Yankee in Atlanta

by Jocelyn Green

  Still, “Your mother didn’t have a choice.”

  “I know that. But you do.”

  The words sliced through Ruby’s spirit.

  “Aiden might be in a good home where his needs are met by good people who will teach him well. They might even pinch his cheeks and kiss the curls on his head. But you are the only mother he has. Will he grow to manhood wondering why his mama gave him up?”

  A sob caught in her throat as she buried her face in her hands.

  “I know you want to do right by him. But trust that God can help you raise Aiden wherever you live. Some trials are blessings in disguise, and God uses them for our good. But sometimes, people just make mistakes—like putting Aiden on that train. We’ll get him back. We just need to keep looking. I’ll go to Iowa myself if I have to.”

  Silence wrapped them as Edward’s words dangled in Ruby’s mind.

  Until a rap on the door ushered Vivian, wide-eyed, into the chamber. “That was Mr. Pease at the door,” she gasped, breathless. “They found Aiden!”

  Cedar Falls, Iowa

  Friday, March 17, 1865

  “Breathe, Ruby.” Edward’s warm brown eyes crinkled as he removed his hat and dropped it on the bureau. “Holding your breath won’t make the sun rise any faster.”

  Nervous laughter tripped from her lips as she removed the pins from her derby-style hat. They had just arrived at the Carter House Hotel after days of train travel, but though the hour was late, she had no plans to sleep a wink. Aiden would be brought in from his farm in the morning. Crossing to the window of their second-story room, she looked out over the lamp-lined Main Street toward the river mere blocks away, and wondered where Aiden was sleeping tonight.

  Edward hung his jacket in the armoire before joining her at the window. Moonlight gleamed on storefront awnings, and gaslights glowed like fireflies, spreading pools of light on a quiet street still patched with snow.

  “Does he know I’m coming for him, do you think?” Itching to hold Aiden, Ruby touched her fingertips to the cool glass pane, instead.

  “I would think they would have told him. I’m sure he’s just as eager for morning as we are. As you are.”

  Ruby caught Edward’s gaze in their reflection in the window, and noticed the distance he’d placed between them. Now that she understood that touch was how he had been trying to show his love, she felt keenly that he no longer touched her shoulder, or her waist. He did not even reach for her hand. Perhaps he had decided to dissolve the marriage after all. She certainly wouldn’t blame him. But oh, how she would miss him. “I have to know,” she blurted out.

  He looked down at her. “Know what?”

  “When this is over, and Aiden is safely with me again. Will you take your leave of us?”

  All the color drained from Edward’s face. He rubbed his hand over his jaw and eased himself into the armchair with a ragged sigh. No matter. Sharing a room for the first time in months, they’d have to sort this out tonight.

  “Is that your desire?” he asked at length.

  Ruby rolled her lips between her teeth before replying. “I desire whatever is best for you. And as I’ve said before, I fear that Aiden and I have not made you happy.”

  “Happy? Did you think marriage was only about happiness?” He raked his hand through his hair before leaning forward. “God has used you to show me my own sin, to chip away at the barnacles that have grown, unnoticed, on my heart. Though the process has been painful, I am a better—and far more humble—man now than I was before we wed.”

  “But, Edward.” Tears bit Ruby’s eyes. “You know we are not truly married.” And the blame was hers alone.

  A sad smile bent his lips. “But I believe there is love between us yet, for all our trials and misunderstandings. Look here.” He opened his Bible, and her heart flipped at the sight of her braid she’d given him as a bookmark. “I read from 1 Corinthians 13. ‘Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.’” He looked up, his coffee eyes slick. “‘Charity never faileth.’”

  Ruby’s breath caught when his gaze caressed her face, but her feet remained rooted to the floor.

  “I love you, Ruby. God knows it would be easier if I didn’t, but I do. I rejoice in the truth. I believe, I hope, I endure.”

  And heaven knows you suffereth long.

  “I want our marriage to succeed. But you are still at arm’s length, beyond my reach.” He stood and held out his hand to her. “If we dissolve our vows, it won’t be because I want to.”

  “You still want me?” Hope pounded against her corset.

  “More than I did a year ago today.”

  Ruby covered her lips with trembling hand. How could I have forgotten? One year ago this very night they had danced together at the Calico Ball. He had asked her to marry him. And I told him yes.

  “You are my wife.” His voice was husky. “I want … my wife.”

  Courage swelled within her, and she bridged the chasm that had divided them all these months. She placed her hand in his, and his fingers wrapped around it. “I take thee, Edward, to be my wedded husband.” She grasped his other hand, as well. “To have and to hold—” She squeezed his hands, utterly convicted of what she’d withheld from him, and he pulled her into a tender embrace. Her tears soaked his shoulder, but she was not finished yet. “From this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance.”

  She pulled back and searched Edward’s face. Does he know that I mean it this time, truly?

  His eyes swam in tears of his own. “I take thee, Ruby, to be my wedded wife—”

  Raising herself on her toes, she covered his lips with a kiss that could leave no doubt. With one hand, she unpinned her hair, then whispered in Edward’s ear. I’m ready.

  By the time the Illinois Central chugged back east across the Mississippi River, Aiden had fallen asleep on his mother’s lap, his fingers clutching hers. Arm draped over her son, Ruby’s silky head rested on Edward’s shoulder while wooded hills rolled by outside the window. The journey they had taken together was far more arduous than this peaceful ride through the Midwest, and in truth, he did not know where it would take them from here. But while Edward wasn’t certain what their future would be, he knew Ruby would be by his side. She was his wife, indeed.

  Leavenworth, Kansas

  Saturday, April 1, 1865

  Now that the train travel portion of their journey was complete, and the frontier stretched before her, bottled excitement now surged in Caitlin’s chest. Hitched to three matched pairs of gorgeous horses, the bright red Concord Stage Coach stood before her, trimmed in yellow and ornamented by an exquisite landscape painting on the door. Finally, she was on the threshold of her new life in the West.

  “You’ll want to secure a seat, Miss McKae. You’ll be most comfortable at the front.” Ever attentive, Mr. Wilcox loaded their meager luggage into the top rail while Caitlin and Ana climbed inside.

  Leather curtains were rolled up and tied at the top of each window, allowing sunlight, dust, and wind through the damask cloth-upholstered interior. As soon as Caitlin and Ana seated themselves on leather-covered pads just as hard as the wood beneath them, six more passengers swarmed in around them, the unluckiest settling on the middle bench, that had no back save a leather strap that could be hooked from one side of the coach to the other.

  “What do you think? Are you ready for this?” Mr. Wilcox flashed a smile at Ana as he eased himself down on the middle bench across from Caitlin, his knees nearly touching hers. The slightest groan escaped him as he rubbed his thigh above its connection to an artificial leg.

  “Does it trouble you?” Caitlin as
ked.

  He shook his head, the hair beneath his hat the color of wheat before the harvest. “Think nothing of it. I barely do myself.” An easy grin pushed laugh lines into his tanned cheeks and a sparkle into his eyes. “Cozy, isn’t it?”

  Nine people in a box that was four feet wide and four and a half feet tall? Caitlin chuckled. “Quite.”

  “OK folks, listen up, because I’m only going to say this once.” The stagecoach driver hollered at the passengers as he climbed up to his box, the shotgun who would keep an eye out for bandits following behind him. “Number one! When I ask you to get off and walk, which I most certainly will do, do it without grumbling. I will not request it unless absolutely necessary. Number two! If our team runs away, sit still and take your chances; if you jump, nine times out of ten you will be hurt. Three! Don’t growl at food stations. They give you the best they got, and if that ain’t good enough for you, you might as well head back east.”

  The coach lurched on the rutted road, rocking like a cradle on its leather thorough braces. Facing the rear, the sudden motion pitched Caitlin forward, right into Mr. Wilcox’s arms.

  “Pardon me,” she gasped, righting herself and straightening her hat on her hair.

  “Quite all right.” His eyes told her he meant it. The way the passengers were packed in, mere inches separated them as it was.

  “All right, folks, I’m getting wore out so I’m going to make the rest of this quick.” Caitlin hitched her attention to the driver’s speech. “Don’t keep the stage waiting. Spit on the leeward side of the coach. If you have anything to take in a bottle, pass it around or be hated by all. Don’t swear, nor lop over on your neighbor when sleeping. Don’t ask how far it is to the next station until you get there. Never attempt to fire a gun while on the road, it may frighten the team, which will frighten you, I guarantee. Don’t linger too long at the pewter wash basin at the station. Don’t grease your hair before starting or dust will stick there in sufficient quantities to make a respectable ‘tater’ patch. Most of all, don’t imagine for a moment you are going on a picnic; expect annoyance, discomfort, and some hardships. If you are disappointed by the mild nature of your trip, thank the Maker. Got it? Let’s ride.”

  Not the least bit intimidated, Caitlin leaned down to Ana. “Are you ready for our adventure?” Traveling at five miles an hour, it would likely be more than a month before they reached Astoria, but the prospect still tingled Caitlin’s spine.

  Ana’s braids bounced on her shoulders as she nodded. “I only wish Papa were here. He’d like this too.”

  Caitlin pressed a smile from the ache in her heart. “You’ll have so much to tell him. Do you have your journal?”

  Another nod.

  “Good. Chronicle everything. This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience!”

  Adjusting now to the coach’s sway, Caitlin looked past Mr. Wilcox to watch the dust slowly obscure Leavenworth from view. Only when she realized her escort was watching her did her smile falter.

  “You’re uncomfortable,” she said. Surely it was more difficult to maintain balance with a prosthetic leg. “Trade places with me.”

  “Now what kind of gentleman would I be if I let you have the worst seat in the coach?” He clucked his tongue. “Besides, I rather prefer the view I have.” His lips tipped in a playful smile, and she prayed the wind would cool her burning face.

  Fort Kearney, Nebraska

  Monday, April 10, 1865

  Wind rushed across the plains, whipping the breath of a prairie spring about Noah Becker’s face, and the U.S. flag flourished against an endless blue sky. With buckskin-gloved hands, he tugged his kepi into place and mounted his horse. His gaze settled on the horizon now billowing with dust as he waited for the coming wagon train. And smiled.

  It had taken four grueling, shivering months in Rock Island’s “calf pen” before the Union army organized last winter. Finally, in late February, Noah and more than seventeen hundred other Confederate prisoners at Rock Island took the oath to the United States of America, and were put into service on the frontier. The “Galvanized Yankees” worked alongside seasoned Union regiments from Nebraska and Iowa to provide escort service to stagecoaches and wagon trains on the Overland Trail, protecting them from both bandits and Indians.

  As recently discharged veterans passed by on their pursuit of homestead sites, words from the Old Testament scrolled through Noah’s mind: The people which were left of the sword found grace in the wilderness … and they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks: nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.

  In addition to the veterans and other settlers, politicians, land speculators, parties of Mormons, theatrical companies, railroad surveyors, and government contractors comprised a steady stream of humanity trickling from East to West. Canvas-covered Prairie Schooners, Conestogas, and freight wagons labored under loads of corn, hardware, groceries, whiskey, clothing, kerosene, and machinery. Some days, the trains stretched as far as the eye could see. Fort Kearney was a weathered outpost dotted with broken-backed sod buildings squatting in a sea of rippling grass. But the trail the soldiers protected was the highway to tomorrow.

  The work suited Noah, and when his enlistment was up, he’d have some money with which to begin a new life. He could only pray that Ana and Caitlin would be in it.

  Drumming hoofbeats yanked Noah’s gaze as a soldier from the east galloped pell-mell toward the fort, shouting like a madman. Confusion rippling Noah’s brow, he pressed his heels into his mount and trotted toward him until the words on the wind untangled.

  “Lee’s surrendered!”

  Noah nearly dropped his reins. Were his ears playing tricks on him?

  “Lee’s surrendered! Lee surrendered! The North has won! The war is over! The Union forever!” The soldier burst past him and thundered to the fort. Shouts multiplied as men emerged from the barracks, the officer’s quarters, the hospital, and the sutler’s store.

  It’s over. Stunned, comprehension drizzled over Noah until his chin dropped to his chest in wordless prayer. Finally, finally, the bloodletting would stop. His throat tightened as he grieved for lives and homes destroyed. How long would it take for man and country to heal?

  A tumult erupted and Noah wheeled toward the noise. Celebrating soldiers ran to fill the sixteen blockhouse guns, two field guns, and two mountain howitzers with a good charge of powder before cramming them to their muzzles with wet gunny sacks.

  “That’s our wagon train coming with our supplies!” One of them pointed to the wagons drawing closer. “We’ll tell them the news with a bang!”

  Noah rounded back toward the train, scanning the line of wagons. Army mules should not be bothered by the impending noise—but that bright red coach traveling with them was surely civilian, driven by horses that would surely startle. With spurs to his horse, Noah galloped toward it to warn them.

  Dozens of supply wagons flew past his vision as he leaned forward on his mount. But before he could reach the end of them, the gunners fired their cannon. Noah glanced over his shoulder in time to see the gunny sacks hurtle into the air, catch on the wind and open up before floating off.

  The strange apparition in the sky triggered the animals—even the mules—into chaos. The lead wagon team broke formation and stampeded, panicked, across the prairie, followed by others, the drivers either thrown to the ground or leaping off their mounts to save themselves. The ground shook with the force of a buffalo herd as more than eighty wagons and hundreds of stock pounded the prairie. Unmanned runaway wagons of supplies bolted from the line. Inconvenient, but not life threatening. Noah ignored them. But when a driver jumped from the Concord stagecoach careening past Noah, he slammed his heels into his mount and thundered after them. The painted door burst open, swinging wildly on its hinges.

  “Stay in the coach!” Noah shouted, his voice muffled by the crescendo of the runaway train. “Hang on!”

  A cry pierced t
hrough the roar of the stampede. A child’s cry. Noah clenched his jaw and squinted through the swirling dust as he rode after them, his kepi surrendering to the wind. A braid the color of pecans flapped out an open window, and Noah’s heart lurched. It couldn’t be.

  Caitlin’s heart hammered against its cage as she gripped Ana’s and Mr. Wilcox’s hands. The jangle of the horses’ harnesses and bridles rattled her core. What had she been thinking to bring a nine-year-old child on this journey? The coach rocked wildly, throwing passengers against each other as if it were a ship tossed by the sea. Lord, protect us!

  Outside the window, dust rose in a choking cloud that invaded the coach. Through the swirling grit, Caitlin watched, breathless, as a lone Union soldier spurred his horse past the coach.

  “Easy, easy,” she thought she heard him say as he approached the panic-stricken team. With knuckles whitening on the edge of her bench, she prayed their rescuer would succeed.

  “Whoa …” his voice rumbled among the hoofbeats. “Whoa,” he said again, and Caitlin’s heart turned violently in her chest. She looked at Ana, whose eyes were wide, her face white.

  “Papa …” Ana’s mouth formed the word, but no sound came out. When she turned to the window, Mr. Wilcox caught her wrist.

  “Don’t lean out,” he instructed. “Stay in, or you’ll topple head over heels. Just wait.”

  Wait. Caitlin squeezed her eyes shut, and swallowed the scratching dust. They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.

  “What’s happening?” Ana asked.

  Mr. Wilcox squinted past Caitlin, through the window between the coach and the empty driver’s box. “Looks like he’s taken the lead. He’s got himself in front of the lead pair of horses so the middle post between them is bumping up against the rump of his own horse. He’s trying to slow them down.”