Chapter One
Twin Oaks Farm
Mid-September 1862
“You have … to get our … horses out of Kentucky. You’re … the only one left who can.” Major Joshua Highwood, brought home by his slave Benjamin after they’d been wounded in the battle at Kingston, lay in his own bed, being eaten alive by gangrene. He raised himself up on one elbow. The struggle to get closer to his daughter’s face brought sweat to his brow and an even greater weakness to his voice. “Jesselynn, I told you to take them away two years ago, and you didn’t do it.” He sank back on his pillows and closed his eyes, every breath a struggle. The stench of putrid flesh permeated the room. “I know … far too much to ask … of a young … woman.”
Jesselynn felt as if she’d been stabbed through the heart with one of her father’s swords. “I know, but Adam and Zachary said … and you were already off fighting … and Mama so—oh, Father, forgive me.” At this point she wasn’t sure which Father she needed forgiveness from most, heavenly or earthly.
“I know child. I do. T-too much …”
She leaned closer to hear him.
“Your mother, right there at the foot of the bed. And a man in white standing right behind her.” He rose up, a smile breaking over his entire face. “I’m coming, my dear. Only a moment.” He lay back and turned his head to look directly into Jesselynn’s tear-filled eyes. “Promise me.”
“Yes, I will, I will. Oh, Father, don’t leave me.” But it was too late. She could tell he’d already left her. All that remained was his broken body and the smile he wore to greet the woman he’d loved since childhood.
Jesselynn laid her head on the sheet and let the tears she’d been holding back for two long years pour forth. She cried for the father just gone to meet his God and his dear wife. If Jesselynn hadn’t believed in a life after death, she surely did now. She cried for her brother Adam, who was killed in action, and for Zachary, if alive. Only God knew where he was. She cried for the man who’d captured her heart and then been ordered out before they could marry, he, too, a casualty of the tragedy they called war. But mostly she cried for her mother, who’d died not long after the birth of baby Thaddeus. No longer could she hold the grief at bay.
“God, it is too much. I cannot bear this, I cannot.” Heavy, pushing her down like a huge man with strong arms, the weight of her grief seemed to crush her beyond repair.
With her tears finally spent, she pushed herself to her feet, staggering about with a weakness beyond belief. She’d have to tell the others. She paused. The keening from the slave quarters had already begun, so the word, in a way known only to the black slaves, would pass from one plantation to another. One by one the house slaves tiptoed in to say good-bye to their master. Tears flowed freely, and Lucinda left the room with her apron over her head, sobs shaking her rounded shoulders.
Jesselynn thought about going to wake her little brother, Thaddeus, the son born not long before Major Highwood left to prepare for war. Poor child might only remember meeting his father when the man was too ill to do more than pat the boy’s cheek. She chose to let him sleep. Tomorrow would be soon enough to tell him that they now had neither mother nor father. While he was too young to understand, he must be told. She sank down in the leather armchair in her father’s study. Here was where she’d been conducting what little business the plantation had done since the war started. She’d shipped tobacco last fall, but this year, thanks to the drought, the crop looked meager. Picking and drying should start soon. That first November they’d had their annual yearling sale too, netting a goodly sum that carried them through. There would be none this fall. Both armies in the war were conscripting all the horses they could find.
“Take the horses and leave,” her father had said. How can I? What about Thaddeus? Go to Uncle Hiram’s? I don’t know the way. Thoughts raced through her mind like the foals romping in the springtime. Surely her father didn’t really expect this of her. He’d been ill, that’s all. It had been the ravings of a dying man.
But she had promised.
She and the remaining slaves had been hiding what horses they had left in case a patrol came by and demanded all the horseflesh available. So many men and fine animals used for cannon fodder. Even Adam, on his first and only leave, couldn’t get over the mindless brutality of war. She’d never forget the look in his eyes that said he’d faced the devil himself, with his fellowmen caught in the crossfire. He had never come home again. Was buried in some unmarked grave, she supposed. All she knew for certain was that he’d been identified as killed in action. She sometimes wondered if his slave, Sammy, had died too or had run off to fight for the North. Knowing the name of a battle site wasn’t important to her either. They were all casualties—sons and fathers, brothers, cousins, and friends.
If she left, what would happen to Twin Oaks? Who would care for the slaves remaining? Who would oversee the harvest, the spring planting? Maybe she could come back in time for that. Surely the war would be over by next spring. Surely.
“Can I get you anythin’ else, Missy?” Lucinda, with her dignity pulled around her like the shawl she wore in the winter, stopped just inside the doorway.
Jesselynn shook her head. Since her mother died, Lucinda had appointed Jesselynn head of the household and deferred to her accordingly. Sometimes Jesselynn wished for a scolding like former days. More often she wished for her mother’s lap, a place of refuge where she could pour out her hopes and fears and be comforted by that loving hand on her head. But no more. And now Father was gone too. “You go on to bed. Tomorrow will be a busy day with neighbors coming to call. I’ll send one of the stable hands ’round with a note, not that there are many left to come calling. I’m sure Reverend Benson will conduct the funeral on Friday. He was surprised Father lived this long.”
“You not gonna wait for de young missies?”
Again Jesselynn shook her head. “They’re safer where they are. Carrie Mae will have her wedding at Aunt Sylvania’s, and Louisa is more help there in the hospital than she ever could be here.” Jesselynn propped her head on her hand and rested her elbow on the rolled arm of the chair where her father had so often done the same. If she thought about it, she could still smell his cigar smoke. But it was a dream. He hadn’t sat here smoking for over two years. Ever since he left before the war began. A fire that had been smoldering in her breast unbeknownst to her flickered, and a thin flame reached for air. The war—always the war. How could a loving God countenance something so destructive?
“Have some lemonade, Missy. Might be you feel better wit a cool drink.” Lucinda crossed her arms across her bosom.
Jesselynn gave in. No matter how hard she tried to make life easier for this woman, she failed every time. If Lucinda believed lemonade would be a help, it would be. And she’d better get used to it. “Thank you, and then you go on to bed.”
The harrumph that floated back to her told her exactly what the woman thought of going to bed before her mistress.
What would she do about Lucinda and the other house slaves? Could they stay here, or would some lowlife steal them and sell them down the road?
Jesselynn rose. The decisions to be made were too momentous to undertake sitting down. Crickets sang outside the window when she stopped to peer into the darkness. “God, what am I to do?” She waited, but no answer seemed to be forthcoming. Who could she ask for advice? Her mother would say to ask the Lord. She just had. Her mother would say to wait for an answer. She hadn’t—unless you called five minutes waiting. Perhaps He’d give her an answer in a dream overnight. Her father always said, “The Lord guides His children in mysterious ways, but He guides them.” Tears choked her throat. She’d never hear either of their beloved voices again.
She thanked Lucinda for the lemonade and, after blowing out the lamp, carried her glass up the stairs, sipping as she went. Lucinda was right. A cool drink did help, even when watered by a renewed burst of tears. They were never coming back. None of them.
She came down
in the morning to find her father lying in state in the parlor, resplendent in his best uniform, which had been cleaned and patched so the bullet holes no longer showed. Lucinda and her helpers had created a long table by covering sawhorses with boards and draping them in black. Her father appeared to be sleeping peacefully, a pleasant dream giving him a slight smile. She remembered the glory of his face just before he died. Had the man in white been his Savior?
She crossed the hall to the study and sat down at the desk, then began writing: a note for one of the slaves to carry around announcing the death, letters to the dear sisters so far away, and a note to Reverend Benson reiterating her request for a simple burial service to be performed the next afternoon.
A longer letter went to her father’s brother, Hiram Highwood, who owned a large horse farm in southern Missouri. Had her father ever written his brother, as he said he would, and asked permission for them to take the horses there? They had never received an answer if he had.
The more she thought about it, the more certain she felt that she should keep her promise to her father. Surely no soldiers that far away would care about the few remaining horses of Twin Oaks. Missouri seemed at the western edge of the world, even though she’d read about California and Oregon. Gratitude welled up in her heart for a place of refuge. Missouri it would be. Far out in the country, away from all the scouting patrols of either blue or gray. Safe until the end of the war. She called Meshach to harness a wagon and take the letters to Midway to mail and pick up supplies at the general store.
The singing and wailing from the slave quarters continued all through the day as local friends and dignitaries came to pay their respects. Lucinda and her helpers kept the dining room table covered with food, much of which Jesselynn was surprised to discover they still had in the larder. Lucinda had been known to work miracles, and this seemed to be another one. When Jesselynn tried to catch the black woman’s eye, Lucinda looked the other way. Some things Jesselynn had learned to leave well enough alone, and the kitchen was one, even if she was the mistress now.
Jesselynn joined a group of men to thank them for coming, and listened to their talk of the war.
“I knew Kentucky shoulda seceded, along with the other states. But at least we are in Confederate hands, where we belong,” one man was saying.
“Those bumbling idiots in Frankfort—they don’t have no idea what we all want,” another added.
“You mark my words, there’ll be fighting even in Lexington if we don’t watch out. You want soldiers battling right here on our lands?”
One of the men turned to her. “I’m sorry, Miss Jesselynn, this isn’t polite conversation for womenfolk to hear. So sorry about Joshua. We lost a fine man.”
“Thank you.” She nodded, glancing around at the men gathered. “Thank you for coming.” She stepped back. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I …” She had to leave before she told them what she really thought about the war.
“If Governor Hughes would …”
“Get that nigger lover out of the White House …”
Their discussion followed her across the room to a gathering of women.
“Jesselynn darlin’, how are you holdin’ up?” A slender woman, her hair now silvered and wearing black mourning for her own son, put her arm around Jesselynn’s waist.
Jesselynn swallowed and forced a smile to lips that would rather quiver. “I’m fine.” She could feel tears threaten to erupt. Fine? What do you mean fine? If she didn’t get out of here she would make a spectacle of herself. “Excuse me, please, I think … I …” She nodded around the circle and fled.
She kept the sobs at bay by walking to the rose garden, all the time ordering herself to behave, to be brave and act as her mother would have wanted. She blew her nose, returned to the house, and picked up a tray of small cakes before returning to the front portico. Offering food kept others from getting too close.
Through sheer will, Jesselynn kept a smile on her face, feeling like a ghost in the black dress of mourning. Thaddeus clung to her, refusing her suggestion that he go out and play with the neighbor children who came calling with their parents. Finally she had Ophelia, the boy’s nursemaid, come and carry him off for a nap. He was far too young to understand what was going on anyway.
“Thank you for coming. No, I haven’t heard from Zachary. Yes, it was a miracle Father was able to come home to die.” Her answers became rote, leaving her mind free to run through her plans. Thank heaven her mother had instilled in her gracious manners and a back-bone of iron, both required of a woman of her station.
By the time the last carriage and wagon rolled down the oak-lined drive and the last horse and rider trotted after, she felt like lying down on the floor and wailing, just as she could hear Thaddeus doing. Ophelia carried him down the stairs, his tear-streaked face flushed and sweaty.
“I can’t make ’im stop cryin’. He won’t shush fo’ nothin’.” The slender woman with skin the color of strong tea patted his back, but the child pushed away from her, his attention focused on Jesselynn.
“Come here, baby.” Jesselynn stepped forward and took him in her arms. Like a fledgling coming home to roost, Thaddeus buried his face in the softness of her neck. She propped him on her hip and patted his back with her other hand. “There now, you mustn’t treat Ophelia so. You hurt her feelings.” A sniff greeted her teasing voice. “Come, let’s have a smile.” She kissed his cheek and blew back a lock of soft golden hair. Would John’s and her child have looked like this—a cherub right off a Raphael painting? Jesselynn closed off the thought. John Follett was dead, like so many others. She thought of the discussions she’d overheard that afternoon between several of the young women. She agreed with them. There wouldn’t be many men of marrying age left in the South when this war was over.
Besides not being the world’s greatest beauty, she had an annoying habit of speaking her mind, something no southern gentleman tolerated well. She knew what she looked like. Skin that freckled when out in the sun, where she’d spent much of her time planting, hoeing, and, lately, harvesting the garden. Sometimes she helped in the fields when necessary. While John had said her hair was the color of honey fresh from a beehive and her slightly tilted eyes when laughing sparkled like dewdrops on spring green blades of grass, she had a hard time believing that now. The mirror told her that her hair looked more like straw and her eyes more gray than green of late. There hadn’t been much to laugh about for the last two years. Too, she’d been graced with a figure that lacked the prerequisites of womanhood. Instead of blossoming, it remained stick straight and nearly flat to boot. Her mother always said it was her chin that would get her in trouble—square and determined. She’d learned to not lead with it, thanks to her brothers. Boxing lessons had not been for the girls, but Jesselynn had watched and let her brothers practice enough on her that she learned the basics. Learning to shoot a rifle had come about the same way, but much to her brothers’ delight and consternation, she could outshoot both of them. Bagging a squirrel leaping from limb to limb brought her high accolades.
She buried her face in the little boy’s tummy and made splattery noises to hear him laugh. If only she could switch from tears to tickles as fast as he.
“You charm him like nobody else.” Ophelia now wore the relieved smile of someone who’d turned her charge over with gratitude. “He don’t know him daddy gone.”
“He didn’t know his daddy at all, more’s the pity.” Jesselynn tickled Thaddy’s tummy when he raised his shirt. And again. One thing with this one, once you started something, he kept it going long past anyone else’s desire. Jesselynn enjoyed the game as much as he. How could she take a child this young with her to Missouri?
It wasn’t as if they were going to load up the carriage and travel in comfort as they used to. Would Ophelia go along? She’d been trading flirty glances with Meshach, formerly second to Joseph down at the stables. Jesselynn had appointed him overseer of the fields and the hands who worked them. Though Meshach could ma
nage the plantation while she was gone, he would have to go along with her to Missouri. There was no one else she trusted to keep them safe. And Ophelia would go anywhere if she thought it would give her time with Meshach.
Jesselynn gave the boy in her arms an extra squeeze and handed him back to his nursemaid. A headache had started at the base of her skull and was working its way around to the front. “Too much thinkin’,” Lucinda would say, but as far as Jesselynn could tell, thinking never hurt anyone. In fact, her father had spoken highly of it, for both men and women, including his wife, daughters, sons, and slaves. Why did every thought weave its way back to her father? And every time, tears followed the same thread.
She sniffed and dug for a handkerchief in the pocket of her black silk mourning dress. After blowing her nose, she forced a smile onto lips that would rather tremble and took in a deep breath. “Well now, Ophelia, let’s light the candles in the parlor, and after supper we can all gather there and I’ll read from the ‘Good Book,’ as Father called it. We will rejoice that he has gone home to be with his Lord and my mother. At least, we will try to rejoice.” She led the way into the kitchen, where one of Lucinda’s grandchildren was snapping beans.
“Henry, go on down to the quarters and tell everyone we will have a hymn-sing tonight after supper.”
“An’ don’ you dawdle.” Lucinda’s admonition made him pick up his feet even faster. “Supper be ready soon, and, Missy, you needs to rest up a spell. Ophelia come git you when we’s ready.”
Jesselynn nodded. Did she look as bad as she felt? She mounted the stairs to her room and collapsed on the rose-sprigged counterpane. White lace suspended by the four posters of the bed created a roof above her head. She’d tied the mosquito netting back this morning as she had every morning for years. All her life she’d gone to sleep in this room except for the times she’d been visiting a friend or relative. She’d never been farther than Lexington, twenty miles away, and that only for the races at Keeneland. Would life ever be the same again? She rolled her aching head from side to side. Stupid question. Of course, it never would. While today was bad, tomorrow would be even worse.
Daughter of Twin Oaks Page 2