Gallant Boys of Gettysburg by Gilbert L. Morris

Author:Gilbert L. Morris [Morris, Gilbert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-8024-7884-9
Publisher: Moody Publishers
Published: 1996-12-15T05:00:00+00:00

10

Any Port in a Storm

The sun was midway up in the sky as Nelson Majors drove the wagon down the dusty road. It had not rained for some time, and the wagon wheels sent up small puffs of white dust behind them. Overhead the sky was a hard blue, and there were only a few small fluffy clouds over to the west.

The wheels dropped into a rut, and Tom uttered a pained cry as he was jolted.

Jeff, sitting beside him, tried to shield him but could only say, “We’re almost there, Tom. It won’t be long now. You’ll be all right.”

“Where we going?” Tom muttered.

His lips were swollen, and his face was flushed. He had alternated all night between chills and fever, and even now he shivered although the sun beat down on the open bed of the wagon.

Perspiration stood on Jeff’s face, but he pulled the blankets closer under Tom’s chin. “We’re going to the Poteets’ house,” he said.

He had already told his brother this, but Tom slipped in and out of consciousness frequently and could not remember what was said.

The leg was inflamed. The doctor who changed the dressing just before they left had been apprehensive. “It doesn’t look too good. I think you’ve got some infection in that leg. Be sure you keep it clean, change the bandages. That’s about all you can do.”

Now, as they rolled along the road, Jeff glanced ahead to the white house where they had had dinner only a few days ago. It seemed an eternity ago to him—so much had happened since. What traffic was on the road was headed the other way, south, and when his father pulled the wagon off out of the way of the wounded and battle weary infantry who marched slowly along, kicking up more dust, Jeff thought, I just hope my dream was really from God. Tom’s never going to make it if something doesn’t happen!

When the wagon drew up in front of the white frame house, Jeff jumped out without waiting for his father and ran up to the door. He knocked loudly and, while waiting for an answer, muttered, “I must be crazy. These are Yankee folks. They’ll never take care of a wounded Confederate.”

The door opened abruptly, and Claude Poteet stood there gazing at Jeff with his alert brown eyes. He ran his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, then smiled. “Well, it’s our young Confederate friend.” He turned and said, “Ellie, look who’s here!”

Ellie Poteet half shoved her husband out of the way. She was wearing a plain gray dress again, and her hair was wound around her head in a braid. “Why, it’s young Mr. Majors.” She looked over Jeff’s shoulder and saw the wagon and the Confederate officer sitting there holding the lines. Looking back to Jeff she asked, “What’s wrong?”

Jeff swallowed hard and tried to find the right words. “Well,” he said slowly, “my brother, Tom—he’s been shot.”

“Oh, that’s a shame.” Ellie Poteet’s warm brown eyes filled with compassion. “And is thee all right, young Mr.

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