Irish Mary reached down and grabbed Mary Jane Green’s hand and mashed it into his. “We’re here now, Dearie, and the lad here is goin’ ta save you.”
Jeremiah looked at her in disbelief. “If you need the Doctor…”
“The Doctor? Yer not makin’ sense, boy. He’s married.”
Jeremiah shook his head in confusion. A moment later, an equally inebriated Bruna, carrying a truncheon, shoved a thin man in a Confederate gray uniform through the door. “I have found one.”
Irish Mary eyed the man doubtfully. “Yer a man of God?”
After glancing cautiously at Bruna and her club blocking the door, he responded politely. “I am a Chaplain with the Army of East Kentucky, here under truce.
“What Church, Mister Chaplain of the Army of East Kentucky?” Irish Mary’s narrowed eyes carried a clear warning.
The Chaplain looked like he might argue for a moment, but chose the safer course. “Episcopalian.”
“It’s nae Catholic, but it’ll do.” Irish Mary leveled her forefinger at the Chaplain. “Let’s get to it then. We have to do it before midnight.”
“To what?” Both Jeremiah and the Chaplain asked at the same time.
Irish Mary shook head sadly and looked at Bruna. “Are they both simple then?”
Bruna squinted at them, a bit blearily. “They must be.”
“It’s all the hardtack. It makes men even more simple than they are by nature.” Irish Mary looked back at the two men. “Yer savin’ the lass.”
Jeremiah held his hands up in confusion. “I’m not a doctor.”
“Yer a bit thick, lad. Pretty, but thick. Yer here to save the girl’s immortal soul, not her body.”
The Chaplain started to sidle to the door but thought better of it when Bruna hefted her club and narrowed her eyes at him.
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“She cannot marry if she is already married,” Bruna announced it slowly and loudly from where she stood, looking for all the world as if the question was settled for good.
Irish Mary grinned broadly. “The Devil’s tryin’ ta take her for his bride, but he canna do that if’n she’s already married, see?”
It took a few more minutes for Jeremiah and the Chaplain to fully understand the brilliant plan to save Miss Mary Jane Green’s soul from eternal damnation.
Jeremiah wanted to protest, but Mary Jane’s hand was grasping his as if he really was her only link to salvation and the pleading, stark terror in her near-unintelligible words was enough to quell him.
The Confederate Chaplain was both more practical and rather more easily swayed, realizing that the only guarantee of safe escape depended entirely on convincing the two very drunk, self-appointed, and rather large and sturdy, guardian angels that he had done what he could. It was, he reasoned, simple enough to carry out the ceremony. It would hardly matter, he decided, as the girl was unlikely to survive the night anyway. He too had seen more than his share of the toll the Fever took.
The Irish woman managed to prompt mostly coherent answers from the delirious girl, and the girl for her part seemed to take comfort in the matrimonial ritual, slipping peacefully into a still sleep as soon as Jeremiah had kissed her forehead.