Edge of the Wilderness by Stephanie Grace Whitson Read Free Book Online Page B

with butter. Taking a huge bite, he spoke as he chewed. “At least that’s what my mother told me when she packed me off to a military academy against my wishes.” He swallowed and stared across the table at his mother with icy gray-blue eyes.
    Margaret paled and bowed her head. She fumbled with her napkin and blinked back tears.
    Taking a boiled egg from a silver bowl to his right, Elliot laid it on his plate and began to tap the shell with the back of his spoon. “It’s all right, Mother,” he said. “I’m not chastising you.” He sliced the egg in half and removed the shell from each half with one hand. “In the end, you were vindicated. Military life suits me. Or should I say suited me.” His mouth turned down at the edges. “What a pity I won’t be able to continue the family legacy of stellar military careers.” He ran his hand through his long white hair.
    The gesture sent a pang of grief through Margaret Leighton. She had given a healthy, raven-haired son to the Union. The Union had taken him first to Bull Run, then on to Shiloh. And on Bloody Monday, down at Antietam, the Union had taken his left forearm and hand, turned his hair white, awarded him a medal, and then handed him his discharge papers.
    “You have served the cause well, Elliot,” Margaret said gently. She ran a finger absentmindedly around the rim of her coffee cup as she said, “I’m very proud of you, son. As is the entire village. As would be your father and your grandfather if they were still alive.” Margaret looked up. Her voice trembled as she said, “What you gave to preserve the Union can never be repaid.”
    Elliot shrugged and took a swig of coffee. He looked down at his empty left sleeve and pulled the end of it across his lap before picking up his fork and stabbing a piece of boiled egg.
    The simple gesture brought tears back to Margaret’s eyes. She looked away for a moment. When she could speak again without emotion clouding her voice, she said, “You gained a reputation for levelheadedness and compassion as an officer, son. Please don’t allow what you have read about the West—about Indians—to cloud your reason.”
    Elliot set down his fork and ran a finger down a column of the newspaper that lay open on the table beside him. “Listen to this, Mother. It’s an eyewitness account of the recent release of a few white captives who were separated from the main group and kept all winter:
    The poor creatures wept for joy at their escape. They had watched for our coming for many a weary day, with constant apprehensions of death at the hands of their savage captors, and had almost despaired of seeing us. The woe written in the faces of the half-starved and nearly naked women and children would have melted the hardest heart.
    He continued, “This article speaks of wide, universal, and uncontrollable panic all across the southeastern corner of Minnesota. It says more than five hundred people were murdered, and it describes every mode of death that horrible ingenuity could possibly devise.” His eyes flickered with rage when he looked up at his mother. “When I think of my sister’s children, my own niece and nephew being subjected to that—” He shook his head.
    “There are other stories, Elliot,” Margaret argued. “Stories of heroism and bravery—”
    “Oh yes, I know. I know. The noble savages who protected the helpless whites.”
    “Don’t be sarcastic!” Margaret snapped. “Simon wrote that one of them saved the children. At great risk to himself.”
    “It doesn’t matter,” Elliot said firmly. He took another swig of coffee before continuing. “I was too young when Ellen married to do anything about her foolish choices. I was away fighting for the Union when she died. Then I was in that godforsaken military hospital for an eternity. But I am well now, and I will not sit idly by while her children wander along the edge of the wilderness with their weakling father and his half-breed