Yankee in Atlanta

by Jocelyn Green

  “Ruby,” Edward whispered, moved closer to her until she felt the warmth radiating from his body. Her pulse pounded in her ears. “Darling, it’s all I can do to keep myself from kissing you right now.”

  “Oh no, please don’t!” She yanked her hand from his and jumped to her feet.

  Edward looked as though he’d been slapped.

  “I’m sorry,” Ruby gasped, “I’m so sorry. Forgive me, forgive me, I wish I wasn’t this way.” Fresh tears welled in her eyes.

  A lump bobbed in Edward’s throat. The stricken look on his face lanced her already blistered heart.

  “What happened to you?” he whispered.

  Ruby drew a fortifying breath and closed her eyes. “To explain it is to relive it. Please, do not ask this of me. Isn’t it clear enough?”

  “You were beaten, more than once.”

  She nodded.

  “Physical affection was corrupted into an act of violence against you.”

  “Many times, and by more than one man.” More than two.

  Edward’s eyes blazed then. “I would never hurt you. Do you believe me? I would never touch you with anything but tenderness. I am not those men.”

  “I know.” But he was still a man. And her body cringed from his touch just the same. “I think I just need time.”

  Edward clasped his hands behind his back and nodded. “All right. I can be patient. I won’t push you, though my arms long to hold you and I dream of kissing your lips one day.”

  Her eyebrows arched, and a sad smile curved on his face.

  “Did you think a chaplain would have no such desire? I assure you, I am made of neither wood nor stone. But I would much rather wait until you are ready than force you to do anything you’re not comfortable with. We’ll work through this together. All right?”

  “Yes.” Ruby smiled through her tears.

  “Mind if I pray for you?” His voice soothed her spirit as he asked God to heal her heart the way only He could. By the time he said, “Amen,” she dared to hope that Edward’s prayer would one day be answered.

  “And now, I bid you good night. You see? You shall have that early bedtime tonight after all.”

  He limped to the door, and her heart lurched at the reminder that he had taken a bullet for a friend. What wouldn’t he do for his wife? “No more secrets, all right?” he said again, half-turned in the doorway. “We’ll weather the storms together.”

  Ruby smiled but didn’t nod. Surely it would be better to leave the worst chapter of her life in the dark. “Good night, Edward.” And she took her last secret with her to bed.

  New York City

  Tuesday, February 16, 1864

  It was a bad idea, reading the newspaper right before trying to sleep, but Vivian couldn’t help herself. Ever since learning that Caitlin was in Atlanta, she had been scouring all the dailies for any mention of the city. What she’d found last week, official declaration that Atlanta was the target for the Federal spring campaign, had done nothing to assuage her anxiety. But if Caitlin was still there when the Yankees encroached, maybe Jack could find her.

  How much better if she were no longer there at all come spring! Sighing, Vivian turned the page of the New York Daily News—and almost spewed her milk back into her glass. For there, in the advertising section, among ads for ginger tonic, harnesses, and corsets, ran notices of an entirely different nature all together.

  DAVIS C. HUNTLEY, RICHMOND, VA.—FOLKS ALL WELL; NO NEWS FROM KATE; AUNT SARAH DEAD; MONEY IN BANK FOR YOU, HOLMES, EXECUTOR; I AM KEEPING HOTEL AT CATSKILL. HAVE STARTED TWICE TO SEE YOU; COULDN’T GET THERE. HARVEY.

  Another ad said:

  TO TKJ, NEW YORK. DEAR BROTHER. I AM WELL, BUT HAVE BEEN SEVERELY WOUNDED TWICE. FATHER AND BROTHER WILLIAM DIED DURING THE SIEGE OF VICKSBURG VICKSBURG … WOULD LIKE TO HEAR FROM YOU.

  Vivian pushed herself up in her feather bed, skimming the columns until landing on the small print explaining that the New York paper had reached an agreement with the Richmond Enquirer, whereby persons could purchase with two dollars eight lines of space to write to their loved ones across enemy lines. The papers agreed to reprint each other’s sections, so an ad taken out in the New York paper could be read in the Richmond paper as well, and vice versa.

  “Surely, the newspaper of the Confederate capital would be available in Atlanta, wouldn’t it?” Vivian said aloud. She pushed back her covers, swung her legs down, the thick rug cushioning her feet. Hope thrummed through her with every step as she paced the length of her room. What are the chances Caitlin would see it?

  Still, she had to try.

  Vivian slid into her chair at the writing desk, the pencil cool in her warm grip. C. McKae, Atlanta: Come home. Loving arms await you. Vivian sat back and stared at her handwriting now swimming on the paper. She crossed out “Atlanta,” to help protect her—but would she notice such small print among rows and rows of the same? If she did, would Caitlin finally come home now? Would she be able to if she wanted to? Uncertainty bowed Vivian’s shoulders.

  We did not part well. Her mild explanation to George echoed between her ears, while the brutal truth stabbed her heart. I pushed her away. It’s my fault she left. Oh, if that were only the end of it. But God forgive her, it wasn’t.

  Get out! I don’t want to see you here again! You’ve done enough! Her own words ricocheted in her spirit. Caitlin had obeyed, though fire burned in her eyes. After a preliminary slap from Bernard, Vivian had gone back to the bedroom, then, stripped down to her shift and braced for what was to come. At least Caitlin was gone. She’s safe now, she had naïvely told herself.

  Bernard didn’t come right away. Martial music pierced the air above masses of people cheering the Seventh Regiment a few blocks away, making it difficult to hear anything else. Vivian waited, hugging a pillow to her chest, until a sickening thud sounded from the hallway.

  “Bernard?” she had called quietly.

  She heard nothing beyond the drumbeats of war beating in rhythm with her heart. Vivian sat up, strained her ears. She thought she heard more clamoring—or was that just the music again?

  Finally, she could stand it no longer. Still using her pillow as a shield in front of her thin shift, she slipped out of the bedroom. “Bernard?”

  The front door was ajar. She whipped her gaze around the empty room. Her fists clenched the edges of her pillow as she stepped into the hallway. Peered down the stairs. Saw his hulking form lying at the bottom. And rejoiced.

  When Vivian reached him seconds later, she knelt and felt his pulse beneath her fingers. Numbness sank deeper into her being with every beat. If only the fall had killed him. Then she saw the blood on his neck, Caitlin’s hair ribbon in his hand, and she knew. Bernard had attacked her daughter. Caitlin had fought back, and escaped.

  This time.

  Vivian tugged Caitlin’s ribbon from Bernard’s beefy fingers and balled it into her trembling fist. White hot hatred overflowed her heart and spilled from eyes. Rage and fear collided in her spirit, shaking her from the inside out. She could detach herself from her own abuse. But the evidence of Caitlin in danger snapped something inside Vivian.

  End it now, a voice whispered to her, before he steals Caitlin the way he stole you.

  Later, Vivian would often wonder why she did not struggle against this thought. She would beg God for forgiveness for not trusting that He had a plan that did not involve murder. But in that moment, with her pillow over his face, the only thought in her mind was, It’s over.

  “It’s over,” she said aloud now, and looked up to reassure herself she was not in that dingy apartment anymore, but back in her brother’s marble house.

  Vivian climbed back beneath the goose down duvet of her canopied bed and wondered. If she were put on trial for her crime, how would she plead? She was guilty. But would she try temporary insanity as her defense, as the famous Union general Daniel Sickles had done when he had murdered his wife’s lover on the street just five years ago? A congressman in Washington at the
time, Sickles was not insane, his defense claimed, but driven to a momentary lapse in sanity by the heinous sin of adultery. The public had swallowed it for him. Would they accept such a defense for Vivian?

  But Vivian knew exactly what she was doing. She had not planned to murder him, but when the moment came, she did it. The police questioned her, but without suspicion. She was so frail, and they were looking for someone with strength enough to overcome Bernard’s brawn. They never suspected her.

  Bernard was gone, but so was Caitlin. She was in danger again. Vivian could feel it in her bones.

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Friday, February 19, 1864

  Caitlin pressed a cool hand to her flushed face as she listened to Analiese recite her lesson in the parlor. Above them, Susan alternated between crying out in pain and ebbing into haunting silence.

  “How do you feel?” Caitlin interrupted Ana with the question she now asked a dozen times a day. Where was Dr. Periwinkle? “Does your head hurt? Is your throat sore?”

  “I’m tired,” Ana said, her face pale. Her permanent two front teeth were growing in, but her smile was rarely big enough to show them off. “Can I rest for a while and lie down?”

  “May I—”

  “May I lie down?”

  Caitlin nodded and looked out the window once more. Rascal sat on the bare pine floor beside the sofa, and Ana draped her arm around his neck as she stretched out.

  Footsteps murmured on the stairs. “How is she?” Caitlin rushed to meet Minnie descending from Susan’s room.

  “The blisters are ballooning with pus. Some of them are weeping. She is in such pain.” Minnie shook her head. “No sign of the doctor?”

  “None.”

  Minnie’s eyes glossed as she drew a deep breath. “My dear, you must write to Mr. Becker if you haven’t already. Before you fall ill yourself.”

  “I—I have no paper.”

  “Have the courage to be honest with him, and with yourself. If any more of you fall ill I will not have time to be writing letters for you. We must pray for the best and prepare for the worst, must we not?”

  Dread trickled over Caitlin, but she nodded. After peering out the window one more time, she retrieved a volume of Shakespeare and tore out a page. In the margins, she began her letter. There was little room on the page with which to cushion the news.

  “Miss McKae? Judson Periwinkle here, I’m coming in!” Relief streamed down Caitlin’s face at the doctor’s commanding voice. Quickly she wiped her cheeks and rushed to the door just as he was walking through it.

  “My dear girl.” His blue eyes brimmed with concern. “I came as soon as I could. You can have no idea how the work has exploded.” He shook his head. “Where is the patient? Or is there more than one yet?”

  “Just one.”

  “So far.” His countenance hardened.

  Minnie hastened to the entrance and greeted the doctor before escorting him to Susan’s room. Whether he spent mere moments there or hours, Caitlin could not tell. At some point, Naomi joined her in quiet vigil for the doctor’s verdict.

  By the time he returned downstairs, Caitlin was nearly breathless with suspense. “Well?”

  “The disease must run its course. It will get worse before it can get better—if she is to recover, that is.”

  “Can nothing be done for her?” Naomi asked.

  He sighed, his pipe tobacco scent sweetening the air. “I can spare no opium for the pain. What we have doesn’t even cover the wounded soldiers in our official charge. What I do have for you is this.” He held a needle and thread into the watery shaft of light.

  Caitlin frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “Inoculation. It’s only a matter of time before you catch smallpox living in this house. But if I plant just a bit of the disease in your flesh, your body will better develop the means to fight it off without being overwhelmed. You may expect to suffer some symptoms, but you will likely have a milder case.”

  Caitlin’s mouth went dry. “You’re saying I’ll have smallpox either way.”

  “Very likely, you and everyone in this house, save Miss Taylor. The only choice you have is the degree to which you suffer. Decide for yourself, and for the girl.”

  Her head swam. It was one thing to write to Noah that Susan had taken ill with it and they were steering clear of her. It was another matter altogether to say she had authorized the doctor to plant the disease in their flesh deliberately. Would he understand, or condemn her? What if Ana died as a result of her decision?

  “Honey.” Minnie laid a hand on Caitlin’s arm. “Mr. Becker would want you to do anything at all that might help preserve Ana’s life. The greater risk would be not to take the inoculation.”

  “Fine.” Only a whisper.

  “Come then, quickly. Men are dying for want of attention.”

  Three women and Analiese followed the doctor back up the stairs and into the dreaded sickroom. Though a window had been cracked to allow fresh air to circulate, the odor of illness still dominated.

  “Mama?” Ana’s voice tightened with fright. It was the first time Ana had spoken the name since Christmas Eve. Caitlin tried not to stare at the pustules disfiguring Susan’s face and arms. The sores were whitish-grey bubbles ringed with an angry red.

  “Who is first?” Dr. Periwinkle said.

  Naomi stepped forward. “How will it work?”

  The doctor nodded to a chair next to the bed. “I pass the needle and thread through a pustule, then I use a lancet to break the skin on your upper arm, and pass the soiled needle and thread through your flesh. Even if you have already contracted the disease, but have not seen symptoms yet, this should mollify the severity.”

  Stoically, Naomi nodded and rolled up her sleeve. Ana’s chin trembled, and Caitlin hugged her. “Shhhh, it’s all right, just think of it as medicine,” she said. But everyone in the room knew it was deadly poison, and it was up to each body to fight it off.

  Ana chose to go next, sucking in her breath sharply when Dr. Periwinkle slit her skin and threaded her flesh with disease. “I want my Papa.”

  Bile rose in Caitlin’s throat, and she wondered if she would one day look back on this moment with deepest, darkest regret.

  Finally, Caitlin’s turn. Squinting, Dr. Periwinkle cut into her upper arm, and laced her body with smallpox. She closed her eyes, but still saw the ugly sores pimpling Susan’s skin. Then she saw them erupting on her own. No. She shook her head. I can fight this. We all can. Her eyes popped open and scanned the three red marks on three pale arms, and prayed that the scourge would pass over them, as the Angel of Death had passed over Hebrew homes marked with lamb’s blood in the Old Testament.

  “Thank you, Dr. Periwinkle,” she whispered. “I know it was hard to take time away from the hospitals.”

  “You’re welcome.” He gazed at the mark on her arm before placing his rough hand on her cheek. “You know I’ve never been able to resist a girl with freckles.” His voice thick, he tapped her nose. She suspected his smile was meant for Mary Beth.

  When Dr. Periwinkle rose, tenderness bowed to urgency once more. “I must be going. There’s nothing more I can do. Now we must leave it to your bodies, and to God Himself. May He show you the mercy He withheld from my daughter.”

  “Indeed.” Naomi pressed a scrap of cloth to her arm. “At least we’ve been inoculated.”

  “My dear woman,” he replied. “So was she.”

  Outside Dalton, Georgia

  Saturday, February 27, 1864

  Smack!

  A snowball hit Noah Becker square on the jaw, the ice cold crystals burning his skin. Vaguely, he registered teasing voices inviting him to join their wintry skirmish. Wiping the slush from his face, he turned his back to them and squinted at his mail. Caitlin’s silent voice pounded between Shakespearean sonnets like some surreal Greek tragedy. Smallpox screamed on the edges of love and longing. If anything happened to Ana, or to Caitlin …

  Death and disfigurement were bea
ting on their door, and he was here, marching nowhere in particular and playing at war with handfuls of slush. Heat spiked up his neck and itched across his scalp, until beads of perspiration chilled on his brow. He should be home, to comfort his daughter, to release Caitlin from the nightmare she’d signed on to when she agreed to take the position that tied her to his house.

  Setting his jaw, Noah marched to where Colonel Nisbet warmed his hands at a campfire and requested permission to address him.

  “Granted.”

  “I’d like to request a furlough, sir. Just to Atlanta and back.”

  A grin curled on Nisbet’s face. “Ninety miles one way, by foot. Not an easy journey in the best of conditions, let alone winter.”

  “I am resolved to do it, if you but grant permission. If you’ll forgive me for saying so, we march enough miles in camp every day I suspect the distance will not be troublesome.” And we get nowhere, ever.

  “Those who have gone home for furlough do not all make it back safely …”

  Or at all. Noah finished Nisbet’s sentence in his mind. He knew the request for furlough was often denied for fear of desertion. “I would return and fulfill my obligation, sir, if you’ll only allow me to take care of a family affair.”

  Nisbet eyed him warily. “Which is …?”

  “Smallpox. My daughter—”

  “If she has died from it by now, you can be of no use to her. If she is still sick, you cannot improve her condition. You might even bring the pestilence back with you. Two out of every three men who have died while in service to the Army of Tennessee have died slow, agonizing deaths not from bullets, but sickness. No, Private Becker, your request is irrefutably denied. Good day to you.”

  The words scraped like dry razor blades. Noah lowered his smoldering gaze to the flames tripping in the wind. Though frustration burned in his gut, he saluted and walked away. And good day to you, sir.

  Noah seethed inside. I should be home. Snow crunching beneath his footsteps, he stalked toward his cabin and unfolded Caitlin’s letter once again.