffered since that first day and bore little resemblance to its earlier self. Hunter covered the uniform with straw, hiding it along with his identity. His life would be worthless if the jacket were found.

Resting his head on the musty hay, Hunter tried to ignore the throbbing in his shoulder long enough to sleep. Rest was vital if he was ever going to make it back through the lines to camp. However, sleep eluded him as the pain washed over his body in long, icy waves.

Damn the Rebels. What if they've captured the Star? His foggy mind filled with visions of his beloved Northern Star, riddled with bullets, falling from the sky. I shouldn't have listened to Wade. Storms and balloons never mix. Was he hallucinating or had the Star truly fallen? The answer lay just out of reach in the reality he could no longer touch.

In the dampness of the loft Hunter felt suddenly warm, and his thoughts grew cloudy. His last ounce of consciousness faded as he heard the barn door creak slowly open. He lay silent, beyond action, beyond caring, and drifting beyond life.

A ragged figure emerged from between sheets of rain through the cracked barn door. A bolt of lightning briefly illuminated a youth resembling countless others washed aside in the wake of war. The thin-faced, wide-eyed child seemed old enough to survive yet too young to serve either army.

The youth tugged at the oversize clothes that hung wet on his exhausted body. With the next roll of thunder a larger figure, neatly dressed in black, slipped through the ancient door. Her chocolate-colored face filled with fear as her eyes darted around the barn.

The slave whispered to her ragged companion, "I think we best stay here, Miz Perry. We can't make it much farther in this rain." She shook her shawl. "Smells like rotten death in here."

"Anything's better than being out there," Perry Mc-Lain replied as she pulled off her soggy hat, allowing her hair to fall free. Tangled ebony curls surrounded her small oval face. The boy's clothing she wore had adequately concealed a small-framed woman of twenty.

"If this storm slowed us down, it surely stopped Captain Williams. We'll rest here. In an hour it'll be morning." Perry wished her soft tone would calm her own nerves as well as it reassured Noma.

As Perry's eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, Noma headed toward an overturned bucket. The middle-aged slave sat her considerable bulk upon it and complained, "Wish we could build a fire." Unexpectedly, a bubble of laughter erupted from the black woman. "Guess we had enough fire for a spell, though."

Perry smiled. "I'm amazed you can laugh," she said. Moving beside Noma, Perry placed her arm protectively around her shoulders. Noma was the closest friend Perry had, more family than slave.

"Ain't no use crying about it. What's done is done," Noma answered. "But I do wish that devil Captain Williams would stop nipping at our heels. Ain't nothing worse than a Johnny Reb turn Yankee, and he took what you done so personal."

Visions of flames as high as hundred-year-old elms flashed through Perry's mind. She'd never dreamed the fire would spread from the fields to the barns and finally to Ravenwood. "I had to burn the fields," she whispered to some invisible judge before her. "No matter what the danger. I couldn't just give up." Even before the fires were under control, Captain Williams had issued a warrant for her arrest.

Noma wasn't listening. She'd begun exploring their dilapidated shelter like an old miner who'd found a new tunnel. "I wish your brother was here. All that boy's life he's thought he was your protector. I miss that bossy, redheaded man."

Perry nodded. Her brother was a surgeon with General Lee's army near Raleigh. They'd heard a few weeks earlier that he was moving toward them and hoped he might get to come home for a few days. But the fighting had grown worse for the South, with the number of wounded climbing daily. Andrew McLain's letters were only short notes written in an exhausted hand. He could've been within a few hours' ride of Ravenwood and not been able to cross lines to get home. If Lee moved south, he'd be trapped between Sherman and Grant.

Perry straightened her tired muscles slightly. "Andrew would have done the same thing. We couldn't let Yankees have our harvest. I'll hang first." Her choice had been simple-stay and fight or burn the fields and run.

Noma kicked something in the shadows. "And hang you will, Miz Perry, if that devil Captain Williams catches you. He'll have that rope around you faster than I wring a chicken's neck on Sunday."

Noma's remark sent a sudden chill through Perry's body. She knew the law, as did everyone in the South. Destroying crops was an act of treason. A tear rolled unchecked down her dirty face. She forced herself to swallow her doubts. "We'll make it to Granddad's old place and hide out there. I'll find some way to get word to Andrew. Then all we have to do is wait until he comes."

"Wish we could go farther south. That farm ain't far enough away from them Yankees. And it's so old, there's probably more varmints living in that house than are staying in here." Both women glanced around nervously.

"Well, look there," Noma squealed.

Perry's glance followed the point of Noma's finger. A loft stood half hidden in the dark corner. Only the extending ladder gave away its presence. They both scrambled up, hoping for a dry bed.

Perry stepped from the ladder, testing the loft. It was not only dry, but also sturdy enough for both women. The aging wood cried under the weight of Noma's awkward bulk as she followed a few steps behind.

"This might not be a bad night's sleep, after all," Perry said, unbuttoning her damp coat. The garment was too big, but it had felt wonderful when the rain began. Now the damp material felt like lead molded to her shoulders. "I never thought curling up in a blanket on the hay would be so inviting."

Perry's sleepy gaze fell on a dark bundle in the far corner. Hoping someone had left bedding in the loft, she hurried forward.

Kneeling, she reached for the bundle. The mass rolled an inch forward and she gasped as the object came alive. Thunder rattled the barn and lightning turned night into an instant of day. Perry screamed as a hand fell with a lifeless thud across her boot.

She fought down another scream and stepped back, her eyes fixed on the pale open palm lying atop the hay. Noma moved closer, whirling the bundle she carried like a weapon. But there was no one to battle. The form on the loft floor remained still. Cautiously Noma knelt as Perry slipped a small knife from her pocket.

"Is he dead?" Perry whispered as the smell of blood assaulted her senses.

The storm cooperated, lending Noma a flash of lightning by which she could examine the man. "He's pretty near gone, from what I can tell," Noma whispered. "He's a soldier; blue or gray, I can't say. There's blood and mud everywhere." She rose slowly to her feet. "He'll be dead before morning."

"No!" Perry said bitterly. "No." The hopelessness of her own plight was momentarily forgotten. She was sick to the core of all the dying. "Noma, we must do something. I don't want to see another man die as long as I live."

The mighty heave of Noma's chest told Perry that the slave didn't share her concern for this man's life, but Noma nodded. "I hear you, Miz Perry. There ain't no use to argue when you use that stubborn tone with me. Sometimes I think you and your brother were fathered by a mule and nursed by the Angel of Mercy, the way you carry on about folks who are sick and dying." Noma pulled off her wool scarf. "If you'll get that bucket downstairs and fill it with rainwater, I'll clean off some of this blood and see what we can do for this soldier boy.''

All fatigue was forgotten as Perry fetched the water. This time I'll fight, she thought. Death followed her like a shadow. Always there; always taking those around her. Perry often felt she was playing some morbid game without knowing the rules. Death had taken every member of her family in the past few years, except Andrew. "But not this time," she kept repeating in her mind. "This time I'll fight death and win."

As Perry returned with the water Noma was already hard at work. The black woman had often helped Andrew with the doctoring before the war. Other slaves said Noma had healing hands, even if her heart was sometimes cold. This stranger was in good care.

"Dig that knife outa that pouch you brought with your mother's papers and things." Noma was too busy to look up. "Cut me some bandages outa what's left of his shirt."

Perry followed instructions. By the time Noma had the blood cleaned off, a stack of bandages lay waiting.

As she knelt a few feet away, watching Noma work, Perry absentmindedly braided her black hair into one long chain of silky ebony. Her hair had always been a source of joy to her father. Perry knew he would have frowned to see how it had been twisted and hidden under her dirty hat. But a lady didn't travel alone, especially if she was wanted for treason. The old clothes were her only hope of escaping Captain Williams and his band of Yankees that rode across the Carolinas. She knew she'd traveled far enough south to be well behind the lines. Within another day she would be completely out of any Yankee's reach. Yet this man before her fought a battle within, and for him there was no safe ground.

The stranger's chest, stripped of shirt and blood, seemed like only muscle pulled over bone with no softness. Though his face was a shadow, Perry wondered about his identity. He might be a poor Southern farm boy running away from more fighting, or maybe one of the many Northern spies infiltrating the South. Watching his life ebb, Perry concluded that it didn't matter. Maybe Noma was right: Stubbornness and mercy were both her strengths and her curse. If this man died, she'd feel the pain of his loss without even knowing his name.

Noma shook her head as she leaned back from her patient. "Without a fire it's going to be hard keeping this fella alive." She rubbed the small of her back and waddled to the far side of the loft. "I'm going to curl up and let this old body get a few hours' sleep. Unless it stops raining, we ain't going anywhere come morning."

Perry noticed the first hint of daybreak. "I'll sit by him awhile. You get some sleep." She covered an already snoring Noma with their only blanket.

Slowly she crawled to the sleeping soldier, studying him closely. His hair grew lighter with the morning. Sunny blond strands covered his forehead and brushed his sleeping eyes. His jawline was strong and covered with sandy, short whiskers; his mouth was generous, relaxed in sleep. Gently Perry touched a curl hanging across his forehead. With a will of its own the curl wrapped around her finger, surprising her with its tender gesture.

In the early dawn light the sleeping man's lips thinned, and his face contracted in pain. A sudden chill overtook him and he shook violently, as though the entire earth were unsteady beneath him. War raged within him, a war of life over death.

Sliding down beside him in the hay, Perry pressed against his body while pulling her large coat over them both in a tight cocoon. He was hard and muscular in her arms, but she felt death's cold hands chilling him from within. Her body was all that warmed him.

His unharmed arm encircled her, pulling her closer to his lean frame. His fingers slid down her back, molding her close, as though he craved the feel of another human being in his last moments of life.

Perry knew she should pull away, but she couldn't deny this man the comfort he desperately seemed to need. His fingers moved slowly along her body, touching her as no other ever would have dared. Her shirt and trousers did little to buffer the boldness of his touch as his hand traced lightly across her.

The stranger's action seemed easy, almost casual, as if he were merely assuring himself of her presence. But Perry burned with each of his strokes. Many times she'd longed to be held as a woman, but the war never allowed the luxury of romance. This man's touch caused a storm inside her, where only calmness had resided. A turmoil swirled within her blood like a whispering wind that warns of a raging tempest to come.