Numb, Liberty sank to the ground and stared absently at the dust mites dancing in the sunbeams streaming down through the hayloft. Major sat down next to her, sniffing the air. She wrapped her arm around the big dog’s neck, and he leaned into her, the motion of his wagging tail gently rippling through his body and into hers.
She should get up. She should check the garden and the springhouse, with its crocks of butter and bottles of milk staying cool in the waters of Willoughby Run.
Sitting in a heap won’t bring anything back, that’s sure. Time to get busy. Libbie rose, brushed the dirt and hay from her skirt, and checked the rest of her outbuildings, Major ever at her heels. The summer kitchen was even more of a mess in the glaring light of day than it had been under the cover of semidarkness.
Major stayed in the summer kitchen lapping up the food on the ground while Liberty stalked back to the farmhouse to put on her apron, frustration churning in her gut. It was time to clean up.
Suddenly, footsteps whispered from somewhere inside the house. Alarm rang in her ears. Not again! She bounded up the stairs to the back door. Locked!
Heart pounding, she hiked up a fistful of skirts and dashed back to the summer kitchen, snatched up the first thing she could reach—a washboard—and rushed around to the front of the house.
Noiselessly, she slipped through the door, sidled along the front hall and peeked around the corner, palms sweating into the weathered wood frame of the metal washboard. I should have grabbed the iron skillet. How much damage can a washboard do?
“Liberty?”
The washboard fell from her hand and clattered to the floor as she wheeled around. There stood a woman draped in black, complete with a weeping veil covering her face. Liberty’s body froze, her mind reeled. But not a single idea gained traction.
“It’s me. Amelia Sanger. Your mother-in-law? I’m so sorry I startled you.”
Liberty’s breath seized as Amelia removed her veil. “But what—what are you doing here?”
“Please, call me Mama. We are family, aren’t we?” In an embrace that smelled too thickly of lavender, Amelia pressed Liberty to herself before holding her at arm’s length.
“I don’t understand.” Libbie’s voice sounded more like a child’s than a woman’s, and she hated herself for it.
“I must say, Liberty, I don’t either.” Her eyes took her in from the top of her head to the red petticoat peeping out from beneath her blue floral calico. Just last week, she and the rest of the Ladies Union Relief Society had stripped all their white petticoats into bandages and sent them away, where they could be useful. “Have you forgotten my son so soon?”
She gaped, embarrassed at first. But hadn’t she fought this battle already, over and over, to be free from Levi’s death? Tasting anger, she found her voice: “The fact that I no longer wear the color black does not mean I have forgotten Levi, Mrs. Sanger.” She would not call her Mama. She was not her mother. They were not family—not anymore.
The woman sighed. “You must forgive me. And if you won’t call me Mama, at least call me Amelia.” Her face looked pinched and pale. Snood-covered pecan brown hair was dusted with grey at the temples, reminding Libbie that Levi had been her miracle child, come later in life. “You can have no idea what I’ve been through to get here.”
“Please, tell me why you’ve come, but sit first.” She followed her to the front parlor where they sat at a marble-topped table. “You’ve chosen a fine time to travel. Don’t you know Lee’s army is here? Rebels raided the place last night. I thought you were one of them.”
“You’re not hurt, are you?” Amelia’s eyes went round. “When I arrived and didn’t find you at home, I began to fear all was not well.”
All is not well. But, “I’m fine. They took my mare, killed the chickens, wreaked havoc in the summer kitchen, and helped themselves to the springhouse. But I am unhurt.” She hoped her face bore no trace of Amos’s slap.
Amelia nodded, and her eyes glazed. “I did not choose the time for our journey. Hiram—my husband—has just died, you see—”
“I’m so sorry,” Liberty whispered, but Amelia waved the condolence away.
“We knew his time was near, and so did he. He made it very clear that he wanted our family to be buried together. ‘Parted in life, but not parted in death,’ he told us. Family was always the most important thing to him. To all of us.” She dabbed her eyes with a black-edged handkerchief. “We never dreamed that Levi would be the first to be buried, but—well, the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. So here we are.”
Confusion creased Libbie’s brow. “You’ve come to take his body back to Ohio?”
“No, my dear girl.” Amelia’s voice warbled. “We considered that, but decided against it. Poor Levi has been moved enough, has he not?”
Liberty closed her eyes. She would not let her mind travel back to the awful trip she made by rail with his coffin.
Amelia nodded. “We have brought Hiram here, to be buried with his son at Evergreen Cemetery.”
“But won’t it be hard for you, to cover the miles when you want to visit their graves?”
“I’m not leaving.” Her tone was laced with triumph. “There is nothing left for me in Ohio, not without Father. Now he and Levi are here. This is where our family is now. Including you.” Amelia reached across the table and held Libbie’s hand. “You are all I have left in this world. We belong together in these uncertain times. You don’t deserve to be alone, my girl. I am your family, and I’ve done you wrong by not showing it more. But from now on, I’ll stand shoulder to shoulder with you.”
Libbie’s mouth went dry. Family? She didn’t know Amelia. She barely knew Levi when they married! “Where will you stay?”
“Here, of course. I can help you: cooking, preserving, sewing, needlework. We’ll make a fresh start of it, together. The two of us. Hiram and Levi would have wanted it this way.”
“But I—” Liberty’s spirit flinched, but she could not say exactly why. Wasn’t this what she had wanted? To not be alone? Yet this solution did not seem right. Like an ill-fitting store-bought dress, it pinched where there should be freedom; it hung loosely where it should have been snug. She licked her lips and tried again. “I mean no disrespect to you, nor to the memory of Levi or Mr. Sanger, God rest their souls. But death has severed the marriage bond that tied me to Levi. I could not ask you to stay and tie yourself to me, then.”
“But I can help you! And Lord knows, my dear girl, I can’t possibly go back to Cincinnati now. I had to sell Hiram’s shop, and with the money I have from that, we can start over. Together. It would give me such pleasure to be close to you, dear. I want to know you and love you, because Levi did. I want to be close to him. You’ll not deny me that privilege, will you? Levi would have taken good care of you had he been here. Hiram wanted the money he left me to benefit you, as well. You can’t deny you could use a little help around this acreage—”
“I don’t—I don’t want to farm anymore. Very soon, I’m afraid there will be very little for you to do here.”
“And just how will you make a living? Without a husband? Without a harvest?”
“I’m turning the farmhouse into an inn. This is a large house, with seven bedrooms not in use. The great hall upstairs can be turned into a recreational room of sorts, with a billiard table at one end and tables for checkers on the other. Perhaps a piano, too. If I can fill even some of the rooms more often than not each month, it will be enough money to live on and enough to put away for the future. I can even sell some of my quilts, and jars of applesauce and preserves. Adams County is famous for its apples. Travelers would be happy to bring some token home with them.” Liberty took a deep breath.
“I see.” Amelia’s tone was thick with condescension. “And how many customers have you right now?”
“None.”
“Well then, how many have you had up to this point?”
“I am still in the process of converting the farm’s purpose. I haven
’t had any customers yet.”
“Yet you need money in order to make the place a pleasant accommodation, do you not? Let’s see, you want to buy a piano, a billiard table, more beds, linens, washstands, basins and pitchers. Bureaus and writing desks would be ideal for each room, too. You can use my horses and wagon for the time being, but at some point you’ll want to buy a horse of your own, too. Not to mention the expense of repairing the damages caused last night. Am I right?”
Out of nervous habit, Liberty reached for the ring that spun on her finger before crossing her arms instead. My, how the list did go on. At length, she nodded.
“Done!” Amelia beamed and grasped Libbie’s hand. “Congratulations on your first customer!”
“You mean—”
“That’s right, my girl! If you won’t accept me as family, I’ll rest content as a paying customer. Would you accept one dollar per night?”
Liberty gasped as she did the math in her head. Seven dollars a week! Of course, she’d need to use some of that money for more provisions if she would be feeding another mouth. And much of the funds should go toward obtaining a horse and purchasing furnishings for the rest of the rooms … Every room could have a theme, with the quilt as its centerpiece. She knew just what to do …
“I can work, too,” Amelia added. “I’m still strong. Give me some chores, and I’ll see to them.”
“I don’t suppose you would be willing to pluck some chickens, would you? I just so happen to have three dead hens and a rooster we need to make use of before they spoil.” She’d never admit it to Amelia, but she still couldn’t clean a bird without feeling sick to her stomach.
Amelia nodded. “I make a delicious chicken pot pie, if you’ve got the vegetables.”
“There are some onions, carrots, and beans in the garden that are ready for picking. You make dinner. I’ll work on cleaning some of yesterday’s mess. Would that arrangement be agreeable for you?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well then, let me show you to your room so you can freshen up first.” For the first time in a very long time, Liberty felt as young as she really was. “Welcome to Liberty Inn!”
Gettysburg, Pennsylvania
Saturday, June 27, 1863
White hot pain reached up Bella’s neck and wrapped its fingers around her skull. After hours of listening for the blood-curdling Rebel yell, she had fallen asleep tightly curled inside an empty barrel in her cellar. The musty smell crawled inside her nose and pulled her out of her sleep well after sun up. Only when she timidly moved her muscles did numbness give way to cramping. She would have to take her time getting out of this barrel.
THUD THUD THUD. Bella froze. Someone was knocking on her door. Had the Rebels come to search her place at last? The ability to pray escaped her. Terror seized her. She bowed her head low and hugged her knees to her chest, darts of pain spiking across her shoulder blades. Even her toes curled under as her body tried to disappear.
THUD THUD THUD. Perspiration beaded at her hair line, rolled down her forehead and clung to the end of her nose before dripping onto her crumpled apron. In seconds, dampness spread beneath her armpits and across the small of her back.
THUD THUD. “Bella! Are you in there?” Shock replaced fear at hearing her own name being called. Her eyes popped open, though it was still pitch black in the barrel.
“Bella! You in there, baby? It’s safe, you hear? Them Rebels ran off! You safe, baby!”
Bella gasped at the sound of Aunt Hester, then found her voice after being silent for more than eighteen hours. “I’m here!” she shouted. “In the cellar! Wait!” Oh, why in heaven’s name hadn’t Hester said who she was earlier? Too relieved to be irritated for more than a moment, Bella unfolded her body and stumbled awkwardly out of the barrel. “Wait!” she called again as she tripped toward the stairs.
By the time she opened the door, Aunt Hester was laughing. Bella kissed her and pulled her inside, and laughed with her, releasing a dozen emotions locked inside for too long.
“You fine, baby, you fine.” Aunt Hester was saying. “See? Them Rebs done come to town, but the Lord watched out for you and me. Just like the Good Book says. We fine, ain’t we now?”
Bella rolled her neck and rubbed her aching shoulders. “Are you sure they’re gone?”
“Sure as sugar, baby. Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t know for sure. The little McCreary boy, Albertus, done told me so hisself, and he been tracking those soldiers for days.” She let out a throaty laugh, her hands holding her jiggling belly. “Now I best get on back to my work now. Just wanted to check on you, make sure you was fine. And you is. Just like I said you would be.” Aunt Hester winked at Bella and let herself out the door. Thank goodness for Aunt Hester.
With her stomach growling, Bella pulled out yesterday’s bread, sat at the kitchen table, and ate. So much, in fact, she wondered if she rivaled Liberty’s visitor from yesterday morning—the traveler.
Another knock at the door sounded. Though Aunt Hester had just reassured her that all was well in town, Bella couldn’t help but stiffen.
“Mrs. Jamison?” Another knock. “It’s Henry Stahle of the Gettysburg Compiler,” he called through the wooden door. “I need to speak with you.”
Caution slowing her movements, Bella opened the door.
“I have news of your husband.” His puffy white face was grim.
Bella’s hands flew to her cheeks. “He isn’t—he’s not—” Her knees began to weaken. This was too much, this couldn’t be happening, not—
“Dead?” He huffed. “I think not.”
A second wave of relief flooded her before she regained her manners. “Please.” She held the door open and stepped aside. “Do come in.”
He cleared his throat. “I think not. I just wanted to give you something that came across my desk at the paper.” He thrust a dispatch toward her, holding the very end of it to be sure their hands wouldn’t touch in the transfer. “You can read, can’t you?”
He appeared relieved when she assured him she could. The top of the paper read: “THE WAR IN GEORGIA: THE DESTRUCTION OF DARIEN.” From the Savannah News.
Her blood ran cold.
“Your husband is with the 54th Massachusetts, correct? Under Col. Robert Gould Shaw?”
Her power of speech now gone, she nodded.
Stahle huffed again, swelling his throat up like a bullfrog. “Apparently he’s been involved in destroying a civilian town in Georgia. Now that’s pretty big news, wouldn’t you say? Black troops ravaging a white town in the South? I would ask you for a comment and run a story about it in the Compiler, but as you know, we have even bigger news in the making right here in Gettysburg. I’m giving this to you as a courtesy, Mrs. Jamison. If we see any more of Lee’s army around these parts—or should I say, if they see you—how do you think they’ll behave if they find out your husband just torched one of their innocent Southern towns? Does the word ‘reprisal’ mean anything to you?”
She could not have responded even if she’d wanted to. Her mouth was as dry as if it had been filled with sand.
Mr. Stahle pressed a handkerchief to his damp forehead. “Confederate troops just burned down Congressman Thaddeus Stevens’s iron mill in Caledonia for his views on emancipation. Don’t think for a moment they will hesitate to set your neighborhood ablaze if they learn what Abraham has done. Frankly, I love a good story, but I’d rather not see my town set on fire.”
He turned and walked away.
Stunned, Bella latched the door and leaned against it, while the headline shouted at her: “THE DESTRUCTION OF DARIEN.” She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.
Darien, Georgia. Just the name of the town was enough to unlock memories she had crammed into the farthest corners of her mind. How long had it been since she had been there? Twenty-one years.
She had been born just across the Altahama River from it, on St. Simon’s Island, in a hut made of oyster shells and mud on Master Pierce Butler’s rice plantation. As a chil
d, she and her twin sister crossed the river to Darien by hollowed-out log most Saturdays to sell moss they had picked and dried from the Live Oak trees, which was used to stuff mattresses and furniture.
Once a month Bella’s family and the rest of the slaves were allowed to attend a Baptist church for slaves in Darien, where they taught her from the Catechism for Colored Persons. She could answer those questions today, word for word, if asked.
How are Servants to try to please their Masters?
Please them well in all things, not answering again.
Is it right for a Servant commanded to do anything to be sullen and slow, and answering his Master again?
No.
But suppose the Master is hard to please, and threatens and punishes more than he ought, what is the Servant to do?
Do his best to please him.
The rote lines rolled through Bella’s mind like a cannonball through barricades she had so carefully erected around those memories. She clenched her teeth. Religious instruction in that ramshackle, sand-sunk town of Darien had been just one more way their master reinforced the principle of blind obedience upon his slaves.
Now just what did my Abraham have to do with that place? Seating herself at the kitchen table, she studied the paper. The article consisted mostly of a letter written by a citizen of Darien, which began:
WHAT HAS BEEN LONG THREATENED HAS AT LENGTH COME TO PASS. DARIEN IS NOW ONE PLAIN OF ASHES AND BLACKENED CHIMNEYS. THE ACCURSED YANKEE-NEGRO VANDALS CAME UP YESTERDAY WITH THREE GUNBOATS AND TWO TRANSPORTS, AND LAID THE CITY IN RUINS. THERE ARE BUT THREE SMALL HOUSES LEFT IN THE PLACE.
The next few paragraphs detailed the churches that were burned, the milk cows that were shot in the street, and the anger of the writer. From another letter, the Savannah News excerpted this:
THEY TOOK EVERY NEGRO THAT WAS IN THE PLACE, FORCING SOME TO GO WITH THEIR GUNS POINTED AT THEM ALL THE TIME. ONE NEGRO WOMAN RAN FROM THEM AND THEY SHOT HER IN THE HEAD, AND THEN CARRIED HER ON BOARD THEIR BOAT. … THE DESTRUCTION OF DARIEN WAS A COWARDLY, WANTON OUTRAGE, FOR WHICH THE YANKEE VANDALS HAVE NOT EVEN THE EXCUSE OF PLUNDER. THE TOWN HAD FOR A LONG TIME BEEN NEARLY DESERTED, AND THERE WAS NOTHING LEFT IN THE PLACE TO EXCITE EVEN YANKEE CUPIDITY. IT AFFORDED A SAFE OPPORTUNITY TO INFLICT INJURY UPON UNARMED AND DEFENCELESS PRIVATE CITIZENS, AND IT IS IN SUCH ENTERPRISES THAT YANKEE-NEGRO VALOR DISPLAYS ITSELF.
Widow of Gettysburg Page 6