“No thanks, can’t stand the stuff.” Silas smiled at the puzzled expression on the boy’s face before the child shrugged and tried for another customer.
Silas remained on the edge and watched smooth-faced boys in blue peacock about. So you traded your textbooks and Bibles for rifles, did you? His stomach soured for them, for their mothers and sweethearts. The beat of a drum hammered in Silas’s chest as the high-pitched fife played Yankee Doodle to a backdrop of feminine cheers. Even the dripping, sullen sky seemed unable to dampen the throng now filling The Diamond.
How pitiful. How pathetic. They would not cheer if they knew what he knew. They would not believe him if he told them.
Their march ended, the uniformed students milled about the crowd, accepting pies and coffee from grateful townsfolk.
“You a seminary student?” Silas called down to a soldier near him. With cheeks bulging with cherries, the boy nodded in the affirmative. “Is Rev. Schmucker still teaching? He was my professor once upon a time.”
The student-soldier’s eyes brightened. “You don’t say! When did you graduate?”
Silas rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw. “Let’s see—I was there in ’57 and ’58.”
“Why then, you must have known Silas Ford!”
“As a matter of fact—” He stopped himself. “Why do you say that?”
“Oh every student from ’57 on knows him. For pity’s sake, the whole town knows about him. He’s a legend! You know—‘Silas Ford, man of the Lord’?”
Silas was stunned. “Man of the Lord?” He dared to believe it was true of him once, but—
“Of course! ‘Silas Ford, man of the Lord, took slaves to bed and shot Pa dead’! Remember him now? Did you have any idea he was a bad egg?”
His blood turned to ice in his veins. “No, no, you must be mistaken.”
The boy shook his head. “Hardly. Watch this. Hey Blevens!” he shouted to another soldier. “Finish this rhyme: Silas Ford, man of the Lord …”
“Took slaves to bed and shot Pa dead!” Blevens hadn’t missed a beat.
Silas was going to be sick.
“You see?” The boy took another bite of cherry pie. “I can’t understand how you don’t know about him. Silas Ford is a cautionary tale. His mother wrote a letter to Rev. Schmucker explaining why he wasn’t coming back, and word got out quick. Just goes to show no matter how close we feel to God, we can all fall away as he did …” Another bite of pie.
Silas had heard enough. Clucking his tongue to Bullet, he began threading his way out of The Diamond.
Then he saw Liberty on the other side of the square, a simple blue dress gracing her frame as she climbed down from her buggy and joined the crowd. So she decided to put off mourning after all. Does she know the rhyme too? Does she believe it? Silas was glad she didn’t see him. He wanted to watch her, unnoticed. She hadn’t recognized him this morning, but what if she had a sudden recollection? Still, he couldn’t help but watch Liberty one more moment as the old protective instinct for the orphan girl swelled in his chest.
Then he remembered why he was here in the first place, and the smile faded. Protecting the innocent was not part of his line of work. And it was certainly not what he was known for in Gettysburg.
Bella could still smell that rye bread and rhubarb pie she’d made at the Holloway Farm as she let herself into her modest two-story house on South Washington Street. She was tempted to bake a pie for herself just to have that heavenly smell of buttery crust and tangy-sweet rhubarb permeate every corner of her comfortable home.
Large pink flowers bloomed on the creamy papered walls of her kitchen above wainscoting painted a mellow green. Open shelving revealed crocks of coffee beans, flour, lard, and sugar, while jelly pots sparkled with cherry and peach preserves. It was not furnished as finely as the homes of the white women she worked for, but it was her home—together with Abraham—and that was what was important. No mistress above her here. No master, no overseer, no driver. Here, she was her own mistress. As long as Bella had a choice, she would never consent to live in someone else’s home again.
But there was no denying she still needed white folks as employers. Her eyes drifted to the baskets of laundry waiting to be ironed, and a sigh escaped her. At least it was already washed. Just the thought of toiling over a washboard in a bucket of water made her back muscles tie themselves up in knots. She much preferred tasks that allowed her to stand straight. Some days, judging by the way she felt, even she didn’t believe she was only thirty-six years old. Maybe her body still suffered from years of bending over harvesting rice down on Georgia’s St. Simons Island. Maybe the memory alone was enough to cause the ache.
Balderdash. She scolded herself as she dropped some kindling into the stove and lit the fire that would heat the iron on top. That was a lifetime ago. But a nest of hornets had buzzed in her belly this morning when she was hiding with the horses. Her past was not so distant that the idea of repeating it couldn’t shake her to the core of her being. She had been lucky today.
Foolish is more like it, she could almost hear her friend Missy Pratt say. Not that Missy was anywhere near here anymore. She and most of her neighbors had packed up their belongings as best as they could and skedaddled as soon as Governor Curtin announced the Confederate army was now in Pennsylvania. Balancing bundles on their heads, pushing wheelbarrows or driving wagons of their earthly possession, some fled to Yellow Hill, seven miles north of Gettysburg, some to the capital, Harrisburg, and some to Philadelphia. Others took the path of the Underground Railroad farther north, as if they were runaway slaves and not free blacks minding their own business in a free state. The western section of town was now all but vacant of its nearly two hundred colored folks.
The rain drummed harder outside, and Bella shivered as she tossed a glance at the Log Cabin quilt draped over the couch in the next room. How many times had she thrown that quilt over the clothesline outside as if she were airing it out? To the people who needed to hear it, the message was clear: Welcome, night travelers. This is a safe house on your journey. Only seven miles north of the Mason Dixon line, Gettysburg was among the first stops for many of them. The passing of the Fugitive Slave Law thirteen years ago gave slave catchers every “right” to come hunting for humans with their bloodhounds, and hunt they did.
Even Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation of six months ago did not entirely stem the tide of runaway slaves. Freedom did not apply to slaves within the border states of Maryland, Delaware, Kentucky, and Missouri. Bella and Abraham would harbor the souls seeking freedom until it was time to secret them away to the McAllister Grist Mill where they would hide under the mill wheel until it was time to move again. Everyone hoped that Rock Creek and the pond by the mill would throw the dogs off the scent.
Humming “Wade in the Water,” Bella gripped the iron with a potholder, turned it over and spit on the surface to test the heat. It was ready. As she ironed Mrs. Shriver’s blouse, Bella wished it were as easy to smooth out the wrinkles in her life.
A sharp rapping on the door snapped Bella out of her reverie. As soon as she opened the door, the shining black face of old Hester King, or Aunt Hester, as everyone called her, beamed up at her.
“I saw a light in your window, baby, and just thought I’d step in to check on you.” She entered, and a whoosh of humid air came with her, like a puff of hot breath, sticking to Bella’s skin.
She latched the door behind her and bent down to kiss Aunt Hester’s cheeks in greeting. “I thought you’d be working at the Fosters’ today.”
“I have today off. I was fixin’ to work in the garden, but not in this wet mess.” She hung her shawl on a wooden peg inside the door and sat at the kitchen table, her usual sign she was planning to stay for tea. Bella moved the copper teakettle to the spot on the stove that was still hot from heating the iron, then sat across from her old friend.
“It’s mighty quiet around here now, isn’t it?” Bella folded her arms across the red and white check
ed tablecloth.
“Should be, after all that racket they all made skedaddling the place. Did you hear the way they were carrying on? The mamas and daddies scaring their children to death to keep up the pace.”
“But you’re not scared.”
“No. If things turn ugly, the Foster family said they’d protect me.” It was only right. She’d been their washerwoman for more than a decade. “And you? You’re not afraid?”
Bella shrugged. “My feelings have little to do with my options.”
Aunt Hester nodded slowly. “Don’t I know that’s right.”
“If I leave, who will protect our home?” Bella raised her eyes. “Besides, three of the women I work for have all told me if I leave I won’t be getting my job back.”
“Ain’t there no money coming in from Abraham?”
Bella clenched her teeth before responding. It was a question she’d asked herself every time the mail failed to bring her the answer she so desperately desired. “No. I don’t understand it. He’s off fighting only God knows where—and still no sign of a paycheck.”
She clamped down on the rest of her thoughts on the subject before they spilled out of her. She wasn’t proud of her sentiments. But how she wished she would have hidden the copy of The Christian Recorder advertising the fact the Frederick Douglass was speaking in Philadelphia in March! If he hadn’t gone, if he hadn’t heard the call for colored men to serve in the 54th Massachusetts, he’d still be here. She wouldn’t be alone.
No, those were thoughts best kept hidden in the dark corners of her mind—the ones that needed to be swept out the most, but were most often neglected out of pure denial. Instead, all she said was, “My work is all I’ve got to keep us afloat right now. If I leave, we’ll have nothing left.”
Aunt Hester reached across the table and squeezed Bella’s hand.
“It’s not right that he should be fighting for freedom somewhere else when ours is in jeopardy right here.”
“Don’t you be listening to no nasty stories now, baby. You free, and I is too. Our days in bondage are over. We in charge of our own lives, and ain’t nothing going to change that.”
Steam billowed out of the teakettle’s spout, and Bella jumped up to pour two cups, glad Aunt Hester couldn’t see the tears welling up in her eyes. The truth was, she felt less like the mistress of her own life than she had in a long time, and the feeling chafed her raw. There had been a time when she had been able to shrug off stories of kidnapped colored folks. But that time was over. Now the stories weren’t just rumors—they were headlines.
In spite of herself, her hands were unsteady as she placed the mismatched porcelain cups and saucers on the table. “Didn’t you hear what Jenkins Confederate cavalry did, just eleven days ago?”
“I heard.” Aunt Hester grinned.
“Why are you smiling?” Bella was incredulous. “In Chambersburg, they captured between thirty and forty black women and children—women and children—and started driving them in wagons back down South.”
“I smiling because the good white folks rescued them. The captives were freed.”
Bella sipped her tea before saying that not all white folks would be so bold. Before reminding Aunt Hester that the entire town nearly paid the price. Jenkins demanded $50,000 in compensation for the blacks, who he claimed were his property. When the town leaders refused, Jenkins threatened to return in two hours to burn the town. Fourteen of the black women who had just been freed met with the town leaders and offered to give themselves up to Jenkins to spare the town. The town leaders refused, but Jenkins never returned. But not all such stories had happy endings.
Bella tightened her grip on her cup. “Did you see Tuesday’s paper? The Adams Sentinel?”
“You know I can’t read. Only news I get is what other folks tell me.”
“Well, let me tell you. Rebels took possession of Hagerstown last Monday, and when they left two days later, they carried off with them horses and ‘quite a number of colored persons.’ But, the paper says, other than that, they did ‘very little damage.’ Isn’t that a relief?” Sarcasm edged Bella’s voice. “Very little damage! I’m sure the people on their way to the auction blocks would say otherwise!”
Slowly, Aunt Hester sipped her tea and replaced the cup on its saucer before folding her hands on the table. “And yet you still here. Ain’t you? You gotta know that you will be protected from such a fate, otherwise wouldn’t you be gone, too?”
Bella stared at the steam curling up from her tea for a moment before answering. “Chambersburg is twenty-three miles to the west. Hagerstown is in Maryland, thirty-two miles to the southwest. Gettysburg may be spared.”
“Just so.” Aunt Hester nodded, eyes twinkling. “The good Lord didn’t bring you up from slavery to send you back down to it. You gotta grab on to hope, child, and make sure that hope is tied to God above. He is our hiding place.”
Bella had too much respect for Aunt Hester to point out that God had not hidden the colored folks of Hagerstown very well. Most likely, it was sacrilegious even to think it, but she could not help herself. They were probably in the deep South by now, their lives forever changed. The old woman sitting across from her was serene, confident. Content. Bella would not take that from her. Instead, she nodded and dredged up a smile.
Aunt Hester’s gaze flicked to the window. “Rain stopped! Well, baby, I do believe it’s time for me to check on my spring vegetables. Stop by if you get lonely.” She brought her cup and saucer to the dry sink, plucked her shawl off the peg, and let herself out the door.
After watching Aunt Hester amble down the wooden sidewalk, Bella returned to her chore as their conversation rolled over in her mind. Biting her lip, she pushed the iron across the linen, back and forth, over and over. Truth be told, protecting her home and keeping her jobs were not the only reason she remained in Gettysburg. She had another reason for staying.
But that truth would not be told. Not ever.
Suddenly, her windows rattled. Thunder? I thought the rain had stopped. Bella stepped outside. Just a few blocks north, a dozen horsemen crashed pell-mell past South Washington Street on Chambersburg Pike. They were yelling. What were they yelling? Bella trotted toward the intersection, her heart rate quickly matching the horses’ speed. People came out of their houses and lined the streets as the men raced up and down, their horses kicking up chunks of mud from the road. It was Robert Bell’s Independent Cavalry. They were shouting the news, all of them, at the same time. Bella strained to make sense of their wild cries.
“The 26th has been routed!” The 26th? The town’s defenders? Already?
“Most of them have been captured! The survivors are retreating to Gettysburg now!”
“Rebels in pursuit! They’ll be in Gettysburg within the hour!”
And they left.
The 26th was in tatters. The Philadelphia City Troops, sent to reinforce the 26th, were nowhere to be found. Gettysburg’s Independent Cavalry had just delivered their news and run away for their lives. Bella turned back. Her legs propelled her down the wooden sidewalk while women all over Gettysburg stood in their doorways and called for their children to come home. Windows shuttered. Doors slammed and latched. Quiet pulsed in her ears as Bella reached her house.
The rain had stopped, but another storm was rolling in. And the women and children were completely unprotected.
Liberty had gone to the Ladies Union Relief Society meeting expecting—no, hoping for—a sense of belonging. Support, even, for her decision to put mourning behind her. What she got instead, before she even opened her sewing basket, felt more like a slap in the face.
“You were a symbol,” Geraldine Bennett said matter-of-factly. “A reminder to all of us here of the sacrifices our boys in blue are making. You were an inspiration to the town, a living remembrance of the ultimate price for freedom. You were the Widowed Bride. The Widow of Gettysburg.”
The words were shards of glass, carving away her own delusion. How could I not have se
en it? They accepted me only because my husband died in the war. If he hadn’t, she would have still been on the outside looking in.
“I’d rather be known for who I am than for what—for who—I’ve lost.” Liberty’s voice sounded small. She did not want to anger Geraldine.
“My dear, any one of us can stitch and sew, scrape lint, and rip bandages. You were special.”
Were. Tears pricked Liberty’s eyes as the message washed over her, seeped into her pores. You were valuable as a symbol. Taking away the symbol takes away the value. You are no longer special.
“We were hoping you would be in the parade again this year, representing the Ladies Union Relief Society.”
“I can still do that. I’m still a widow, aren’t I? I still support our soldiers.”
“But if you refuse to wear mourning clothes, why would we put you in the parade? Would anyone recognize you without your Widow’s Weeds?” She trailed off. “You must understand, Liberty. You were a symbol.” The hateful word, again.
And here I thought I was a person. Knowing full well she was breaching proper etiquette once again, Libbie swept out of the church without so much as a goodbye, leaving a group of tittering women in her wake. Whispers of “selfish” and “impertinent” chased after her into the street, but not one of the women tried to stop her.
Climbing into her buggy, Liberty slapped the reins on Daisy’s back and the mare lurched into motion, never slowing until she stopped at Evergreen Cemetery.
Kneeling in front of Levi’s tombstone, her body rocked with the torrent of emotion. She appeared braver this morning when a strange man came to her farm than she did when faced with a group of women. Because I care what they think of me. Maybe she shouldn’t. Life surely would be easier if she didn’t. But heaven help her, she did.
“Oh Levi,” she said to the plot of earth in front of her. In the last two years she had said more to him right here than she had while they were alive. “If you wanted me to be happy, that should be enough for me. Please give me peace so I can live my life …”
Widow of Gettysburg (Heroines Behind the Lines) Page 3