Yankee in Atlanta

by Jocelyn Green

Ruby shifted a glance toward the door. “Do you think he’s sober?”

  Emma nodded.

  “Fine. We’ll settle accounts and put an end to it then.” Ruby laid her hand protectively on Aiden’s head as Emma opened the door. November wind scraped their faces as they stepped outside.

  “Make it fast, Sean, it’s cold out here.” Ruby leveled a glare at him.

  Freshly shaven, and smelling of musk, he removed his hat and spun it by the brim in his hands. “I’m sorry for last week, Ruby. Truly. ’Twas the devil drink, it was.”

  “Pay me back by never coming here again.”

  “Don’t ask that of me, Ruby, please. I know it may not seem like it, but I’m keen on your company. What I mean to say—”

  Aiden fussed, and Ruby cooed to him.

  “I want to court you, Ruby.”

  She jerked her head up. “Go on, now.” Even Emma’s eyes were wide.

  “If I do it right and proper, there ain’t nothin’ wrong about it. ’Tisn’t like you’re married, which is more than you could say for yourself—”

  “Sean Connors!” Emma jabbed him in the ribs. “That’s no way to sweet talk a lady!”

  “Do you have to be here?” Sean snarled.

  “That she does,” Ruby said.

  He sighed. “Truth is, Rubes, I’ve had my eye on you ever since you and Emma were first friends. I wanted you then, but I’d not cross Matthew. He’s not here now. I am.”

  Ruby’s ears tingled. “I don’t believe what I’m hearing,” she muttered into Aiden’s coppery hair, chafing his arms to keep him warm.

  “Did you want to be unmarried for the rest of your life? Or did you have another fellow in mind?”

  I would rather be alone than with you. She knew better than to say it.

  When Aiden fussed again, Emma took him from Ruby’s arms and tickled his nose with the fringe of her shawl.

  “I need to get a blanket for him,” Ruby said. She slipped inside and grabbed a shawl for herself off the hall rack, plus the blanket on the parlor rug, before returning to the front stoop. “Get away from my son.” Her tone smoldered with warning.

  Sean stepped back from Aiden, hands up in mock surrender. “I wouldn’t hurt a fly.” He smiled. “He needs a father to show him how to be a man, that’s what.”

  Ruby scowled as she draped Aiden’s blanket over his back. “You’re not the one for the job.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve set your cap for the chaplain! Such a namby-pamby, that one!”

  Edward wasn’t brawny, true enough. But, “He’s a gentleman.”

  “Aye, too gentle for the likes of you. If you hadn’t noticed, I don’t believe preachers are in the habit of marrying prostitutes!”

  “And I am not in the habit of being courted by a man who treats women so shamefully! Get out.”

  Emma handed Aiden back to Ruby, and whispered, “I’m sorry, lass. He’s a hard case, he is.”

  Sean slapped his sister, hard. “Shut your trap.”

  Ruby recoiled, pressed Aiden tighter to her.

  And then she smelled it. She leaned closer to Aiden’s mouth.

  “Whiskey?” Her voice cracked with disbelief. “Did you give my son whiskey?”

  Sean shrugged, eyes glinting. “Just gave him a little nip on his rag for him to suck on, that’s all. Cures whatever ails a man. See how quiet he is now! I do believe he fancies it.”

  Trembling with rage, Ruby no longer needed her shawl to keep warm. “Leave us now or you can go to the deuce!”

  His muscled arm shot up, his fingers dug into her throat right in front of Aiden’s eyes. “That’s no way to talk to a man.”

  Ruby struggled for breath, even as she noticed Aiden watching Sean’s every move.

  “Mama?” He dropped his rag and patted his dimpled hand on her cheek. His breath smelled not of milk, or crackers, but of the demon alcohol.

  Carriage wheels clattered along Sixteenth Street just yards from where they stood. Finally, Sean released her and stepped back. “See? It’s like I said. Someone needs to show the lad what it takes to be a man.”

  Sobs choked her when Sean’s hand did not, and she slumped to the cold stone, clutching Aiden. Hatred and fear twisted together, lassoed her heart and plunged it to the depths of her spirit. The fury in its place startled her.

  “Mrs. O’Flannery?” All three heads turned toward the speaker, a brougham driver who drew rein in front of the Waverly residence. “What’s going on here?”

  Sean placed his hat back on his head. “See you around, Ruby. You too, laddie.” He winked at Aiden, and Ruby’s toes curled. She could not even bring herself to look at Emma as they left.

  “Ruby?” Vivian McKae climbed down out of the brougham and swept up the steps. She knelt in front of Ruby before turning back to the coachman. “Mr. Biggs, I do believe I’ll stay a while. I’m sure you can use the carriage house and come warm yourself inside.”

  Ruby nodded, then allowed Vivian to help her to her feet. With the older woman’s arm wrapped around Ruby’s shoulders, they went back inside the house and made it to the rear parlor before Ruby crumbled onto the sofa.

  “I’ll put on the kettle.” Vivian bustled out and returned again in moments. “Edward said you called off your Bible study with him yesterday, so I came to see how you are. But I can see plain as day what the answer is.”

  Vivian’s lips flattened as she looked at Ruby’s throat, still radiating with pain. She pushed a strand of hair from Ruby’s forehead, her fingertip snagging on the scab on her temple.

  Tears misting her eyes, Ruby grasped Vivian’s hand, while her other arm still circled Aiden. “Vivian, so help me, if he touches my son again, I just might kill him or die trying.” Her words shocked her. How would they sound to Vivian McKae, whose marriage to James was the happiest one Ruby had ever witnessed? “I need help.”

  “You need to leave.”

  Outside Chattanooga, Tennessee

  Tuesday, November 3, 1863

  Drumming rain soaked through Noah Becker’s shell jacket, plastering his shirt to shivering skin as he stood picket duty along the swollen Chattanooga Creek. The last time he’d served as sentinel, he was a boy of seventeen years, atop a castle besieged by the Prussian army, from which he could see the Black Forest, the mountains in which Baden-Baden was nestled, and the Rhine valley with its rich fields and vineyards.

  Once again the revolutionary, Noah mused, but stopped short of further comparisons. Ankle-deep in standing water here in the valley between Tennessee’s Lookout Mountain and Missionary Ridge, all he could think of was drying out. That, and his growling stomach.

  Though the Union army was under siege in Chattanooga, it was the Rebels who suffered most, with little shelter and less food. In fact, Noah’s Sixty-Sixth Georgia regiment was the newest here, and the only one with the luxury of tents. The men Noah passed who had been here longer looked sick, hollow-eyed, and heartbroken. They lived on the parched corn that had been picked out of the feet of officers’ horses.

  Rain streaming from the brim of his felt hat, Noah squinted across the creek at the boys in blue. Some had oilcloths or India rubber blankets draped over the heads, some only their forage caps between them and the rain. The orders, on both sides, were not to fire unless fired upon, or unless one of them tried to cross. They were close enough to have conversations, which often led to friendly exchanges via private truce. Southern tobacco for Northern coffee, and both armies thrilled with the swap.

  Sloshing footsteps tramped toward the sentinels, and Noah’s chest expanded. Relief had arrived.

  Back in his tent, Noah peeled off his Sibley jacket and shirt and rubbed his skin down with the corner of his blanket.

  “Howdy-doo and gootin tag, Herr Becker.” Ross, a long-bearded private from north Georgia, had taken a shine to Noah, and delighted in twisting English and German speech together. He was a yeoman farmer before enlisting as a hired substitute. “Ask me why I might be your bester friend right about now.”
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br />   Noah eyed him wryly before pulling a dry shirt over his head and slicking his hair off his forehead. “All right. Why?”

  Ross pulled out an envelope. “Say biddie!”

  Noah’s heart leapt to his throat. “Bitte.”

  Ross handed it over. “Do I hear a donkey?”

  A chuckle escaped Noah as he shook his head. “Danke. Vielen dank.”

  Ross beamed. “You’re so biddie.”

  “Bitte sehr,” Noah corrected him, then retreated to his bedroll with the envelope fairly burning in his hands.

  After pulling off his saturated brogans and socks, he tore into the envelope. He had only to read the first line before he realized he had been holding his breath for this moment for weeks.

  Dear Mr. Becker, We keep well, and pray for your safe return every night.

  He scanned the text hungrily at first, then went back and savored every word, a range of emotions flaring within his spirit as he did so. Longing to tuck his daughter into bed again himself, resignation over the loss of his horses, concern for Bess and Saul. Noah was gratified that Caitlin had accepted three refugees from the Chattanooga area into his home so far, and so pleased that one of them was Minerva Taylor. Though his interactions with Miss Taylor had been limited at the Atlanta Female Institute, he had always thought her a cheerful spirit, and no doubt Caitlin had need of the companionship.

  At the bottom of the page, Caitlin mentioned that the price of stamps was regrettably high. He knew what she meant. Frequent correspondence should not be expected.

  And now, Caitlin wrote, I have a young lady here who wishes to speak with you.

  Noah flipped the page and Ana’s childish scrawl immediately blurred in his vision. She had drawn a small but familiar and comforting picture for him. Ana holding Noah’s hand, standing in front of their house. An oval-shaped Rascal was in the picture, too. Noah blinked the moisture from his eyes and read on.

  Miss McKae says I’m doing very well in my lessons. Would you like to see what I can do? I will do my next lesson for you here. This is from Mrs. Moore’s Dixie Speller:

  This sad war is a bad thing.

  My pa-pa went, and died in the army.

  Noah’s brow furrowed. This was Ana’s spelling lesson? Chills rippled over him.

  My big brother went too and got shot. A bomb shell took off his head.

  My aunt had three sons, and all have died in the army. Now she and the girls have to work for bread.

  I will work for my ma and my sisters.

  I hope we will have peace by the time I am old enough to go to war.

  If I were a man, and had to make laws, I would not have any war, if I could help it.

  If little boys fight old folks whip them for it; but when men fight, they say “how brave!”

  I would not run away like some do … I would sooner die at my post than desert.

  If pa-pa had run away, and been shot for it, how sad I must have felt all my life!

  Well Papa, how do you like my spelling? My hand is tired and I am out of room but I love you so so so so very very much. I love you to the stars and back. Love, Ana

  P. S. I like having the new ladies stay with us very much. Except maybe for Miss Kent. She snaps at Miss McKae and looks at me funny sometimes.

  Noah squinted at the words. Miss Kent? No, no. It could be a mistake. Ana could have misspelled the name. He studied the words again. Even if the name was Kent, there was no reason to believe it was Susan Kent—let alone the same Susan Kent he had married eight years ago. No reason to believe Ana’s mother had returned for her, with him not there to stop it.

  I would not run away like some do … I would sooner die at my post than desert.

  New York City

  Wednesday, November 4, 1863

  Guilt sitting like a stone in his stomach, Edward rapped his knuckles on the door to the second-story sitting room. “Ruby?”

  Vivian had informed George he’d have two more houseguests, and then Edward and Biggs had moved Ruby’s things over, including Aiden’s crib and Ruby’s rocking chair, so they could stay in George’s master bedroom. The attached water closet gave her privacy, and being on the second floor instead of the third allowed her to hear when Aiden would awaken from his naps. Besides, George would not need his old bedroom until his legs had fully healed, and by that time, Caroline would likely be home anyway, so Ruby could move back in with her.

  Edward wanted her to feel comfortable here. Safe. It was why he moved his own bedroom to the third floor, so Ruby, Aiden, and Vivian could have the second floor to themselves at night. And he knew better than to barge in on Ruby without knocking, even during the day. Sean had barged in on her enough already. More than enough.

  “May I come in?”

  “Aye,” came her answer, and Aiden’s babbling followed.

  Heart thudding, he sat down on the sofa with Ruby, with Aiden stacking blocks on the Persian rug at their feet. A fire crackled in the marble fireplace, casting a bronze glow on Ruby’s hair.

  “I need to apolo—” His words fell away when his gaze dropped upon the yellow-edged purple marks on her neck. A lump drove sharply into his throat. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

  Her green eyes glimmered. “’Twasn’t you that did it.”

  “But I said I’d check in on you, make sure you were safe.” He could barely squeeze the words out around his dismay. “I hate that this happened to you.”

  “’Tisn’t your fault. You can’t be with us all the time. But God can.” She smiled, and his jaw slacked.

  “You don’t blame Him for what happened to you?”

  She shook her head. “’Twas He who brought us to a safe place. He brought us back to you.”

  Warmth spread through his chest as he looked at her. She was battered, but not broken. Perplexed, but not in despair. Beautiful.

  Ruby’s face hardened as she watched Aiden play with his blocks. “He almost killed my son’s body. Then he tried to get his soul.” She shuddered.

  “What do you mean?” The hair on his neck rustled.

  “Monday on the front steps. When I went in to fetch a blanket and shawl, Sean doused the washcloth I’d given Aiden to chew on with whiskey from his flask. My wee babe! Tasting whiskey! If the child develops a taste for alcohol I don’t know what I’ll do.”

  Edward stared at Aiden’s cherub face and shook his head, blood boiling in his veins. Alcohol was the cause of so many men’s demise. To introduce it to a baby was just pure evil.

  “That’s not all.” Ruby rolled her lips between her teeth, and her nose pinked. Her chest heaved with breath before she could speak. “Sean hit Emma in front of him. He choked me as I held the baby, and Aiden watched. He said he was showing him what it meant to be a man.” Tears spilled down her cheeks now. “I’ve lost all my money for the lad’s education. What if I can’t protect Aiden from the influences of the street, and he grows to be just like Sean, or even like Matthew, who lashed out when he was drunk? Drinking liquor and hitting women, as if that’s just what men do. If I tell Aiden that’s not what it means to be a man, who will he believe? His mother? Or grown men?” She covered her face with her hands while Aiden remained busy building squat wooden towers, ignorant of the struggle clearly rending his mother’s heart.

  And Edward’s. He reeled at the mention of Matthew. Her own husband struck her? Even if it was rare, the idea made him sick. The thought of Aiden becoming hardened and given to vice shook Edward—he could not imagine the pain Ruby felt. This wasn’t just about one man, or one attack. It was about a legacy that needed to be broken.

  “I will help you show him,” he offered. “Respectable men do not go to the bottle for solace, but the Lord. True men don’t hurt women. They protect them, cherish them, extol them. Proverbs says a virtuous woman is worth far more than rubies. Real men understand the treasure with which they are blessed.” Tenderly, he laid a hand on her shoulder, his thumb lightly grazing the bruise on her soft neck. For a moment, his words netted in his ch
est as he drank in the trust and hope he read in her glossy eyes. “Aiden will never see me hurt you, Ruby. He will see me treat you the way you deserve to be treated.”

  Ruby was a treasure indeed.

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Thursday, November 12, 1863

  Weak light blinked fitfully onto the pages of a Sir Walter Scott Waverley novel, from which Caitlin read aloud to the parlor full of women. It had quickly become their evening routine to read to one another, passing the long winter nights by escaping to another world. At least, those who could hear the words over their growling stomachs. Ana sat opposite the tea table from Caitlin, diligently pulling the candle’s twisted-rag wick away from the bottle as it burned down.

  He found Miss Bradwardine presiding over the tea and coffee, the table loaded with warm bread, both of flour, oatmeal, and barley meal, in the shape of loaves, cakes, biscuits, and other varieties, together with eggs, reindeer ham, mutton and beef ditto, smoked salmon, marmalade, and all the other delicacies which induced even Johnson himself to extol the luxury of a Scotch breakfast above that of all other countries. A mess of oatmeal porridge, flanked by a silver jug, which held an equal mixture of cream and butter-milk, was placed for the Baron’s share of this repast …

  “Oh, stop, honey, can you please? Or skip that part and move on to something else?”

  Caitlin looked up toward Minnie’s voice.

  “My belly’s crying out in envy is all.” She laughed feebly.

  “Sorry, Minnie.” Caitlin’s own mouth had started watering at the first mention of coffee and warm bread. But since she could almost taste the fictional menu, too, she hadn’t minded. “Would you like to take over? Or Naomi? Susan? It’s time I get Analiese to bed anyway.”

  Caitlin stood, and Ana reluctantly did the same. “Is your room all picked up?”

  “It’s as picked up as I want it to be.” Ana ground her toe into the thick carpet.

  Caitlin suppressed an exasperated sigh. “That’s not what I asked. Is it picked up the way it is supposed to be?”