Widow of Gettysburg

by Jocelyn Green

  As if that was a guarantee of lifelong integrity. But loss and pain and grief and fear changed people. He had lost a leg for the Southern cause, had taken an interest in a woman he thinks is white. If he finds out she is a quadroon, what will he do? Just because he does not support slavery does not mean he would be happy knowing Liberty is not pure white.

  If Bella wanted to keep Liberty safe from her own identity, she could not share her concerns with her. Secrecy was the only solution. Sweat beaded on her face as she watched the spoon in her brown hand circle the pot. She was going in circles, stewing and sweating for Liberty. But this was what mothers did. And whether or not she’ll ever know it, Liberty will always be my daughter.

  All she could say was, “Be careful. You don’t know him yet. I don’t trust him. He’s Southern.” But the label did not carry the weight for Liberty that it did for Bella.

  “You are judging him for who his father was. I can only hope he does not do the same for me.”

  Bella jerked. “What do you know of your father?”

  “I know he made a mistake by sleeping with a whore who tried to use me as a bargaining chip with him to secure her own lasting comfort. My father made a mistake in the heat of passion, but my mother was far worse. She was cold, calculated. She would do anything to better her own situation, including having a baby she never intended to love. She never intended to love me.”

  Shock rippled through Bella. “Who told you these things?”

  “My aunt Helen.”

  “And that’s what you believe? That your mother never loved you?”

  “Is there a reason to believe otherwise?”

  Trapped, Bella’s chest heaved with breath. Finally, “Every mother loves her child. Even if they aren’t the best at showing it.” She looked directly into her daughter’s eyes. “Your mother loves you.”

  “My mother is dead.” Liberty’s eyes hardened into blue ice.

  Bella grabbed her shoulder, the flesh of her flesh. “Hear me, child. Your mother loved you.”

  She twisted out of Bella’s grip. “I am not a child! I am not your child, I am no one’s child. I am an orphan. And how would you know how every mother feels? You have no children.”

  Bella stood back as a wall shot up between them, a barricade of deceit and hurt and shame and fear.

  “You’re right, Miss Liberty. I have no children.” After Liberty was born, she had made sure of that.

  “And as I cannot pay you for your services of the last week—indeed, I know not how I’ll pay for your services forthwith—you are free to go. I truly hope your staying this long has not cost you your other jobs.”

  Bella faced her daughter. Liberty’s head was held high, jaw set. She had risen up and taken charge of the situation, just as Bella had taught her. She had grown into the self-assured woman Bella had hoped and prayed for. She was giving orders, not taking them.

  And now Bella was free to go.

  Holloway Farm

  Monday, July 13, 1863

  Outside the summer kitchen, Myrtle Henderson plunged a broomstick into a kettle of water with lye, agitating the soiled clothing.

  She marveled at her good fortune.

  Since she had arrived at the Holloway Farm Confederate field hospital last week, she had not had a moment’s rest. Though she had expected to stay in the background, need drew her out. Everywhere she went, men called her by name. They needed water, food, bandages, clean clothes, medicine.

  They needed her. Hundreds of men wanted Myrtle Henderson. Her lips curved into a shy smile as she stirred the kettle of laundry. Wouldn’t everyone back home be shocked? But she did not care to dwell on home. Her father’s purple handprint on her arm had faded to yellow-grey, but the bruise was still there beneath her shirtsleeve, a reminder that certainly, she was not missed.

  In her twenty-seven years, no one, save the little ragdoll she kept in her pocket, had ever wanted to be around her before. Her face was too wide, her smile too large, her cheeks too ruddy, her figure too shapeless, her hands too rough. She was taller than her peers, and had never understood how to break into those elusive circles of female friendship. Myrtle had always been an outcast, and painfully shy. If anyone called her anything, it was Myrtle the Turtle, for the awkward habit she had of pulling her head down into her neck when she was nervous, a subconscious effort to appear shorter, she supposed, or to disappear altogether. People could be so mean. But not her dolly. Dolly always listened, always smiled at her.

  Leaning on her broomstick for a moment, she looked out over the yard, the house, the barn. No one here compared her to a turtle. In fact, many men had called her an angel, especially when they learned she was a Southern-sympathizer. The slightest compliment or words of thanks sent shivers of pleasure through her as she brought dippers of water to their lips, or pulled combs through their hair, looking for vermin. She had never talked to so many men before in her life. Not counting the few times she had defended herself from her father’s blows, she had certainly never touched one.

  “There you are, Myrtle.” Liberty Holloway rounded the corner of the summer kitchen, looking breezy in a coral plaid dress with belted waist and a ruffled hem.

  “You headed to church, Miss Libbie?”

  Liberty laughed. “I told you, you may call me Liberty or Libbie. No ‘Miss’ required. And don’t poke fun—all my work dresses have been absolutely ruined—soiled beyond redemption, or cut into bandages. Isn’t it ironic my Sunday dress is all I have left, and not one church is yet open for services? They’re all still crammed full of wounded.”

  If Myrtle could look that nice in a dress like that, she’d never take it off, Sunday or no. She did not need to look at her own frock to know she looked like a simple peasant next to Liberty. “You wanted to see me?”

  “Yes. Silas Ford needs the doctor’s attention. Dr. Stephens is available, but he may need an assistant as he changes the plaster strips on his stump. Would you be willing?”

  Heat crept up Myrtle’s neck, until she could feel the warmth blooming in her cheeks. “Yes, of course.” She left the broom where it was and headed to the barn.

  Why Silas Ford had been asking for her, Myrtle Henderson, was a mystery to her. No, it was a small miracle. He was easily the most handsome fellow of the entire hospital, and brave, suffering in silence what would have driven other men to screams. And he was asking for her, again.

  By the time she reached the barn, Dr. Stephens was already there next to Silas. Straw whispered beneath her feet as she joined them, her heart beating outside her chest at the sight of Silas’s body, every muscle taut with pain born from his stump.

  “Silas, I have run out of morphia to inject under your skin,” the doctor was saying. “But this opium will help. You must take it by mouth. It will numb the pain, relax your muscles. All right?” Silas swallowed the dose, and Myrtle watched his face. The lines in his forehead did not go away.

  “How’s that for you?” Dr. Stephens asked.

  “My stump still burns.”

  Promptly, Dr. Stephens dipped a sponge in a basin of water, then wrung it out over his bandages. Instant relief shone on Silas’s face.

  Dr. Stephens cut away the old linen spiraling down the thigh and around the stump and dropped them in a metal bowl on the floor. “Now I need you to drip water from the sponge over these plaster adhesive strips until this entire bowl of water is gone. Do it slowly, carefully, so as not to waste the water. We must soak the strips before we attempt to remove them. I’ll be back shortly.”

  Dr. Stephens left to make his rounds in the barn, while Myrtle followed his instructions.

  “I appreciate you doing this, Miss Henderson.” Silas smiled.

  “Please, call me Myrtle.” She slowly squeezed water from the sponge to dribble over the two strips crossing the seam where Dr. O’Leary had brought his flesh back together in a wobbly seam. Crusty threads hung from each end. Her stomach quailed.

  “I’m sorry, I know this must be difficult for you.” />
  “Perfectly fine, just fine,” she lied. But she would do it for him. She would do anything for Silas Ford, because he needed her. Again, she soaked the sponge in water.

  He sighed. “The water feels good.”

  “You said it burned, and what better way to put out a water than with fire?” She grimaced, horrified at her blunder. “I meant, fire with a water. No! I mean: I’m glad it helps.” Myrtle’s neck scrunched as she tried to disappear, humiliated.

  “Myrtle, I knew exactly what you meant.” He smiled, and the world righted itself again. “Believe me, sometimes my mind is so fogged it’s all I can do to string two words together. I don’t know if it’s from the pain or from what they give me for the pain. So don’t worry. I understand you fine.”

  Myrtle lost herself in his kind, green eyes. “I understand you too, Silas. You’re from Tennessee? Divided by loyalties, like mine. It’s tough, never knowing who’s in charge at the time, or who to trust.”

  “Mmm hmmmm.” Silas closed his eyes, and Myrtle’s sponge hovered, dry, over his stump. The opium had released pain’s grip, and he was finally able to rest. Good. He was so much easier to talk to after he’d had his medicine. His speech slowed, and sometimes slurred, but that was all right with Myrtle. She was far less nervous about trying to impress him then. When he was relaxed, she relaxed. She didn’t even mind if he fell asleep while she was with him. Then she could say whatever she wanted, could stare at his face without embarrassment.

  “Well, you can trust me, Silas Ford. You can trust Myrtle Henderson. I’ll take good care of you. I promise.”

  She glanced around. Dr. Stephens was at the far end of the barn, he would not be here soon. Emboldened, she reached up and brushed Silas’s oak blond hair off his brow.

  “You’re so easy to talk to, Silas.” She knew he did not hear her. “You’re almost as easy to talk to as Dolly. And a lot more fun to look at it.”

  She sat back on her heels and squeezed the dry sponge in her lap for a moment before she resumed soaking his plaster strips. Her stomach was now steeled to both the sight and smell of his undressed stump.

  Her heart, on the other hand, felt like jelly. So this is what it feels like to fall in love.

  Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

  Tuesday, July 14, 1863

  Amelia Sanger craned her neck as she gazed at the Italianate cupola atop the two-story blue-bricked railroad depot on Carlisle Street. Morning sun glinted off arched windows and glared into her eyes. She blinked, and inhaled from a small bottle of peppermint oil. Gettysburg still reeked.

  It was time to leave.

  She should have known it would come to this. It had only been a matter of time. If there had been no battle at all, how different things would have been. Amelia would have made Liberty a cake for her twentieth birthday ten days ago. Liberty would have relished the taste and the attention. She would have embraced Amelia, and they would have set about furnishing the house to be an elegant country inn. They would have been family.

  But there had been a battle, and everything changed.

  “We just missed the morning train,” Liberty said as she emerged from the station. “Do you want me to stay with you in the ladies waiting room until the next train comes?”

  “I can take care of myself from here on out quite well, thank you.”

  Liberty bit her lip. “Amelia, you know as well as I do that our arrangement simply wasn’t working. The farm is still a Confederate field hospital, and it’s the last place you want to be. You don’t want to help, there is barely enough food to go around, and the place is contaminated. I know you’ll be more comfortable in Philadelphia. If you want to come back and visit once this is all over, you’re welcome to. But for now—”

  “You’ve had your say. No need to repeat it. You may take your leave.”

  “But the next train isn’t for hours. What will you do in the meantime?”

  Amelia looked around. Four disabled cannons were parked near the station, while the land next to the tracks was filled with tents. Beyond the station, Amelia saw only bewildering confusion as the streets thronged with soldiers, nuns, wagons, ambulances, civilians, and sightseers.

  “The U.S. Sanitary Commission Lodge,” Liberty read off a wooden sign. “Come, let’s see if we can learn anything.”

  They entered through an open tent flap and watched quietly for a moment as women labored over portable cook stoves to bake bread and simmer beef and vegetable stew. Amelia inhaled the divine fragrances, thankful for the respite from the stink of war. Rows of makeshift tables and chairs, now vacant, spoke of useful service to hungry men.

  A woman with chestnut hair pulled into a chignon spied Amelia and Liberty, wiped her hands on her stained apron, and approached them.

  “Good morning, ladies. Can I help you with anything? Are you looking for a loved one?” Her large, hazel eyes were sincere, kind.

  “Charlotte Waverly?” Liberty asked. “I can’t believe it’s you!”

  “Liberty!” Charlotte drew her in a tight embrace. “We’ve been so inundated with women coming through here looking for their soldiers lately—I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you!”

  “Two years of war makes quite a difference. Three days of battle on one’s doorstep changes … everything.”

  Charlotte nodded. “I had forgotten that you lived in Gettysburg. How do you get on, my dear? Was your farm taken for a hospital?”

  Amelia cleared her throat, loudly. How rude of them not to notice her.

  Liberty’s eyes brightened, and she grasped Amelia’s elbow. “Amelia, you are not going to believe this. This is Charlotte Waverly, who nursed Levi in Washington after the First Battle of Bull Run. Charlotte, this is Levi’s mother, Amelia Sanger.”

  For a moment, Amelia’s power of speech left her. Then, “You were with my son? When he died? You were the one who wrote to me with news of his death, weren’t you?” With trembling hand, she covered her mouth. Tears bit her eyes.

  At once, Charlotte threw her arms around her. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said. “He was a brave young man. You raised a fine son.” Charlotte stepped back, but still held Amelia by the shoulders of her black bombazine dress. “You must be very proud. Have you come here to help the wounded, like so many others who have lost a soldier? Of course, I should have known. From what I know of Levi and Liberty, you must be such a caring, giving person. I’m so glad to know you.”

  “Actually, Charlotte, Amelia was hoping to leave Gettysburg today by rail. Are you feeding the wounded here before they leave?”

  Charlotte nodded. “And more. Men straggle in from the hospitals from miles around, at all times of the day, with nothing in their bellies for the tiresome travel ahead of them. So we fix them up with food, fresh clothing and bandages, cologne-scented handkerchiefs, canteens of water, that sort of thing. The ones who arrive after the four o’clock train we provide with cots and bedding for the night, as well. The government has made no provision for these men on their journeys. Can you imagine?”

  “Perhaps, if you let me—” Amelia hesitated. But how bad could this be? Surely compared to a field hospital, it would not be so hard to bear. “I could help. Just for a bit, you understand, until my train comes in. I’d love to hear more about what my son’s last days were like, if you don’t mind.”

  Charlotte put her fists on her slim hips as she appraised Amelia. “I would like that very much, Mrs. Sanger. I’m happy to share anything I remember about Levi, as long as our hands can keep busy while we visit. And understand, we may have several interruptions.”

  Amelia nodded. She’d never admit it to Liberty, but refusing to work at Holloway Farm had bored her nearly out of her mind. She hated playing the role of a useless, bitter old woman. She hated disappointing Liberty, too, just when they were starting to get to know each other. But how could she reconcile serving the boys who killed her son? No, she had had no choice but to remain idle and wait out the storm.

  Helping Union boys on their journ
ey home though, that would be fine. After all, she had nothing else to do. No one was waiting for her—anywhere.

  Almost dazed with shock, Liberty grasped Amelia’s hand. “Amelia, I think this will be good for you.”

  The older woman cocked an eyebrow. “Do you now?”

  “Do write to me once you’ve arrived in Philadelphia. I must get back to the farm.”

  Charlotte nodded. “Splendid. Amelia, why don’t you go see my mother Caroline, just there, and she’ll lend you an apron. I’ll be right over.”

  Linking an arm through Liberty’s elbow, Charlotte walked her into a different tent, where a surgeon attended patients apparently not quite strong enough yet for the journey. “How are you, Liberty? Truly? Are you forgetting the past, and reaching forth?”

  Liberty smiled. “I believe I am.”

  “Good.” Charlotte circled her shoulders with an arm and squeezed lightly. “Dare I ask how your farm withstood the battle storm?”

  “It’s ruined. Turned into a hospital for Confederate wounded.”

  Charlotte drew a hand over her mouth. “But it has not ruined you. Has it?”

  “No. You’d never believe what I am capable of now.”

  “Oh, yes I would. You do what needs to be done, day after day, until one day, you discover you are doing more than just surviving. Your life has purpose. Am I right?”

  Silas’s face surged before Liberty, and she beamed.

  “Liberty Holloway! I never knew you had dimples!” Charlotte sucked in her breath. “You’re not in mourning anymore, are you?” She winked. “Good for you. Amelia may never move past the memory of her son, because she will always be his mother. But widows stop being wives. Widows move on, when the time is right.”

  The surgeon approached Charlotte and placed his hand on the small of her back. He was younger than the doctors at Holloway Farm—and far more handsome. “I’m sorry to interrupt, darling, but very soon I will need your assistance with these patients.”