Spinning the Moon

by Karen White

  I recognized the area immediately—the small farmhouse tucked inside the clearing with rows of wilted plants stretching out from the house like sunbursts. Clothes still hung on the clothesline outside, dancing a jig with the breeze.

  The officer at the head of the column raised his hand, and the lines of soldiers stopped behind him. The driver of my wagon pulled off to the side, allowing me a full view of the farm from the slight rise we were on. Only the soft whinnying of the horses and the jangling of their harness penetrated the silence. I immediately saw the woman’s rifle against the side of the house and felt the first ripple of apprehension course through me. From my brief experience with her, she would not have gone far without it.

  I strained my ears for the shouts of her little boys, but could hear only the dry clothes snapping on the line.

  “Jenkins, Duffy, Lee—you men head down and check things out. This is rebel territory, so be careful.” The officer eyed the brown and cracked leaves of the newly sprung plants and the wilted stalks in the kitchen garden. “If there are any provisions to be had, take them.”

  “Wait.” I leapt from the wagon, wincing as I jarred my arm. The officer looked at me and halted his men. “I know the woman who lives here. She has two small children and might be inside and scared. Perhaps I should go, too.”

  Captain Audenreid rode up beside me and lifted Sarah back onto the wagon seat. “Only if I accompany you.” He dismounted and gave the reins to another soldier. He came with me behind the three infantrymen, their rifles raised in readiness.

  With a word to Sarah to stay where she was, we walked through the field and over the dead plants, plowing them into the earth from which they had sprung, and halted outside the porch. A wooden train lay upended on the floorboards, waiting for little fingers to play with it. A mending basket sat expectantly next to the white rocker, a piece of brown thread trailing down the side. The door stood open in invitation.

  It was then I noticed the smell. It had been hovering around me like an unpleasant memory, but I had pushed it to the back of my mind. Only as I stood looking at the farmhouse, the breeze teasing my hair and separating the odor in the air, did it hit me in the face. I had smelled that smell before when I was a child. I had been walking through the woods behind our house with my father on a hot July afternoon. The odor had appeared suddenly, permeating my clothes, hair, and the inner lining of my nose. It burnt with sickening ferocity and I couldn’t escape it. Even after I had heaved my guts out, I couldn’t stop gagging. My father had left me, choking on empty air, to investigate and had found a female deer. Its abdomen had been slit, exposing its entrails and creating a veritable feast for all the beasts and insects of the forest. My father had picked me up and brought me home. But I had never forgotten that smell.

  I grabbed the front of my skirt and held it against my nostrils. Captain Audenreid motioned the other men back, then pulled his sidearm out of its holster. I walked up the porch steps, close behind the captain. “Hello,” I called to the dark space behind the door.

  The wind pushed at the wooden door; it sighed quietly, allowing a fresh outpouring of the stench to wash over me. I swallowed thickly as my stomach churned.

  “Hello,” I called again, walking slowly to the open door. The captain shoved it gently with his arm. It yawned wide, and we stepped in.

  It took my eyes almost a minute to adjust to the darkness. Only two windows illuminated the entire one-room house, creating a murky interior in shades of gray. My eyes squinted in the dimness until they rested on the shape of a double bed.

  Swarming flies hovered over me as I approached, the buzzing of the insects growing louder. The two small boys lay on their backs, heads touching and arms folded neatly over still chests. Empty eye sockets stared up at me, and the light reflected off something white and twitching. I leaned forward and saw the maggots swimming in and out of the dark holes. I lifted a hand in an age-old maternal desire to smooth the hair back on a troubled brow. My hand stilled when I noticed what was left of the ear on the child nearest me. A jagged tear ripped the ear in half, dried blood outlining the wound. A pillow lay at the foot of the bed, and I guessed how the children had died. Gingerly, my hand shaking, I put the pillow aside and pulled the quilt over the two bodies, the buzzing of the flies now screaming in my ears. I felt their mother close by, but I wasn’t afraid.

  I heard heavy breathing behind me and turned to put a hand on the captain’s arm. I was surprised to find it trembling.

  A loud rustling erupted from a corner of the room. The bushy tail of a fox darted out through the open door, dust rising in its wake. Shots from outside followed its progress.

  Captain Audenreid coughed and held his hand up to his face.

  I took another step backward, my foot sticking to the floor. I bent to investigate the dark pool and I saw her hand. Two slits bisected her wrist, and gnaw marks from an animal had nearly severed the hand from the arm. She lay on her side by the hearth, her skirts settled purposefully around her, like she was posing for a portrait. Her face was mostly gone, but all I could see when I looked at it was the expression of lost hope I had seen as she stood in the middle of her empty pasture.

  “Oh, my God,” I mumbled, staggering to my feet and stumbling through the door. I walked blindly ahead, away from the soldiers. I needed to be alone. To grieve for this woman and her lost children, and for whatever part I may have played in her final, desperate act.

  Quick footsteps approached me, but I kept walking, breathing in the sweet April air in a futile attempt to eradicate the vile stench of death.

  “Mrs. Elliott, stop! We have to move on now.”

  I continued walking, almost running, calling back over my shoulder, “You go on. I want no more part of your war.”

  The captain quickened his pace and I soon felt his hand on my shoulder, stopping me. “I am sorry you had to see that. But that had nothing to do with this war—surely you could see it was a suicide.”

  I turned on him in fury, knocking his hand off my arm. “How can you say that? Didn’t you see? She was alone here on this farm with two small children. Where was her husband? Most likely obliterated by this war.” I swallowed back the tears that threatened on the surface. I thrust my arm out in the direction of the little house and spat out my words. “Those are just three more victims of this war. You men who speak of glory and victory. Tell me this: Can you look at the faces in there and tell me that anybody can truly win?”

  The tears won and spilled down my face.

  I struck out at him with my good arm, and he allowed me to pummel him in the chest. He pulled me to him and patted my back, murmuring words of comfort until my tears subsided.

  Too embarrassed to raise my head, I mumbled into his dark blue jacket, “Can we at least bury them?”

  He paused, weighing Sherman’s orders for haste with the scene inside the farmhouse.

  I felt him nod. Leaving me where I stood, he walked to the crest of the ridge to speak to the officer there. Orders were given and two soldiers appeared with shovels, walking toward the little house.

  Each sound of shovel hitting dirt felt like a physical blow. I had known loss before, but not this devastation of the heart. What had sent her there? What final blow to her spirit? And if Sarah were dead, would I be looking at the same desert places?

  “She was a good mother, you know.” The soldier looked up at me, then resumed his digging. I spoke louder. “It would have been much worse to leave them, abandoning them.” I closed my eyes tightly, not wanting to see the young mother’s look of desperation.

  The children were laid on either side of their mother, and I knew I would never be able to smell freshly dug dirt again without thinking of them. There was no minister, so Captain Audenreid said a simple prayer. And then the dirt was sprinkled back into the open grave, obliterating the sun forever from sightless eyes.

  I climbed back into the wagon,
careful not to wake Sarah, who had fallen asleep. We resumed our frenetic march, faster this time to catch up with the rest of the troops. I turned around in the seat and watched the small farm disappear slowly from sight, streams of early-morning sunshine warming the newly turned earth.

  I felt a sharp stab in my lower abdomen that took my breath away. And then nothing else. I placed my hand on my stomach, feeling its flatness. I had had that sensation only once in my life, when the thought of conceiving a child had seemed like an unobtainable dream. But now I had proof that it wasn’t. I smiled with a mother’s knowing, and looked down at the sleeping face of my firstborn.

  The wheels of the wagon rolled onward like the never-ending cycle of life, death, and rebirth. I placed my hand on my abdomen again, willing some sort of sign from the child I knew grew inside. But all was still.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Cry “Havoc!” and let slip the dogs of war,

  That this foul deed shall smell above the earth

  With carrion men, groaning for burial.

  —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  We had been brought to Meadowland, an antebellum mansion in Tunnel Hill, about ten miles north of Dalton and the Confederate Army. Sherman had made this imposing Greek Revival structure his temporary headquarters, and Sarah and I had been sent to a room and unofficially told to stay out of the way.

  She and I talked about her kidnapping, and she seemed to have suffered no long-term ill effects except for an aversion to being left alone. A woman with a child Sarah’s age had been sent to care for her, and Sarah regarded the whole thing as a sort of adventure. William had come to see her only once since their reunion, and I told him the truth of my relationship to Sarah. He had reacted to the news with only a shrug and a “Poor Julia” before casually changing the subject. I still hadn’t told Sarah, my reasons for my hesitation not clear to even myself.

  My first sounds of war came from far away, almost as an afterthought. I sat in a rocker on the upstairs balcony, reading aloud to Sarah. I had paused to look at her and was admiring the way the light made her green eyes shift colors when a soft boom vibrated the air. I stood, the book sliding off my lap. Another boom percolated in the distance as puffs of smoke rose on the horizon and disappeared into the blue morning sky. The soft strains of “The Star-Spangled Banner” crept over the hills and trees to tease my ears. The staccato beats of drums reverberated across the hills.

  Sarah ran to look over the railing, her eyes alight with excitement. “Are those soldiers?”

  I stood paralyzed, my legs shaking and my arm hurting again. I wondered where Stuart was and if he was safer in a prison than on a battlefield. Or if he was even alive. “Yes, Sarah. Lots of soldiers.”

  We stayed on the balcony the entire day, my nerves frayed and my imagination running wild. But I couldn’t leave the sounds of battle.

  Eventually, a young Irish maid called me to dinner. She brought Sarah down to eat in the kitchen, and I went to the dining room, where I was once again surrounded by Sherman and his staff. This was the first time I had seen the general since Stuart had been taken away, and I vowed not let the night pass without speaking to him alone.

  Midway through the meal, a courier rushed into the dining room and handed the general a telegram. He read it quickly, a large grin splitting his face. “It is from McPherson,” he said, referring to General James B. McPherson, commander of the Army of the Tennessee. Sherman slammed his fist on the table, making the china and crystal shimmy. “I have got Joe Johnston dead!”

  I demurely took another spoonful of soup while the men did a lot of back clapping and other congratulatory gestures. I glanced up to find William staring at me, his eyebrow raised. I put my spoon down and lowered my gaze.

  I couldn’t share in any jubilation. I longed for word of Stuart, my fears for him growing with each passing day. I swallowed my food and bided my time.

  I lay awake in my bed for a long time that night, waiting for the last of the guests to say their goodbyes. Then I slipped from the room with a shawl thrown over my nightgown.

  I found the library in the darkened house, only to be disappointed that it was empty. I helped myself to a glass of Scotch, then brought it out to the foyer. I smelled a freshly lit cigar coming from up above. Stealthily, I crept back up the stairs and walked out onto the upstairs balcony. The pale moonlight shone through the banister slats, creating a line of dark soldiers marching in formation across the wooden floorboards.

  The balcony appeared to be deserted. I leaned over the railing, taking deep breaths of the cool evening air, trying to swallow my disappointment. I knew I could convince General Sherman of Stuart’s innocence if I just had the opportunity to speak to him alone. My palms grew moist as I thought of my plan to convince the general if my words failed to sway him. I stood and started to take a sip of the Scotch but stopped, my lips pursed over the rim, my other hand resting on my abdomen. I moved my head, the distinctive odor of fresh cigar smoke drifting over to me. From the corner of my eye I saw the unmistakable end of a cigar glowing red in the dark.

  “Madam.”

  The suddenness of the sound caused me to drop the glass, sloshing liquid over my bare feet and bouncing the glass off the porch. I heard the delicate sound of shattering crystal as it hit the brick steps below.

  “You startled me.” I bent to wipe the dripping Scotch off my legs with the hem of my nightgown.

  “Apparently.” I heard the smile in the general’s voice. “I hope our talking did not keep you awake.”

  I shook my head. “No. Actually, I was waiting for everyone to leave so I could talk with you.” I hid a yawn behind my hand. “Besides, I haven’t been sleeping well lately. Too many scary thoughts.” I straightened, feeling the sticky liquid drying on my bare skin.

  “Scary thoughts,” he repeated after me. “Well put.” He took a long sip from his glass. I heard him swallow in the stillness of the night. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  I knew he would expect my bluntness. “My husband. He’s as responsible for saving your life as I am.”

  “Really?” He brought the glass up to his lips and took another sip.

  “Pamela Broderick kidnapped my niece. She threatened to kill her unless I followed through with her plan to murder you. Stuart found Sarah and brought her to me so I wouldn’t have to go through with it. He risked his life to save me—and you. He doesn’t belong in a prison camp.”

  He paused, and I could hear his deep breathing. “Yet he is still a rebel officer, and he was captured. Why should I release him so he can return to his army and fight against me?”

  I ground my toe into the floorboard. “He risked his life to save me. I will do anything to save him. Anything.” I let my shawl fall to my elbows, looking at him sharply.

  His hand with the cigar froze midway to his mouth. I stepped closer to him, near enough to smell the Scotch on his breath. He appraised me boldly. “Madam. Are you making me an offer?”

  I forced myself to hold his gaze. “I will do anything you ask in return for the release of my husband.”

  He took a slow drag on his cigar, his eyes never leaving my face. “You are an attractive woman, Mrs. Elliott. And I am honored that you hold me in equally high regard.” The warm breeze stirred my nightgown around my feet, cooling my flaming skin. “But I am afraid I cannot accept your generous offer.”

  I bit my lip, holding back my disappointment. My desolation. “Why?”

  Half of his mouth turned up. “Madam. I am in command of the Military Division of the Mississippi with more than one hundred thousand men. I pull a bit of weight in the ranks.”

  “Then why? Why won’t you help me?”

  “I did not say I would not. If your story is true, which I suspect is the case, then, despite your husband being a rebel officer, he is innocent. I owe you my life—releasing your husband is the least I could do.”
>
  The air seemed to have been sucked out of my lungs. “Do you mean you were willing to release him before I even opened my mouth? And yet you let me make a fool of myself?”

  He took a slow drag from his cigar. “On the contrary, Mrs. Elliott. I had yet to hear a complete accounting of your husband’s involvement in the assassination plot.” He slowly blew out the cigar smoke. “Besides, you have shown me how much you love your husband. Any man whose wife loves him with such devotion deserves a second chance.”

  “Oh,” I said, for lack of anything better.

  “Do not be embarrassed, Mrs. Elliott. War does things to people—it changes us. You were merely doing what you thought you had to do to ensure your husband’s safety.”

  I turned away from him, staring out over the railing and into the night. “I’m not that type of woman, and I appreciate your understanding. On behalf of my husband and me, thank you.”

  We were silent for a few moments before the general spoke again. “I would like to try to convince you to stay here, in safety. It is going to be rougher from here on out, and I think you would be more comfortable staying put.”

  “No.” I shook my head, my loosened hair swinging about my face. “It’s very important that I get home. I’m going to have a baby, and I need to get home.”

  A flash of white appeared above his beard. “Congratulations, Mrs. Elliott. My wife and I welcomed six children into our lives, soon to be joined by number seven.” He stopped to stare out at the darkened sky, both hands gripping the railing and the cigar clenched in his teeth, trailing smoke. Quietly, he said, “It is almost hard to imagine a new life amid all this destruction.”

  I closed my eyes on the darkness, seeing a deserted farmhouse in the middle of a barren field. “War is hell, isn’t it, General?” I said, opening my eyes and noticing the bent shoulders on the tall frame silhouetted against the moonlit sky.