by Mary Ellis
Being an oddity in society did have its advantages.
James was not a happy man. He surveyed the former cow pasture his soldiers were rapidly turning into a camp. Another winter spent in the field, his corps’ third since their debacle at First Manassas. It would be another Christmas spent away from home, apart from their wives and children, sweethearts and parents. Americans had spent three bloody years trying to kill one another—fathers against sons, sons against brothers. The state of Virginia was split in two because of opposing viewpoints. But each time James bowed his head in prayer, he no longer asked to prevail on the battlefield or that his men would vanquish their foes with swift precision.
Those fighting in butternut and gray seemed less like the enemy and more like scared young men with little keeping them warm and without enough to eat. Much like his own new recruits. Lately, James prayed for fair weather, meat free of maggots, bread without weevils, and a swift resolution to the conflict in the spring. Yet he would lead his men to the bitter end. Never one to issue orders from the rear, James knew any battle might be his last. Soldiering had been his life from his early days at West Point, to the Mexican War, to the territorial conflict with the Indians out West. That night, as his men lifted a scrap tin roof over the crude cabin that would be his home for the next five months, James sent up a second silent prayer—this one for Madeline.
His spies had told him she left Cashtown and traveled to Washington by train. At the war department she obtained a pass and crossed into Arlington County. As far as anyone could deduce, she’d reached the home of John Duncan, a well-regarded member of Jefferson Davis’s administrative staff.
Great Scott, why couldn’t her uncle be an ordinary farmer, eking out a living on thirty hardscrabble acres? What danger would Madeline’s political stance place her in? James hoped she would remain meek and submissive to her aunt, but considering how she’d ridden to his headquarters and demanded her horse back, he thought meekness from her was highly unlikely.
He had written her at least a dozen letters following the Gettysburg victory. Each letter had been painstakingly composed to avoid his illegible scrawl and then given to his adjutant to post in a variety of Maryland and Virginia towns. He instructed Major Henry to bribe postmasters if necessary to increase the likelihood of delivery. Yet he hadn’t received a single letter in return. Not so much as I must insist, sir, that you stop badgering me with your continual and unwelcome sentiments.
Had their brief acquaintance in Pennsylvania been sufficient to endear him to her? Certainly, it had been so for him, but James had little experience with matters of the heart. A brief engagement back home had ended when a case of typhus took the young woman to heaven’s gate. Mrs. Howard might be more knowledgeable about courting, but one thing was certain: Only death would keep him from finding her.
“The men are ready to lay slats for the floor, sir.”
James became vaguely aware someone was speaking. His head swiveled around to his chief of staff. “What did you say, Major? My mind was elsewhere.”
“Understandable, sir.” Major Henry saluted and offered a cup of cold coffee. “I said the men have cut slats for a wooden floor in the officer quarters. At least we’ll be dry even if we have to spend several months in this forsaken land.” He stared bleakly at the tree-covered hills beyond the rocky pasture.
James returned the salute. “Very good. See that they cut slats for their tents too. Succumbing to influenza would not be a hero’s death for my brave men.”
“Yes, sir.” His adjutant began moving away.
“One more thing, Major. Have my horse saddled and a saddlebag filled with food.” James downed the bitter coffee in two swallows and tossed the grounds onto the grass. “I will be gone several days on a short trip. Send word to the other commanders.”
The major looked as though he’d seen a ghost. “Where to, sir, if I may ask? This isn’t exactly friendly territory for soldiers wearing our color of uniform.”
“I know exactly where we are. I’ve studied the maps for days. We’re in the county of Culpeper, west and north of Fredericksburg. I need to travel through Spotsylvania County, and then through Hanover and into Richmond. I may be gone a week.”
Major Henry’s mouth pulled into a tight line. “May I know the reason for your errand, sir?”
“You may not,” the general said dismissively as he strode away.
The major followed him. “Sir, if this has anything to do with the widow Howard, wouldn’t it be more prudent to renew your acquaintance after the war?”
“Your orders are to continue establishing the winter camp, Major. This matter does not concern you.”
“I strongly advise against this idea, sir. To reach Richmond you must cross enemy lines. You could ride straight into Lee’s encampment.”
Outside his cabin door, James turned to face him. “With my maps and reports from the scouts and cavalry, I believe I’m capable of circumventing Rebel troops.” He enunciated each word through gritted teeth.
“General, please reconsider.” Major Henry opened his palms and dropped his voice. “You would need to cross the Rapidan, both the North and South Anna Rivers, and depending on Mrs. Howard’s address in Richmond, perhaps even the James. The men you took along would be in danger every step of the way.”
His patience at an end, James grabbed hold of the major’s lapels. “I have no intention of risking soldiers for personal reasons. They will accompany me only through this valley, and I’ll send them back before first light. You, sir, have overstepped your bounds as my chief of staff.” James released his grip on the man’s coat. “I’ll ride into Richmond alone wearing civilian clothes purchased in Maryland. My uniform will stay in my saddlebag.”
The major shook his head mulishly. “Sir, you can court-martial me tomorrow, but tonight I will speak my mind. Just the fact you ride so fine a horse would make you suspect in the enemy’s capital. Please mull this over one more night. Tomorrow the moon will be full—better to light your way. I beseech you to consider our corps. We are woefully short of officers, sir, certainly those possessing your fearlessness in battle. We can’t afford to lose you.”
Though James glared at his aide, he couldn’t argue the logic of waiting another night. Perhaps the infernal drizzle would dissipate by then. “Very well. I’ll postpone my errand until tomorrow. But in the future, Major, I suggest you confine your advice to war maneuvers.” He stomped inside on the new slat floor, the sound alien beneath his boot heels.
Unfortunately, the drizzle hadn’t let up by the following night, and a heavy bank of clouds obscured the full moon. His entourage bogged down on the trail long before they crossed the Rapidan River. And his impressive gelding? The horse threw a shoe before midnight, forcing James to turn around with his men. He fumed all the way back to the Army of the Potomac’s winter camp.
If one considered the vastness of the planet, Mrs. Howard was so close. Yet considering his luck lately, she might as well live on the plains of Persia.
TWELVE
Madeline climbed the steps of the Duncans’ home that evening exhausted but filled with the Christmas spirit. Who could have imagined there were so many churches close to the center of town? She had never drunk so many cups of cocoa in her life and couldn’t eat another cookie after the first stop. At St. Paul’s Episcopal, she had been greeted graciously by the pastor and his wife as though a longtime member. Being the friend of Colonel Haywood was not without unique rewards. Mrs. Price invited her to the ladies’ tea the following weekend, along with a food drive for the poor. Madeline declined both, explaining that she was already participating in similar activities at her aunt’s parish.
“If you change your mind, the door of the ladies’ auxiliary at St. Paul’s is always open.” The pastor’s wife couldn’t have been more effusive with her invitation.
And the enigmatic Colonel Haywood? He never was more than a step away no matter where Madeline wandered among the revelers. When she sang alongside Aunt Clar
isa, he boomed his off-key baritone over her left shoulder. When she joined Eugenia and the stoic Major Penrod, the colonel managed to squeeze his way to her side. He knew the words only to the first stanza of most carols, and then he proceeded to hum along instead of using the songbook. She seemed to be the reason for his distraction, something she didn’t feel particularly proud of.
Throughout the remainder of their dinner he’d shared tales of childhood Christmases over roast beef, boiled potatoes, and creamed corn. What a different life he had led compared to hers. As the son of a wealthy tobacco planter, he’d traveled abroad, met foreign dignitaries, and had dozens of slaves at his beck and call. The colonel expressed little shame over his family’s penchant for owning human beings. The Emancipation Proclamation came as a great relief to his father in that “he would no longer be responsible for so many mouths to feed.”
On that topic, Madeline offered only one comment. “Most men would prefer to go hungry in freedom than have a full belly while living in bondage.”
The colonel reflected on that for several moments and then concluded, “By the grace of God that point of argument is now and forevermore moot.”
Madeline didn’t understand him. He seemed to be intrigued by their differences in philosophies and cultural upbringings. Most men preferred women to think like them, if they bothered to think at all. Five minutes spent with Eugenia and Major Penrod provided a perfect example. Perhaps Colonel Haywood saw her as a sparring partner, an intellectual challenge who kept conversations from turning dull. Yet something lurked beneath his clever repartee and witty jests… something that cautioned her to tread wisely.
Opening her bedroom door, Madeline gasped when she saw the cook asleep in the hearthside chair. She shook the older woman gently. “Esther? Were you waiting to speak to me?”
Esther’s coal black eyes shot open. “Yes, ma’am, I was. Beggin’ your pardon, I must have dosed off waitin’ for you to come home. How much singin’ can one pack of folks do?” She moaned a little as she straightened stiffly to her feet.
“There was as much socializing in church vestibules as caroling, I’m afraid. I couldn’t eat or drink another drop,” Madeline said as she hung her cloak and bonnet on a wall peg.
“I kept your fire stoked so you’d be warm if you ever got back.”
“Thank you, Esther.” Madeline cocked her head to one side, knowing Kathleen laid the evening fires, not the cook. “Was there another reason you waited for me?”
Grunting, the woman pulled a tattered envelope from her apron. “Hope this don’t cause no trouble, but Micah went to the market two days ago while you and Miss Eugenia were sewing.”
Madeline’s breath caught in her chest.
“Miz Duncan sent him to buy all the corn that was left. This family gonna turn yellow before spring comes.” Esther clucked her tongue and pressed the envelope to her ample bosom.
“What happened at the market?” Madeline moved closer and dropped her voice.
“This fishmonger come up to Micah. He says he knows Micah works for Mr. Duncan and that Micah knows you.” The cook’s dark face wrinkled with anxiety.
“All true enough. Go on.”
“This fishmonger asked Micah if he be trusted, and he says as good as another man.” The furrows in her forehead deepened.
Madeline thought she might scream but inhaled a calming breath instead.
“He gave this letter to Micah to give to you and not nobody else in the meantime. Just you,” she emphasized. At long last, Esther handed her the envelope.
Madeline ran her fingers over the watermarked handwriting. The return address read Major General James Downing, 4th Corps Infantry, Army of the Potomac in neat script in the left-hand corner. “Thank you, Esther. This means the world to me. My… friend is a soldier.”
“On the Yankee side?”
Madeline nodded. “Yes. I’m from Pennsylvania.”
“Then why are you trifling with that nice Colonel Haywood?” The words were barely spoken before Esther covered her mouth with her hand. “Begging your pardon, Miz Howard.”
“I’m not trifling with Colonel Haywood. He is my friend.” Madeline ran a fingernail beneath the flap to loosen the seal.
“I ’spose it’s none of my concern.” Esther limped to the door, still stiff from her nap. “But here in the South, ladies only make friends with the female half the population. Beggin’ your pardon again. Good night, Miz Howard.” She softly shut the door behind her.
Madeline had nothing to say anyway. That’s what they do up North too. With trembling fingers she extracted the single sheet and held it near the candle.
My dearest Madeline,
I hope you don’t mind my being so bold as to address you by your given name. It is with fond regards that I think back to those dark days in July. You were the sole beacon shining in the night. That we should meet under such circumstances underscores the complexity of God’s handiwork. Who could imagine that our paths would cross in such a fashion? I have thought of you often these past months and written a shameless number of letters. I instructed my adjutant to mail them in a variety of locations in Maryland and Virginia, but I posted this one myself in a small burg called Culpeper. With much to recommend it, it is my hope we visit the quaint town someday. I pray each night for your safety inside the Confederate capital. If God’s grace allows, I shall endeavor a brief visit. Until then, I pray you will not forget me or my fond hope for a shared future.
With deep respect and affection,
James
Madeline thought she might drop into the type of mortal faint Genie so frequently spoke of. With deep affection? A shared future? A shameless number of letters? She hadn’t been just a pleasant distraction in a world gone mad.
Swallowing hard, she read the words a second time and focused on his other promise: I shall endeavor a brief visit. Here at Uncle John’s on Forsythia Lane? With the home guard and cavalry officers coming and going at all hours? Madeline grasped the edge of the mantel for support. A visit to her could prove deadly.
Nevertheless, she couldn’t help but draw one, significant conclusion. Only a man in love would take such a risk.
Elliott returned to the office of the home guard not in the best of moods. His visit to Chimborazo Hospital didn’t supply the good news he had hoped for. Confederate soldiers still trying to recover from battle wounds were dying at a frightening rate from blood poisoning and influenza. The army would need to seek recruits from Florida or perhaps the western territories if they wished to swell their ranks by the spring campaign.
At least that night he would see Mrs. Howard and forget the war for a few hours. He would also forget that she was in love with another man. Each of his thinly veiled questions regarding the man’s name or nature had been rebuffed with polite determination. She reacted to his inquiries about her beau as though he’d asked her weight or age. “Dear me, Colonel, I don’t feel comfortable discussing such things with you.”
Doubtlessly the man was a Yankee soldier, but in whose division or corps? John Duncan relayed that her husband had been killed in the opening battle at Manassas, but he provided no information about her current paramour. Elliott only knew for certain that it wasn’t him. Despite his attempts to charm and ingratiate himself, Mrs. Howard managed to stay at arm’s length. Other than the dinner party prior to the first night of caroling, they were never alone. The intimate supper coincidence had required thoughtful planning by Mrs. Duncan. Afterward, Madeline invited a neighbor to join them in the carriage to church, and she even invited the elderly widow to the Haywood pew on Sunday mornings.
Subsequent suppers before caroling were potluck as dozens of guests milled around the table or balanced plates on their laps on the terrace. Because neighbors brought bowls or baskets of their favorite food, the meal had become a festive hodgepodge. Considering that the meal lasted an hour and a half, followed by socializing at each church, Elliott would have grown weary of celebrants if not for Mrs. Howard. The belles a
nd matrons, on behalf of their daughters, parried like artillerymen on the battlefield, lobbing salvos in an attempt to score victory over the other women. Because ladies weren’t supposed to discuss politics or religion, or inquire about a man’s financial position, the women chattered endlessly about topics of no interest. Heaven forbid they be deemed schemers searching for a suitable mate.
Mrs. Howard, however, yearned to know everything about Richmond society, and she had few qualms about someone’s impression of her. She had asked him once if he found her curiosity vulgar. He assured her he did not. Instead, he found her fascination with his town a step in the right direction.
Elliott was packing his papers into his worn leather satchel when a knock at this office door commanded his attention.
“Excuse me, sir. I know you’re eager to leave this afternoon, this being the last Friday before Christmas… ” his aide paused, looking nervous.
“What is it, Lieutenant? I’m still here, aren’t I?”
“A woman is here to see you. She wouldn’t give me her name, but she talks rather strangely.”
Elliott’s head snapped up. A woman—has Mrs. Howard decided to pay me a call? “I wouldn’t describe the lack of an affected drawl as strange, Lieutenant,” he said. “You may show her in.” He slicked a hand through his hair and buttoned his uniform up to his throat. When the woman entered his office, Elliott was wearing his widest smile.
But she was not Madeline Howard.
“Good afternoon, Colonel, sir. I don’t ’spose you remember me. I’m Kathleen O’Toole. I work for Mr. Duncan over on Forsythia?” She blinked several times while fidgeting with her bonnet ribbons. The brim was so wide she had to turn her head to look left or right.