Panting for breath and filmy with sweat, she waited, straining to hear padding footsteps in the hall. But no one came. She was alone.
And just who did I expect? She chided herself for her foolishness even as her heart continued racing. Tossing her thick braid over her shoulder, she reached over to her nightstand and turned the brass knob of her kerosene lamp until an amber pool of light fell in a circle around it. What she wouldn’t give for a mother right now, to talk to and comfort her. But she didn’t know her mother. It was a mercy she didn’t want to keep you, Aunt Helen had told her. And a mercy she died a short time after your birth. It’s a blessing you’ll never know her. The shroud of shame was wrapped so tightly around her mother that Libbie dared not unwrap it. But she did have one link to her mother—a baby-sized crazy quilt her mother had made for her during her confinement. Before she met and rejected you. The poisonous thought washed over her, threatening to seep inside.
She closed her eyes—and the nightmare burst into her mind again. It was the same one that haunted her so much in the first year after Levi’s death. In the dream, she stood in her wedding gown when a nameless messenger handed her the telegram. At once, the petals fell off every flower in her bouquet. The message told her only that he had been severely wounded, but her memory told her the extent of it: both legs blown off by a twelve-pounder. Half of the lower jaw removed from his face by a minié ball. Gangrene invading what was left. These wounds were both nightmare and memory, an awful reality she could not grasp as a seventeen-year-old bride.
Later, a letter from a nurse arrived. Please come, she had said. Come quickly, he is slipping. It would be such a comfort to him to see you. But be warned, he is much altered from the man you last saw … Horrified by the magnitude of his injuries, in her own selfish immaturity, she had hesitated. By the time she had shored up her courage and travelled to the Columbia College Hospital in Washington City, the nurse told her it was too late. She had said he had not died alone, that she had been with him in his final moments. So had Major, the regimental canine who lost his hearing and an eye in the fight.
A nurse and a dog. But not his own wife. No, the only good she did was to escort his broken body back to Gettysburg. Major came too—somehow Levi had formed a bond with the dog that Major refused to believe had been severed. The dog smashed his body against the coffin, whimpering, until it was laid to rest at Evergreen Cemetery.
Did her past revisit her tonight to punish her for putting off her mourning clothes?
“It’s been two years!” she yelled into the darkness. “I’m sorry! God, I am sorry! Am I to pay for my sins forever?”
A silent voice slithered into her ears: Yes.
“No!” Throwing back the covers, she snatched up her lamp and left the warmth of her bed. The cool of the hardwood seeped into her feet until she reached the braided rug in front of her bureau. She set the lamp down and opened the back of the frame holding Levi’s image. With a ragged breath, she pulled out a folded sheet of paper and gently opened it to read the grey scrawl inside. It was a letter, pressed into her palm by the nurse who attended Levi, with the words, “Read it when you’re home.”
Dear Liberty,
I know what it is to lose someone you love. You feel as if there is nothing left. Food has no taste, the sun has no warmth. Time seems to stretch out aimlessly and cruelly before you, while time on earth has ended for your loved one.
But you are young. A very wise man once told me, in my own moment of desperate sorrow, something I want to share with you now. … A part of you will be buried with your husband. But not all of you has died. You live. You are young, and you still live. Live.
Liberty scanned a few more lines before her gaze landed on the nurse’s parting words, which came from the Bible, the book of Philippians chapter 3, verses 13 and 14. Liberty read the verses aloud. “… forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before, I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus.”
Beneath the verses, the nurse had signed her name: Nurse Charlotte Waverly, United States Sanitary Commission.
Finally, Charlotte’s letter hit its mark. Liberty looked in the mirror, repeated the verses. Forgetting what is behind, reaching forth to what is before, I press toward the mark. Forgetting what is behind, reaching forth to what is before, I press. Forget. Reach forth. Forget. Reach forth.
Her heart’s frantic groping for hope slowly eased as God’s Word became both her shield and her sword to keep the demon guilt away. Lord, she prayed, if You’re listening—I have confessed my sin to You. Help me believe I am forgiven. Please, let my soul rest. Help me leave my past in the past and reach forth unto what is before, whatever that may be. Help me reach forth.
The grandfather clock in the hall downstairs chimed once. She needed to get back to sleep. Maybe a glass of milk would help.
Pulling a wrapper around her, Liberty brought her lamp to the kitchen, poured a glass from the icebox and stepped over Major, who kept his nightly vigil for Levi inside the front door.
Out on the porch, the half-moon was so bright she turned off the lamp and enjoyed the view in shades of blue and grey. Cool air feathered her face as she rocked. Inhaling the sweet scent of her wild roses, she relaxed to a chorus of bullfrogs and chirping crickets.
And Daisy.
Daisy? The horse never made a sound, unless she were angry. Or afraid.
Senses suddenly sharpened, Libbie picked up the lamp once more and circled the house, the ground like a sponge chilling the bottoms of her bare feet. She edged along the outside of the summer kitchen, crept around its corner until she could see the barn. A light shone fitfully between the wooden slats of the building.
In a flash, her neighbor’s story from earlier today came back to her. A ragged set of Confederate cavalry had taken the town and were looking to take with them whatever they could get.
One impulse told her to run toward the barn for Daisy, another told her to dash back to the house and lock herself inside. While her mind played tug of war over the decision, her chest heaved with uncertain breath, her body stayed rooted to the ground.
Until she was lifted off her feet, with a dirty hand clamped over her mouth from behind. A scream trapped in her throat, her stomach roiled with the smell and taste of tobacco.
“Wade! Jud! See what I found sneaking around!” His fingers dug into her cheeks, the other hand pressed hard against her corsetless middle. Disgust curdled the milk in her stomach.
Two figures emerged from the barn, the taller of them leading Daisy, who was tossing her mane and twitching her tail. “Well, I’ll be. Looks like we both got ourselves a feisty little filly, Amos!” He came closer and raked over Libbie’s body with his gaze. “Only problem I can tell is which one to ride first.”
Liberty’s stomach threatened to reject its contents. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to retain control.
A drunken laugh gurgled out of Amos’s belly, bringing with it a belch of whiskey. “I got use for her yet. Now listen here, girlie girl. I ain’t never seen a summer kitchen so bare as this one here. Do you mean to tell me you got nothing else to give?” He removed his hand from her face. “Answer sweet.”
Libbie rubbed her aching cheeks. “I have nothing else to give.” Her voice shook. The taste of bile was thick in her mouth.
“The devil you don’t. Get in there.” Eyes suddenly flashing fire, Amos shoved her through the door and followed her in. “Jud, stay outside with the horse.” He called over his shoulder to a boy who looked to be no more than fifteen years old, while Wade stumbled into the summer kitchen, too. The walls seemed to close in around Libbie as the lamp threw light and shadows in sharp angles all over the room. Broken shards of her ceramic mixing bowls were strewn about the floor, along with pots and pans. A drawer full of cooking utensils had been overturned. “You’ve already been here,” Liberty began again, louder this time, “I have noth—”
A hard slap
across her face and the metallic taste of blood from her lip silenced her.
Wade yanked and twisted her arms behind her back before she knew what was happening.
“Now you listen to me.” Amos’s voice was low, his breath rotten. The blade of a penknife glinted in the lamplight inches next to her face. “We here are hungry. And you know what’s worse? Our women are too. Maybe you heard about the bread riots down South? How do you think it makes a man feel to know his womenfolk are in tatters, breaking into a bakery and fighting over a loaf of bread like common beggars?” His cracked lips quivered. “FEED US!” He pulled a revolver from his waistband, and Libbie jerked, squeezed her eyes shut.
A gunshot split the air and shattered the glass from the window behind her. Smoke floated from the barrel of Amos’s gun, swirling in the air and choking Libbie.
“All right!” she said between sobs. “Just let—me—go.” Preserving her supply of provisions wasn’t worth whatever harm these desperate men were willing to inflict upon her. She had no idea how she’d recoup her losses. Right now, she didn’t care.
Wade released her slowly. Pulling the work table away from the fireplace, Liberty knelt to remove the loose bricks, fear and anger throbbing in her veins. A box of baking soda was the first to come out. The men tore it open and poured the white powder into their mouths while Libbie watched in wonder. The soldiers’ appetites flared into a raging desire, and they shoved her out of the way to dig out the rest of her stores themselves. In seconds, the dirt floor was littered with flour, oats, preserves, tomatoes. As they stuffed their faces and their haversacks, Liberty sat on her heels and felt her face grow wet with tears. I hate the Rebels! I hate them!
“Put it back.”
All heads turned to the doorway. No one had heard him enter, but there he stood in the edge of the lamp’s amber glow.
“Where’d you come from?” With two grimy fingers, Wade scooped blueberry preserves into his mouth.
“I followed you when you snuck off from the railroad bridge at Rock Creek. You made it easy, too, leaving a scent trail of whiskey so thick it could make a man drunk just to smell it.” He stepped around the food and knelt down in front of Liberty.
“I’m sorry,” he said, green eyes penetrating hers. “Some folks just don’t know how to treat a lady.”
Libbie sucked in her breath. The stranger who came for bread this morning! “What? Who—? Do you know these men? But—but—” Her gaze darted between the soldiers eating flour off the floor and the man kneeling in front of her. “You don’t look like a Rebel!”
And you don’t look like a widow. Silas’s heart lurched at the sight of her tear-stained face. The girl—no, woman—didn’t deserve such hard knocks in her young life. Smelling of apples and cinnamon, her dark hair hung in a loose, glossy braid over her shoulder. Memory surged in Silas, and he saw her as the orphan he’d found crying here before. I burned the bread, she’d explained without looking up. Aunt Helen says I’m worthless, and I should stop trying to help before I ruin anything else. All he could do at the time was eat the loaf’s blackened heel and assure her it was still good. This time, he could do more.
Resisting the urge to push a strand of hair off Liberty’s forehead, he scanned her face. Was it anger he read in her expression? Or just confusion? Or—“They hurt you?”
Blue eyes glittering, she touched a finger to her split, swollen lip. A red handprint on her cheek sent a blade of heat slicing through his chest. He stood and rounded on the men crouched on their haunches, surrounded by their own mess.
“Stand up.” Anger steeled his voice.
They frowned but stumbled to their feet, still chewing.
Undisciplined, drunken fools. Sorry excuses for soldiers if I ever saw any. “How dare you touch this unarmed woman!” Silas’s hands clenched into rock-hard weapons. But he would not fight, no matter how tempting. Words, not fists, he said to himself, and uncurled his fingers. He had to be careful. He had to control himself.
“She’s a Yank!”
“She is a private citizen, and a lady!” Silas took a deep breath and grit his teeth, alarmed at the fire burning in his belly. He hadn’t felt like this since—but that was in the past. One, two, three, four, five. Breathe … Words, not fists. He lowered his tone. “You do realize, gentlemen, that you are defying two orders right now? No drinking. And no harassing civilians. General Early is acquiring what we need by purchasing—not looting—supplies from the town merchants. You need not, and must not, raid private property.”
“Didn’t you hear?” Tomato juice dribbled into Wade’s patchy beard as he spoke. “The town don’t have enough goods to share! So you see, it’s up to us to get the food we need, hats and shoes, too.”
“It is not up to you.” Silas stepped closer, straightened to his full height, and looked down at them. “We’ll get more supplies from York tomorrow. You are to leave the civilians alone.”
“Says who?”
“General Robert E. Lee, Order Number 73. Flyers were printed up and passed out to everyone—didn’t you get it?”
Wade shrugged. “Gettin’ it and readin’ it is two different things, now ain’t they?”
Silas pulled a paper from his pants pocket and held it out to them. “Read it.”
Neither one took it.
“Chicken scratches,” Amos finally said, and Silas understood. They can’t read. He should have guessed as much. One out of every three soldiers he met in Lee’s army was illiterate.
“Then allow me,” said Silas, and Liberty rose to stand next to him, her lamplight falling upon the paper. “‘The commanding general considers that no greater disgrace could befall the army, and through it our whole people, than the perpetration of the barbarous outrages upon the unarmed, and defenceless, and the wanton destruction of private property that have marked the course of the enemy in our own county.’”
Silas glanced at the two soldiers’ faces. They looked down at their splayed open shoes.
“‘It must be remembered that we make war only upon armed men,’” Silas continued, “‘and that we cannot take vengeance for the wrongs our people have suffered without lowering ourselves in the eyes of all whose abhorrence has been excited by the atrocities of our enemies, and offending against Him to whom vengeance belongeth, without whose favor and support our efforts must all prove in vain. The commanding general enjoins upon all officers to arrest and bring to summary punishment all who shall in any way offend against the orders on this subject.’” Silas tucked the paper back into his pocket.
“Bunch of big word balderdash, if you ask me.” Wade licked his fingers as he flicked his gaze to Amos, who nodded. “Made no sense at all.”
Silas sighed. “I’ll make it simple for you. First, you are not to repay evil for evil. Let God do that. Second—” He pulled from his coat two pairs of handcuffs the provost guard let him borrow. “You are under arrest.”
“You can’t do that, you ain’t got no rank!”
“Order Number 73 says I can.” Actually, it said officers could do the arresting. But Silas could restrain and bring them to their superiors, who had their hands full burning the railroad bridge at the moment. And the two were drunk enough they didn’t have enough wits about them to put up much of a fight, either mental or physical.
Handcuffs securely in place on both men, Silas surveyed the wreckage of the room before turning to Liberty. “I can fix this.”
“Please just go. I’ll clean it up myself.” But her shaking voice betrayed her.
“I’m sorry—”
She shook her head, cheapening his apology, and a ringlet of hair slipped from her braid and bobbed next her face. “What about my horse?”
“Can’t have her.” Amos spat on the ground. “Contraband of war, and you know it.”
“Horses of the Union army are contraband. You take the horse of a private citizen, that’s just plain stealing.” He turned back to her. “The horse is yours.”
She flattened her full lips into a thi
n line. “I don’t know if I should thank you or tell you to get off my property, Mr …” She looked at him expectantly.
Silas Ford, man of the Lord …
Wade grunted. “Hey Johnny, I’m about to need a privy, so …”
Billy Yank on the inside, Johnny Reb on the outside. It was as good a name as any, and a whole lot better than Silas Ford. “Just call me Johnny.” Somehow, he managed a smile. “For your sake, I hope we never meet again. Now let’s get your horse from Jud and leave you in peace.”
But when they stepped back into the night, Jud and the horse were gone. He’d been proven a liar. Again.
Libbie awoke with a start and a crick in her neck. Peeling herself off her windowsill, she struggled to remember why she would have been sleeping, fully clothed, on a chair beside the window in her bedroom. Her mind still felt murky from exhaustion. Then she remembered. The Rebel raiders. The man named Johnny.
He knew the movements of Lee’s army. He had a copy of Lee’s order in his pocket! He had to be one of them. Didn’t he? She should hate him, the way she hated the others. She should not warm at the memory of how he looked at her. Defended her. She shuddered to imagine what could have happened if he hadn’t come when he did.
Stiffly, she rose from her chair. After splashing some water on her face at the washstand, she sat at the vanity, unplaited her braid and gave it one hundred strokes with the horsehair brush, trying to wipe the stranger’s face from her mind with every pull before taming her curls into a thick knot at the nape of her neck. He did say he hopes we never meet again.
With that thought firmly in her mind, she went downstairs and let the screen door bang behind her as she and Major crossed the dew-kissed ground to the barn.
Just as she suspected, it was empty. Daisy was still gone. In all probability, she was now the mount of a Confederate cavalryman, thanks to Jud sneaking off with her. The few chickens and the rooster Libbie kept for eggs lay silently on the sweet-smelling hay, their necks wrung. Jud must have forgotten to take them when he left with Daisy. No horse, no chickens, no eggs. The barn was a mere shell, with nothing left to shelter.
Widow of Gettysburg (Heroines Behind the Lines) Page 5