“The idea of the instrument and the name was right. We just didn’t have the right combination. I tried Gabriel’s horn, but I didn’t know what to use for the apostrophe. So I tried Horn of Gabriel, thirteen letters, and it worked. How did you know it would be thirteen letters, Mom?”
“I didn’t! I just used that as an example because there are thirteen letters in Gabriel Hunter.”
“You da man, baby brother,” said Josh. “Maybe you’ll make something of yourself some day.”
Zach turned a deep, delighted shade of red. Praise from Josh was equivalent to winning the Nobel Prize.
“Mom,” said Josh, “where’s that little book? I have an idea about what those pictures and numbers stand for.” I put a Xerox copy of the first page on the table — no need to take chances with mayonnaise migrating onto a 150-plus-year-old notebook.
“Look — the crutch must mean casualties. The numbers are the same as in the deciphered info. The tombstones mean deaths, the soldier’s cap may mean how many people are still standing after a battle.” He thought for a moment. “I don’t get what the horse means.”
“Maybe the number of cavalry troops?” said Lexie. “When we studied the Civil War, I remember reading how important horses were and how many were killed in battles.”
“Plus,” I said, “Victoria — as Virgil — joined a Cavalry regiment, so she would have been particularly concerned about keeping track of horses.”
We spent the rest of the afternoon decoding the images and deciphering the little book. But thrilling as it was to be able to read Victoria’s notations, battle by battle, the grimness of what we were reading made the room grow quieter and quieter. One after another, the battles took lives: the Battle of Franklin, the terrible losses of Pickett’s Charge of the West, the cavalry-against-cavalry of Trevilians…page after page of casualties, deaths, and then, one day, a personally heartbreaking entry from Victoria: Who am I without my Courage? He fell today, shot through his great heart. But even in his last moments, Courage looked out for me. He fell so slowly, so gently that I was unhurt in body, although I was deeply hurt in spirit. Farewell, good friend.
Josh read this passage aloud, his voice breaking at the end. He stood up abruptly and left the room. Zach burst into tears, and Lexie put her arm around him.
“Josh,” called Michael. “Come back a minute. We want to be together and think about Victoria and Courage for a few minutes.” Josh came back, clearly worried that some cheesy sentimental something was going to happen.
I glanced at Michael. He gave me his trademark ‘I’ve got this under control’ look. I hoped he was right.
“There are so many reasons war is terrible,” he said. “And we hope you never know that firsthand. Mom and I were spared that, but you know that Alma and Morris served in World War II, and Victoria and Courage served heroically in the Civil War. You guys honor them when you learn about history — and when we learn from history.”
“Okay, Dad,” said Josh. “We get it. And it seems weird to get so wigged out about a horse dying — a long, long time ago, when there were thousands and thousands of people dying.”
“You remember what that vet at UC Davis told us when Raider was sick and we were all so upset?” I asked. “She said, ‘Love is love. There is no hierarchy.’ I think we all reacted so strongly to Courage dying because Victoria loved him, and they were together through thick and thin.” I took a deep breath. “I think it’s time to call Uncle Beau and let him know that your generation — Zach, Lexie, Josh — solved the puzzle. And then, it’s time to figure out where we want to go to dinner to celebrate tonight.”
The kids called Beau, since it was their victory, while Michael and I convened in the bedroom. “Holy crap,” he said. “That went to a pretty dark place. Think we’re terrible parents? Think we need to call Lexie’s folks?”
“Chill pill,” I said. “I see little historians in the making. I wish someone had brought history to life like that for me when I was their age.”
“Hope you’re right,” said Michael.
“Let’s go somewhere Eye-talian. We’ll make up for Beau and Phoebe overlooking your culinary heritage. And let’s invite Lexie’s folks so we can demonstrate how normal we are.”
“Uh-huh. I guess it’s my job to lead the charge on the ‘we’re normal’ front. And I call Pizzaiolo on the Eye-talian front.”
CHAPTER 42
VICTORIA’S JOURNAL, 1864
Tomorrow, they will come for me. I am not afraid of prison, but I am afraid that I will not see the man I love again in this lifetime. This is what frightens me, that I have endangered the living creatures who mean the most to me. Eli has been most heroic, considering that I know his so-called friends are making cruel sport of him. He brought me dinner last night, since those self-important fools have confined me to home arrest until I am remanded to jail. Afterward, he told me he stopped at Old Greeley’s tavern for refreshment. This morning, he brought me flowers and reported on his misadventures at Greeley’s. He said the entire crowded, noisy room grew silent as a church when he walked in. I want to write down what he told me, every bitter word, so that if I ever leave prison, I will think more deeply about what consequences my behavior can have on others.
“Vic, you would have laughed. That buffoon Charlie Carter stood up and put his pistol on the table, and he said, “We won’t drink with a man who can’t keep his woman away from the negro.”
I buried my head in my hands. “I am so sorry, Eli. I never meant to bring such misery on you.”
Eli snorted. “Misery? You think I care what that fool declares?”
“What did you say?”
“I said, ‘I wasn’t planning to drink with any of the likes of you anyway. I prefer the company of my true friends. And with that, I pulled out a chair and sat down, and I said, ‘Just in case there are true friends in this room, I have chairs enough for three of you at this table. If you join me, I am buying. We will be toasting the woman I love. All I can say is that any portion of my wife’s affections is worth more than all the charms of a dozen lesser women.’”
I raised an eyebrow. “You did not really say that?”
“I did, indeed. I wanted to squash that blowhard Charlie Carter like the despicable bug that he is. Threatening me with a weapon!”
“Well,” I said, “he wasn’t exactly threatening you, if he laid his gun on the table.”
Eli laughed. “How quickly you get over your repentance, dear Vic.”
“Don’t leave me in suspense,” I countered. “Did anyone come over to your table?”
“Why, yes. John Graves, sitting right next to Charlie. He stood up, told Charlie not to be such a horse’s ass, walked over to my table, and sat down and said, ‘I’m not dumb enough to keep company with Charlie Cartwright, and I’m sure as hell not dumb enough to turn down a free drink.’ “
“Anyone else?”
“John’s three-legged dog followed him over to the table. You know that flea-bitten old hunting dog he keeps? The one who got his leg caught in that coyote trap?”
I laughed. “That is one fine posse you gathered for yourself, Mr. Mays.”
“I am glad, Mrs. Mays, that you approve of the company I keep.”
CHAPTER 43
VICTORIA’S JOURNAL, 1865
When I came back from the prison hospital this afternoon, Eli was waiting for me with a grand bouquet of purple and white lilacs tied with satin ribbon.
“I have news, Mrs. Mays,” he said. “The war is over, and you have been pardoned.” I could not hear what he said; it made no sense to me. I began to sway, and just before I fainted, Eli dropped the bouquet and caught me in his arms.
When I came to, I was on the rough cot in my small bedroom. Eli was sitting on a low stool next to me. I had “graduated” to trusty-dom, as had all the nurses in the prison hospital, so I no longer lived behind bars. But for more than a year, I had known nothing but the prison hospital, the vegetable garden I helped cultivate, and occasional
visits from Eli, my brother, Jeremiah, his wife, Elizabeth, and Gabriel’s sister, Sarah.
Sarah and I had become friends. At first we were tied mostly by our sorrow, united in our grief over Gabriel’s death. But as we grew to know and like each other in deeper ways, her friendship meant more and more to me.
Eli leaned over the bed. “Are you thirsty?” I nodded. He brought me a cup of cool water and helped me sit up.
“Where are the lilacs?” I asked.
“Right next to you.” I turned and saw them in a large jug on the floor, and I was wrapped in their beauty and fragrance.
I held out my hand. He took it in his and brought it to his lips.
“Thank you, Eli,” I said. “Can I really leave? Stand up and walk out of here?”
“You can. After all, you are no longer a bigamist, since Gabriel is…gone. You have been pardoned as thanks for your service to the injured and to the Union.
“And not that you care a whit about this,” he added, “but the charges of miscegenation against you have been removed.”
I sat up and tidied my hair. “You are right. I do not care a whit about those ridiculous and immoral charges. Telling people who they can and cannot love.”
Eli laughed. “I believe that what you mean, Mrs. Mays, is that you do not care a whit about what anyone says you can or cannot do about anything.”
I smiled. “You are so correct, Mr. Mays.”
And with that, my first husband escorted me to one of the finest hotels in Washington, DC. I had a bath, we had dinner, and I began to think about the next chapter of my life. I would divorce Eli, of course. Ours had been a marriage of convenience, although to my surprise, I had found some passion and great affection in our relationship. Eli would protest, but I would ask him for a divorce. He deserved to be married to someone who loved him above all others.
I found it hard to believe that I would find love ever again. Gabriel was everything to me. But I am an optimist. I know that love is essential to human beings, and I wanted to believe that it would come my way again.
Our terrible war ended on April 9. It was spring, and there were lilacs, and I was free. Jeremiah and Elizabeth were expecting their first child. There was, despite so much loss and grief, some spring sense that there might be, as the Bible says, “joy in the morning.” Lilacs are a good start. With time, we will be our United States again, I hope and believe. I want to be ready when that joy comes around again.
CHAPTER 44
MAGGIE
OAKLAND
I was mulching the front beds, smeared with dirt and more than a little sweaty, when Calvin and Andrea pulled up to the curb.
Andrea was in half-prep: Levis, cuff-linked linen shirt, and a cashmere sweater; Calvin in full prep, from the Burberry cap on his head to the penny loafers on his feet. More to the point, they were both clean — everything I was not.
They surveyed me with suspicion. “It’s called gardening,” I said. “A person gets dirty.” Calvin and Andrea were shacking up in a pristine condo many stories above where dirt lives.
“I’d give you a hug,” said Calvin, “but yuck. No thanks.”
“Come on in. I’m ready to take a shower, and you guys can have coffee and some very nice brownies Michael made.”
“We brought you a present,” said Andrea, “but you can’t have it until you’re clean. Really.”
Michael roused himself from football to put on the coffee and entertain our visitors while I hosed off.
“Okay,” I said. “Pony up the present. I’m practically pristine.”
“Remember those three photos you showed me a few weeks ago?” asked Calvin. “The ones of Victoria and her three husbands? There was something very interesting about the way the photo in the woods was posed, the one with Gabriel and Victoria. It was…well, nowadays, we’d say it was art directed. So I went to a couple of online photo archives and turned up a whole bunch of Civil War–era photos. Mathew Brady was the famous dude who photographed the Civil War. You’ve probably seen lots of his photos in the Ken Burns documentary. But there were other photographers as well, and one of them had this very distinctive style, and something in it reminded me of Gabriel and Victoria’s wedding picture.”
“Enough talk,” said Andrea. “Show them the book.”
Calvin pulled a hardbound book out of his portfolio case and put it on the table. “Apple books,” said Calvin. “Instant miracles. I use the same approach, I’m just more…you know.…”
“Full of yourself,” said Andrea.
“Talented is what I was going to say.”
“You’re killing me,” I said. “Open the book!”
Victoria and Gabriel’s wedding shot opened the book — Calvin had clearly done some restoration and enhancement, and the photograph glowed.
“It’s beautiful,” I said.
“Wait, there’s more.” He turned the next page, and there was a balloon basket with three people on board, and the balloon was just starting to rise into the sky. I recognized two of the three people — Victoria (in disguise) and Gabriel.
“I can’t believe this photograph even exists,” I said.
“We don’t know the name of this photographer — all the attributions for his shots say ‘unknown artist’ — but apparently he was very interested in science and newfangled things. And there are so many photos of Gabriel that I think the two of them must have been friends or worked together or something.” Calvin turned the page, and there was Gabriel at the telegraph office, up in the balloon again, operating the telegraph, and helping to tie down the balloon at the end of a flight. On the last page, Gabriel held his horn.
“Victoria would love this,” I said. “I know that’s a crazy thing to say, but it’s not just that she would have loved seeing these photos after Gabriel was killed. It’s that she could share Gabriel with the rest of us.”
Michael said, “Man, this is the coolest gift ever. I am going to opt out of the whole gift-giving sweepstakes for the rest of my life.”
“Okay,” I said. “Maybe you are a genius, Calvin.”
“I’m thinking,” he said, “that it’s possible these photos might have a little more appeal than your whack-job Civil War–era primitive contraceptive shots, with a little sheepskin on the side.”
“How do we package the story?” asked Andrea. “Besides the fact that they’re photos of people Maggie wished she’d known in person….”
“Unknown artist capturing nineteenth-century innovation and technology,” Calvin retorted.
“And you like that better than my womb veil?”
He did. We talked Hoyt into a photo essay, and when it came out in Small Town, one of the chichi photography galleries in Hayes Valley decided to mount a show of the images. Mr. Lofter was thrilled when we invited him to the opening. I’m not sure how wild he was about the photographs, but he enjoyed the free wine and tapas. “The gallery’s paying for the refreshments, right?” he asked. We’ll turn him into a culture vulture yet.
Meanwhile, Calvin’s on a roll. Now he’s scouring more databases to find images of Victoria. I’m glad he’s looking, but I already have the one I love. It’s the daguerreotype Beau and Phoebe sent me all those months ago, of Victoria on Courage, ready for whatever came her way — in love and war and love, again.
EPILOGUE
MAGGIE, SIX MONTHS LATER
Calvin and Andrea invited us to dinner last night. They’re both good cooks, they live in a soothingly child- and dog-free place, and they spend money on good wine. Who could say no?
As we sat down, Calvin remained standing. He put his hands on Andrea’s shoulders. He cleared his throat. “We have some news.”
“You’re getting married,” I blurted. “It’s about time.”
Now Andrea cleared her throat, audibly. “We already did,” she said. “About a year ago.”
“Congratulations,” said Michael. “That’s wonderful! He turned to me and said pointedly, “It’s just terrific, isn’t it, Maggie?”
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My eyes welled with tears. “I wanted to dance at your wedding,” I blubbered. “I wanted to throw you one of those awful showers and play stupid games.” I gathered myself, stood, swiping at my nose, and hugged them both.
Andrea started to laugh. “I’m sorry, I knew you’d be mad. We just wanted to get married quietly without having all that awful big-white-wedding folderol. So we decided to be just like Eli and Victoria and marched ourselves over to City Hall and got married by a justice of the peace.”
“Okay,” I said. “I may forgive you, but I get to throw you a party.”
Calvin said, “For the record, I love a big white wedding.” He held up his hand. “Ignore that opening.”
“You can certainly throw a party for us,” said Andrea. “And meanwhile, you’re going to have to traipse to Connecticut, because my mother is throwing a party as well.” She paused. “But maybe you want to plan a different kind of party.”
“Anything you want,” I said. “I don’t really like those stupid shower games anyway.”
Michael snorted. “You do, too. You’re so competitive that even when you’re the hostess you have to win everything.”
Calvin brought in a bottle of champagne and poured all of us full glasses, and then put a splash in Andrea’s flute.
I looked at Andrea and I looked at the glass. “I’m throwing a baby shower, aren’t I?”
Calvin and Andrea both got the giggles, and everyone started talking all at once. “I knew you’d figure it out,” she said.
Baby Storch-Bright was born twenty-four hours after what was, I must admit, a spectacular baby shower. He weighed in at a robust eight pounds, beautiful in every aspect. His mom and dad named him Gabriel.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This story is entirely fictitious, but it was inspired by two real-life heroes: my mother, Vauneta Cardwell Winthrop, and her older sister, Virginia Cardwell McDuff. They were both captains in the Army Nurse Corps during and immediately after World War II, and they both served in the European theater. They grew up on a family farm in Mississippi during the Depression, and when they were both young (ages ten and twelve), their mother died. My mom and Aunt Ginny helped raise the four younger siblings and then put their younger sister through college. They didn’t have the same kind of adventures that Victoria did, but they had plenty of their own.
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