thinking about it and do what you have to do.” For a moment, she pictured her father there, saying those words to her, and she felt the rifle grow lighter in her hands.
“Here,” he handed her a leather pouch. “There’s powder and shells in there. Probably six shots. You’ll have to fire and reload quick.”
A wave of panic clutched her. Reload in the dark? How fast could she do it? When her father taught her, she was lucky if she could get one cartridge in, now Frank was asking her to load as fast as some soldiers could, and her hands started to shake.
“Are you ready?” asked Frank, easing forward as he went to the edge of the field.
Melinda looked through the leaves of the tobacco. Joan was growing angry, her loud voice becoming even louder, as two more soldiers came around the side of the house. Now there were five in front of them, which left three more in the back.
“I’ve got six shots,” said Frank. “You’ll have to take the other two.”
“I can’t do it,” she said in a very small voice. “I’ll miss.”
Frank turned and looked at her, and suddenly her father was there. “You are defending your home,” he said. “And there is nothing wrong about that. I saw the fire up the road. I know what they did to your house. Now are you going to just let it happen, or are you going to do something about it?”
Anger swept through her. Of course, she was going to do something about it. These were the men who had destroyed her home and deprived her of her father. She raised the rifle and took aim at the soldier who had his gun pointed at Joan. He would be the first for holding an old woman at gunpoint, even though she posed no serious threat.
“Okay,” she said, the new strength in her voice surprising her. “I’m ready.”
“I’ll go as soon as you shoot. It will distract them long enough until I can close the distance. The only one who’s ready to fire is that one with the gun already out. It will take some time for the others to prime their guns.”
Melinda nodded. Her arms were already growing tired from holding the gun, and the barrel began to waver slightly. The thumping in her ears was the drumbeat of her heart. She would do it for her father and her home, and for all the other homes destroyed by these locusts who had swept through their fields. She pulled the trigger, immediately feeling the kick of the gun jabbing into her shoulder.
But then she was on the ground, scrabbling at the pouch and trying to fish out the powder to pour it into the barrel. When she tilted the horn, some of it went into the barrel, but most of it spilled over her hands and onto the ground. She found the wad with the round in it and shoved it in the muzzle, ramming it down with the rod.
She had heard gunshots in the back of her mind as she raced to reload the gun, and she could still hear Joan’s voice, shrieking, but all of those sounds were far away. She focused on the gun, and then she was on her feet, pointing the rifle through the leaves.
Frank was lying on the ground, motionless. She lowered the gun a bit and squinted. Joan was crying, hysterically shrieking on the porch. The soldier still had his gun pointed at her, while the others held their rifles, still smoking, in Frank’s general direction. One Union soldier lay dying against the steps of the porch, clutching his stomach.
Oh, no… She had missed, and the troops had shot Frank. A large section of one of the pillars on the front porch had been splintered, and Melinda assumed that was what she had hit instead of the soldier.
She wanted to fire again, but the rifle was suddenly too heavy, and it sagged as she stayed frozen amid the tobacco leaves. The soldiers were moving toward Frank, two of them reloading as they walked. Joan had collapsed, the light from her lamp seeming very dim and far away now.
chapter
“Here,” he handed her a leather pouch. “There’s powder and shells in there. Probably six shots. You’ll have to fire and reload quick.”
A wave of panic clutched her. Reload in the dark? How fast could she do it? When her father taught her, she was lucky if she could get one cartridge in, now Frank was asking her to load as fast as some soldiers could, and her hands started to shake.
“Are you ready?” asked Frank, easing forward as he went to the edge of the field.
Melinda looked through the leaves of the tobacco. Joan was growing angry, her loud voice becoming even louder, as two more soldiers came around the side of the house. Now there were five in front of them, which left three more in the back.
“I’ve got six shots,” said Frank. “You’ll have to take the other two.”
“I can’t do it,” she said in a very small voice. “I’ll miss.”
Frank turned and looked at her, and suddenly her father was there. “You are defending your home,” he said. “And there is nothing wrong about that. I saw the fire up the road. I know what they did to your house. Now are you going to just let it happen, or are you going to do something about it?”
Anger swept through her. Of course, she was going to do something about it. These were the men who had destroyed her home and deprived her of her father. She raised the rifle and took aim at the soldier who had his gun pointed at Joan. He would be the first for holding an old woman at gunpoint, even though she posed no serious threat.
“Okay,” she said, the new strength in her voice surprising her. “I’m ready.”
“I’ll go as soon as you shoot. It will distract them long enough until I can close the distance. The only one who’s ready to fire is that one with the gun already out. It will take some time for the others to prime their guns.”
Melinda nodded. Her arms were already growing tired from holding the gun, and the barrel began to waver slightly. The thumping in her ears was the drumbeat of her heart. She would do it for her father and her home, and for all the other homes destroyed by these locusts who had swept through their fields. She pulled the trigger, immediately feeling the kick of the gun jabbing into her shoulder.
But then she was on the ground, scrabbling at the pouch and trying to fish out the powder to pour it into the barrel. When she tilted the horn, some of it went into the barrel, but most of it spilled over her hands and onto the ground. She found the wad with the round in it and shoved it in the muzzle, ramming it down with the rod.
She had heard gunshots in the back of her mind as she raced to reload the gun, and she could still hear Joan’s voice, shrieking, but all of those sounds were far away. She focused on the gun, and then she was on her feet, pointing the rifle through the leaves.
Frank was lying on the ground, motionless. She lowered the gun a bit and squinted. Joan was crying, hysterically shrieking on the porch. The soldier still had his gun pointed at her, while the others held their rifles, still smoking, in Frank’s general direction. One Union soldier lay dying against the steps of the porch, clutching his stomach.
Oh, no… She had missed, and the troops had shot Frank. A large section of one of the pillars on the front porch had been splintered, and Melinda assumed that was what she had hit instead of the soldier.
She wanted to fire again, but the rifle was suddenly too heavy, and it sagged as she stayed frozen amid the tobacco leaves. The soldiers were moving toward Frank, two of them reloading as they walked. Joan had collapsed, the light from her lamp seeming very dim and far away now.
chapter
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