Widow of Gettysburg

by Jocelyn Green

  “Of course, I’ll only be a moment, Dr. Lansing.” Her face brightened toward him, and he winked at her, his grey eyes twinkling.

  “He’s more than a doctor, though, isn’t he?” Liberty had a feeling that if she had not been standing there, he would not have settled for a wink.

  Charlotte smiled. “After the war, he will be my husband.”

  “Pray God that will be soon.”

  Charlotte’s face grew serious. “Indeed. But in the meantime, we both have work to do. Be well, Liberty. I will do what I can for Amelia. I’ll be right here for at least another week, maybe longer, and you can write to me if you need to, after that.” She scribbled a Rhode Island address on a scrap of paper and pressed it into Liberty’s palm before giving her one more hug. “Remember, you’re allowed to move on. Live.”

  The women parted, and with new breath in her spirit, Liberty climbed back in the wagon she borrowed from Dr. O’Leary. She had one more stop to make before heading back to Holloway Farm.

  It was time to say goodbye, for good, to Levi.

  Holloway Farm

  Tuesday, July 14, 1863

  Sunbeams slanted in through the skeletal barn, baking stripes of Silas’s body with midsummer heat. Sweat trapped between his back and the India rubber blanket protecting him from the filthy floor. The quilt Libbie had brought for his comfort, he had given to a patient in worse condition.

  “Silas?”

  He opened his eyes to find Liberty offering him a steaming cup of coffee. He sat up and accepted it with thanks. After months on end of substitute coffee—made from chicory, corn, acorns, beets, okra seeds, or dandelion root—nothing could warm a Southerner’s heart like a real cup of coffee.

  Shaking off the fog in his brain, he brought the tin cup to his lips and sipped. The first taste burned his tongue, but he didn’t even mind, it tasted so good. A subtle smile played on Liberty’s lips as she watched him. As he tried not to watch her lips.

  He swallowed. “You look …” What could he say to her? She looked like an angel, in spite of her careworn dress, fretted at the edges. She looked like all that was fresh and vibrant and lovely. She looked … “Well-rested.”

  “Well, that’s a miracle.” Eyes crinkling, Liberty laughed out loud, and it sounded like music.

  A smiled tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I’m just glad you can say my name without hissing now.”

  “Of course. We’re friends, aren’t we?” She cocked an eyebrow.

  Friends. Right. It’s what he had asked for.

  Grogginess coated his mind like molasses. He closed his eyes for a moment—and saw his mother’s accusing face, jabbing a finger at his chest. You! You’re just like your father. You call it a protective instinct, I call it base desire. No woman is safe around you! I never want to see you again!

  “No!” His eyes popped open again, his chest heaved.

  “No?”

  Oh no. He shook his head. What did she say? “Oh yes, friends. Yes, we’re just friends.” His heart thudded as the image of his mother dissolved from his mind.

  She knelt by his side, spoke in soft, low tones. “How are you feeling?”

  “They’ve been giving me something for the pain, which helps. And water. If I pour water on my leg, it helps too. But when my leg is numb to pain, my head aches some, and I have a little nausea, but that’s nothing compared to the alternative. But sometimes I also feel … It’s hard to explain.”

  “Try.”

  “Confused.”

  Liberty pressed her lips into a thin line. “About what?”

  “Anything. Everything. I feel a little bit of it right now. But please don’t worry. You’re not my nurse, remember? That was our arrangement.”

  “I’m not your nurse. But …”

  Her voice trailed away, and Silas shook his head. The fog was getting thicker. Oh no. Liberty was frowning. Did he say something wrong? What did she just say? His memory failed him. He shook his head again. Tried to drink his coffee, but it sloshed over the cup’s rim.

  “Silas, look into my eyes, please.”

  He tried. But he was getting so sleepy. The cup no longer warmed his hand. She must have taken it from him, and he didn’t even notice. Why was he so tired? Didn’t he just wake up? His eyes started to roll back, he fought against it. He didn’t want to sleep, he wanted to see Liberty!

  “Your eyes are red, and your breathing is so slow, Silas. I’m worried.” She offered him a handkerchief. Was his nose running again?

  “Don’t be.” He eased back onto his rubber blanket. “I’ll just rest.”

  “You need the doctor.”

  I need you.

  But she was already gone.

  Myrtle Henderson almost dropped her tray of bread as Liberty stumbled into her right outside the barn.

  “Forgive me, Myrtle! I’ve got to run for the doctor. It’s Silas. Could you sit with him? Don’t let him fall asleep!” She hitched up her skirt and took off in a blur.

  Myrtle’s heart raced as her feet carried her to Silas’s side. She fumbled the tray onto the ground and gripped Silas’s shoulder. “Silas Ford? It’s me, Myrtle Henderson. Myrtle is here. Wake up, Silas. It’s me, Myrtle.”

  Squinting, he rolled over and looked at her.

  “The doctor is coming.” She hoped he would be glad that at least she was here now.

  He groaned. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Myrtle.”

  There was not a single thing wrong with Silas Ford. Everyone who had half a brain knew that. He was perfect. And he needed Myrtle Henderson now.

  “Why would you say such a thing?” She licked her dry lips and tucked a strand of blonde hair back into her snood.

  “It’s Liberty.”

  Myrtle stared, trying to understand. What did Liberty do to this man?

  “I can’t talk to her like I want to. I want to protect her from the horror that has become her home.”

  Myrtle eyebrows knitted together. He was not supposed to think about Liberty like that. He wanted Myrtle. Not Liberty. He said so himself. Silas asked for Myrtle.

  “I want to stand between her and everything that could hurt her—but I can’t even stand at all. I want her to be happy, but look at all the misery around her. How do I fix this for her? I so desperately want to fix it.”

  Myrtle picked up a piece of bread from her tray and absently tore at it, letting little pieces of it mound on her apron like snowflakes.

  “My mind tells me to leave her alone, that she’d be better off with someone else. But my heart—does not agree.” He sighed, looked at Myrtle for a moment before closing his eyes again. “Funny. I can say that to you, but not to her. It’s almost like she’s cast a spell over me.”

  A spell. Of course! Myrtle was indignant. “Then I will never let her near you again. You can count on me.”

  His eyes blazed so hot she felt burned. He looked at her like she was … crazy. But Myrtle Henderson was not crazy. She plunged her fingers into the bread again, tearing and dropping, tearing and dropping, until her hands were empty and her lap was full of crumbs. With a sweep of her large hand, she sent them scattering to the floor.

  “Don’t do that, don’t keep her away,” he said. “I want to see her!”

  Was he angry with her? “I’m only trying to help, Silas, and you said she cast a spell on you. Spells aren’t good. They’re evil.”

  “It’s a figure of speech, Myrtle.” Silas rubbed his head and frowned. “She is a very special … friend … to me.”

  “I’m your friend.”

  “You’re my nurse. This is different.”

  Myrtle scrunched into her neck. She knew what he was saying. Liberty was special. Myrtle was not. Myrtle was different. She peeked up at him and saw he was still frowning, a hand covering his eyes as if the light hurt him.

  She didn’t like it when he frowned. She liked it when he smiled. At her. This was all wrong, all wrong, this was going all wrong. Myrtle slid her hand into her pocket and held Dolly�
�s hand between her thumb and forefinger. Dolly wasn’t upset with her. Dolly would never frown at her. Dolly always smiled.

  “I just meant to say, I’m shy around her all of a sudden. She’s so beautiful, and I have never felt so—exposed. Raw. I can’t say or do the things I want to, and it makes me feel embarrassed.” He closed his eyes and covered his forehead with his hand again. “Surely you can understand that.”

  Myrtle shrank back. He thought Liberty was beautiful? Of course. She is beautiful, Dolly whispered to her. Yes, but Silas Ford wasn’t supposed to care what Liberty Holloway looked like. He wanted Myrtle. No, he doesn’t, you ninny, said Dolly. He’s making fun of you.

  Myrtle released Dolly as if she were a burning coal and pounded the pocket closed on top of her, smashing the rag doll within it. Her breath came in short gasps, her vision swayed. No, no, no. Not Silas. Dolly was lying. Silas was special. Silas needed Myrtle. Silas needed Myrtle. Silas needed—

  Of course. Silas needed medicine. Yes, that was the answer. She looked over her shoulder out the barn door. No sign of Liberty or either doctor yet. It was up to her. Good thing she had slipped a few of those opium pills from Dr. Stephens’s kit into her apron pocket. She knew she was smart to do that. Myrtle was smart. Myrtle Henderson knew just what to do.

  “This medicine will help.”

  But he looked like he was asleep. She wiggled the pill between his lips—such beautiful lips—and told him to swallow. Maybe he heard her, or maybe it was a reflex. Either way, he did it.

  She did it.

  Swelling with pride, she watched him until his muscles relaxed in sleep. Yes. This was the way she liked him. Now she could talk to him and say anything she liked without worrying how she would sound. Without the risk that he would not like what she said.

  Myrtle shuddered when she remembered the look on his face when she said she would keep Liberty away. She pressed her rough fingertips to her eyelids, tried to rub out the image of his upside-down mouth.

  It didn’t work. Another glance over her shoulder. Still no sign of anyone. She reached up, placed an index finger on each corner of his mouth, and pushed up. There. Now he was smiling.

  And so was she.

  “What’s this, what’s this?” Dr. Stephens bellowed as he blew in the door, and Myrtle jumped nearly out of her skin.

  The doctor knelt down beside Silas. “Was he complaining of the pain again?”

  Too flustered to speak, Myrtle just scurried away to let him get a closer look.

  “Well, I’ve got secondary hemorrhages, gangrene, lockjaw, and dysentery out there. I’ll not wake him if he’s at rest, poor fellow. But if he wakes up in pain, get me immediately, and I’ll dispense more opium.” Dr. Stephens looked up and down the barn. “It’s the least we can do for these chaps.” Turning back to Myrtle, “You may resume your other duties now, but check back on him regularly, and as soon as he wakes, you are to find me. He need not suffer in pain. Will you remember?”

  Myrtle nodded. She would remember. It was the least she could do.

  Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

  Tuesday, July 14, 1863

  Amelia Sanger thought her heart would burst out of her corset. A young man, perhaps nineteen years of age at the oldest, with black hair that curled on his forehead, arrived at the Sanitary Commission Lodge at the train depot without the slightest hope of recovery. How he had been sent away from his field hospital was a mystery to all at the lodge. The only thing to do now, was make him comfortable.

  He had called her Mama, eyes glazed with fever, and had clung tight to her hand. He looked just like Levi.

  “Don’t bother correcting him,” whispered Charlotte. “Let him believe his mother has come for him. He will not survive the night.” Charlotte asked Amelia to make him a bed with a half sheet and soft straw, and told him his name was Simon.

  Amelia could barely tear her gaze from his beautiful young face. It glistened with sweat, and she mopped his brow with a handkerchief.

  “I knew you would come,” he said, and she was suddenly struck with the drawl of his words. This was no replica of her son. This was a Rebel boy.

  “Charlotte,” Amelia called after her. “He is Southern.” Surely there had been some mistake.

  “Yes. Which means he will never see his mother again. At least the Northern boys stand a chance that a loved one may come for them. But no Southerners will get past the picket lines. You do him a great service by caring for him. You know the Bible, correct, Mrs. Sanger?”

  “Yes.” Amelia was bewildered by the sudden change of subject. “Of course I do.”

  “Then you will understand what I mean when I remind you that serving the hungry, the thirsty, the sick, the prisoner—all of this is serving Jesus. Matthew 25. It is what we did for your son after Bull Run, and now you are performing the same service for someone else’s son. Yes?” And she left the tent, leaving Amelia speechless with her charge.

  “You’re not leaving now, Mama, are you? I thought you’d never get here in time.” Amelia knelt by Simon and looked at his face again. On closer inspection, he was not as similar to Levi as she had first thought. But he’s someone’s son. Another woman would soon enough know the grief that belonged to a childless mother.

  “I’m here,” she whispered. “Let me make you a bed to be more comfortable.”

  After making a mattress on the ground with the sheet and hay, she pulled from a crate a donated quilt, to which was pinned a card. It read: “My son is in the army. Whoever is made warm by this quilt, which I have worked on for six days and most all of six nights, let him remember his own mother’s love.”

  Conviction tightened in Amelia’s throat. Lord, she prayed, I’ve been so selfish, please give me the attitude of this woman. May I be a conduit of Your love to whomever You place in my path here.

  She helped the boy onto the mattress and gently covered his shivering frame with the quilt. Peace smoothed his brow as he nestled into his fresh new bed.

  “I knew you’d come, Mama.” His breath slowed, and his color paled, but he slipped his hand into hers, cold and clammy. “Would you sing to me?”

  Sing? “Sing what, dear?”

  “My favorite hymn. ‘Be Still My Soul.’”

  Amelia paused. “I—I don’t remember the words.”

  “Me neither. That’s why you sent a hymn book with me.” Simon smiled and patted his haversack. “Third and fourth verses.”

  Amelia drew a ragged breath and began, voice quavering at first.

  Be still, my soul: when dearest friends depart,

  And all is darkened in the vale of tears,

  Then shalt thou better know His love, His heart,

  Who comes to soothe thy sorrow and thy fears.

  Be still, my soul: thy Jesus can repay

  From His own fullness all He takes away.

  The chug and shriek of a steam engine broke in between the stanzas as a train approached the station. Amelia kept singing, her voice stronger this time, to be heard above the screech of iron slowing on steel.

  Be still, my soul: the hour is hastening on

  When we shall be forever with the Lord.

  When disappointment, grief and fear are gone,

  Sorrow forgot, love’s purest joys restored.

  Be still, my soul: when change and tears are past

  All safe and blessed we shall meet at last.

  When she finished, Amelia looked up to find several other faces watching her, not a dry eye among them.

  Charlotte was there too. “Your train is here. Thank you so much for your help today.”

  Simon’s eyelids fluttered. He still knew she was there. He would know if she was not.

  “Mrs. Sanger?”

  “Charlotte, dear, I’m afraid I was mistaken. That’s not my train, after all.”

  “Are you sure? It’s headed to Baltimore, where you can transfer to the line to Philadelphia. Isn’t that your destination? It’s the last civilian passenger car of the day.”

 
; “That’s not my train,” she said again, and smiled as Charlotte’s eyebrows raised.

  “That’s right, Mother,” said the boy. “We’ll go in the morning, won’t we? Home.”

  The hour is hastening on.

  The boy did go home in the morning, but not by rail. Wrapped in a blanket, he was set aside for burial, and Charlotte asked Amelia to write the letter to his mother.

  “Please,” Charlotte said. “I know it’s taxing. But it will mean more coming from you than from me. You were with him in his last moments.” She did not need to remind Amelia that Charlotte had been with Levi in his, and had taken up the task of writing to her son’s family.

  Now it was Amelia’s turn. What an agonizing duty. How do you tell a complete stranger that her son is dead? Even before she reads a word, the unfamiliar handwriting will give away the message. Her mind will spin back to the first time she held him as a baby to her breast, his first wobbly steps into her arms, the sticky, slobbery kisses on her face, his sweaty arms around her neck after romping about outside. She will long for his scent, just one more time, and will watch him grow into a young man before her eyes. She will crumple to the floor if she has not already fallen and fear she has forgotten how to breathe. Emptiness will rip open inside her and she will expect the void to swallow her whole.

  Amelia knew. She remembered it all in vivid detail, when it was her own son who had died. The yellow and white striped summer gown she wore had seemed a garish frame for the letter that had fallen from trembling hands onto her lap. Mad with grief, she had clawed at the silk skirt, knocking over a vase full of daisies, not caring that glass shattered, and water puddled on the walnut table. Hiram, her own husband, accused of her lying. He is not dead, he cannot be dead. Over and over again. The loss would destroy the man she had married and replace him with a cruel imposter.

  Amelia breathed deeply now. Today is not about my loss, she reminded herself. This moment was for someone else. How do I begin? Charlotte’s letter had begun with a single verse—2 Corinthians 1:3. She still knew it by heart.