Spinning the Moon

by Karen White

  “That it is, Mrs. Elliott. That it is.” He flicked cigar ash over the railing, then watched the particles filter through the night air.

  I turned to leave. “I suppose I should try to get some rest. Good night, General.”

  He turned his head toward me. “Good night, Mrs. Elliott. I will see to your husband’s release.”

  “Thank you,” I said again, then closed the door behind me. As I stood in the darkened hallway, I heard the light tread of feet moving quickly down the stairs and across the foyer. I dismissed an uneasy feeling, then went to my bedroom.

  * * *

  As it turned out, despite his proclamation over dinner the previous night, Sherman did not have Johnston dead. General McPherson had neglected to push his advantage at the little town of Resaca, and was now facing a growing Confederate Army. And so we moved south, toward Atlanta and General Joe Johnston’s army. The Southerners were now digging into defensive positions around Resaca, about ten miles south of Dalton and a mere fifty miles north of Atlanta.

  Sarah and I were left with the entire army wagon train at Snake Creek Gap while the separate divisions took their places around Resaca. The sound of cannon began in the early-morning hours of May 14, shaking the earth with their bombardments and creating a heavy cloud of smoke across the valley and over the bald hill that stood as the blind sentry over the battlefield. I began pacing and biting my fingernails. I even tried reading a book to Sarah. But the battle sounds permeated the air around me and could not be escaped.

  By the second day of battle, I refused to be a bystander any longer. I had at least one working arm and I had every intention of putting it to good use. I left Sarah in the care of the cook, whose bosom was as ample as her helpings of corn bread, then trudged along the wagon train, asking for the field hospital. Men pointed and stared, but none tried to stop me.

  The smell of burning flesh hit me first. The flaming piles of severed limbs stacked outside the surgeons’ tent told me I had reached the right place. Gritting my teeth, I walked inside and entered hell.

  Surgeons in blood-splattered aprons sawed into wounded flesh, oblivious to the screams and moans around them. Two doors, ostensibly ripped off of nearby farmhouses, served as makeshift operating tables. Scalpels, saws, and horsehair sutures were laid out on a blanket and hastily replenished as they disappeared.

  As soon as one limb had been lopped off, the patient was whisked away on his litter and another one would be brought forward. Using the same bloody saw, the surgeon would again attack a wounded limb, allowing it to plop into a quickly filling basket.

  I stood still, being shoved in every direction from the fast-moving people around me, unsure where I could step in and help. Someone grabbed my arm. “Are you a nurse?”

  Numbly, I nodded.

  “Good. Come make yourself useful.”

  He brought me to an operating table. “Hold him down,” I was instructed. The man speaking had dried blood spattered in his beard and across his forehead. Tiny glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and his eyes appeared overly large as he looked up at me.

  Not willing to make excuses for my shoulder, I stood behind the wounded man’s head, my hands on his shoulders, and held firmly. The young sergeant stared up at me, panic plain in his eyes. “Ye can’t let them take off me leg. It’s an imported leg, it is. Straight from Ireland.”

  The surgeon probed at the open wound with his index finger, studying it intently. A minié ball had shattered part of the bone, spreading pieces of lead, dirt, and torn uniform through the leg. He shook his head.

  I looked back down at the patient, trying to keep my voice steady. “You will die if you don’t allow the doctor to take it off.” He struggled slightly, but I held firm. “Do you have a wife?”

  He stopped struggling and nodded. “And six wee ones.”

  “Well, then, I expect she’d rather see you return from war with one less leg rather than not at all.”

  A medic stood by, a towel and bottle of chloroform at the ready. “Will it hurt?” The man’s eyes were wide with terror, beads of sweat marking their way down gunpowder-stained cheeks.

  “Not as much as giving birth six times, I shouldn’t think.”

  He looked temporarily shocked, then gave me a weak smile. “All right, then. Let’s get on with it.”

  I squeezed his shoulder reassuringly as the chloroform-soaked towel was lowered over his nose and mouth.

  And so the procession of wounded men and boys continued. The ones with gut shot were triaged to the rear. They were given water and pain medication, but there was nothing else to be done for them. Eventually, they would be taken out behind the tent to await burial, their stiffening bodies already covered with flies.

  The sun rose high in the sky, making the inside of the tent an inferno, but we kept working. The fused stench of sweat, blood, and death filled the confined area, permeating my hands and clothes, but I wouldn’t allow myself to stop. I would hold hands and talk or give water. I no longer noticed the colors of their uniforms. It simply didn’t matter.

  By late afternoon, the bombardment of the cannon had subsided, leaving only the moans of the wounded. An orderly approached me with about ten canteens and instructed me to go out on the battlefield to help more wounded until they could be brought in.

  I stared numbly out onto the scarred field, the branchless trees like sentinels guarding the dead. The field sloped down into a miry creek choked with felled men, trees, horses, and an upended flat-bottomed boat. Soldiers in blue and gray lay side by side along its banks, drinking the dirty water. The canteens strung around my shoulders bounced and clanged against each other, the water sloshing inside. Examining the murky depths of the filthy river, I didn’t want to know where the water in the canteens had come from. I no longer felt the pain of my wound—the sights and smells around me were too overwhelming.

  A thin pall of smoke settled over the ground, the sickly sweet smell of sulfur and gunsmoke thick in my nostrils. I coughed, my throat and nose stinging.

  Men lay strewn across the battlefield like the discarded toys of an angry child. Elbows and knees bent at odd angles, faces contorted with the expressions of life. I picked my way across corpses, looking for a dry mouth croaking the never-ending litany of “Water.”

  I knew it had been a Federal victory, but as I stared out at the broken bodies, I could not feel anything but regret.

  I knelt by a soldier, his light brown hair matted with blood and dirt. “Mama,” he whispered, looking directly at me. He looked about sixteen—barely old enough to shave, much less wear a uniform and carry a rifle. I gingerly slid my hand under his neck, lifting his head up to drink from a canteen. The water dribbled into his mouth, leaking down his chin and blackened face.

  “Mama,” he said again, light brown eyes staring sightlessly at me.

  “Yes,” I said, easing myself down to the ground next to him and placing his head on my lap. I stroked the dirty hair, its strands slick between my fingers.

  “I’m . . .” He stopped, gasping to fill his lungs. “I’m . . . I’m sorry . . . for . . . leaving.”

  I paused, not quite knowing what to say. “It’s okay. Don’t worry any more about it. You’re forgiven.”

  I gave him more water and looked to see if there was anything to be done with his wound. My eyes stopped when they reached his abdomen. His jacket and shirt had been pulled out of his pants and hunched in disarray over his prostrate form. The grass between us was drenched with dark red blood, already humming with tiny insects. His entire side was missing, exposing bone and torn tissue and vital organs. I looked back at his face, now still and peaceful, his vacant eyes reflecting the open sky.

  I put his head back on the ground and closed his eyes with shaking fingers.

  I stood and looked out over the sea of gray and blue. A coppery taste settled on my tongue, making me gag. I took a swig from a
canteen to wash it away, but to no avail. The putrid taste was in the air. I shuddered, realizing it was blood. Collapsing to my knees, I began to retch. I dug my fingers into the dirt and touched my forehead to the grass, breathing in the sweet smell of it. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and could only gag on dry air. I wanted to expel the vileness in the air that seemed to saturate my body.

  But still the croaks for water continued, bringing me to my feet again. Medics rushed to place the wounded on litters, racing to the rear those who could be helped and leaving those with no hope on the ground where they had fallen.

  By dusk my canteens were empty and the cries of the wounded had stilled. I saw a large rock by a tree and walked toward it. My foot stepped on something hard, and I bent to retrieve whatever it was. It was a small pocket Bible, no bigger than my hand, the binding worn as if it had been opened many times. It fell open to a page upon which a dried rose lay. I picked up the rose and it crumbled in my hand, its withered petals scattering in the wind. A single verse had been underlined with thick, black ink, and I read it aloud.

  “To everything there is a season,/ and a time to every purpose under the heaven:/ a time to be born and a time to die;/ a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal.”

  I stopped, the words blurring before my eyes. My shoulders sagged, the canteens sliding off into the well-turned earth. The field was scattered with personal effects of the dead: eyeglasses, letters, and diaries. I couldn’t look at them and not see the mothers, wives, and daughters who would be waiting for news. I placed the Bible back on the ground by the large root of the tree. The breeze picked up slightly, blowing vanished voices away on the wind.

  I looked up at the sound of hoofbeats and recognized Captain Audenreid astride the horse fast approaching me. He tipped his hat as he drew close. “Mrs. Elliot.”

  I stood quickly, my head light from the effort. I steadied myself on the tree.

  The captain dismounted, holding the reins loosely in his hands. “Your husband’s sent a courier. He left a missive with General Sherman.”

  I stared at him mutely, his words not quite registering. “Oh,” I said, not quite sure what my next course of action should be.

  “I thought you would be pleased to hear your husband is no longer a prisoner.”

  “Yes, thank you,” I said, suddenly springing into action as I gathered up the empty canteens and raced toward General Sherman’s tent, the captain doing his best to keep up with me.

  The general was seated in a camp chair outside his tent, holding a piece of paper. William sat next to him in stocking feet, polishing his boots. They stood as I approached.

  “Mrs. Elliott, I have some news for you.”

  “Yes, I know. Captain Audenreid told me. When can I see him?”

  A glance passed between William and the general. “Your brother-in-law and I were just discussing it. We cannot allow you to go into their camp. You are somewhat of a heroine here, and your capture could be used as quite a bargaining point. I would like to suggest a meeting in the middle of the field, on neutral ground.”

  I stood close to the general, noticing the smattering of freckles on his nose, a marked contrast to the stern expression on his face. “All right. When?”

  “I have arranged for tomorrow at dawn. Can you be ready?”

  I gave a faint smile. “I’ll be there.”

  * * *

  Dawn came early. I shivered from cold as I stood to dress, the walls of my tent damp with morning dew. I gasped as I threw icy-cold water from the washbasin onto my face.

  In my joy at learning Stuart had been released, I hadn’t yet thought of what I would say to him. My hand slid to my abdomen, my thoughts unsettled. For my child and me to both survive, I could not stay in this time. But if what Pamela said was true, maybe I could learn to navigate time, holding on to the tail of a comet’s orbit. I kissed the still-sleeping Sarah, then left my tent. I shivered again, but not from the cold.

  I was surprised to see William waiting for me and holding the reins of two horses. He handed one to me, a mock smile on his face.

  “It has been decided that I will accompany you, little sister. After all, he is my brother.”

  I stilled my protest, not wanting a confrontation to spoil my reunion with Stuart.

  He assisted me into the saddle, his hand sliding casually down the length of my leg. He then pulled a wooden pole from the ground, a rectangular white flag tied to it, and mounted.

  The sky had an ominous red cast to it. Red sky at morning; sailors take warning. I crouched lower in my saddle, trying to warm myself and stop my teeth from chattering. Campfires roared throughout the field as men bustled about, preparing their breakfast. My stomach churned at the thought of food, while at the same time grumbling from hunger, another sign of impending motherhood.

  I didn’t have time to be nervous about riding the horse; I was too busy scanning the far side of the field for a familiar figure. We trotted slowly out onto the tortured ground, scarred from the mortars and trampling feet of the previous day. My horse shied away from the decapitated body of another horse, sidestepping quickly, its hooves slipping on the dew-moistened dirt. I held on tightly, following William, who had not paused.

  A lone figure emerged from the dusk-shadowed woods on the far side. I heard the thin echo of hoofbeats vibrating the ground beneath me. I recognized Endy first, his black coat fuzzy in the morning dimness. Clinging tightly to my reins, I dug my heels into my horse’s sides, heedless of William’s shouted warning.

  The wind stung my eyes but I refused to close them, lest I lose sight of the tall figure in gray atop the large black horse. He, too, broke into a gallop, clods of dirt flying behind him. I reined my horse in tightly, making it rear. I slid off the side, my skirts catching on my saddle and giving any and all spectators a brief and complete show of my undergarments.

  I ran as fast as I could, the sounds of William’s horse close behind me. Stuart had also dismounted and he stood next to Endy, waiting for me. He started walking, and then running as I neared, catching me as I flung myself at him. He swung me around to regain his balance, my skirts flying and his arms wound tightly around my waist. I buried my face into his neck, feeling the unfamiliar fuzz of a new beard.

  “Thank, God,” I mumbled into his beard.

  His voice searched for sure ground. “You are still as beautiful as the first time I saw you.” His fingers traced my face, caressing my jaw. “This is the face I see each night before I sleep.”

  I smiled, tilting my head back to look into his face for the first time, and keeping my uninjured arm around his neck. His face, still showing signs of his beating, was thinner and a jagged scar showed through the beard on his jaw. I kissed it first and then kissed him full on the mouth. He responded, his lips hard against mine.

  He rested his chin on the top of my head, his arms wrapped tightly around me. “It will be your face I will be searching for when this war is over.” He cupped his fingers around my skull, his eyes searching mine, a hint of danger hidden behind the dark blue recesses.

  I jerked my head back, my gaze touching his jaw. My hand drifted to my abdomen and I thought of the child that should be bringing us together but was the one thing that could separate us forever. “I have to go away for a while. But if there’s any way in this universe that I can return to you, I promise you I will.” There had been no decision for me to make. The truth had been in my heart for a long time, and all I had to do was look and find it.

  His hold on me tightened. “You still have secrets, Laura. How can you not trust me after all we have been through together?” His eyes were cold, but I could feel his craving for me in the touch of his hands and the smell of him. I was nearly breathless in my wanting of him, yet he held me away.

  I touched his face, in the sensitive part below his ear, the place that made him moan whe
n I touched it with my lips. “You’ve earned my heart and my life, Stuart. I can’t keep any more secrets from you.”

  He stepped back suddenly, his hand touching upon the revolver in his belt as he looked behind me.

  “Hello, little brother. So, we meet again.” William put his arm around my shoulders, giving me a little squeeze. “We did not get to talk much last time we saw each other, but I wanted to say that I have found your wife absolutely delightful.”

  I jerked away from William’s hold and stepped toward Stuart. “Go away, William. I have things to discuss with my husband.”

  He shook his head in an exaggerated way. “I do not think so, sister. You have been privy to too many discussions involving our General Sherman. I do not believe it would be wise of me to allow you to converse any more in private.” He smiled broadly. “Besides, I wanted to have a chance to talk to my brother.”

  Stuart’s jawbones moved under his cheeks. “I have nothing to say to you, William. I can scarce believe you are actually my brother.”

  “But I think you might want to hear what I have to say anyway.”

  I suddenly remembered the stealthy footsteps I had heard following my conversation with General Sherman. Dread filled me as I waited for William to speak.

  “Were you not surprised to be released from prison so quickly? And let us not forget your medical care. Did you ever stop to wonder how that was all arranged?”

  I turned on William. “Shut up! Everything you say is a twisted lie. Don’t listen to him, Stuart—he’s trying to make things sound worse than they are.”

  Stuart slid a glance in my direction. “Just a moment, Laura. I want to hear this.”

  “She does not want you to hear it, Stuart. Or you will find out what kind of a woman she really is.” William turned to me. “Tell him about your conversation with General Sherman. Tell him what you offered the good general in return for Stuart’s release.” He faced Stuart again. “And it was not our mother’s jewelry, little brother. Oh no. Your wife offered him the most precious thing of all.”