“Maybe I should get a taste of you before I leave you to burn.”
She struggled against him, but he held her firm. A scream tore from the depth of her soul and slammed into his face.
“I think I would let the lady go, if I were you,” a voice heavy with accent said. Then she heard the soft click of a gun.
Captain Thomas released her and spun around to face the long barrel of a revolver leveled at him. The man wore the same blue uniform, but he carried himself as one who was used to people obeying his commands. He trained his weapon on the captain’s face.
Another man came in behind him, his gaze darting back and forth between the two other men. Lydia held still against the wall, her hands trembling.
The man with the gun spoke to the soldier behind him, his eyes never leaving Captain Thomas. “Arrest this man and have him bound.”
The soldier hurried to do the older man’s bidding, and Captain Thomas surrendered without a word. Only after they dragged him back out the shattered window did her savior lower his weapon. His eyes studied her.
“Am I correct that this is the home known as Ironwood?”
She nodded, unable to get words to form in her mouth. He gave a curt dip of his chin and turned on his heel. He stuck his head through the window frame.
“Sound the retreat! I want all of our forces removed from this land!”
Lydia’s breath caught. The man turned back to her, no doubt wondering at the tattered state of her appearance.
“Are you Mrs. Charles Harper?”
“Yes.” She blinked rapidly. Who was this man? “How did you know?”
The man smiled and bent at the waist into a bow. “Major General Franz Kerchner, madam.”
“You… called them off of Ironwood.”
He studied her, something in his expression melting confusion into compassion. “And they shall not return. You have my word that Captain Thomas will be dealt with and your home will receive no further occupation from Union soldiers. We will leave this place in peace.”
Her heart hammered in her chest, and her knees could no longer hold her weight. They buckled beneath her. He grabbed her elbow and steadied her, leading her to the couch and lowering her to sit.
“I do not know how to thank you.” She gazed at him, not daring to question why he would do such a thing lest he change his mind.
“Is your husband about?” he asked gently.
She shook her head.
“When next you see him, tell him my debt is repaid.”
“Repaid?”
The man nodded, his sharp eyes alight. “I found myself in a precarious position at an inn a couple of months past. Your husband and his companion took it upon themselves to see my life was not forfeited that day. Were it not for their wit and bravery, I might have found myself under the war-fevered hands of inebriated Southern youths.”
“Oh?”
“Indeed. I am pleased to meet the wife of the most honorable man I’ve ever met. Give him my regards.” He bowed again and strode back out the window, barking orders before his foot hit the porch.
Lydia bowed her head and let tears run free down her cheeks.
October 16, 1862
Lydia wiped the blood from her hands onto her last clean rag. Soon it would join the pile destined for the cleansing flames. The wounded men covered nearly every inch of the main entrance, spilling out from the door and onto the front porch. Scents she could not even identify burned in her throat and reminded her that death dealt with men equally, with no regard for the banner under which they fought. Blue and gray faded beneath crimson. She knelt beside a man near the age of her father and bathed his head with a damp cloth. He scarcely stirred beneath her touch.
A voice from the lawn drew her attention.
“Ma’am? The lieutenant sent me to talk to you.”
Lydia turned to find a haggard soldier, his hat in his hands.
“Yes, what is it?” She rose and ignored the pulsing pain that drummed in the back of her skull.
“We are in need of more wagons.”
“There are two more buckboards in the lower cotton barn, but I fear that’s all I have left.”
The soldier nodded solemnly but did not move. Lydia sighed, fatigue drawing her muscles tight. “Is there a problem?”
“Well, we already found those. The lieutenant said that you wouldn’t mind us using them, since you’d already allowed us the others. ’Sides, he figured the Yanks had already taken some, so we’d better grab those two before they took off with them, too.”
Lydia smothered her annoyance. “What, then, would you have me do?”
The soldier shrugged, his frayed gray uniform hanging from gaunt shoulders. “Don’t know, ma’am. We’ve loaded all the dead. All’s left now is to get these wounded up. Reckon they’ll have to walk or stay here.”
She could not sit here much longer among the death and wonder if somewhere out there Charles languished in another home distraught by another battle. Did compassionate hands care for him? Was there another lady who tended him as she tended these? She studied the soldier in front of her. What would she ask of the lady that nursed her Charles?
She would ask for him to be sent home.
She nodded with resolve. His life would mean more than his horses. “Take my carriages. These men have more need of them than I.”
The soldier dipped his chin. “The Confederate Army thanks you.”
The two carriages were brought around to the front of the house. The smaller, the one she often used for town, stood attached to a pair of geldings Charles would have never matched. The larger carriage, the one in which she had first traveled to Ironwood, stood with its matched bays as if waiting to carry her and Charles on a pleasant autumn outing. The constriction in her throat tightened, and she found herself in front of the bays, stroking their soft muzzles in an attempt to calm the agitation they suffered.
“Easy, now. Easy. You have a noble task ahead of you, dear ones. See that they make it home. See that they find their way to their families again,” she whispered.
The horses bobbed their heads and settled, a breeze of determination lifting their manes and sending the thick tresses dancing. They would do well with their charge. The bloodlines of Ironwood were strong. These equine soldiers would do their duty.
She patted them and turned to watch as men limped up inside the carriages, stifling moans and clutching still-raw wounds. Would they make it to safety? Where would they go from here? They were questions she could not answer. This was all she could give them.
She smiled at them, offering a word of encouragement where she could, and waved to them as they pulled away. With a heavy heart, she returned to the porch, stepping carefully over spots of blood. Ruth emerged from the front door.
“Tommy’s been down to the quarters. Most of ’em are still together. Roughed up a bit, but nothing that can’t be fixed.” She stood with her shoulders erect, the picture of calm authority.
“I have a new job for you, Ruth.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“There is still much I do not know. Things I do not understand about your people. I’ve tasted only the smallest portion of your life. If I wish to lead Ironwood on a new path, I must not allow myself to slip back into the old ways.”
Ruth’s brows drew together, and Lydia held up a hand to stop her words. “I will need you to speak for the people. You understand me, and you understand them. I will need your help.”
She put a hand on Lydia’s shoulder. “I’m here.”
It was all she needed to say. Lydia inclined her head and walked into the house. Men in uniform wandered around as if they had nowhere else to be. Come sundown, they would return to the lower fields and to their encampment. An encampment Major General Kerchner had assured her would break in the morning.
How long would it take her to feel safe again? She shook her head as if the motion would dislodge her fears. She must be strong. She must pray and look for the beauty that would surely
rise from the ashes smothering them.
As dusk fell, silence settled onto Ironwood – the only sound the whispering wind that snuck through broken windows and crept along the halls, leaving subtle secrets in its wake. Ironwood drew in a shuddering breath and let the wounded souls inside find the troubled rest of a quiet night.
October 17, 1862
Ruth stood on the balcony and watched streams of blue uniforms flow from Ironwood like the remnants of a flood. They drifted around the house, through the yard, and down the road farther than she could see. There had to be hundreds of them. Maybe even a thousand. Too many to count. Not that she wanted to.
Sunlight filtered through the remaining leaves on the oaks, casting patchwork shadows on the silent men who passed beneath them. Ruth’s gaze traveled over the ranks and came to rest on a man sitting tall on a black horse, his hat removed and tucked under one arm. His shoulders were set like a man determined to see his orders fulfilled to the letter. She studied him, wondering why he’d come to their rescue and at the same time too grateful to really care what his reasons might be.
He turned his face up as if he could feel her stare upon him. Their eyes locked. He tilted his head as if to offer her a bow from the saddle. She dipped her chin. The major general placed his hat snugly on his head and eased the horse into a slow walk, falling in beside the men.
A small breeze ruffled the trees, freeing tawny leaves from their final cling. Ruth stood and watched until the last intruder disappeared from her sight. Other than trampled grounds and the lingering smells of smoke, the major general had ordered all trace of their presence removed. Bodies from both sides had been carted away. The outnumbered Confederates reveled in the victory gifted to them.
As the sun climbed lazily higher and settled into its peak, Ruth drew peaceful air into her lungs and steadied herself for the day ahead. She slipped back inside, mentally going over all the tasks she would need to accomplish to get the house back in order. The colored people could return to their homes, many of which had been spared by the grace of the Almighty, and she would see to it that they were rationed supplies from the storehouses to replace what had been stolen from them. Somehow, she’d become the one they looked to for answers. Lydia seemed pleased to turn over the care of the people to her, placing her as the speaker for their needs. It would be a big responsibility but a challenge she looked forward to fulfilling.
If only her family could see her now. Ruth, once a field slave, now the freed manager of nearly one hundred liberated workers. The woman who would stand as representative between black and white. Her blood had set her with one foot in each race, and now it would help her bridge the gap between the two.
She walked down the main staircase, purpose filling her veins. It would be a road filled with trials and errors, bumps and frustrations, but one worth walking. A soft voice trickled down the hall from the parlor, and Ruth followed it to find Lydia softly singing as she swept broken glass from the floor.
Trials are dark on every hand, and we cannot understand
All the ways God would lead us to that blessed promised land;
But He guides us with His eye, and we’ll follow till we die,
For we’ll understand it better by and by.
Ruth rested her hand on the doorframe and smiled. Yes, there would be much work to be done, and much they would struggle to understand. But they would do it together. Ruth stooped to position the pan for Lydia to push the shards into, her voice joining in the song.
By and by, when morning comes,
When the saints of God are gathered home,
We’ll tell the story how we’ve overcome,
For we’ll understand it better by and by.
Lydia smiled at her, and they swept the rug clean. When the last shard was whisked away, Lydia looked out over the muddied yard.
“Do you think Ironwood will survive?”
Ruth stood beside her and draped an arm around her slender shoulders—shoulders that seemed too small to hold up the weight they had to bear. But Ruth knew that, in their own way, these shoulders were stronger than those of any man born to spend his days in the fields.
“Ironwood will survive anything that comes her way. Ironwood breathes with the life of the people in it. People who done been made strong by the lady that leads ’em and loves ’em even when the rest of the world wants to condemn her for it.” Ruth squeezed her tight. “Don’t you fret. I think we is going be just fine. I pity any poor man what thinks he can pry this place from you.”
Lydia laughed, a genuine sound that came from deep within her. “As do I.” She straightened her skirts and brushed her hair back from her face. “Well, let’s get to it. There’s plenty of work that needs to be done to erase the stain from our home.”
Ruth nodded and followed her through the house as they discussed what orders would need to be given out and who would best be equipped to handle each task. Side by side they worked, scrubbing, cleaning, and mending, until the day passed with the rhythm of their labor.
October 27, 1862
Ruth surveyed the scene around her, satisfied with the amount of work that had been accomplished in such a short time. Young men and boys with rakes and hoes worked to return the gardens to their proper order, and Lydia walked among them, thanking each one with a smile. When Betsy called for luncheon, Lydia ordered it served picnic-style on the back porch Ruth had just finished scrubbing clean.
“Come eat, everyone!” Lydia called, taking one of the platters from Betsy and setting it on a small table.
Soon the people were all gathered on and around the porch, plates of fried chicken and cornbread in their hands and sweet tea in their glasses. Unexpected tears gathered in the back of Ruth’s throat.
“What’s wrong?” Lydia settled into a cushioned chair and motioned for Ruth to sit with her. “Aren’t you hungry?”
Ruth sat and listened to the tinkling laughter of two children chasing each other in front of the steps. She glanced over at Lydia and saw a smiled tugging at her lips. They were slow in coming, but the sad smiles graced her features more often than they had a few days ago.
“Do you think we’ll ever have little ones running through the yard like that?” Lydia asked.
Ruth lifted an eyebrow. “Together?”
“Of course.” She said it as if anything else would be completely ridiculous. It was a thought that should have made Ruth smile, but instead she felt only sadness settle on her heart.
“I don’t know,” Ruth said, her voice straining past the constriction in her throat. She took a single chicken leg from the tray and returned to her seat to nibble on it. She’d thought Lydia had let the conversation drop when she spoke again.
“I see things in my dreams.” Lydia said with a strange, far-away look in her eyes.
When would Ruth cease to be surprised at the things that came out of this woman’s mouth? “What kinda things?”
Lydia pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. “People, mostly. They are strange dreams. I see a woman that looks like me, but she’s dressed like she is a man. I’ve seen Charles and me together, and a little boy with dark hair who dances while I play the pianoforte.”
Not sure what she should say, Ruth watched her. Too much stress had surely messed with the poor woman’s mind.
“And then I see that little boy playing with another little boy. His skin’s dark, much darker than yours, but he has your eyes.”
Tears pooled and Ruth blinked them away. “Them is just dreams. They don’t mean nothing.”
Lydia tilted her head, the fire Ruth had thought might never return lighting her eyes. “I think they do. I prayed that God would give me peace and show me a future for Ironwood. I asked Him to give me a legacy of family and love in this place. A heritage of hope. I think those dreams are just that. A sign and also an answer to those prayers.”
Ruth stared at her.
“That’s why I’ll leave my trunk there. For her,” Lydia mumbled.
Ruth shook he
r head. She hoped Lydia got the future she dreamed of. She prayed Mr. Harper would return and Lydia would someday meet the little boy she so longed for. But there would be no boy for her. Her tattered heart had loved and lost too much to be able to stumble down that path again. No, her future would be guiding the people of Ironwood. They would be her family, and…and….
Her thoughts jerked to a halt.
No. It couldn’t be.
Ruth rose from her chair, her hand flying to her heart. Did her mind play tricks on her? Had too much stress also caused her mind to break?
“Oh my!” Lydia jumped to her feet, her plate tumbling from her lap and clattering on the floor. The people stopped chattering and all their eyes turned to the man standing at the far end of the garden.
His presence seemed to fill the entire space, his large frame as big as the tree he stood underneath. Ruth’s heart pounded in her chest. His eyes locked on hers, and her knees felt weak. She took a few steps forward and braced herself on the large white column at the top of the stairs, unable to do more.
Noah.
He strode across the yard, his eyes never leaving hers. Her heart hammered in her chest. Why had he returned? If he asked her to go again, could she resist?
Three more paces. Two.
He stopped in front of her, and for the first time she looked down on him. He held out his hand. She hesitated only for a moment, and then stepped down two stairs to place her hand inside his.
“Why’d you come back?”
Pain flickered in his eyes. Not the words she’d wanted to say. How many times had she imagined what she would say if she ever saw him again?
“Marry me.”
Air refused to fill her lungs. “What?”
“Marry me. Be my wife. I done fulfilled my promise and took the people north and to safety. I tried to start a new life, but I can’t live without you. Ruth, I knows I can’t give you much. But I promise to love you, protect you, and honor you every day of my life.”
Tears streamed down her face. He’d returned. For her. She felt as if the heart pounding in her chest would burst free at any moment. He stared at her. Oh! He needed an answer.
The Whistle Walk: A Civil War Novel (Ironwood Plantation Family Saga Book 1) Page 28