“Hey, you’re holding up the line, Johnny.”
Silas looked back over his shoulder. “Nope. I’m a Billy now, remember?” He turned back to Amelia and grinned. “Took the Oath of Allegiance. They let me go.”
She hadn’t even known he’d been taken prisoner. Suddenly, Liberty’s silence began to fall into place. The poor girl. Amelia fumbled to fish the tongs out of the pan juices. “Please, find a seat. I will join you as soon as everyone has been served.”
For the rest of the line, Amelia’s mind was back at Holloway Farm, reliving the darkness of those battle days, and tasting again a hint of bitterness that Liberty had replaced Levi in her heart. She sighed and reminded herself of all that God had taught her in the last two and a half months. Not the least of which was that Liberty was quite capable of making her own decisions, and should not be held hostage to grief.
When the last man had received his meat, Amelia wiped her hands on her apron and found Silas at the end of a long table. He had lost weight in prison, but his face was as handsome as ever.
“How’s Liberty?” His first words, without preamble.
“I don’t know. I don’t even know where she is.”
His green eyes bore into hers. “What do you mean?”
“She hasn’t returned a single letter I’ve written her. I haven’t heard a word from her since I left in July.”
Silas wadded up his napkin and tossed it on the table. “Does she think you’re upset about—well, do you have much time to read the news?”
“I told her I didn’t think any differently of her after learning that Bella is her mother. I’ve done nothing to turn her away that I’m aware of.” She paused, and watched him stew. “The question is, does she know where you are?”
“Of course not.” He sipped his coffee. “There is no point in pursuing … anything. Not now.”
Understanding glimmered in Amelia. As of two years ago, marriage between whites and blacks was illegal in Ohio, too. “I see. Such a shame.” His eyes raised to meet hers. “I’ve seen Liberty with Levi, and I’ve seen her with you. She loved you. I don’t know what she’s feeling now, or even where she is, but I know she loved you once, and she very likely still does. In fact, I have a hunch that the reason she isn’t answering my letters is due in large part to your absence.”
“Really? Why?”
“Grief isolates. She lost you, you know. She lost everything.”
“Except her mother. And I don’t think Bella wants me around her daughter, regardless of what the law says.”
Amelia leaned back in her chair, said nothing. It was a moot point anyhow.
“I wish I could help her.” Silas sighed.
“Even though you’d receive no promises in return? Whatever you have in mind, she’ll not be able to repay you with anything. Not with money, not with her heart, not with a future.”
“What I’d get in return is of no account to me. I just want to clean up the mess I left, so to speak, and let her live her life.” He propped his head in his hands, elbows on the table in front of him. “Never mind that I have no idea how to go about it fresh from prison. …”
“I don’t believe it.”
Amelia and Silas looked up to see Harrison Caldwell standing at the end of the table. He shook Silas’s hand vigorously and slid onto a chair across from him.
“What are you doing here, Silas?”
He told him. “What about you?”
“Oh, I live in the neighborhood. I come here fairly frequently to talk to the men passing through. Always on the lookout for a story, especially since I was sacked from the Inquirer. I’m working on my own now.”
“You were dismissed?”
He rubbed a hand over his freckled face. “Yeah. I was. The upshot of it is that I can write any story I want now. No more battles for me. Downside is finding the stories I can sell.”
“How do you like happy endings, Harrison?” Amelia smiled at the bewildered look on his face.
“Love them. Have you got one for me?”
“Almost. But first, it may be none of my business, but Silas could use a little help getting back on his feet, after just being released from prison.”
If Amelia Sanger was good at anything, it was meddling in other people’s business.
Camp Letterman
Wednesday, September 23, 1863
A violent gust of wind shook hickory and oak leaves from their branches, sent them dancing in the air before fluttering to the ground like golden confetti. The smoky autumn air of Camp Letterman was spiced with the aroma of cooking chickens and hams. More than four thousand of the birds had been brought in for today’s picnic and festivities, a much-needed break from the monotony of hospital life for both patients and workers alike. A band from York trumpeted popular tunes while each patient who could be moved was brought to open-air banqueting tables and had his fill of meat, pies, ice cream, and other delicacies brought by the citizens of Gettysburg and the surrounding area. Patients and attendants competed in foot races, greased pole and gander-pulling contests. For one glorious day, there was more laughter and jesting than moans and sighs.
Laughter bubbled up out of Liberty to see Virginia and Samuel tripping over each other in the three-legged race. A pair of convalescent soldiers deliberately stayed behind them to make sure they didn’t come in last place.
“This has been so good for the children.” Carrie Daws approached Liberty. “I haven’t heard them laugh this much in months.”
Smiling, Liberty nodded, still watching the ridiculous antics of the patients. “It’s been good for everyone. Thank you for your help in getting everything ready.”
Carrie waved the gratitude away. “You know I could not have left right after Jeremiah died anyway. Staying and helping has been a way to work out my grief. So many of these Confederate patients didn’t have family to come tend to their sides—it was my pleasure to represent Southern sympathy to them.”
Virginia and Samuel crossed the finish line, and both Liberty and Carrie erupted into cheers, along with the rest of the crowd.
“Walk with me?” Carrie led the way to the graveyard and found Jeremiah’s marker. Unable to afford the cost of a coffin and shipment back home, his body would remain here, at least until Carrie could come back for it later.
A cool breeze feathered Libbie’s face with the faint scent of evergreens from the wreaths adorning every tent in the camp. Reverently, she knelt with Carrie between rows of the dead. Carrie kissed the earth that covered Jeremiah’s body, then dabbed the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief she had trimmed with black ribbon on her first day here.
At length, she turned to Liberty, tears brimming in her eyes. “I can’t thank you enough for letting us stay in your tent and help with the patients. You know, some of my friends lost their men in this battle too, but they all refused to come. I don’t judge them for their loyalty to the Confederacy. But I pity them that they will not have a tangible way of closing this chapter of their lives—at least see for themselves the final resting place of their dead. It cost me dearly to make this trip, but I’m glad I did it. And now, it’s time for us to go home.” She tilted her head. “What about you, Widow of Gettysburg? When will you go home?”
“I’ll stay as long as I’m needed.”
Carrie nodded. “You have your own grief to work out, I see. You work harder than any other nurse here, and you are the only one not attached to the government or a commission. One day, Camp Letterman will close. I pray that by then, your heart will let you rest.”
Rest? No, thank you. Still, she smiled and thanked Carrie as they stood and headed back to the festivities.
When they reached the edge of the crowd, Carrie hugged Liberty and rejoined Betty and her children, while Liberty remained a spectator. The band from York now played a melancholy tune, but one that had become the most popular song on both sides of the Mason and Dixon line: “When This Cruel War Is Over.” As the notes floated on the breeze, men and women joined in the c
horus:
Weeping, sad and lonely, hopes and fears how vain!
When this cruel war is over, praying that we meet again.
Crows squawked against the blue and gold autumn sky, as another woman with red-rimmed eyes wandered in and among the crowd, looking for husband, brother, or son.
This cruel war was not over yet.
Campus of Lutheran Theological Seminary
Thursday, September 24, 1863
Unease roiling his stomach, Silas climbed the steps of Dr. Samuel Simon Schmucker’s house—mansion was more like it—and noted the damage the Rebels had caused to his former professor’s home. Window frames had been shattered, sashes broken, the greater part of the glass destroyed. Several shells had knocked through the brick walls.
He rapped his knuckles on the front door and waited, hat in his hands, until the white-haired reverend answered it.
“Can I help you, son?”
Silas’s new suit grew warm on his body. “You may not remember me, but I was a student of yours once. Silas Ford.”
Dr. Schmucker’s eyes widened in his pale face as he reached out and grasped Silas’s hand with a hearty shake. “I don’t believe it. Silas Ford, man of the Lord, here again at last!”
Silas winced as the rest of the rhyme sounded in his mind. Took slaves to bed and shot Pa dead! “Actually, sir, I wouldn’t mind if I never hear that mocking phrase again.”
“I’m not mocking you, Silas. Come in, come in.” He stepped back and closed the door after Silas entered his home. “You were one of my most promising students.”
A short laugh escaped Silas as he followed Dr. Schmucker down a hall. “I had to study harder than most to get the same marks.”
“I’m not speaking of academics. I’m speaking of your heart.” He paused in a doorway. “Here, let us visit in my study.” Silas could not help but notice how sparse his bookshelves were as they sat in wooden chairs. “The place was ransacked by the Rebels. So many of my books, papers, sermons—destroyed. An oil painting of my father—slashed with a bayonet. But let us not speak of it. I’m far more interested in you. You had such a shepherd’s spirit. I was so sorry when you discontinued your courses.”
“I understand my mother told you why.”
Dr. Schmucker nodded, peering down his hawklike nose. “She did. In a letter. I’m sorry to say one of my student assistants found it, came up with the rhyme you referred to earlier, and it spread like wildfire. Something in our human nature loves to watch another man fall from grace, you know. That’s not to excuse it. I’m sorry you had to hear it.”
“I’m sorry it was born from the truth.” Silas rubbed his jaw. “Something has been troubling me, though. I understand my mother would have told you I shot my father in a duel, hence the ‘shot Pa dead’ line. But where did the phrase ‘took slaves to bed’ come from? Did she say something about me taking advantage of slaves in her letter too? I can think of only one incident, but I never told her about it.” He focused on the pleats in his trousers, unable to meet his gaze.
“She did mention it. This I found strange, as well—quite unbelievable, actually. Until I received another letter from her. Last month.”
Silas’s head flew up. “You can’t be serious.”
Dr. Schmucker went to his bookcase, pulled from it a small personal Bible, and withdrew a folded sheet of foolscap from within its pages. “It’s for you.”
Silas stood to accept the letter, and opened it immediately.
July 18, 1863
Dear Dr. Schmucker,
I once wrote to you that my son Silas Ford was as likely to become a pastor as Lucifer was to become God Himself.
Silas returned to his chair, hands growing clammy. He loosened the cravat around his neck.
I wrote to you in anger. I did many things in anger that I now regret more than words can say. Chief among them was turning my son away rather than making peace with him before he went to war. As months turned to years, my anger faded. My loneliness sharpened, and I wanted—I want—more than anything to set things right with my son. I’ve had no letter from him since he joined the army, and I wouldn’t know how to reach him either.
But now I hear tell of the battle of Gettysburg, and I suspect if my Silas isn’t dead yet, he was there for that great contest along with the rest of Lee’s army. And if he was, I suspect he might try to visit you and make amends, or a confession, whichever his state of mind. It is in this hope I write to you now. I have my own confession to make. You not being a priest, this is not for you. This is for my boy.
Silas, you must forgive me. In my own pain, I tried to do you wrong. Your father used slave women for his own pleasure for years. I tricked myself into thinking it did not bother me as long as it was lust that drove him. I knew he loved me, and took his animal passions out on the Negro women to keep our love and marriage more pure. Then Psyche came along, and she was different. To my horror, he developed an affection for her that made her special. He singled her out, and meantime, our marriage bed went cold.
My jealousy knew no bounds. All I could think of was how to drive a wedge between Psyche and your father. And I’m ashamed to say it now, but I used you.
“Go to Silas,” I told Psyche. “Offer yourself to him and make sure he does not refuse. He likes to help—make him think you need this from him for some reason.” She said you didn’t take her, and I just went crazy thinking that you had a stronger will than your father, and you a young man not yet married. My plan was that you would taste the forbidden fruit, get drunk on the pleasure of it, and find a way to keep her for yourself. Then my husband would come back to me. Maybe your father would just sell Psyche off the plantation so neither of you could have her.
It was not a well-conceived plan, I know. But it was all I had in my desperation. So one night at dinner I put something in your drink to make you sleep deeply. I told Psyche to slide in between the sheets with you and get you to give into temptation in your drunkenness.
Psyche followed my instructions—what choice did she have? But Silas, you never did a thing. She told me you were so dead asleep you snored like a bear for hours. That she tucked herself in your arms, but nothing roused you. You did nothing wrong, Silas. You were completely innocent.
Even if I never see you or hear from you again, I hope this sets you free. You were always such a good boy, Silas. You must forgive me for my wrongdoing in this, and for blaming you for your father’s death. Do not forget, he is the one who invited death by suggesting a duel. Be at peace with yourself.
The letters blurred together on the page until Silas rubbed the moisture out of his eyes. Silas remembered going to bed early that night, and waking up, still groggy, with Psyche in his arms. As she left, she had said “Thank you.” All this time, he had imagined she was thanking him for granting her request. She was thanking me for leaving her alone!
“I’m sorry you did not learn the truth sooner, son. But thank God she found you here at Gettysburg. God works in mysterious ways, does He not?”
Silas nodded mutely, unable to find his voice. Shock at his mother’s ruse sliced through him. Her own guilt was punishment enough, Silas felt sure of that. He could not leave her in those shackles he knew so well, not when she was offering him the olive branch. He would write to her. And soon.
For now, he relished in the absolution contained on a single sheet of foolscap. “I’m not like my father,” he whispered as relief washed over him.
“I would argue that you are.” Smiling, Dr. Schmucker pointed to the heavens outside the broken window, and a fresh breeze rustled the letter in his hand.
Closing his eyes, Silas breathed a silent prayer. “I’m trying to be,” he said at length.
Dr. Schmucker tented his fingers together and nodded. “That’s what matters. Now tell me. Why did you come?”
“I never did like unfinished business.” He leaned forward to measure his former professor’s reaction. “I am considering, perhaps—that is to say, would you allow me to resume my
studies here?”
Dr. Schmucker beamed. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see you back at the seminary. Classes were supposed to resume today, but the last patient only left the seminary building eight days ago. We need a bit more time to prepare the building for students again, but yes, there is room for one more! Several of our students have enlisted, you see, so our numbers are already down.”
Silas stood, straightened his jacket over his trousers. “It would have to be next fall for me. I’m afraid I can’t be ready to enroll this fall just yet.”
“More unfinished business?”
“You could say that, yes.”
“Well, if there is anything Dr. Krauth or I can do for you, you just say the word, won’t you?”
Silas shook the reverend’s hand as he stood. “As a matter of fact, I believe there is.”
Gettysburg, Pennsylvania
Thursday, September 24, 1863
With applesauce simmering on Bella Jamison’s stove, she opened her windows and breathed in deeply. When cooler weather had finally swept away the persistent stink of battle’s aftermath, she realized she had not taken a deep breath in months. Now autumn ushered in the smell of fermenting apples instead of flesh, and decaying fallen leaves instead bodies.
A year ago, she had taught Liberty how to make applesauce at Holloway Farm. Now, she could not get Liberty to come home for anything. That girl was stuck, in more ways than one. Life goes on after loss, Bella had tried to tell her. But Liberty was wrapped up in loss, still wearing her mourning clothes, and walking the graveyard at Camp Letterman every night with the other nurses to weep over those who had been buried that day.
Widow of Gettysburg Page 33