I Have Seen Him in the Watchfires

by Cathy Gohlke

  I couldn’t move. I’d never heard such talk from Ma. I half expected Ruby to grab the shovel from my hand and use it on her. But Ruby, the woman who’d nearly broken a moment ago, calmed and soothed Ma out of her tantrum.

  “Miz Caroline, let’s get you cleaned up and ready for visitors today. We’ll worry about breakfast in a bit.”

  “I want my breakfast now!” Ma spat, like a spoiled child.

  The knocker at the front door pounded again.

  “Do you hear that?” Ruby soothed. “There’s visitors at the door already. We really must do your hair before you receive your callers, Miz Caroline.”

  “Callers? For me?” Ma fiddled with the ribbon at the neck of her nightdress. “Why, yes. I should wear my rose taffeta. Hurry along, Ruby. I mustn’t keep my guests waiting.”

  Ruby ushered Ma from the room and up the stairs, never looking back at me. I knew this scene must have played a dozen times before, but I didn’t know how Ruby could stand it.

  I pulled the kettle up from its side, saving all the porridge I could, scraping it from the floor. I knew there was little food, and my coming had added one more mouth to feed. I stoked the stove and saw that the wood box was nearly empty.

  From the front hall I heard Emily greet someone, heard heated whispers of “that Federal demon” and “Sherman’s bummers” and “you shouldn’t stay—you won’t be safe, they’ll—” I heard her invite the fearful speaker in, heard him say, “No, Miss Mitchell, we’ve got to be on our way. We just wanted to ask you—” And then Ma’s singing from up the stairs cut them off.

  I scrubbed the sticky porridge leavings from the floor and set the kettle back on the stove to warm, then walked out back to fill the kindling box and draw fresh well water. By the time I hefted the bucket onto the table the callers had gone. Emily, flushed and distracted, sat in the stairway, absently plaiting a little girl’s hair.

  “Emily?” I didn’t want to startle her.

  “Robert!” She turned to face me. “I didn’t know you were back. I’ve been so worried about you. You were gone all ni—” She searched my face, dropped the little girl’s braids. “Go out to play for a while, Lizzie. Find Henry and Jubal.” Then she turned to me again. “What happened? What happened to you?” She stepped closer, searching my face.

  I wanted to take her in my arms and tell her that I’d surrendered my life, my arrogance, my selfish bent to the Lord. Like Paul on the road to Damascus, God had shown me my need to trust Him, to wait for Him. I wanted to tell her that I didn’t know where it would all lead, but that I was making the journey. But when she stepped closer still I saw, in the pools of her brown eyes, that she already knew, that she understood. And I realized that somewhere in this awful war she’d traveled her own Damascus Road. So I only breathed deeply and didn’t look away.

  She shook her head, just a little, and smiled up at me. I felt her hand touch my face, heard her whisper, “Welcome home, Robert.” She nearly dropped her hand, but I pressed it back against my cheek and breathed again.

  Now the color in her cheek deepened, and she pulled away. I let her hand go, but I couldn’t take my eyes from her. That embarrassed us both. So I asked, “Who was at the door?” I was sorry I asked, because her agitation crept back.

  “Aunt Charlotte’s neighbor, Mr. Nealey. He and his family are pulling out, leaving this very morning.” Emily locked and unlocked her fingers. “He said rumor has it that Gen. Sherman is no more than three weeks away, two if the weather holds.”

  I wanted to reach for her, to tell her it would be all right, that we’d be all right, but she turned and began pacing. “I don’t know what we’re going to do, Robert. More families are leaving. Many have evacuated already. Some refuse to leave—say they’d rather die defending what’s theirs. We should go—take the children—but we don’t have a wagon. We’ve no place to go. And if we did—six children and Nanny Sara is sick and Cousin Caroline is—” Emily whirled to face me, frantic.

  I knew in that moment that the Lord had emptied me, filled me, brought me here to do the thing I’d longed to do all along—help them—but not the way I’d planned and not because I could rescue them. Only He could do that. But, if I was willing, He could use me, be strength in me. If I’d enlisted, if I’d done the thing I was bound and determined to do in the way I’d intended, I could not have been here. The wonder of that, of how the Lord had gone ahead of me, of all of us, and prepared the way, awed me.

  “Robert? Are you all right?” Emily stopped her pacing.

  “What? Yes, I’m fine. We’ll all be fine.” I didn’t draw Emily into my arms, much as I wanted to. “What else did Mr. Nealey say?”

  “He said they’d be back after the scourge, to see what was left. He said they were taking their food, but if there was anything we could use we might better have it than let the Yankees steal it.”

  I nodded. “Maybe we’d best take a look. We’ll need fuel, and food for sure. If they left wood I could split it for the stove.”

  “I’m glad you’re here, Robert.” Emily leaned against the doorjamb. “I don’t know what we’ll do if Gen. Sherman and his men are as brutal as they say. I don’t know what will become of us.”

  “Will Sherman? Brutal?” Ma stood on the stairs and laughed at us both. “How little you young people know!” And then she hesitated, glanced back and forth between Emily and me, confused. “Charles, you of all people should know Will’s a perfect gentleman! He’s a West Point man.”

  But I was not Pa, and I wondered if we could count on that brotherhood making any difference.

  Thirty-Two

  We kept busy the next ten days. Ruby hid and buried Miz Charlotte’s treasures in between coddling Ma and nursing Nanny Sara. Emily took over the cooking and met callers at the door. She taught reading lessons to the three oldest children, young as they were, while I played indoor games with the smallest ones. I chopped wood, fetched and carried, and emptied slop jars. By day I kept low. Nobody’d understand what an able-bodied young man was doing at home when all their men and boys were off fighting, dying for the Cause. At night I searched empty houses, chicken coops, stables, and carriage houses for food, fuel, feed—always hoping someone forgot a laying hen, a stash of oats, or the thing we needed most—a wagon.

  Curious Henry, a night owl if there ever was one, followed me everywhere. I was his new best friend and older brother. I confess his company on those late-night raids was welcome, and put me in mind of the antics William Henry and I used to raise.

  Neighbors that remained did the same. We scurried like squirrels headed for winter, sure there was fire at our tails. Most folks pulled together, sharing what we could, but as the days passed and fears of Gen. Sherman’s army and rumors of burnings, raids, lynching, and all sorts of frenzy ran weed wild, we could feel the shades being drawn. One by one, we shut ourselves in and waited.

  I spent long afternoons by Nanny Sara’s bedside, telling her everything I could remember of my run North with Jeremiah, everything I knew of his life in Canada and the good he did other runaway slaves settled there. I recited every letter he’d written me and all I could remember of what he’d written William Still, our friend in Philadelphia. I told her how Jeremiah was determined to get back to her and that he vowed to find his mother, Ruby. It was tonic to her.

  “Promise me you tell him something when this war be over.”

  “You’ll tell him yourself, Nanny Sara,” I insisted.

  “You such a liar, Masta Robert. You know this old body can’t last. You promise me you tell him. Promise me, Masta Robert.”

  “I’ll tell him anything you want, Nanny Sara—only don’t call me ‘Master.’ Your days of slavery are gone. President Abraham Lincoln emancipated all the slaves in the states of rebellion. You’re free. You don’t call anybody Master, never again.”

  Her small body shuddered beneath the pieced quilt. “Yes, Father Abraham. I’m free at last.” She drew a ragged breath. “You tell my grandbaby that I be proud of him, of a
ll he make of his-self You tell him take good care of my Ruby.” She choked out Ruby’s name.

  “I’ll tell him. I swear I’ll tell him, and I’ll make sure Ruby gets to him.”

  “Don’t promise what the good Lord might not let you live to.”

  Her words sounded like the dire predictions of Granny Struthers, and a chill ran up my spine, though I wasn’t cold.

  “You take my bones to Ashland.”

  “Ashland?”

  “Ashland my home … the only home I ever known.” She clutched my sleeve. “Don’t you let them bury me in this foreign land. Bury me in the slave cemetery at home.”

  “You deserve better.”

  “Promise me. You promise me.” She groped for my hand.

  “I promise.” I held her hand in both of mine. “I promise, Nanny Sara.” She relaxed in my arms. “Now you rest.”

  “You read to me.” She motioned to the Book on the mantel. I took it down, opened it, wondered where to begin.

  “Psalms. You read me that one about my shepherd—tell me about those green pastures. It be water over these dry roots.”

  When I started my nerves stretched tight—like a new skin sun-dried across the side of the barn. It had been a long time since I’d picked up the Word—longer still since I’d read it out loud. But the words of David, shepherd boy turned king, eased me.

  “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness…. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me…. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies. … Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.”

  When I looked up Ruby stood in the doorway. Soon after, Ma pushed past her and sat on the bed beside Nanny Sara. One by one, the children, up from their naps, toddled in to stand round the bed, leaning their elbows across Nanny Sara’s quilt, or to sit cross-legged on the floor. Emily, wondering where we’d all gone, came looking for us and took a post by Ruby.

  I read Psalm 91 and then some of Matthew 5—the Sermon on the Mount—because right then I felt like we were all “poor in spirit,” mightily in need of the Kingdom of Heaven.

  The words toppled off my tongue like they’d birthed there—awkward and halting at first—a new colt on spindly legs. But as I read, as peace filled my aches and hollows, I knew those words were meant especially for me, especially for each of us. Then the reading ran sure and true.

  The words sprang from a God who loved us so much that He’d given His Son to die for us, from a Brother who’d laid down His life for us. It was war for God, just as it was for us—only I figured God warred against sin and fought for our eternity while we butchered one another over land and slavery and our own peculiar notions.

  “You don’t read like Charles,” Ma interrupted me, puzzled. She picked at the brooch at her neck.

  “No,” I said. “I don’t.” I knew what she meant. I remembered evenings, as a boy not much older than Henry, lying long on the parlor floor, my hands locked behind my head as Pa read from the Word.

  The stories he read leapt into the night sky, casting shadows among the fire dancers, conjuring battles and bloody sacrifices. Long treacherous journeys, spoils of war, and riches beyond anything I could imagine in daylight played through the air while Pa read. I could see a story unfold as if all the characters loved or warred right there, standing in the middle of our parlor. I could never read like that.

  Ma didn’t answer but sat listening, and I think the words calmed her. Then Emily prayed for us all.

  It became a pattern. We’d all meet in Nanny Sara’s room once our chores and the children’s naps were done. We’d read and pray, and after a couple of days Ruby took up hymn singing. Where we knew the words, the rest of us joined in. It became the best part of every day and the only time we all let our guard down—grateful to do it.

  But after two weeks of watching wagons and neighbors roll out of town, after finding those that stayed too frightened to come out of their houses, our nerves frayed and splintered.

  I’d hidden and moved and hidden Stargazer so many times in so many places that I was afraid I’d forget where I’d hidden him last. Emily’d sewn six gold coins into the hem of her cloak, then covered coins with padding and fabric to replace the buttons on her everyday dress, on Ma’s dress, and on Ruby’s. Ruby’d hidden, buried, dug up, and buried again food and jewelry and silver and metal boxes of papers in so many places I figured the Yankees would think they’d stumbled on a child’s treasure hunt.

  The night before Sherman’s troops reached the town we saw the plantations along the river flame like watchfires, snaking toward us.

  Only Ma and Nanny Sara and the children went to bed that night. Ruby, Emily, and I stood watch from the third-floor window, counting the burning houses, wondering why the burning stopped near town, wondering if they’d spare our house or give us time to get out before setting the torch. Would they let us keep the stable for the children and Nanny Sara’s sake—a bed on the hay?

  Come morning the flames died, and chimneys I’d never noticed stood stark, stone sentinels against an ash gray sky. A red dust cloud rose in the distance and mingled with the mist, two hours before we heard the tramp of boots or the creek of wagons.

  Emily cooked breakfast. The toddlers and youngsters ate. Ruby took some up to Nanny Sara, who’d taken a turn for the worse and might not live to need a bed of any kind.

  Emily and I waited for the pounding on the door, arguing over who should answer it and who should hide. I wanted the women and children to stay in Nanny Sara’s room, while I talked to the soldiers. Emily was certain that would be the worst, believed they’d shoot a man first and ask questions later. “They’ll not shoot a defenseless woman. They can’t all be barbarians!”

  I thought they could and meant to tell her so. We were still arguing in the kitchen when the front door opened and Ma’s coquettish laughter rang across the lawn. “You tell that old devil Will Sherman that Caroline Ashton demands to see him. Tell him to come here right now! Tell him I owe him a dance!” She laughed again and slammed the door.

  Ma ran up the stairs, skipping over two little girls playing “Which Hand Holds the Thimble” before Emily or I could leap from our chairs. Emily tore after Ma, tripping over the girls, starting a new uproar. I heard Ma’s door slam, heard Emily plead with her, beg her to open the door.

  I herded the whimpering girls to Nanny Sara’s room, then peered through the draperies, hoping nobody’d heard Ma. But they’d heard her. A detail of soldiers marched away, looking like they were bent on a mission. I ran my hand through my hair. “What now, Lord? What do we do now? I know You’ve brought us safe to this time for a purpose. I don’t know what that purpose is or what to do here.” In less than an hour the door shook from a pounding.

  Emily ran to the head of the stairs, but I blocked the doorway. I’d lifted the latch and barely opened the door to the Union corporal when Ma pushed past Emily and ran down the stairs, dressed for all the world like she was off to a summer ball. “Go upstairs, Caroline!” I shouted, hoping that just this once I sounded like Pa to her.

  “Don’t be silly, Charles! I’ve invited our friend Will Sherman to tea. This is likely him now!”

  I tried to shut the door, but the officer shoved his foot inside, determined, wary, and pounded again.

  “I hear the devil knocking at our door! Pray, let him in!” Ma flitted past me, nearly stumbled into the officer’s arms. He removed his hat and bowed toward her. “Miss Ashton, I presume?”

  “You presume correctly, gallant sir. Now, where is he? Where’s Will?” Ma teased.

  “The general will be here soon, ma’am. I’m afraid he does not remember you—your name.”

  “Not remember me? Oh, fiddle-faddle! He’ll remember the moment he sees me—th
e moment he sees us!” And Ma inclined her head to me. “Will and Charles are old friends.”

  The captain frowned, bowed slightly, then stepped through the door, taking in the empty hallway, the parlor, the stairs. Emily stepped behind the upstairs drapery, but I think he saw the movement. He placed his hand on his revolver and his foot on the stair.

  “It’s just my cousin there.”

  “Show yourself!” he called.

  Emily peeked from the drapery and stepped to the landing. The captain took her in, running his eyes long up and down her, seeming to like all he saw. I wanted to smash his face, but he was the one with the gun.

  “Where is Gen. Sherman?” I asked, blustering confidence I didn’t feel. The captain looked back at me, surprised, I think, that I was there.

  “The general will be here in good time.” He took my measure. “Gen. Sherman is at no one’s beck and call.”

  “Of course he isn’t!” Ma broke in. “We do so want to make him welcome, that’s all.”

  The captain eyed Ma suspiciously. He opened the door wide and motioned for a detail of soldiers to enter. “Search every floor. Confine inhabitants to one room.”

  I stepped forward, fearful for the women and children upstairs, but Ma pulled my arm toward the parlor. “Come with me, Charles. We’ll need to receive our guest.”

  “But—” I began.

  “No one will receive insult or injury unless they call it on themselves.” The captain tossed his hat on the settee and poured himself a brandy. He sat down, crossed his legs, and toasted us. “The general will determine—”

  “The general will determine, won’t he, Captain?”

  “General Sherman!” The captain stumbled all over himself, jumped to his feet, spilled his drink, grabbed his hat, and tried to salute all in one clumsy movement.

  “You’ll wait outside, Captain Gray.” Gen. Sherman removed his hat. The captain was outside the parlor door before Gen. Sherman took Ma in. She hung back a moment, then reached her hand toward his.