Rebel
by Gerry Wright

"Don't y'all even think about asking that one for a dance," Joe said when he realized Zack was gazing intently at the pretty, young woman in a powder blue dress sitting alone in a corner, who seemed to sit out every dance. Everyone else it appeared was enjoying themselves as the two fiddles and two guitars kept the dancers active in the little wooden Appalachian church hall.

Zack had been treated with suspicion when he first arrived in Parkerville. His Georgia accent, which he never tried to disguise, suggested to all that he had most probably favored the Confederate side in the war and that did not sit well with the West Virginians. The War Between the States was over, but not long ago and memories were still raw.

He had come to Parkerville to find his Aunt Lilly, his last remaining relative, and try to escape the horrific memories of the war and of Sherman's drive through Georgia.

When he arrived, he found that his aunt had died some months earlier, leaving a small farm on the lower slopes of Villier's Mountain, and since that time, he had worked tirelessly to restore the buildings and cultivate the surrounding garden, which, by its appearance, she had tended lovingly. Many plants still survived, particularly her roses.

As time passed, most of the townsfolk had accepted him, perhaps because his aunt was highly respected in the area. 'Blood is thicker than water,' they agreed. They also approved of his impeccable Southern manners and friendliness.

Spring had just arrived. The snows had gone from the high peaks. The woods had awoken after the winter and the folks were welcoming the new season, so why not have a celebration?

It was the first dance he had attended in the little town, and he was enjoying the fellowship of his newfound friends.

"Stay well clear of that one," John, another friend, advised.

"Why, what's wrong with her?" Zack asked, still gazing at her and not looking at him. It just did not seem right to him that everyone was shunning her this way and from where he stood, she was certainly good-looking.

"No, there's nothing wrong with her. It's just that she's Clinton Craddock's daughter," they warned him.

"Who's he?"

They all laughed.

"He's a real mean son-of-a-bitch," Bob said. "They say he's real handy with a gun and a knife too and we've heard rumors that he's been known to use them. Not here, but nobody knows quite what he did before he settled on the mountain. Seems he was in the war, fighting for the North. Of course there are some people around here, think he's running away from something."

"He's crazy," Pete, another member of the group, stated. "They say he was in the Union army and that he really hates Rebs. He hates most folks, but especially Rebs. Don't let him hear you talking, Zack."

"If you know what's good for you," Bob counseled, "y'all keep well away from his daughter, you coming from the South and all."

All this advice intrigued Zack even more.

"Where's Craddock now?" he asked.

"Probably out the back playing cards and drinking his moonshine with some of his so called friends from the mountains," Jeff put in. "People in town don't have much to do with any of them."

Zack knew little of this small town in a valley of the Appalachians, having arrived a few months earlier from the east. He had spent a long time wandering through the mountains finding work wherever he could. He had been homeless since the end of the War, but had heard of an aunt in this town. All he wanted was to settle down and live in peace. For him the War had been hell and the horrors he had seen were likely to haunt him for the rest of his life.

During the evening, his attention had been drawn to this pretty girl sitting in a corner. She was alone. Other girls were talking between themselves and laughing when they were not dancing, but they did not include her in any of their activities or conversations. Zack knew what it was like to be lonely. He had lost count of the number of nights he spent, since the War ended, sleeping under the stars, with only his memories.

The next time the musicians struck up for a dance, he stood up, and to the surprise of his friends, and the intense interest of the rest of the crowd in the room, crossed the floor to where the girl was sitting. Those close by heard his invitation to dance in his deep Southern drawl, "Would y'all like to dance, miss?" He pronounced it 'dayunce'.

The girl looked up in surprise. Zack saw that she had clear blue eyes that matched her dress. Her pretty face framed by long fair hair, showed no sign of enjoying the evening.

"I'm sorry?" she replied, apparently not having heard his invitation.

"Dance?" he repeated with a smile and holding out his hand to her in invitation.

"I'm afraid . . . " she began, but then hesitated and a puzzled look appeared on her face.

"Oh, I'm sorry, you can't dance?"

"Oh yes, I can dance", she said, "but . . . " Zack remained standing, his hand still held out in invitation.

She glanced quickly and nervously around the hall. People were watching, waiting for her to react. Then she smiled and took his hand.

"Thank you sir," she said quietly, "I'd love to."

As they danced, he saw that when she smiled, her eyes sparkled; she did enjoy dancing, that was for sure. They danced together for the rest of the evening and he provided her with refreshments between dances. She told him her name was Lizzie Craddock and that she lived alone with her father higher up on the slopes of Villier's Mountain. Her mother had died when she was young and her father had brought her up and was very protective of her.

Zack told her of his youth in Georgia, but he made no mention of the War —it was not the sort of thing you talked of to a young lady the first time you met her, he thought.

"I'll call on y'all, then, if I may," Zack said as the last dance ended and he was taking her back to her seat. She smiled; Zack assumed, by the happy look on her face, that she approved of that.

Suddenly, the hall went silent when everyone saw Clinton Craddock standing at the end of the dance floor. He had a large knife in a sheath on his belt and a rifle cradled in his left arm. His face was flushed with anger.

"What in hell do you think you are doing with my daughter?" he demanded in a loud angry voice. Lizzie looked frightened and tried to pull her hand from Zack's but he would not let it go.

"Dancing with a pretty girl, sir," he replied politely and with a slight inclination of his head to the man. Craddock stormed up to him and people shrank back, not wanting to get involved in what they thought could become an ugly situation.

"I'll say who she can talk to— and dance with," he raged, his face close to Zack's, "and it won't be any goddamn Confederate rebel. You keep away from her. D'ya hear me?"

Zack stood his ground with something of a smile on his face, "Yes sir," he confirmed. "I hear what y'all say, but as y'all have just said, I am a goddamn Confederate rebel."

There was a sharp intake of breath from everyone in the hall. Had Zack gone too far? Then they realized Craddock would not dare react violently in front of so many witnesses. That may well happen at a later stage.

Craddock grabbed Lizzie roughly by the hand, turned on his heel, and pulled her towards the door.

"C'mon girl," he ordered angrily.

Very embarrassed in front of the crowded hall, Lizzie turned to look back at Zack as she was being dragged towards the door, and mouthed 'I'm sorry'. Zack smiled, inclined his head, bowed slightly to her and said gently, "Goodnight, Miss Lizzie and thank y'all for the dances," exaggerating his Southern drawl a little more, and those standing close to him heard him mutter, "Damn Yankee," he pronounced it 'dayum', as Craddock and Lizzie disappeared from the hall.

Days passed, and Zack, not to be intimidated by Craddock, roamed the mountainside until he found their homestead. It was secluded. The front yard was surrounded by a neat, white picket fence in front, and at the back, by a roughly hewn three bar fence. The plants and spring flowers in the garden were neatly laid out and suggested a woman's touch; obviously Lizzie's, he thought.

Many times afterwards he sat, unseen, and watched as Craddock went about his business of tending the land around the cabin and brewing moonshine in his still. He was particularly contented, when from his vantage point he could see Lizzie working outside in the garden.

"One day Lizzie . . . " he murmured quietly, "One day . . . " He had decided that the occasion of the dance would not be the only time he would see her: even if she did have a crazy, gun-toting Yankee for a father. For sure, Southerners were made of sterner stuff.

One morning, in late May, he was out on the mountain, some distance from the Craddock place, when he heard a woman's scream followed by the sound of a gunshot. She's in danger; he thought, and broke into a run in the direction of the sounds.

Reaching the top of a rise in the forest floor, he saw Lizzie a hundred or so yards away, cowering against a tree, with her hands to her face, screaming. A short distance away Craddock had come face to face with a large black bear. It was huge and standing erect, flailing its front paws, and lumbering towards the man. Zack noticed Craddock's rifle lying on the ground but out of his reach. He began running towards the confrontation, not really knowing what he was going to do when he got there.

When he was within a few yards of the two, the bear struck Craddock with one of its great paws throwing him into the air like a rag doll and against a tree with great force, where he collapsed in, what Zack saw, as an unconscious heap. At that moment, Zack drew his trusted and well-used hunting knife and threw it with all his power at the bear, holding his breath and hoping he had not lost the knack. The razor-sharp blade entered the bear's throat just below its jawbone. Blood spurted from the injury. For a moment, the bear was distracted, and then it turned to face Zack but far too late to prevent him diving for the rifle, grabbing it, and rolling away in one fluid movement. In an instant, he was on his feet again and able to fire. Two shots felled the bear, and a third into its brain ended any chance of danger.

Lizzie ran to him and threw her arms around him, hanging on tightly.

"Thank God you were near," she sobbed, shaking uncontrollably.

He held her close, savouring the moment, then said gently, "Let's take a look at your Pa."

Zack checked for a pulse. There was one, but it was very weak.

"Is he alive?" she asked, her face a deathly white and still shaking with the shock.

"Yes, but he's losing blood, and it looks like his leg could be broken. How far is it to your place?" He already knew that, but did not want to let on that he had been watching her from a distance.

"'Bout two hundred yards."

"Let's get him there as quick as we can."

Between them, half-carrying, and half-dragging him, they got Craddock to the cabin. They put him onto his bed and after cutting away his blood-soaked clothing and buckskin trouser leg, treated his many wounds. He had lost a lot of blood and his leg was indeed broken.

He won't be running me off at least for a while, thought Zack with some relief. They put a rough wooden splint on his leg, dressed his wounds and after they had made him as comfortable as possible, Zack said, "I'll go to town and get Doc White." Then he left at a run.

They had done a good job on the injuries, Doc White told them, but there was still a danger that the wounds could become infected. He gave Lizzie some dressings and ointments to use and then left.

Zack remained.

"I'll stay and help y'all out," he said. "He's a big guy and y'all won't be able to handle him."

"No, it's alright. I'll manage." Lizzie assured him.

"I'll stay!" Zack insisted.

"He'll go crazy if he knows you've been here."

"And I'll go crazy wondering if y'all're coping. I'm staying!" She looked into his eyes; her gentle look indicated her gratitude, and without openly admitting it, Zack felt she was glad he had decided to stay.

"Thank you" she said and smiled. Zack's heart missed a beat.

The wounds did become infected and for a number of days Craddock had a high fever and was delirious. All the time, Zack was there with Lizzie. They worked tirelessly, taking turns trying to cool the fever with cold wet cloths. He was never left alone. Lizzie marveled at the care that Zack showed towards her father, even though he knew of Craddock's hatred for Southerners. In turn, Zack thought he must be crazy keeping this madman alive just so that the man could shoot him when he found out he had been at the house with his daughter.

"Thank you for saving Pa's life and looking after him," Lizzie said quietly, one evening as they sat together in the swing on the front porch.

"It was nothing, he really needed help."

"But he hates you, and all Southerners."

"All Southerners don't want to kill Union people. They want to live their lives in peace, too."

"But you took such a chance."

"It was nothing," Zack repeated.

"No it wasn't. You knew he would kill you if he found out you came here."

"He's your Pa," Zack said, "so let's just say I did it for you."

She lifted her face and smiled at him. He bent his head and kissed her gently on the lips. I must be crazy, he thought. Now I am a dead man. Still it was worth it; so he kissed her again.

The next day, after a restful night, Craddock's fever had broken so Zack returned early to his own cabin to do some much-needed chores. In the afternoon, he picked some yellow roses, which the warm spring sunshine had brought out and which his aunt had so carefully nurtured before she died. They were beautiful.

"Well Aunt Lilly," he said aloud to his empty cabin, "I don't know what's going to happen when I deliver these. Ya never know; maybe I'll be seeing ya soon."

As he headed back towards the Craddock place, he realised how very close he and Lizzie had grown in the few days they had cared for Craddock together. Lizzie had 'grown on' him and he was not going to let her go easily.

He arrived very quietly at the cabin. The door was open and, as he stepped over the threshold, he heard voices coming from the bedroom where Craddock was recovering. An argument was going on. Craddock's voice sounded angry but weak and Lizzie's was strong. Zack saw the well-stocked gun rack on the wall. He won't be getting to that yet, he thought with some relief.

"You let that goddamn reb in here— you and him alone?"

"He saved your life, Pa," Lizzie retorted angrily, "and mine too."

"But he's a damn rebel."

"He was a gentleman at all times. He's not at all like those others down in the town; your precious Union crowd."

"They're all the same. What did he do?"

"He kissed me, Pa," she said. Almost as a provocation.

"He kissed you," he exploded but very weakly, "I'll kill him. I told him to leave you alone."

"If he had done that, we would both be dead by now; you in particular. And I'll tell you something else, Pa, he kissed me— kissed me twice," she said, as if to rub salt into the wound, "and to tell you the truth I didn't want him to stop," she continued spiritedly.

Zack's heart missed another beat. Quietly he retraced his steps to the open door; he ought not to let them know he had overheard their conversation.

He knocked lightly on it.

"Hello," he called and placed the roses on the table. Lizzie appeared at the bedroom door. Her faced was flushed and Zack could see she was angry.

"Oops," he said, seemingly eager not to let her know how long he had been there, "I'll call back later if it ain't convenient right now," and made as if to leave.

"No you won't!" she asserted. "You'll come and tell that old fool in there what really happened." Then she saw the yellow roses on the table. She stopped short, surprise showing clearly on her face.

"Are they for me?" she asked quietly and almost disbelievingly.

"Who else?" he replied, "but I must say, beside y'all, they do look a little dowdy."

"No one's ever brought me flowers," she said almost in a whisper, and her eyes began to fill with tears. "They are lovely," and she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him hard on the mouth.

"Thank you." she whispered, "Thank you." and before he could say any more, she grabbed his hand and dragged him into the room where her father was still lying in bed.

"Here he is Pa," she announced almost in a voice that sounded victorious and that she wanted the world to know. "Here's the man who saved our lives." Now, it had to come out, "and I'll tell you something else Pa, I love him! I have ever since the dance! I haven't told him yet— so now I guess I've killed two birds with one stone, and you both know." Zack's heart missed yet another beat.

There was silence for a few moments. Lizzie had really asserted herself, perhaps for the first time in her young life, and to Zack she appeared even more beautiful. He stood quietly, for once lost for words, and fearing for his future. He saw in his mind's eye, the gun rack in the living room, but knowing that right now Craddock couldn't get to it; he felt easier.

At last, and after what felt like a hundred years to Zack, Craddock made a face, raised his right arm, and held out his hand. Zack stepped forward, took it firmly, and shook it warmly.

"I'm glad y'all are feeling better, sir," he said, Craddock knew Zack's greeting was genuine, so too was the smile.

Craddock sighed what appeared to be resignation and acceptance of what had happened, and what, too, was very likely going to happen.

"But a goddamn rebel," he said in a hurt voice, but one that now carried no malevolence. Lizzie stepped closer to Zack and slipped her arm around his waist; he put his arm around her shoulders, and as he looked down at her, he could see her clear blue eyes shining and a broad smile across her face.

The three were united at last— Zack and Craddock, the South and the North, the Confederacy and the Union. No more recriminations, Zack hoped.

"Thanks, Pa," she whispered, "I love you as well, you know that." Craddock sighed. He was still weak and he lay back and closed his eyes. Sleep was not far away, but Zack saw a weak smile appear on his face. "But a goddam reb," he repeated, his voice very quiet, as he began to drift off to sleep, "Oh well, everything seems different these days."

It was just a few weeks later—after Spring had ended, in early June—that Zack stood at the front of the little wooden church, awaiting the arrival of his bride. From behind him, he heard the sound of footsteps approaching on the wooden floor of the aisle. Then Lizzie was standing beside him, looking radiant. They smiled at each other. Out of the corner of his eye, Zack saw Clinton, clean-shaven, hair tidy and looking resplendent in a blue uniform, displaying the badges of rank of a major of the Union Army. Zack smiled, he's had to have the last word, hasn't he, he mused.

Clinton had surprised the whole congregation in the last few months. His attitude seemed to have changed. He was now a better man, everyone agreed. He smiled and in front of everyone, he extended his hand to Zack. It was a warm handshake.

"But a Goddamn Rebel . . . Sorry, Reverend," he growled, but kindly and just loud enough for everyone in the congregation to hear. The preacher gave a little cough of embarrassment but then smiled benignly.

Zack sighed, loudly enough for all to hear, "And a 'dayum' Yankee . . . Sorry, Reverend," Zack drawled in a like manner, his Southern accent slightly exaggerated, but with a broad grin on his face. The preacher coughed again and smiled.

"Well, let's get these two young 'uns married and really seal the peace once and for all," he said, as if it were a momentous occasion.

Spontaneous applause rang through the little valley church. There were smiles all around. After all— it was a special day in Parkerville.