Yankee in Atlanta

by Jocelyn Green

  Chills shuddered through him as he waded heavily through the darkness. Seven miles stretched between him and the station where they could finally rest and be fed. As much as Noah tried to hitch his thoughts to that goal, they wandered rebelliously where he did not want to go.

  He had retreated before. At the beginning of the German revolution against the oppressive Prussian government, Noah was to march to Siegburg along with one hundred twenty others and seize the armory. About half an hour into their night march, however, one of their horsemen galloped in with the news that dragoons were at their heels and ready to attack the revolutionaries. Some fled to the cornfields, while Noah and others stood silently near the road. But the Prussian dragoons who had scattered them numbered only thirty strong.

  Profound shame shrouded Noah. Their mission had come to a disgraceful and ridiculous end, after they had pledged themselves to the cause of German liberty and unity with soul-stirring speeches. Their patriotism flared brightly, but the cold reality was that all insurrectionary attempts in Prussia had failed. Noah could not return to his parents until he had somehow atoned for the inexcusable blunder.

  And I believed that so great, so just, so sacred a cause as that of German unity and free government could not possibly fail, and that undoubtedly I would still have a chance to contribute to its victory.

  He had been wrong. Noah Becker became a fugitive from the law at that point. Though hope flickered during the course of the next year, it was ultimately extinguished, and he became a political refugee. The revolutionaries failed, and Noah never saw his parents again. His brother Wilhelm’s death had been in vain.

  The rustle of marching columns mingled with the low snorting of horses and the rattle of sabers and scabbards in the darkness, and Noah reined his thoughts back to the present.

  “We did it,” a voice breathed.

  He turned and spoke toward it. “Do you mean to say we have succeeded? In what?” He did not care that his tone dripped with sarcasm.

  “The withdrawal, of course.”

  “Withdrawal is retreat. Retreat means defeat. We have failed our country and our families. The Union army has Georgia by the throat.”

  “Our cause is righteous. Ultimately, we cannot possibly fail.”

  The words fell through him and onto the road, where they were trampled by soldiers retreating to Chickamauga, where only weeks before, they had supposed their Rebel victory had settled the question of Georgian invasion once and for all.

  New York City

  Thursday, November 26, 1863

  EXTRA EXTRA! GLORIOUS VICTORY IN CHATTANOOGA! Get your New York Times, read all about it!”

  Ruby’s forkful of turkey hovered over her plate as she turned toward the newsboy’s cry, muffled by the walls of the house.

  “Praise be to God,” breathed Vivian as Edward pushed back from the table and out the door. President Lincoln had declared today one of national Thanksgiving, and now, it appeared, there was even more to be grateful for.

  Edward returned moments later, his gaze skittering over the headlines.

  “Good news for once?” George loaded his fork with boiled ham, mashed potatoes, and cranberry sauce.

  “Very good for the Union. Especially after the decimation at Chickamauga.”

  “Please.” Vivian’s silverware lay idle on a plate still half-full of chicken pie, roasted broccoli, and mixed pickles. “Tell us, dear. Jack was there.”

  “Was he?” Ruby fed a bite of potatoes to Aiden. She had been careful not to inquire much after Vivian’s children, since the topic seemed to pain Vivian.

  “After Gettysburg, he reenlisted with the 123rd and now fights under Hooker. Edward?”

  He cleared his throat. “Glorious Victory! Grant’s Great Success. Bragg Routed and Driven from Every Point. Successful Battle on Tuesday. Gen. Hooker Assaults Lookout Mountain and Takes 2,000 Prisoners. General Sherman Finally Carries Missionary Ridge. Gen. Thomas Pierces the Enemy’s Centre. Forty Pieces of Artillery Taken. Five to Ten Thousand Prisoners Captured. Flight of the Rebels in Disorder and Confusion.”

  “Are there—casualty lists?”

  “Not yet. But it says our loss is but little.”

  Vivian nodded.

  “It must be so difficult for you, not knowing exactly where Jack is and how he’s doing,” Ruby murmured. If she didn’t know where Aiden was, but thought he might be in harm’s way, she might go mad, no matter how old he was. “How do you manage?”

  “I trust that God is able to sustain him, and his sister. Wherever they may be.”

  “Still no word from Caitlin, then?” Ruby wished there was a more delicate way to ask.

  Vivian’s head twitched. She resumed her meal. Silence magnified around the scrape of her spoon across her plate, pooling gravy and peas together.

  Regret swirled in Ruby’s belly then, for the mystery that had caused Caitlin to run away, and for bringing it up to the girl’s tormented mother. This was supposed to be a meal of thanksgiving.

  Edward folded the newspaper and dropped it on the sideboard behind him. “Ruby, what do you hear from Mrs. Waverly?”

  “She keeps well, and is enjoying her time at Fishkill. Alice is very grateful to have her. She is fatigued.” And so sick the doctors have confined her to her bed until the end of the pregnancy. But that was not polite dinner conversation in mixed company.

  “Does she mention how long she’ll be staying?”

  Ruby eyed him as he cracked open a steaming roll. Did he wonder how long he’d have to tolerate her and Aiden under their roof? “No. If Alice does not recover earlier, I imagine she may be there some months yet.”

  “That’s fine, dear, absolutely fine,” Vivian said. “You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need to.”

  “Of course you are. I didn’t mean—” Edward stammered. “You are welcome here.”

  Aiden clamored for attention, and Edward rose from his seat to clean the boy’s face and hands before hoisting him out of his high chair. Ruby smiled as Aiden toddled around the room, happy to be free once again. Silently, she prayed he would not touch anything he shouldn’t.

  “More turkey, Ruby?” Vivian asked.

  “I’m full to the brim, thank you though!” She turned to George. “Mr. Goodrich, thank you so much for allowing us to join your celebration.”

  “It’s nothing,” Vivian cut in.

  “But it isn’t. I’m a maid, and I’ve not forgotten it. To be invited to dine here—” Her gaze skimmed the bounty of gleaming white porcelain, polished silver, and the steaming food heaped high. “’Tis a gift, and I know it. I won’t be putting on any airs after this either. I know my place. ’Tisn’t here.”

  The words were a reminder to herself as much as an assurance to her host, who clearly recognized the yawning abyss between their classes. She was a lowly Irish immigrant with a past so rotten she feared the stench still trailed her. She had no business sleeping in a wealthy business tycoon’s four-poster feather bed, with her very own private water closet. For years she had felt dirt between her bare toes in the morning, not the fine wool of an ornate Persian rug, or the smooth surface of waxed hardwood. She didn’t belong here. It wasn’t who she was. Ruby would do well to remember it. She tucked her hands under the snowy napkin mounded in her lap then.

  “At least the girl has sense,” George said, huffing.

  Ruby should not have chafed. “I’ll see to the baby, then, and let the rest of you enjoy your apple pie and coffee in peace.”

  She scooped Aiden up and retreated to the second floor, where his babbling would not disturb anyone.

  Edward’s coffee soured in his mouth as he watched her go. “Heavens, what a gracious way you have with our dinner guests.”

  George’s mustache drooped. “All I did was agree with her.”

  “Some things are better left unsaid.”

  “The girl knows her place, and rightly so.” He cracked his knuckles with a satisfied nod.

  Vivian rattled her cup bac
k onto its saucer. “She is a grown woman, a widow, and a mother. I do wish you’d stop calling her ‘the girl.’ Ruby O’Flannery is sweet as sugar and stronger than steel.”

  “She’s also as Irish as the Blarney Stone.”

  George’s remark scraped Edward’s nerves to no end. Condemnation for his father’s arrogance boiled in his gut, until bitter judgment formed on the tip of his tongue.

  Vivian caught Edward’s gaze then, her eyebrow cocked. It stopped him.

  Quietly, he excused himself and headed toward the stairs to apologize for his father. With every step, however, his earlier conversation with Vivian came back to him.

  We have very different backgrounds, for one thing— he had said.

  You mean she is Irish. I see. You are more like your father than I realized.

  Edward closed his eyes for a moment, leaning on the banister. Had she been right? Did he harbor, or even lean toward George’s prejudice as well? May it never be.

  Drawing a fortifying breath, he climbed the rest of the flight, and then the next, until he retrieved his surprise from his chamber. He had been saving it for Christmas, but perhaps—yes, this was better. This way she would not feel embarrassed for not having a Christmas gift for him as well.

  Back on the second floor, he waited in the sitting room until Ruby had finished putting Aiden down for the night. He could hear her singing to him through the wall. It was not the concert soprano Jenny Lind was famous for—it was far more beautiful for its faltering pitch, for he could guess that it was a mother’s love for her son that caused the tears in her voice.

  Ten minutes later, Ruby entered the sitting room, and started when she found Edward already there.

  He stood. “I do apologize. I didn’t mean to alarm you. Please, come in.”

  She swiped a finger beneath her dewy eye and sat on the sofa.

  “My father—he upset you. I’m very sorry.”

  She waved away his apology. “I’ve upset myself. I’m not sure staying here is the best thing for us. For you and your family. The lines are blurring. It’s confusing.”

  “Please don’t speak like that. I want you to stay. The arrangement has worked well so far, has it not? Besides, where else would you go?”

  Her lips quirked up. “Where would I go? It seems to be the recurring theme of my life. You’re right, of course. I must stay where I am permitted.”

  “Please understand, you and Aiden are no burden to us.”

  “You and Vivian are very generous. Good neighbors.” She smiled warmly, without a hint of guile, but he hated the unstated meaning. Moral obligation. “Your father has the right of it. No need to apologize, ’tis the way things are. I don’t mind being a maid forever, you know. But I did so want more for Aiden.” Tears suspended her words for a moment. “I gave up all the money I’d saved for his education. Did I tell you that already?”

  “You did what you had to do.”

  “Aye. But it will take so long to recover those funds. He’s not napping nearly so long anymore. Thank goodness Vivian has been watching him for me so much lately.”

  “I wish there was something I could do to make things easier.” Edward clasped his hands behind his back to keep from touching her arm.

  “If you’re thinking of replacing the money, I’ll not hear of it. No more charity from you.”

  “Oh no, I wouldn’t dream of such a thing. I do wonder if you could grant me a small favor, though.”

  She looked up. “Oh? What’s that?”

  “Something followed me home from work yesterday and I was so hoping you could take it off my hands. Turn around.”

  He couldn’t see her face, but her hands flew to her cheeks. “A sewing machine!”

  “Do you suppose you could work a little faster with the help of Isaac Singer?”

  “Aye, that I could.” Ruby laughed as her hand glided along the smooth black arm and wheel of the machine before she bent to inspect the foot treadle. She straightened. “I should tell you I can’t accept such a gift, shouldn’t I?”

  “Nonsense. It’s not a personal gift. It’s a machine that will beg you to work. Many other women would be insulted by it.”

  She beamed, her eyes flashing in the light of the gasolier. “This gift sings to me. You outdo yourself, truly. You’re putting the Good Samaritan to shame.”

  Edward’s countenance fell. Was that how she saw it? “I wish you wouldn’t say that.” Yet, in truth, he had said the same thing to himself mere weeks ago. It was not romance he had in mind with Ruby, but ministry.

  “What is it then?” she asked, eyes wide. “Are you being kind to spite your father?”

  “No, I—that’s not the right reason to—I wouldn’t—no.” Heat bloomed beneath his collar.

  “I see. Then, it must be—aye. You’re showing Aiden what it means to be a man. The proper way to treat a lady.”

  Words refused to come. He nodded, but surely that was not the sum of it. Then why did I do it?

  “I thank you.” Ruby smiled, and Edward’s breath hitched.

  That’s why.

  Ruby was right. The lines were blurring. Or moving.

  Maybe one day no line would separate them at all.

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Friday, November 27, 1863

  Ouch! Caitlin sucked a pinprick of blood from her fingertip and looked out the workroom window. Her needle and thimble fell idle as she watched a cardinal alight upon a swaying branch outside. Wind switched against the window, but sweet potato putty filled in the chinks around the panes, keeping it out. Fireballs made from coal, sawdust, sand, clay, and water kept up the heat in the fireplace. Still, Caitlin shuddered.

  Yesterday’s news of the Confederate defeat around Chattanooga had been tempered by the Intelligencer editor assuring its readers the defeat was only partial, Bragg could have done no better, and all will yet be well. But Noah had been in the fight, and all was not well until they knew how he had fared.

  Worrying does no good, she told herself, and picked up her needle again. Somehow, we will get by.

  It was a common refrain. Everywhere she looked, callouses formed on hands and hearts of Southern women who were constantly asked to give more of themselves for the cause. With their protectors and providers away in the war, they fed their households with meager resources, and still answered the call to bring milk and food to the hospitals.

  And yet it was not enough. Every week, it seemed, there was a new request in the newspaper. The quartermaster general appealed for socks—at least sixty thousand—to carry the Georgia soldiers through the winter. General Beauregard called for church bells to be made into cannons. The Nitre Bureau wanted household potash to manufacture gunpowder. Doctors begged women to cultivate and harvest poppy flowers for their opium, and the country dared to demand patriotism, as if the women were not proving themselves daily.

  Caitlin refused to donate potash to be made into Rebel ammunition. But the most recent call from Quartermaster Jones was so pitiful she could not ignore it.

  Thousands of our soldiers are without tents, and worse than that, without blankets … Ought not the churches, the parlors and the bed rooms to be stript of every carpet, if necessary, and hurried to the army? I think so, and think, besides, that any true-hearted Southern woman will be ashamed to let such articles remain about her premises when she is aware of the necessity to give them up. I believe there are carpets enough in Georgia to supply the Confederate army with blankets. They cannot be procured by purchase. Can I say for you, ladies of Georgia, “They shall be given”?

  Caitlin knew what it was to sleep outside, and would not wish the misery of exposure on anyone. As per the article’s instructions, she had requested cotton cloth with which to line the carpets, and it had finally arrived.

  Her thimble firmly in place, she pushed the needle up through the heavy carpet and pulled the thread through. Until a shadow dropped over Caitlin’s hands.

  “Do you have any money?” asked Susan, without preamble, a new
spaper sagging from her fingers.

  Caitlin spared her only a glance before refocusing on her stitches. “Very little. Why?”

  Susan sat at the table then and spread the Intelligencer in front of her. “A new shipment of goods arrived from Wilmington, North Carolina, fresh off the blockade runners. Just look at everything that’s now in stock at P. G. Bessent’s on Whitehall Street!” She spun the paper around so Caitlin could read the list advertising flannel, white silk, ladies linen collars, and ladies shoes—Congress Gaiters, English Kid Gaiters, and Morocco boots.

  Caitlin shoved the paper back to Susan. “How can you think of a new dress when your army suffers without blankets?”

  “The parlor is perfectly desolate without the carpet, you know.”

  “Better a desolate parlor than desolate men. Besides, I’ve not taken your bedroom rug.”

  “Oh no, only every other carpet in the house.” She pouted, twirling a lock of her hair around her finger. “Where’d you find the thread for all these so-called blankets, anyway?”

  Caitlin pointed under the table to her own skirt, now guiltless of hoops. She’d harvested thread by unraveling her dress from the hem up. Minnie and Naomi had done the same.

  Susan gasped. “How could you? Why would you?”

  “Without hoops, the skirt need not be nearly as long. I believe the newspaper calls it ‘shortening sail in a storm.’” She actually found it quite liberating to be free of the steel contraptions.

  “I hate this war,” Susan whispered. “I hate moving. I didn’t always live in Chattanooga, you know, but during the last seven years, it was home. Until the Yankees decided it was theirs. Nothing is the same since the abolitionists started this unholy mess.”

  Caitlin cocked an eyebrow but said nothing.

  “Men used to line up to court me, and now they are all getting shot up. I just want to feel good again.”

  “Men made you feel good?” Warning flashed through Caitlin’s spirit.

  “The attention from them, yes. I was groomed for it. Turning heads was a game I played, and always won.”