by Jan Drexler
“I can’t fight, and I won’t stay to put my children in danger. If something happened to them—”
“What would happen? We’re safe in Weaver’s Creek, aren’t we? The soldiers wouldn’t attack us.”
“They might not attack, but they would steal supplies, horses, livestock.” He glanced at her. He hadn’t been able to protect his family in Maryland, and he wouldn’t be able to in Weaver’s Creek, either. If he lost the children . . . or Ruby . . . He swallowed, then went on. “They have no respect for people or communities. They are like a hungry leviathan, devouring everything in its path.”
She looked across the fields, her hair gleaming in the sunlight where the strands had escaped her bonnet. “If they are hungry, then we should feed them.”
“You don’t understand. They take and take until they have devoured or destroyed everything. We would starve.”
“Then we would starve.” She turned toward him. “Remember what the Good Book says. ‘I was a stranger . . .’”
Gideon shook his head. “This is different. These men are not needy strangers. They are soldiers. They are the enemy.”
“You know the Good Book says something about enemies too.”
He stared at her. She wasn’t laughing. “These aren’t the enemies the Bible is talking about.”
“What other kinds of enemies are there?”
He had no answer. She hadn’t seen the power of an army, the disregard for life, the utter godlessness of a soldier who could kill a man as easily as look at him. A soldier who could send the final bullet into the heart of a dying boy . . .
Mein Herr . . .
She grasped his hand in both of hers, a solid anchor that pushed back the darkness. “Every soldier is a man. Or a boy. Someone’s son, or brother, or husband.”
“Every soldier is a killer.”
“My brother isn’t.” She waited until he looked at her. “If soldiers came to Weaver’s Creek, we would treat them the same as we would anyone else.”
Her face was sincere, her eyes wide and innocent. She didn’t know how cruel and heartless the world could be.
Gideon tore his gaze from her face and watched the horses plodding along the dusty road. In his imagination, he could see the cavalry thundering down the slope to the little community, riders peeling off to Elizabeth’s house, his house, Samuel’s farm. Then the main body galloping across the stone bridge into the yard of the home farm. Abraham stepping out onto the porch to meet them . . . then crumpling, a blossom of red at his chest.
“You don’t know what they are capable of.” His jaw clenched.
“But I do know what God requires of us.”
Gideon knew also. Humility, kindness, service, love. Most of all, love. How many times did Jesus tell his followers to love their neighbors? Pray for their enemies? His shoulders slumped. He had built many sermons around those same themes. But when it came to living out what was required, it took a stronger man than he was.
9
When Sunday morning worship was over, Ruby helped the other women of the church set out the cold foods for the fellowship meal. Cold meat, cottage cheese, tomatoes, and loaves of sliced bread were all available for folks to eat. Feeding so many people would have been a lot of work, except that many women and girls pitched in, including Roseanna.
Ruby watched her carry a bowl of cottage cheese to one of the tables. Roseanna often reminded her of herself at that age. Different from the other girls and not knowing why. At the same time, Ruby had never formed any close friendships. She chewed her lower lip. She didn’t want that same future for Lovinia’s daughter.
“I appreciate your help,” Ruby said, pulling the girl aside for a moment, “but the other girls your age are playing. Are you sure you don’t want to join them?”
Roseanna moved closer to her, whispering into her ear. “I can play with them later. Mamm used to help with the meal after church, and I can too, can’t I?”
“For sure you can.” Ruby gave her a quick hug. “If your mamm was here, she would be pleased.”
Roseanna grinned and went back to the kitchen for another dish. Ruby followed her, then stood back as Margaretta Stuckey came out the door with a plate of sliced tomatoes in one hand and a plate of cold meat in the other. Katie, Margaretta’s daughter and Jonas’s intended bride, was right behind her.
She stopped when she saw Ruby. Her eyes were rimmed with red. “Ruby, can I talk to you after the meal?”
“What’s wrong?”
Katie stepped closer to her. “I received a letter from Jonas yesterday, and I’m so worried about him. You know I can’t talk to Mama about it, and I don’t want to worry Lydia.”
“For sure.” Ruby patted her arm. “We can go for a walk together.”
Katie nodded her thanks as she went on.
An hour later, the meal was done, the dishes clean, and Ruby looked around for the children. Roseanna and Sophia were playing with the other girls, and Ezra was with Gideon, his head on his father’s shoulder. Daniel was asleep in Mamm’s lap, so she went to find Katie.
“We can walk along the road, if you’d like,” Ruby said.
“I don’t care where we go, as long as we’re alone.” Katie reached into the waistband of her apron, pulled out a folded letter, and handed it to Ruby. “I want you to read this and tell me if I should be as worried about Jonas as I am.”
“Are you sure you want me to read this? After all, Jonas might be my brother, but he’s your beau.” Ruby smiled, trying to lighten the mood, but it didn’t help.
“We can sit on that log there,” Katie said, walking toward a log at the end of the Lehmans’ farm lane.
Ruby opened the letter.
July 7, 1863, Gettysburg, Pennsylvania
My dearest Katie,
As you can see by the line above, I am not in Washington City at the moment. There was a large battle here in Pennsylvania during the first three days of July. On July fourth, the Confederate army left Gettysburg, and by all reports is heading south to cross the Potomac. But the battle was horrible. Many men died, perhaps thousands, and even more are wounded. I have come from Washington with many other doctors and even some women to tend to the wounded. We have set up a field hospital that many are calling Camp Letterman after the medical officer in charge.
The first thing I want to assure you of is that I am safe and well, but my heart is breaking. Death is everywhere. My first impression when I stepped off the train was the horrible, awful odor of decaying flesh. The dead, both human and horses, lie everywhere on the battlefield that stretches over a large area—thousands of acres in my estimation. The July sun has bloated the corpses, and the blood lies in pools on the soaked ground. The flies are terrible, and we have to wear a handkerchief over our faces to keep from breathing them in.
The wounded are to be pitied above all. The medical officers think that all have been brought in from the battlefields, but I can tell from the way they speak about it in hushed tones that they are not sure. No one can bear to think of a man left out there to die, helpless and alone. The wounded that have been found are housed everywhere that a space can be made for them. On my first evening here after getting off the train, I was sent to a church where the wounded were lying on boards laid across the tops of the high-backed pews. I aided the ones I could, but I quickly ran out of supplies, so all we could do—the two female nurses and myself—was to offer a drink of water to the men. When we ran out of water, I went to find some more, but every stream, every spring, stinks of blood and decay. Every mud puddle is reddish brown with filth. But it is the only water we have, and I must offer it to the men to relieve their suffering.
I spent that night writing letters. Every soldier who was conscious was aware he would most likely die soon, so I wrote countless letters to wives, families, and sweethearts. I prayed with many of the men and tried to give them what comfort I could.
The next day I went to Camp Letterman, where I’ve been ever since. The doctors require my assistance a
t the many amputations they perform, and I am loath to say I have nearly become immune to the pain of the patients. I tell them, and myself, that this trial will be over soon, and then they will be able to get well and go home. But those men and I both know that it is more likely they will die and never see their earthly home again.
But oh, Katie, when will this suffering be over? How much more loss of life and destruction of souls can we bear?
It seems like it has been months since I have seen the blue sky or breathed clean air.
I am sorry that I cannot be more encouraging in this letter. I hope I will be able to send you a happier one in the future. We don’t know what will happen in the next few weeks. Will Lee, the Confederate general, try again to reach Washington City? I pray that he will surrender. The Union forces had a decisive victory here at Gettysburg, the officers say, and it should be the end of the war.
I don’t think it will be, though. Some days I feel as if this war will never end.
Always keep me in your prayers as I keep you in mine,
Jonas
Ruby slowly folded the letter and gave it back to Katie. She thought of Jonas the last time he had come home, last winter while he was on a short leave from the army. He had been smiling, and seemed healthy, but his eyes were shadowed, as if he had seen things he didn’t want to remember. Gideon’s eyes . . . Ruby’s heart wrenched. Gideon’s eyes were the same, especially after he heard about the raiders who were in Ohio. What had he experienced during the time he had been forced to haul supplies for the army?
“What do you think?” Katie held the letter close to her. “He sounds so sad. Do you think he will be all right?”
Ruby forced herself to smile. “For sure he will be. Remember, he isn’t near the fighting anymore. He has his work to do, and then he will return home.”
Katie shook her head. “I don’t mean that. I know he will probably be safe.” She drew a deep breath that shuddered at the end. “I mean in his mind. He has seen and experienced so many terrible things.” She locked eyes with Ruby. “I can’t imagine being so used to a person’s screams of pain that he feels he is immune to them. What kind of horror has he seen that an amputation seems like a good thing?”
Ruby couldn’t answer, but she took Katie’s hand in her own and squeezed it. She had no other comfort to give.
As he often did on a Sunday afternoon, Gideon found himself talking with Levi. The younger man was serious and determined to learn as much as he could about the history, theology, and doctrine of the church. His thirst for knowledge far outweighed many ministers Gideon had known.
“So, when Menno Simons wrote that true evangelical faith is of such a nature it cannot lie dormant, what did he mean?” Levi leaned against the fence along the pasture next to the Lehmans’ barn, the home where the Sunday meeting was held this week.
“I think he meant that our faith must be active. It isn’t something we hold inside ourselves, to satisfy ourselves and no one else. Remember the last part of that sentence? He wrote that faith ‘spreads itself out in all kinds of righteousness and fruits of love.’”
“Therefore,” Levi went on, his face flushed as it always was when he spoke of what he had been reading, “we should do what he lists next. Die to flesh and blood, destroy all lusts and forbidden desires—”
“Wait a minute.” Gideon interrupted him with a restraining hand on his arm. “What did Simons say? Do we do those things?”
Levi pondered the question, his pale eyebrows meeting in a pucker between his eyes. “You’re right. We don’t do those things. Our faith does.”
“Menno Simons didn’t give us a list to follow, things we must do, but he wrote examples of what a living, nondormant faith does. It clothes the naked, feeds the hungry, comforts the sorrowful, and all the other things he wrote. There is quite a number of them, if I remember right.”
Levi nodded. “Seventeen.”
“You counted them?”
The younger man grinned. “For sure, I did. Didn’t you?” His brow puckered again. “But how do we know if it is faith doing those things or if it is our own selves? It seems like it should be the same, either way.”
“Who gives us our faith?”
“The Lord God does.”
“So, it isn’t something we do ourselves, is it? If our faith came from ourselves, it would be weak and fallible just as we are.” Gideon thought for a moment, the threat of the coming raiders on his mind. “If you were faced with an enemy determined to harm you, but your faith was grounded in yourself, how long would you be able to endure?”
“You mean like the martyrs? The ones who were burned at the stake?”
Gideon nodded. “How long would you last before you denied your Lord to save your body?”
“They wouldn’t even light the fire before I gave up.” Levi shook his head. “But I see what you’re saying. When we have faith”—he glanced at Gideon—“faith given by God, then he is the one who is working in us to keep our faith strong.”
Gideon looked out over the pasture at the mares grazing in the lush grass while their foals sprawled near them. Where was his faith when he was in Virginia? Where was his faith when the captain ordered him to fire? He didn’t . . . he couldn’t fire the gun in his hands, but was that the Lord who restrained him? Or was it only fear that froze his muscles?
“Gideon?”
He looked at the young man. “I’m sorry. My mind drifted somewhere else. What were you saying?”
“I said, is it all right if I ask you a question?”
When Gideon nodded, Levi looked across the pasture.
“If a man and a woman . . . well . . . um . . .” He rubbed his nose and started again. “If a couple who isn’t married act like they are . . . I mean . . . when they are alone . . . Well, is it a sin?”
Gideon looked closer at him. “Are we talking about you or someone else?”
The poor boy turned so red he was nearly purple. “Someone else. You can’t think that I . . .” Even his ears were pink. “I don’t even know a girl. I mean, not one I want to marry. I was wondering, that’s all.”
“Isn’t this something you should ask your father?”
“I . . . I can’t. He . . . he wouldn’t understand.”
“All right. Yes. If a couple is intimate before they marry, then it is a sin.”
“Intimate?”
Gideon nodded toward the stallion in the next pasture that had stretched his head over the fence toward the mares, and Levi’s eyebrows rose in understanding.
“For sure, ja. A sin.” The young man sighed and wiped his sweating face with a cloth. “But if they get married later, does that make it all right?”
“They should still confess their sin before the church.”
Gideon glanced at his friend again, remembering the expression on Levi’s mother’s face two weeks ago when he had been talking with Ruby. She couldn’t think that he and Ruby were acting in a sinful manner, could she?
Levi wiped his face again. “What if, well, the couple was expecting . . . ” He gestured toward the foals in the pasture. “Would that child be sinful too?”
Shaking his head, Gideon relaxed. Levi wasn’t talking about him. “The sin belongs to the parents, not the child. But our gracious and merciful God offers forgiveness to all who come to him in repentance.” He turned around, leaning back against the fence and watching the crowd of children playing in the shade of an elm tree. “Is this someone you know, Levi? If it is someone in the church, you should go to them and remind them of their need to confess.”
“I can’t do that.” Levi kicked at the fence post.
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.” Levi balled his fists on the top fence rail and rested his chin on them while he watched the horses. “When I read the Bible or Menno Simons’s writings or the Confession, it seems so simple. But when I think about facing the person, it’s like I’ve turned to ice. I can’t do it.”
“Bringing up someone’s
sin is hard.”
“But if I’m ever called to be a minister, I’ll have to do that, won’t I?” He looked at Gideon. “Did you ever have to confront someone like that?”
Gideon pushed at the memories that flooded into his mind. The regret of remaining silent when he should have spoken. Remaining frozen like ice when he should have acted.
He shook his head. “No one in the church. But my daed did, long ago. I remember that it was very difficult, and he spent many sleepless nights praying.” Gideon saw himself, a little boy, creeping to the edge of the loft. The image of the man kneeling beside his chair night after night was the only clear memory he had of his father. “But the labor was worthwhile, because the man confessed his sin and was welcomed back into the church.”
Levi was silent for a few minutes. Gideon watched Ezra running through the yard, being chased by another little boy. It was good to see his children happy. They felt secure and loved in this place. They didn’t feel the shadow of the war that haunted him.
“I heard something,” Levi said, interrupting Gideon’s thoughts. “I think you should know. Someone thinks you and Ruby might be acting inappropriately.”
“I don’t know where someone would get that idea. My wife—” Gideon broke off. Sometimes the grief stayed in the background, but other times it came upon him like the rush of a stream over a waterfall. “My wife has only recently passed away.” He cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t . . . couldn’t think of doing anything like that with Ruby.”
But then the memory of how Ruby’s freckles had stood out against her pale skin struck him. He wouldn’t remember that if he felt no attraction toward the woman.
Then he remembered Salome, Levi’s mother, again. She kept looking his way today, just as she had during the last church Sunday. Is that where this rumor had started?
“I didn’t think so,” Levi continued. “But you never know what people will believe.” He paused, drumming his fingers on the top board of the fence. “Father announced that there will be an election for a new minister in two weeks.”
“I was in the meeting this morning, remember?” Gideon smiled, but his stomach was churning. He wasn’t ready to think about an election.