Yankee in Atlanta

by Jocelyn Green

  If it weren’t for her pocked skin, Susan would be out there, too, flirting with the men alongside seventeen-year-old belles ten years her junior. She would have been shameless. And she would have won.

  A cold, wet nose suddenly tickled Susan’s fingers, and she jerked back. “Oh, you rascal!” But he stood there still, seeking her companionship. He is the only one who wants me. Hesitantly, she laid her hand on his back, his spine bony under her palm. His eyes rolled back and he groaned happily, tugging a rare smile from Susan’s lips.

  Then Caitlin entered the parlor and Rascal trotted away to her. Tears burned down Susan’s textured cheeks.

  Caitlin’s eyes grew round. “Are you unwell?” A shrieking rage would have concerned her less.

  Susan’s blue eyes bore into hers. “I am alone. And I always will be. Even the dog will not stay by me.”

  Rain pattered outside, dimpling the puddles forming in the dirt road. “I’m here, so are Naomi and Ana. And let us not forget you have Minnie to thank for your life. She faithfully nursed you back to health.”

  “Then I have her to blame for not letting me die.”

  “You are not the only one who has been marked, you know.”

  Susan’s laugh was shrill against the thunder’s roll. “Oh, so true, so true. Naomi, you, and Ana do appear to have been bitten by about three mosquitoes each. Even Minnie’s pocks are nothing compared to mine!”

  Caitlin dropped her gaze. “You could melt beeswax and fill the divots if it bothers you that much.”

  “Beeswax! We don’t even have enough for candles. And if we did, it would melt off my face as soon as I spackled it on. Any more bright ideas, you goose?”

  Caitlin’s cheeks warmed, but it was more likely from the simmering July heat than Susan’s barb. Ana now slept on the drugget beneath the dining room table, so sweltering was the second floor.

  “Yes. Try thinking about something other than yourself for a change. I’ll read to you from Macaria. We’re almost finished.”

  Caitlin turned to page 412 in the novel, her eyebrows raising in amusement at the dialogue unfolding on the page. “Irene is speaking here.” She began reading the text.

  Electra, it is very true that single women have trials for which a thoughtless, happy world has little sympathy. But lonely lives are not necessarily joyless; they should be, of all others, most useful. The head of a household, a wife and mother, is occupied with family cares and affections—can find little time for considering the comfort, or contributing to the enjoyment of any beyond the home circle. Doubtless she is happier, far happier, than the unmarried woman; but to the last belongs the privilege of carrying light and blessings to many firesides—of being the friend and helper of hundreds; and because she belongs exclusively to no one, her heart expands to all her suffering fellow creatures.

  Susan groaned on the sofa, but Caitlin silently reread the passage. Her mother would have liked it, even if this fictional heroine—and the author—was a staunch Confederate woman. The argument fell right in line with single blessedness, which Caitlin had been so intent on pursuing. At least, she had been before Noah had carved a place for himself in her heart. His face surged in her mind, his voice whispered in her spirit, yet he still called her Miss McKae in his letters and signed off only as Mr. Becker. Truly, she should not allow him so much space in her mind.

  Just then, Minnie burst in through the front door and entered the parlor, face glowing with more than just summer’s heat.

  “What is it?” Caitlin asked.

  “I’m married!”

  “What?” Susan cried, jumping to her feet.

  “It’s true! I’m Mrs. William Iverson now, and I couldn’t be happier!”

  Susan fled down the hall and slammed the back door behind her, leaving only Caitlin to gape at Minnie’s announcement.

  “I am astonished! Whatever do you think you’re doing?”

  Minnie crossed the room and grasped Caitlin’s hands in hers. “Listen, honey, I’m not Irene what’s-her-name from Macaria. And I’m not Caitlin McKae.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Caitlin gasped.

  “You’re so strong and confident on your own, you act like you could be unmarried forever. But all I ever wanted was to be a good, true Southern woman and wife. My hands have grown rough and calloused, but William doesn’t care. He says my refinement is in my heart, not the texture of my skin, nor in the clothes I wear. My husband loves me, scars and all. Do you see?”

  Caitlin nodded, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “You’re leaving—now?”

  “Aw, be happy for me, honey. You know I couldn’t live here as a refugee forever. Now I have a husband. I’m one of the lucky few. We are a generation of women whose men are being eaten up by this horrid war.”

  “Is he not a soldier himself then?”

  Minnie smiled. “Wounded veteran. Nursed him back to life myself during the last few weeks at the hospital. He’s got one eye now, which is good enough for living but not good enough for fighting. Oh, I’m sorry to surprise you like this but it’s all happened so suddenly! I felt a connection with him right away but wanted to make sure it was real before mentioning anything about it to you—you know how hospital romances come and go so fast. But this one’s genuine, we’re married, and we’re going to the Car Shed now to catch the next train out of here. And don’t call me rash, there must have been a dozen other couples getting married at City Hall today!”

  “Oh!” Caitlin cried, the suddenness almost too much for her to bear. Aside from Prudence, Minnie was her first and best friend in Atlanta. “I’ll miss you so much!” She threw her arms around Minnie’s neck.

  “I love you, honey, and I’ll miss you too. But singleness is not so blessed. You should think on it yourself.”

  Caitlin pulled back and searched her friend’s sparkling grey eyes. “Why bother?”

  “I’ve never seen a man so pulled apart by worry as Noah Becker was when you were sick. Do yourself a favor. When the war is over, you marry that man.”

  “Minnie! You act as though the entire matter were up to me.”

  “It’s more up to you than you realize.” She winked, and then went upstairs to gather her meager belongings, singing “When This Cruel War Is Over” as she went. When she departed Noah’s house, her echoing voice was all she left behind.

  Smyrna, Georgia

  Wednesday, July 6, 1864

  Bloodred mud squished up between the branches Noah had laid on the floor of his ditch. Logs raised a few inches above the lip of the trench had protected their heads as they fired rifles through the gap. Bush arbors offered patchy shade from the merciless sun. But nothing had been able to shield them from the rain.

  Every day since Johnston had withdrawn his army to Smyrna, rain had fallen on the entrenched troops, as if nature itself would scrub the residue of war from their bodies. The dirt, blood, sweat, and soot that had rinsed away contaminated the puddles filling the four-foot-deep-by-four-foot-wide trenches the men now occupied. Noah—and the rest of them—were wading in battle’s dishwater.

  The blow that had sent blood gushing from Noah’s nose and ears did not seem to exact damage beyond ringing ears and headaches. Miraculously, his only visible souvenir from the mighty contest was his bruised and bloodshot arm from wrist to shoulder due to firing the musket more than 120 times.

  Noah slicked his hair back from his forehead and glanced up at the pewter-grey sky. The rain had stopped.

  “Oh, Johnny!” cried a Yank. The enemy line was so near that between firing upon each other, they volleyed conversation back and forth instead. Normally, they taunted each other to show themselves and have a real fight outside these oversized prairie-dog holes. But tonight, “We want to hear that cornet player!”

  “He would play,” yelled back a Georgian soldier, “but he’s afraid you’d spoil his horn!”

  “We’ll stop shooting.”

  “All right, Yanks.”

  And so the cornet player from Savannah
mounted the works not far from Noah’s ditch to play familiar airs from operas, and sing in his trained tenor voice, “Gone Where My Love Lies Dreaming” and “I Dreamt That I Dwelt in Marble Halls.” On both sides, weary, sodden troops nesting below ground were carried away from their stinking ditches on the wings of the heavenly music soaring above it.

  “Becker. You read?” A bearded private nudged Noah in the ribs.

  Noah replied that he did.

  “The Ladies Relief Society sent a bundle. Les Miserables, Macaria, and a bunch of newspapers from Richmond and Atlanta. Want any?”

  Noah accepted a stack of weeks-old newspapers. In an April issue of Atlanta’s Intelligencer, Noah scanned a speech given by Vice President Stephens at the Georgia state capitol, a list of blockade goods for sale, and descriptions of runaway slaves. A May issue of Southern Confederacy warned that the wheat harvest must not be lost just because all the men who would reap their own grain were gone in the service. The Atlanta Sabre Factory, being all out of charcoal anyway, offered twenty hands to help with the harvest and challenged other government workers to do the same.

  The Richmond Enquirer contained predictable stories—until Noah turned to a four-page section of cryptic messages from family members to other subscribers. When did they start doing this? Noah wondered as he perused column after column of the notices. The fine print explained the agreement the newspaper had with the New York paper, in which they reprinted each other’s ads to aid loved ones communicating across the Mason-Dixon line.

  And then he saw it, reprinted from the New York Daily News.

  To C. McKae: Come home. Loving arms await you.

  Noah frowned. C. McKae? Certainly there are dozens of C. McKaes in the Confederacy. Still … He looked at the date on the paper. February 25, 1864.

  The next paper was an edition from March 5. He turned to the family notices section and found the exact same ad. The same wording was reprinted yet again in the March 25 paper. Whoever C. McKae is, he or she is not responding.

  Noah turned to the same section in the next three editions of the Richmond Examiner. He felt the color drain from his face with each successive notice.

  To Caitlin M: Come home. Loving arms await you.

  C. M., Atlanta: Must talk in person. Get out before it’s too late!

  To C. McKae: Stay well. Watch for Jack. Be ready.

  Noah finished reading just as the opera singer’s last tremulous note faded. Though thunderous applause from the Yankees spilled into the trench around him, it was nothing compared to the newsprint words now echoing in his mind. Jack. The man Caitlin loved was from the North, and he was coming to Atlanta. Leaning his head back against the ditch wall, Noah saw all over again the waves of bluecoats coming up the hill at Kennesaw. A sickening feeling washed over him then, both at the thought of Caitlin in another man’s arms, and the possibility that Noah had shot him.

  New York City

  Wednesday, July 20, 1864

  Cook faster, cook faster! Edward was due home any minute and dinner was nowhere near ready. Aiden had skipped his afternoon nap today and left a path of destruction wherever he went, leaving Ruby worn out and behind on her dinner preparations. The house is a shambles.

  Mrs. Waverly’s house, she corrected herself. Ruby stirred the potatoes as they fried in the skillet. When Caroline heard they were trying to save money for a house, she offered them the use of her brownstone. She was too in love with her granddaughter to leave Fishkill, she had said, and would stay there indefinitely. So now, in the very house where she had once been the domestic, Ruby was its temporary mistress. She felt like an imposter. Though she appreciated the cost savings, she longed for the day when she and Edward and Aiden could start afresh in their own home.

  The door unlatched, and weary footsteps came toward her.

  “Welcome home, dear,” she said.

  “Mmmm.” He kissed her cheek, then stood back and crossed his arms. “Potatoes again, darling?”

  Her face burned. “And a roast in the oven. Only …” she cringed. “It won’t be ready for another hour. I’m so sorry I didn’t get it in to start earlier.”

  Edward’s shoulders slumped and he rubbed a hand over his face. “Busy day, was it?”

  She offered a lopsided smile. “Aye. Aiden has worn my patience to a thread. He wouldn’t sleep, so I had no break, and had to pick up after him all day!”

  “Really?” He looked at the toys scattered on the floor. “I never would have guessed.”

  Ruby set her jaw. He didn’t understand. He wasn’t even trying to.

  “Where is he now?” Edward’s hair fell onto his forehead. Thank heavens he only wore that pomade for their wedding.

  “He finally fell asleep a little bit ago on the floor.”

  “So what does that mean? When he wakes he’ll be up until we all go to bed at ten o’clock? You know I look forward to having some time with my wife before I sleep.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, Edward, he was exhausted, and I could not have made dinner if I didn’t let him just rest for a wee spell.”

  “But dinner isn’t ready anyway. And I have to leave again for prayer meeting in thirty minutes. It’s Wednesday. I have this meeting every Wednesday. Did you forget?”

  Ruby winced. “Aye. I’m sorry.” I’m sorry. I’m sorry. All she had done since Edward came home was apologize! Was everything really all her fault?

  Edward sighed, and placed his hand on her shoulder, even though he knew she didn’t like that. “I had hoped you could come with me.”

  She stared at him. “Go with you? Aiden cannot attend prayer meeting. He’d scream and fuss the entire time.”

  “Then ask Aunt Viv to watch him.”

  Ruby shook her head. “I use her too much as it is, and frankly, I’m not up to going, myself. I’m exhausted.” Not to mention she never felt welcome there.

  “You’re tired? Me, too, honey. And oh, by the way, my day was rotten, thank you for asking.”

  “Was it? Why?”

  “If you wanted to know, you would have asked me yourself.”

  Chills rippled over Ruby as she took in his rumpled shirt and haggard expression. What is it? Edward had never spoken to her this way before.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, again. “I do care. I want to hear all about it as soon as you get home from prayer. I’ll keep the roast warm for you.”

  “It’ll be completely dried out.”

  Her brow creased with frustration. “Have some potatoes, at least, before you go.”

  Edward tossed a glance into the skillet. “No thank you. I guess I’ll just take care of myself.” He trudged to the doorway, then turned. “You and Aiden have a good night. Don’t wait up. I wouldn’t want you to be tired.”

  “Stop.” Ruby dropped her spatula and stepped toward her husband. “You can’t leave like this.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at her while smoothing his caramel-colored hair back into place. “I’m going to prayer meeting, not a brothel, you know.”

  Heat singed her cheeks. Tears gathered in her eyes as guilt crashed down on her afresh.

  Edward’s eyes softened. “Look. We’ll sort it out. Later. I promise. I love you.”

  The staccato words matched the staccato beating of her heart. I can’t lose him. I can’t. “I love you, too.”

  Lips quirking in an unconvinced smile, he released a breath she hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He clasped his hands behind her waist. “Then why won’t you let me into your heart?”

  Edward’s eyes misted, and Ruby hated herself for being the cause.

  “You must believe, I love you!” Her voice tightened in desperation. “Would you believe me if I was a better cook? Or mother?”

  “The food is not the problem, and I don’t need you to be my mother.” His voice was husky.

  Ruby knew what he needed, and begged God to help her give that to him. “I—I—”

  He silenced her with a kiss as tender and gentle as the Edward she had known fo
r the last two years. His hands pressed her close and she melted into the warmth of his body. Though her arms felt leaden, she forced them to wrap around his waist. Why is the one thing that is so hard for me to do the one thing he wants most?

  “Ruby,” he whispered. “Don’t you know you’re the only one for me?” He kissed the top of her head, her cheek, the tip of her nose. Then his lips took hers with an urgency that startled her. His hands roamed the hourglass curve of her corset until they rested on her hips.

  “Potatoes are burning.” Ruby pulled back from his kiss, but his hands did not let her go.

  “Let ’em burn.” He kissed her from ear to shoulder, sending shivers down her spine.

  “Aiden will wake any minute!”

  Edward groaned as he plunged his fingers in her hair. “It’s good for him to see a man love his wife. We’re only kissing, dear. What we’re doing isn’t wrong. It’s very, very right.”

  She giggled, and his eyes sparkled endearingly. “So does this sort of … business … agree with you now?”

  “So far, aye.” Please God, give me desire for my husband!

  Edward couldn’t believe it. Was Ruby really warming to him? He kissed her once more to find out. That would be a yes.

  “Don’t you need to go to your prayer meeting?”

  He smiled into her gemstone eyes. “Meeting? What meeting?”

  She coughed on the smoke now clouding the air, and he crossed the kitchen to turn off the fire beneath the burner and move the skillet from the heat. Edward never did care for potatoes anyway, though he’d never tell her that. At least, not now.

  “Suddenly, I don’t have much of an appetite.” For food. Edward grasped her hand and pulled her out of the kitchen and into the rear parlor. He didn’t bother turning any lights on.

  “You’re going to be late!”