by Naomi Finley
“You assume correctly,” I said to his back. “He was murdered some years ago, and the men are still at large…” My words faded at the information I hadn’t intended to share. In the time leading up to the soldiers’ arrival, I had run over a script in my head of what I would say when questioned on the condition of the grounds and home. I hadn’t expected to divulge my father’s murder. My heart and mind raced as I scrambled to come up with an explanation.
The lieutenant spun around with his mouth agape. “And the plot thickens.” His brows drew together.
My nerves thrummed. “I offer you transparency in hopes of squashing any mistrust you may have. I seek only to prove to you that when we are beaten down, we get back up. Yes, our men are gone, but we won’t be so easily dismissed. We seek to do our part in this war, and that is all.”
What had I gotten us into? Had I been wrong in offering Livingston as a wayside hospital?
Pete and Private Cooper halted at the doorway with a soldier slumped between them.
“Over here,” I said, and strode to pull back the blanket on a cot.
They lay the soldier down. He wasn’t but eighteen, and he looked up at me with feverish eyes as I bent over to tuck the covers around him.
“Mama, is that you?” He lifted warm fingers and touched my face.
I smiled at him, thinking of Whitney’s brother, Jack. “Rest now.” I removed his hand and gently laid it on the bed.
He closed his eyes, and I brushed back a sweaty blond curl from his forehead before turning tear-filled eyes on the lieutenant.
He nudged his chin at the soldier. “That is my sister’s boy.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I will see that he and all who enter my home receive the best of care.”
He inclined his head. “Thank you.” His gaze grew determined. “We will end the North’s interference once and for all. They will fall under our swords.” He crossed the room to stand before me. “Thank you for offering your services. You can understand my leeriness.”
“Of course,” I said.
“This war has put everyone on edge, I reckon. The Federal Army’s taking of Port Royal is of great concern. They aid the Negroes and have constructed a hospital—here, on our own soil.” He pressed two fingers to his temple and rubbed the flesh there.
“You must be a very busy man,” I said. “You need not worry about the men here. They will receive the care of trained hands. Rita here—” I gestured at Mammy, who stood in the corridor, awaiting instruction “—hasn’t failed me yet. She has skillful hands. Her husband was a medicine man in his country, and he taught her many things before he was sold by her last master.” We walked from the room and into the corridor. “My parents purchased her before my birth, and regardless of being willed her freedom, she has remained at Livingston.”
“Is that so?” He took a good look at Mammy. “And why did you choose to stay?”
“Missus paid me well,” Mammy said, keeping her eyes trained on the tips of his boots.
“But now, surely Mrs. Armstrong can’t afford to pay such a fine wage when food and wealth aren’t as available.”
“No, sah, she can’t. But dis family have my loyalty ’til de Lard take me home.”
“Such dedication is rare and unheard of for a nigger.” He gave her a keen look of admiration, but as one would admire a racehorse.
Mammy pressed her lips together and spoke no further. The lieutenant gave her one last glance before exiting the house.
After the last soldier had been assigned a cot, the lieutenant and private took their leave. Whitney and Pippa stood on either side of me on the veranda, watching until the wagon disappeared out the gate. I released the first full breath since the soldiers arrived.
Whitney tilted her head toward me and said in a low tone, “We aren’t in the clear yet.”
“You are right, and from here on out, can you save me the gray hair and control your need to have the last say? Please, for the sake of us all,” I pleaded while avoiding revealing my own blunder in the library.
Stubbornness flashed across her face, but it dissipated, replaced by regret. “My apologies.”
“Well, we have patients to tend. What do you say we get to work?” Pippa said, and strode inside.
“Is it too late to turn back?” I said to Whitney.
“I’m afraid so.” She linked arms with me, and we followed after Pippa.
Amelie
MOTHER’S CONDITION WORSENED IN THE week that followed. The evening her breathing had grown shallow, the elderly woman I’d hired to sit with her came to fetch me in the grand parlor.
“Ma’am.” A gentle tap on my shoulder drew my attention. I glanced over my shoulder and tensed when I saw her. She stood wringing her hands.
“Will you excuse me?” I turned back to the silver-haired major I’d sat with for the last agonizing hour while he’d droned on and on about the war.
He sat with his ankle crossed over his knee, and an arm slung over the back of the settee. “Certainly, Madame, but please don’t keep me waiting too long. I think you will find how we chased off those Confederate bastards quite amusing.”
I feigned a smile. “Of course,” I said. “In the meantime, why don’t you enjoy the company of one of my girls. I know how lonely it can be for a man out there.”
He waved a hand. “I’m a happily married man. I don’t require the comfort of a woman in my bed.”
“But surely it’s been too long since you’ve enjoyed the companionship of your wife.”
“It has.” Sadness reflected in his gray eyes as he glanced around the parlor. “One can only endure the callousness and stench of these soldiers for so long before longing for the tenderness and companionship of a woman.”
“I admire your devotion to your wife. She is a fortunate lady.” I stood.
He rose, seized my hand, and placed it to his cool lips. “You’re the most exquisite creature my old eyes have ever beheld.”
No stranger to the swooning of men, I inclined my head in appreciation. “You are too kind. Now, if you will excuse me.”
He released me, and I turned and hurried after my mother’s caregiver.
Upstairs in my suite, I strode to the cot I’d set up in the parlor for my mother. I noted her shallow breathing and the raspy echo of death’s approach. My heart raced, and panic erupted. “How long has she been like this?” I asked the woman.
“For some hours.”
I shifted back to stare at my mother, my awareness shifting to the grayish condition of her flesh. “Why don’t you go home. I will sit with her tonight.”
“Are you certain?”
I nodded, and she mumbled a goodbye, but as she walked to the door, fear beat in my chest and snatched at my breathing. I couldn’t bear to be alone with my mother, but before I could speak, the door closed. All strength abandoned me, and I dropped into the chair by the cot.
My body felt numb. Emotions relating to my mother rose unchecked, and I trembled under their assault. I had wasted my life striving not to become her while seeking to pluck her existence from my mind. Yet she had infected me like a disease. The looking glass taunted me with reminders of our resemblance: how I held my mouth, the shape of my eyes, and my curves. Despite striving to forget where I’d come from, I couldn’t escape the fact that I was the daughter of a whore.
Tears blotted out the figure before me, and a deep ache hollowed my chest. Oh, how I’d yearned for her to love me, to nurture and protect me, and in the end, it was I who sat by her bed as she clung to the last minutes or hours of life. Why are you doing this? I’d asked myself in the days after I’d given her refuge. Each time, I came up answerless. She hadn’t deserved my compassion, but for some unknown reason, I had offered her grace.
A question burned in my heart. “Why couldn’t you love me?” Years of relentless pain echoed in my words and clotted my throat. “Was it too much to ask?”
All my life, I had felt undeserving of love. If my own mother couldn’t lo
ve me, how could anyone else? My shoulders slumped as sorrow washed over me. “Now here you lie, dying, and it is I who comes to your rescue, to save you from a death not even you deserve. No one should die alone,” I said as though to convince myself.
I looked at her hand, lying beside her, and the small child within me yearned to find comfort in a mother. Nerves knotted my belly as I touched the top of her hand with a single finger. Her skin felt warm and almost waxy in consistency. At first I sat regarding the fragility of her slender hand and the tiny blue lines beneath her flesh. I traced each one with my fingertip while permitting my mind to draw me into memories of the past.
My mother had withheld the nurturing and protection a child needed. I had never understood why. Was she incapable of love, or had she lacked the understanding of how? I supposed I’d never understand. My chest tightened, and a tear slid over my cheek as I lifted her hand and cocooned it in mine.
Mother passed that night, and her death expanded the void inside of me. Months before, if someone had told me I would give her shelter, sit holding her hand as she took her last breath, or shed a tear at her passing, I would’ve called them delusional.
As the gravediggers lowered the casket into the earth, I thought of her end. No one would miss her. She had done nothing worth remembering in life. And in the weeks following her death, I contemplated my own life. Would I, too, become a washed-up whore, forgotten by the world, and buried in a pine box?
Weeks later, dressed in a burgundy wool traveling suit, I stood on the street and craned my neck back to look up at the brothel. Drunken laughter and the sound of Luther pounding on the keys drifted from the establishment. Business had been better than ever with the soldier boys’ comings and goings, and prosperity had been mine for the taking, but my soul cried for something more. The place had become a suffocating tie to the past and my mother, and even to Oliver…Reuben McCoy.
Since the day in Five Points when I’d knelt over the bodies of Burrell and Rose Rawlings splayed on the floor of their home, I’d studied every darkened corner, omnibus, and street for Reuben to step out and end my life. But he had never come, and with the country at war I wondered into what crevice he’d crawled and what poor soul had lost their life so he could assume their identity.
A warm hand touched my arm. “Are you ready?” Zeke’s husky voice banished the emptiness in my heart.
A smile touched my lips, and I turned to look into earnest brown eyes, grateful for his companionship. “Yes, darling.”
He gestured at the waiting carriage, and when I took his hand he helped me inside. Once I was seated, he climbed in beside me, and the carriage lurched forward.
Through the small back window, I took one last look at the place that had seen my rise to wealth and status, and I felt as if cords were being severed.
“You aren’t having qualms about selling, are you?”
“No regrets.” I lifted a gloved hand and cupped his cheek.
Unlike Reuben, Zeke wasn’t a beautiful man, but the tenderness in his eyes held more significant meaning. I used my index finger to trace the scars lining his strong jawline before stroking the blemish that had left sparse hairs at the corner of his right brow. His nose had been broken in a brawl or two—he was the very image of a fighter. At a towering six feet, with broad shoulders and a permanently unsmiling countenance, he intimidated people. I had come to know him as anything but a fighter. Like me, he was a survivor with chancy origins, born into an imperfect world.
Later, at the train station, I stood on the boardwalk and glanced around, trying to quell the nerves as I thought of what we were about to do.
“You sure you want to do this?”
“Where you go, I go,” I said, jutting out my chin. “And yes, I’m more sure than I’ve ever been.”
“There is no turning back, once we do this.”
“I know.” I clasped my satchel and tucked my hand in the curve of his arm.
Our paths had crossed for a reason, and perhaps we were destined to die together. I couldn’t comprehend what the future held, but I knew but one thing: I didn’t want to go out as the madam of a cathouse. I wanted my existence to have meant something. The journey ahead felt like the only way to tip the scale of justice and right past wrongs. And perhaps bring me the peace I desired.
My legs trembled as we strode toward the ticket office, and I clung to my determination to do something right in my life or die trying.
Ruby
“THE INJUSTICE!” SAUL’S DEEP VOICE rumbled through the main floor of our home.
“Darling, please,” I said, closing the door behind me.
My husband rarely got riled, but after his third inquiry with the US Army about joining to fight, he had fallen into the foulest mood for the entire ride home.
Aisling, the young Irish woman I’d found near death in the slums of Five Points, entered the foyer with Mercy, our daughter, on her heels.
“Please take her upstairs.” I removed my hat and coat.
“Yes, Mrs. Sparrow.” She placed a hand on Mercy’s shoulders and guided her toward the stairs.
“Why is Papa so angry?” Her brow furrowed as she looked up at Aisling.
“You needn’t worry, lass. What do you say we have a little tea party with that new dolly your papa brought you last week?”
“All right,” Mercy said in a chipper voice. She was growing fast; it seemed like only yesterday that she had crawled around the floors, pulling down everything she could get her little hands on.
I followed Saul into the parlor, where he dropped into his favorite armchair and steepled his long fingers under his chin. His dark eyes glittered with anger, as they had since the war started. He sat tapping his feet repetitively on the floor.
“Saul, darling, you mustn’t let it bother you so. All you can do is keep trying.” I crossed the room to stand in front of him.
“Lincoln binds our hands. Free or enslaved, we are turned away from joining the Union cause. They let immigrants take up arms beside them, but keep the doors closed to their own countrymen because—why? We are black.” He thrust out his hands for emphasis before lowering them to rest on the arms of the chair. “His fear of pushing bordering states into joining the Confederacy prevents him from accepting the assistance he needs to help end this war before our nation lies in ruins. He is a fool!” His nostrils flared.
“Come, come. You must calm yourself.” I knelt before him and took his hands in mine.
Like my husband, I yearned to join the war. I thought of the times Kipling and I had entered dangerous territories to help fugitives. I was as skilled as most men, and the Northern army required scouts, spies, and soldiers. But the discrimination that held America in thrall had thwarted all blacks’ attempts to assist. Still, regardless of my heart’s desire, I had my daughter to consider, and if a time came when we were allowed to fight alongside the whites, I wouldn’t risk her growing up parentless.
“We will get through this. Maybe soon, President Lincoln and the whites will see that they need us.” I attempted optimism while, internally, I grappled with despair.
“I pray for the day. America must adapt. We are citizens of this country whether they like it or not.” The passion in his voice revealed how much he wished for change.
But I feared, if allowed to enlist, my people would continue to get low-paying jobs and face prejudice and injustices. Would the deaths and the heartache brought by the war have been for nothing? I lifted my head and looked into his face. “All we can do is our part to see the war end and to take a stand for our people.”
“Yes, at least we can do that.” He stood. “If you don’t mind, my dear, I think I will rest for a while.” He leaned down and pecked my cheek.
“Of course,” I said with a smile.
After he left, I moved to the mahogany veneer desk in the far corner of the room and sat. I opened a drawer, pulled out a piece of stationery, and dipped the quill. Then I began to write.
My dearest Willow,
<
br /> I hope this letter finds you well…
Willow
LIEUTENANT WILLIAMS HAD LEFT EIGHT men in our care, and they were a welcome distraction. My days became so busy that loneliness and yearning for Bowden’s and Ben’s return only arose at night when I fell into bed, exhausted. For the briefest of moments, their images drifted in, then out, before my lids grew heavy.
“Missus Willow?” Sailor said one morning as we boiled dressings in the oversized cast-iron kettle in the work yard.
“What is it?” I brushed a hand over my forehead to swipe back the sweaty tendrils that had escaped my hair combs.
“Can’t we buy us some more slaves to help around here?” He regarded me innocently, but I was taken aback by his request.
“No,” I said a bit too sharply.
He flinched.
“We don’t need more slaves,” I said in a gentler tone.
“Why not?” He stared into the simmering pot. “With Masa Bowden gone, things are real hard around here. Miss Rita said we don’t have supplies to waste on making peach cobbler.” His face fell. The boy had a sweet tooth like no other. “And earlier I tried to sneak me a bit of cornbread, and she struck my hand. Made it sting like it was on fire. Said that we needed to keep the cornbread for the soldiers.”
I imagined Mammy with her hands planted on her hips, delivering to Sailor “the look” that made everyone quiver in their shoes. “Don’t fret none. Miss Rita didn’t mean any harm; she is trying to ration our supplies, is all.”
“I wish those soldiers hadn’t come here.”
“Why do you say that?” I removed the steaming bandages from the boiling water and dropped them into a basket.
“Because Miss Rita is grumpier than usual. And you’re always busy in the big house caring for the soldiers and ain’t got time to visit me in the quarters. All we do is work, and I don’t reckon I like it much. If we bought a slave or two, it would help us.”