The Whistle Walk: A Civil War Novel (Ironwood Plantation Family Saga Book 1)

by Stephenia H. McGee

  “You know what? I’d like it if you’d write the story for me.”

  Miss Lydia blinked at her. “What do you mean?”

  Ruth gestured to her scrawled writing. “Your writin’ looks better than mine. Maybe you could write down what all I tell you, or what I copy from up there.”

  Miss Lydia brightened a little, though Ruth suspected she’d soon try to hide it. Sure enough Miss Lydia smoothed her features and lifted her shoulders. “If you’d like me to. I suppose I can make that work.”

  Ruth let out a short laugh. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

  “Very well. When shall we begin?”

  “Don’t see no reason not to start now.”

  Miss Lydia gathered the writing utensils and dipped the pen into the ink, opening the book to the first blank page.

  The Story of Ruth

  “Now. We shall start at the beginning.”

  Ruth pulled in a long breath and began to tell the story of the night fire consumed all she held dear.

  It took a couple of hours. She had to drag the story out, both to allow Miss Lydia’s hand to keep up and to steady her own heart enough to stand the telling. When they decided to stop for the evening, Ruth saw her own exhaustion mirrored in the face across from her.

  “Shall we work on it some more tomorrow?” Miss Lydia asked as she slipped the writing things inside a little bag and tucked them under her arm.

  “Yes. I guess so.” Ruth led her to the door and stood with her on the landing.

  Miss Lydia patted her arm. “It will be a great thing. A story you can pass on to your children and your children’s children.”

  Ruth nodded. “Goodnight, ma’am.”

  Miss Lydia’s brows drew slightly together. “Well, goodnight, Ruth. I will see you in the morning.”

  Ruth closed the door behind her and retreated to her room, slipping under her covers and drifting into a peaceful sleep.

  The next several days passed in much the same way. After she completed her duties and the older women went off to bed, Miss Lydia would come to her room, and they would write by candlelight. Miss Lydia remained focused on the story, not wanting to talk too much about anything else.

  Ruth had heard Mr. Harper talking with more white men in suits who had come to visit. She’d started to tell Miss Lydia about the shipping blockades and trouble on the river, but after only a few moments, Miss Lydia had waved her hands like she was trying to fly away and changed the subject.

  Ruth waited in the garden for Miss Lydia, thankful the evenings were starting cool off enough to chase away a small amount of summer’s heat. A squirrel circled around an oak tree near the garden, and Ruth watched it chatter. Another joined it, and they chased each other high into the branches, startling a bird from its perch.

  “It is a beautiful evening, is it not?” Miss Lydia swept into the garden with her wide skirts and a bright smile.

  “Yes. But I still don’t think we should be doin’ this here. Out in the open.”

  Miss Lydia shrugged. “I am tired of doing it at night. It’s beautiful here in the garden and the weather is pleasant. I see no reason not to take advantage of it.”

  “I gots work to do. Betsy needs me to help her, and Lucy’s mad she’s got to do the cleaning by herself.”

  Miss Lydia huffed. “She can stop her bellyaching. She had no problem with it before you came. Besides that, your job is to assist me.” She pointed to the bench with a dramatic gesture. “So sit.”

  Ruth rolled her eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Miss Lydia giggled and sat beside her. Ruth cast a sidelong glance at her.

  “How’s come you don’t want to work at night?”

  She shrugged. “I told you. It’s nice out.”

  “Um hum. And I reckon that’s the whole of it.”

  Miss Lydia’s face turned that funny shade of pink Ruth knew it would. She was still fascinated by how a white person’s skin could change colors like that. Miss Lydia ignored the implied question, another thing Ruth knew she would do.

  “Let’s get started.”

  “Well, I don’t think there’s much left. We kept on walking after that. When Byram came out of the woods with that shovel….” Ruth’s voice cracked, and she cleared her throat. “When he came of the woods with the shovel he started pushin’ us hard. We walked without takin’ breaks, keeping on back roads with no one passing us by. I don’t remember much. I just remember praying I could keep putting one foot in front of the other, even though all I wanted to do was curl up in the dirt.”

  Ruth told of her pain and her fear, of the long nights with little rest. She waited while Miss Lydia wrote, her slender fingers gliding over the page. When her mistress finally finished, she looked up at Ruth to continue.

  “You know the rest. Ain’t nothing more for me to tell,” Ruth said looking up at the swaying tree branches.

  “I only know it as I saw it, not as you saw it,” Miss Lydia said, pulling her shoulders back and stretching.

  They’d been sitting here for some time, and the sun had already started to dip below the trees. She’d need to get to the kitchen soon, and Miss Lydia needed to get ready for the evening meal.

  “That makes no sense. We both done saw the same thing,” Ruth said, starting to get up.

  Miss Lydia shook her head. “No, I was on my way to buy fabric when I saw a striking young Negro woman with fire in her eyes defy a man trying to beat her. I don’t really know what you saw. Or how you felt.”

  Ruth’s eyebrows pulled together. “That’s how you saw me?”

  “Yes. And that’s exactly my point. How I remember that day is different from how you remember it.”

  Ruth had never thought of it that way, but of course Miss Lydia would see the world differently. She glanced down at the book. Miss Lydia didn’t just want to write down the events. She wanted to capture the very life and breath of Ruth’s story.

  A lump gathered in her throat, and she swallowed it down. “I was sore, tired and angry. Losin’ my sister, the last family I got, made me reckless. I didn’t care no more. I didn’t want that filthy man touching me. I knew I shoulda been acting good, hoping someone kind would buy me and I’d have a better chance somewhere else. I knew it, but it still didn’t matter,” Ruth said, returning to her seat. She remembered the way it felt—the anger taking over her and burning like the fire that had taken her mother and brother. She’d prayed many nights, trying to forget it. Then God had answered in a way she wouldn’t have expected.

  “But I guess God had a plan anyway, ’cause outa nowhere comes this little white lady with a bonnet too big for her head yelling at that man like she was his master. Ain’t never seen no woman stop a man cold like that.” Ruth slowly shook her head.

  Miss Lydia bit her lip and bent over her papers. Ruth couldn’t be sure, but she thought she did it to hide her smile. The light began to fade, casting small shadows across the grass and the last of the summer’s roses.

  “Then that bold white lady, she comes across the street and offers to take me,” Ruth continued. “Lord, I didn’t know what to think. Then before I knows it, she’s got me riding in a carriage with her and telling me I is gonna be working in the big house. I remember telling God He sure got a funny way of doing things.”

  Miss Lydia suddenly laughed and pulled Ruth into a hug. “It’s the beauty from the ashes! Who would have thought?”

  Ruth stiffened. They shouldn’t be like this out in the garden where anyone could see. The woman still had no sense. A big heart, yes. But sense? Ruth pulled away from her.

  “Miss Lydia, you knows I care for you. But other folks ain’t gonna to understand our friendship. With all this talk of war and people getting antsy over what’s going to be happening with the slaves, you being so friendly with me might get you into trouble.”

  Miss Lydia studied her. “How do you know all that about the war?”

  “I got ears. I listen. So do all the others. We knows that new president they got up there is tal
king about freeing slaves. I know there’s stirring about it down here. I heard the men talking while we cleaned up. They didn’t pay us no mind, didn’t think we know what they is talking about. But we do. We know. And we is all listening.”

  Miss Lydia’s eyes widened, and Ruth regretted her words. No. She couldn’t regret them. They were true, and Miss Lydia spent too much time hiding from the truth. She needed to know, but now she looked like someone had thrown water all over her new ball gown. Ruth let out a long breath. Maybe she could have said it a little better.

  Miss Lydia put away all her writing things and didn’t look Ruth in the eye. “It’s getting late. You better hurry into the kitchen before Lucy has a fit. We’ll work on this tomorrow.”

  She scurried off before Ruth could say anything.

  Ruth watched her for a moment before rising from her seat and walking slowly back to the kitchen. Noah’s words came back to her. What would they do?

  If Mr. Harper did leave, would they really run? Should she go with them? She shook her head. No. She couldn’t leave Miss Lydia alone.

  She wouldn’t run. She would stay by the side of the crazy white lady God had given her to watch over.

  And hope her heart didn’t break in the process.

  August 21, 1862

  “What’s the matter, dear?” Charles asked, dabbing the corner of his mouth with his napkin.

  Lydia looked up from the potatoes she’d been pushing around on her plate. “What? Oh. Nothing. I am fine.”

  He gave her a funny look. “I know you are worried.”

  About what? What Ruth said yesterday in the garden? About the war? About the sightings of Union troops close to Oakville? About him leaving?

  Yes. She worried about all of it. “No, I am not worried.”

  Charles placed his fork on the table. “You should be. I do not blame you for it. As much as I have tried to keep you from this war, I am afraid I can no longer.”

  Tiny bumps broke out along her arms. She kept her eyes on her plate. “I fear what will happen to us. What will become of Ironwood.”

  “As do I.”

  She looked up sharply at the creased face of her husband. She’d not heard him speak so. He always tried to reassure her and tell her Ironwood would be safe. If he doubted, how could she still believe?

  “It is why I will have to join in this fight.” He looked at her, pain glistening in his eyes. He didn’t want to leave her. She could see the truth, yet anger still clawed at her heart. He chose to leave her. Perhaps never to return.

  “You would abandon me?” Her voice squeaked, and she hated herself for sounding like a child. Her mind screamed at her to control her emotions, but the fear in her heart rendered such cautions useless.

  His jaw muscles worked before he spoke, his voice tight. “You know that is not it. I would go to protect you and this land.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “If you would excuse me, I am afraid I am not feeling well.”

  “Lydia. We must discuss….”

  “Good evening, Mr. Harper. I will retire to my room now.” She rose from the table and left him looking after her.

  She simply could not take it. She’d let her heart crack open and would soon pay the price for letting her defenses be breached.

  In her room, Lydia drew out her diary and wrote her thoughts in a hurried hand but it did little to calm her. When the full moon rose over the gardens, she blew out her candle, dressed for bed, and slid under the cool cotton coverings. Where was her strength? How had she let herself become this pathetic creature curled in her bed, afraid of the shadows and fighting back loathsome tears?

  Too angry to pray and too weary to think, she sank into a fitful sleep.

  Lydia bolted upright in bed, sweat soaking the hair around her scalp. The room was dark save the moonlight that poured in through the open window. She got up and crossed the soft rug underfoot. What had awakened her?

  The silver light bathed the garden below, a steady breeze bringing in refreshingly cool air for a summer night. Lydia touched her hair. Surely she had not grown chill. Another dream, then? She rubbed her arms, suddenly feeling cold. That had to be it. She glanced at her writing desk, a strange thought working its way past logic. She would write a letter.

  She sat at the desk and pulled a loose sheet of paper from the drawer. Uncorking the ink bottle, she paused with the pen hovering over it.

  Candles.

  Lydia dropped the pen and struck a match to bring forth a tiny dancing flame on top of a lone tapered candle. She sat it on the desk and stared at the sporadic shadows that skittered across the page.

  Something bumped in the hall.

  Lydia dropped the pen and pushed away from the desk. Her feet rushed across the floor, and her hand encircled the doorknob before she had the chance to think. She jerked open the door and looked out into the dim hallway. Her heart thudded. Nothing loomed but furniture.

  She must be losing her mind. She sat at the desk and arranged her nightdress around her. She dipped her pen in the ink and began to write.

  My dear one,

  I have seen you in my dreams.

  She paused. What was she doing? Writing a letter to a woman in her dreams? Still, something nagged at her. Yes. Yes, she must. She must write it.

  She placed the pen against the paper again.

  You come to me and we talk of

  A noise at the door. Her head snapped up, her breath quickening. Hadn’t she closed the door all the way? It stood open just the width of a few fingers. A tingle ran down her spine. Finish. She must finish.

  She wrote faster. Lydia signed her name at the bottom and looked at what she’d written. Satisfied, she folded the paper and tilted the candle to allow a small pool of wax to gather at the fold. She removed the Ironwood stamp from the drawer and pressed it into the seal.

  There.

  The chair scraped against the floor as Lydia stood, studying the paper in her hand. She could not explain her need to write it. Yet she sensed something important had transpired. Now what would she do with it? She could not deliver a letter to a woman who existed only within her own head. Her gaze jumped to the board she’d pried up.

  The table moved easily, and she pulled the board free. She dropped the letter inside and secured the hiding place. She rose to her feet and saw a shadow pass under the door. Holding her breath, Lydia crept across the room. She eased closer to the door, hearing nothing but sensing more than could be seen. She put her eye to the crack. A rush of air hit her face. She threw the door open. A small figure dashed to the stairway. The woman! She could give her the letter!

  “Wait!”

  The shadowy figure disappeared. Lydia ran to the stairs, but no one descended them. Her pulse thudded in her temples. She hurried back to her room and looked out the front window, placing her hand on the glass.

  The woman stood below looking up at her. She shimmered as if she were made of the heat that rose from a summer’s cooktop.

  Lydia gasped as the woman flickered and disappeared.

  Fearing for her sanity, Lydia dove into bed and pulled the covers over her head. Her heart knocked against her chest. Oh, she wished Charles were here.

  His room was only two doors down the hall. Did she dare?

  Mother’s voice echoed in her head. It wouldn’t be proper. A lady did not call upon a man. But what of her husband? He’d offered for them to share his room. Why had she continued to decline?

  She slipped from the bed and hurried past the shadows in the hall.

  Should she knock?

  Lydia twisted the knob and eased the door inward on silent hinges. He’d left the dark blue drapes open, allowing silver light to spill through the large window and across the floor, landing on his half-covered form.

  Lydia padded over to the bed and stood over him. His hair splayed out over his forehead, tempting her fingers to brush it away. Her gaze traveled down from his face to his chest as it rose and fell peacefully. Moonlight caressed the hardened muscles w
ith a small patch of hair at their center. Heat rose in her, and her breath now quickened for a different reason.

  She bit her lower lip. Gently, she reached across and smoothed the hair from his face. She’d been a fool. Deciding she would spend every night with him while she still could, she rounded the foot of the bed and climbed in next to him.

  He stirred and rolled toward her. Their breath mingled, and Lydia tried to remind herself to relax. His hand came up and ran along her arm.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” he mumbled.

  “Me too. I’m sorry.”

  “Shush. It matters only that you are here.” He pulled her into his chest, resting his chin on the top of her head. His breathing soon turned even, and the tension in her muscles slid from her. She nuzzled in and drifted into a dreamless sleep.

  She awoke to Charles stroking her arm. Lydia blinked against the light and gave him a timid smile.

  “You came to me.” The look of wonder on his face pulled at her heart.

  “Yes.”

  “It pleases me greatly.” He sat over her, wearing nothing but the sheet that draped low over his waist. The sunlight caressed the planes of his chest, and Lydia reached up to feel the firmness of his muscles under her fingers.

  A low sound escaped his throat. Her gaze snapped to his eyes. They darkened and the heartbeat under her hand quickened. She must remember what these touches did to him. It seemed it did not take much to awaken desire in a man.

  A small smile played at her lips. Where she thought there would be fear, instead she found comfort in his need for her. Heat rose and spread through her veins.

  In one movement he was on her, resting on his elbows to hold his body above hers. He kissed her forehead, then her cheeks, and finally brushed his lips against hers.

  “I would have you stay with me each night.”

  She took a deep breath, her chest rising until her body touched his, separated only by her thin summer night dress. “It is as I intend.”

  His mouth covered hers, and she let herself surrender to his love.