Free A Place of Peace by Iris Penn

little, but now it was pointed at his stomach instead of his head, and that didn’t make Holcomb feel much better.
    “I’m looking for a doctor,” said Holcomb.  “My friend’s hurt.”
    “No doctors here,” said the woman.  She looked young, maybe twenty, with a scar across her neck that wrapped around her throat like a white snake.  “Store’s closed, too.”
    “I need medicine,” said Holcomb, wishing she would put away the gun.  “Morphine.  I saw the pharmacy sign outside.”
    The woman actually laughed a little, but the gun did not waver.  “You honestly think we have morphine here?  The army already cleaned us out three weeks ago.  All we have left are shovels to bury our dead, who are dying without the benefit of medicine because of our boys marching away to the south.  Now here comes one slinking back home to take what else he can.  Well, we don’t have any here.  So you need to get out of here before I write up one more casualty for the ‘cause’.”
    “Okay,” said Holcomb.  “I’ll leave.”  She didn’t move.  “With your permission, of course.  I’m John Holcomb, from Murfreesboro.  My friend and I are going home.”
    “I think you’ve deserted,” said the woman.  “And you’re looking for morphine for reasons other than for medication.”
    A faint cry from outside, and Holcomb almost broke for the door, but the woman’s steady hand held him back.
    “What’s the matter with your friend outside?” she asked.
    “Got his leg taken off.  From a wound he got at Pittsburgh Landing.  He’s in a lot of pain.”
    The gun shook a bit, and Holcomb saw the woman glance toward the door, her eyes narrowing with thought.
    “You got any money?” she asked. 
    “No.”
    The woman stepped over to one of the windows and glanced out, looking at the wagon.  She saw Colby lying in the back of the wagon, half trying to crawl out.  The cap on his stump had popped off, and red streaks were dripping down the sides of the wagon, staining the wood.  With a grunt, Colby rolled over the side of the wagon and collapsed in the dusty street, clawing at the dirt.
    Holcomb saw the woman’s face soften.  Her mouth opened, half in shock at what she was seeing.  Colby was trying to crawl into the store, his stump trailing behind him and leaving a trail.
    “Oh, no,” she said quietly.  Holcomb watched as the shotgun dropped to point at the floor, slack in her hand.  “Your boy out there is out of the wagon.”
    “What?”  Holcomb started to go for the door, but stopped when the gun was raised again.
    “Let me see him,” she said.  “Maybe I can help.  Bring him in and carry him to the back.  There’s a bed back there, and be sure he’s comfortable.”
    There was a thump beside the door, and Colby dragged himself up to collapse just outside.
    “He looks like he’s dying,” the woman said.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
    chapter eight
     
     
    Melinda lay dozing in the porch swing, rocking back and forth in a lazy rhythm.  It was sunset, and the warmth of the day was fast dissolving into a cool evening.  She felt chilled as she woke, and she looked up to see the last of the daylight sinking behind the trees. 
    The paper had fallen to the porch floor.  Apparently, she had dropped it while she dozed.  She reached down and picked it up again, crinkling the paper as she scooped it up.  It was a well-read letter, creased and creased again with the seal of the governor stamped at the top.  She didn’t want to look at it again, but she found she couldn’t help it, and the words, black and crisp, left no misunderstanding.
    There was no record of her father at Johnson’s Island.  The last group of prisoners had been processed more than two weeks ago, and there was no one named James Jacoby in the entire bunch.  The list of prisoners included ones taken from the battle near Pittsburgh Landing, but her father was not among them.  She read the lines again, but the meaning