Faithful Heart by Al Lacy Page B

The thunder of battle roared in his ears. He looked around for his squad. He was alone. Where were his men? Had the Rebels killed them all?
    “Hey!” he yelled, running his gaze around the deep-shadowed interior of the barn. “Maynard! Wilson! Dougherty! Girard! Where are you?” Were his corporals all dead?
    A cannon shell exploded a few feet from the barn door. The blast of it took Jerrod’s breath. Muskets were barking from the field before him. He could hear the slugs tearing into wood all around him. Hundreds of Confederates were coming across the field in a swarm of gray. He looked around for his musket. Where was it? It was in his hand only a moment ago.
    Again, he searched the interior of the barn.
Where had his men gone?
They wouldn’t have deserted him. Not those brave—Suddenly there were dozens of bloody bodies crumpled, heaped, sprawled all around him.
    The Rebel yell mingled with his scream. They were closing in on the run. Jerrod swung his head back and forth, trying to find a weapon. All these dead men … they had muskets. What happened to their muskets? The wild-eyed Rebels were almost to the door of the barn. He wouldn’t go down without a fight. He would find something—
    His eyes fell on the double-bladed ax he kept with some garden tools near the barn’s front door. His head was hurting, as though it would split apart. His feet felt heavy, but he shuffled to the ax and closed the fingers of both hands around the handle. The screaming Rebels weren’t going to get him without paying a price.
    Louder and louder the chorus of voices beat at him, punctuated with the boom of cannons and the rattle of musketry. The men in gray taunted and yelled as they poured through the door,their eyes bulging with hatred for Yankees. Jerrod clutched the ax handle and swung it with all his might at the first line of soldiers who came at him, bayonets cutting the air.
    The ax struck the milking stanchions, sending splinters in every direction. To Jerrod Harper, the sharp blade cut into Rebel flesh.
    The battle continued. Hissing through his teeth, Jerrod swung the ax over and over and over again. Most of the time, it cut only air. Sometimes it struck a wall, a post, the gate of a stall, a feed bin.
    Jerrod drove the enemy troops backward through the door that led to the corral. Then the sharp blade chewed into the heavy post that sided the door frame and buried itself deep. Jerrod struggled to free the blade, but it wouldn’t budge. He jerked on the handle till it broke, then used it to drive the remaining troops backward.
    Abruptly, the enemy disappeared. The Rebel yells stopped. Jerrod was at the door frame, swinging the ax handle at thin air. He was all alone. He blinked in amazement and could see the horses and the family cow huddled together at the split-rail fence a hundred feet away, staring at him and swishing their tails.
    He turned about and searched the barn interior for the bodies of his men. They were gone. He was suddenly very weary. His throat was parched, and he was breathing as if he were climbing a mountain at a run above timberline. He dropped the broken ax handle and sank to his knees.
    He began to weep. Tears streaked his cheeks as he sobbed heavily, mumbling, “Dottie! Dottie, where are you? I need you!”

    Dottie Harper prayed as she crossed the fields, asking the Lord to show His power in Jerrod’s life. Certainly God could reach down and make Jerrod’s problem go away. Her heart cried for her husband. He had seemed to be getting better, and then this happened.
    As she drew near the barn, she heard Jerrod’s voice, coming from inside. She lifted her skirt and ran to the door, pulled it open, and found him a few feet inside on his knees, weeping and calling her name.
    Dottie knelt in front of him, cupped his face in her hands, and said, “Jerrod, I’m here! See? It’s me, sweetheart!”
    Jerrod opened his eyes and tried to focus them on her face. He breathed her name and threw his arms