She felt Meshach watching her and waiting. Waiting for she knew not what.
Spring broke forth in all its glory, blossoming flowers, leaf buds unfurling, giving a wash of green to dark tree branches. Dogwood bloomed creamy white in the draws, and the redbud lived up to its name. When they stopped in the morning, Sammy and Thaddeus picked dandelions till their hands were milk sticky. Daniel showed them how to roll down a gentle hill, and from then on, every hill, of which there were many, needed a roll down.
“Come.” Thaddeus tugged on her hand when she woke one afternoon.
“No, Thaddy.”
“Joshwa.” He said it as if he was fed up with reminding her. “You come see.”
“See what?” All she wanted was a cup of coffee strong enough to hold her upright. Last night she’d fallen asleep on the wagon seat. Good thing she didn’t topple over under a wheel. Or was it a good thing? Then there wouldn’t be so many people to take care of.
Not that she was doing such a good job of that either. Aunt Agatha still said no more to her than absolutely necessary, but she didn’t order the others around either. She and Jane Ellen seemed to have hit it off, or at least Agatha had a new lamb to shepherd now. She brought out one of her skirts and together they ripped the seams, cut it up, and made one for Jane Ellen. Then using some of the white cotton Jesselynn had bought, they made her a full-sleeved waist. Meshach carved buttons for it out of deer antlers and painstakingly drilled the holes.
Jane Ellen glowed. Agatha brushed and braided the girl’s hair, and with some meat finally attaching itself to her bones, Jane Ellen was actually pretty.
The transformation made Jesselynn feel like an old worn-out rag. Once she had had long, thick hair that curled about her face when she let it. But she’d cut it off to become Jesse. Most days she wondered if it had all been worth it.
One night Benjamin found a large pond for them to camp by, so when Jesselynn fell asleep she could hear ducks quacking and the piping trill of the redwing blackbirds. When she woke, Ophelia dragged back into camp, her skirt speckled with the same mud that covered her arms and legs. But they had cattail roots boiled with onion for supper, along with a mess of crappies Daniel and Thaddeus caught. Fried fish had never tasted so good.
After they ate, Jesselynn wanted to sneak off for another nap. She just couldn’t get enough sleep. Meshach beckoned her to follow him. Thinking something needed doing with the horses, she did as asked. But when they followed a track partway around the pond to a log, he sat down and patted the log beside him.
“You ready to tell me what’s wrong?” He pulled a stalk of grass and chewed on the tender inner stem.
“Nothin’s wrong.” She could hear the growl in her voice, but doing something about it went far beyond her capabilities. If that’s so, why are you crying? She gritted her teeth and stepped on a black beetle crossing in front of her. The crack of its shell pierced her to the marrow. What a wanton, cruel thing to do. Her insides felt as though they might choke her. Her eyes watered so she could barely discern the outlines of the pond and the cattails pushing up green alongside the winter-withered stalks of the year before. Peepers sang their own song, and somewhere a bullfrog chugged.
Her own misery sang louder, obliterating the spring orchestra.
Meshach spread his feet wide and rested his elbows on his knees. “You can’t run. He find you all de time.”
“He?” But she’d no sooner asked the question than she knew.
“God himself be after you.”
Jesselynn snorted. “Naw, He don’t care.” She started to rise, but Meshach’s gentle hand on her arm kept her in place.
“I know He care. And deep down you know dat too.”
Jesselynn spun on him. “If that God of yours cares so much, why did He let this war go on? Why have so many men died? So many families been destroyed?” The weight bore her down, even into the wooden log. “All gone. They’re all gone.” Her voice rose. “Why, Meshach? You tell me why. I hate your God, and I hate what He’s done.” She shook her fist in heaven’s face and crumpled into a ball of misery, her arms gripping her knees tightly, as if she would shatter into a million pieces if she let go. “Answer me, Meshach.”
“Don’ got no answers. Just got love. De love of de Father far beyond all dat. He keep us safe. He bring Marse Zachary back from de dead, He keep Lucinda from slave traders, we . . .”
“But Father is dead, the South is destroyed, Adam, John—”
“But dey in heaven wid de Lawd.”
Digging out another answer took far more than she could muster. Heaven—her mother dreamed of heaven. Her father saw her and Jesus, or an angel, before he died. The joy that lit his face was beyond anything she’d ever seen.
“Dis here not our home. Our home be in heaven wid de Father and de Son.”
Jesselynn sighed. Why would He want her back? All the hateful things she’d said, the terrible anger and hatred, the wicked thoughts.
“He waitin’, Him and all de angels waitin’ to shout joy and hallelujah over de lamb dat be found.”
She looked over to see his eyes closed and his lips moving. She knew he was praying for her. One of her responsibilities as mistress was to instruct her people in the ways of the Lord and to live her life as an example to them. Oh, Mother, I have failed you so terribly. The tears she’d been fighting so hard spilled over and trickled down her cheeks.
The boot was on the other foot. Meshach took his Lord very seriously to heart.
“He say to lay your burdens at Him feet. ‘Take my yoke,’ he say, ‘for my yoke is easy and my burden is light.’ ” Meshach laid a hand on her shoulder. “De burdens too heavy for you. Let dem go.”
“I can’t.” I can’t, God. I can’t do this any longer. I’m dying inside. If you really are the God my mother loved and the Bible says, forgive me, deliver me, let me loose. The tears that washed her eyes now bathed her soul and broke through the barriers to let the light back into her darkest corners.
Sometime later she pulled her shirttail loose to wipe her eyes.
Meshach still sat beside her, staring out over the ripples of the pond where several ducks had just landed. “God’s Word say it all. Psalm ninety-one is for us headin’ west. We like dat little ducklin’ out dere who hide under him mama’s wing. Only God’s our mama and daddy all to once.”
Jesselynn had to smile at the mallard hen, trailed by six bits of yellow, riding the ripples and following where their mother led. She sighed and let her head hang forward, like a sunflower too heavy for the stalk. “I think I owe some apologies.”
“Mebbe. Mebbe not. But dey worries ‘bout you.”
She sighed—a long exhalation that dug up from her toes and the ends of her hair. She coughed, clearing her throat of the leftover tears. “We’d better be gettin’ back.”
“You ready?”
She nodded, chewing one side of her lower lip. “Thank you—I guess.”
His smile warmed clear to her heart. “We thanks God.”
“I did, and I do.” She stood and stretched, feeling lighter than she had for months. She walked off, glancing over her shoulder to see if an old skin was lying on the ground behind her.
That night when Meshach read Psalm ninety-one, she listened instead of blocking his voice from her mind. “ ‘He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most high shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress; my God; in him will I trust.’ ” A refuge is what He promised. A secret refuge in time of trouble. She thought back to the times they’d bypassed towns and army encampments as if they couldn’t be seen. A secret refuge? Have I just been too blind to see?
They neared Carthage on the morning of the third day and stopped in a draw before they could be seen by the townspeople. When Jesselynn woke up after another restorative sleep without the nightmares that had plagued her for so long, she lay under the wagon listening to the private chatter of Sammy and Thaddeus. She heard Meshach reading the Bible
to Ophelia and anyone else who wanted to listen. A squirrel scolded from a tree, a crow added to the dressing down, and the other birds ignored them, so she knew the fussing wasn’t because of someone coming. Besides, Ahab was better than any watchdog if strangers came near.
She stretched and rolled over to her side to see Aunt Agatha’s legs and feet not quite reaching the ground while she sat on the tailgate. How do I go about making my peace with her? All previous overtures had been coldly rebuffed. The others had just smiled and nodded when she seemed to be her old self again. Thaddeus and Sammy now came to play about her feet and ask to be put up on the horses. Jane Ellen often watched to see when she woke up and brought her coffee if they had it or brought whatever kind of hot drink Ophelia made when they didn’t. She knew she’d been forgiven.
Wasn’t it too easy? she wondered, her head propped on her arm. She’d read the verses on forgiveness, needing only a reminder, since she memorized them as a child. All the Scriptures said was to ask, and God did the rest. Repent—now that was a word to get hung up on. Had she repented? She believed so. So now, as Meshach had reminded her, don’t let Satan get a foothold by telling you you weren’t forgiven. Jesus said it was so.
“Thank you, Father,” she whispered. “Now to live it.” She threw back the covers and pulled on her boots before folding the quilt and the deerskin that kept the damp from seeping into her quilt.
“Next time we find running water, we have to do the wash.” She strolled over to the campfire where Ophelia poured her a cup of coffee. “Where’s Jane Ellen this morning?”
“She be lookin’ for herbs and such.”
“By herself?”
“She say she be in hearing distance.” Ophelia used her apron as a hot pad to move the kettle back to the coals. “Turkey for supper.” She nodded to where Daniel lay soundly sleeping. “Daniel bag it. Cook on spit.”
Jesselynn’s mouth watered at the mention of the delicacy. Turkeys were wily birds and hard to find. “We still have potatoes?”
“Um. Carrots and rutabaga too. Have a feast tonight.”
“I’m goin’ to ride into town to see what I can learn.”
Meshach looked up from his reading. “Take Benjamin wid.”
“No, he can sleep.”
“Jesse?”
Jesselynn turned in surprise. Aunt Agatha was actually initiating a conversation—amazing. “Yes?”
“If a store has . . .” She lowered her voice and raised her head to glance around the camp.
Jesselynn stepped closer to hear better. “Has what?”
“Some finer cotton. I would like to make Jane Ellen some drawers and a camisole.” She dug in a leather purse she kept on a chain at her waist. “Here is the money.”
“Aunt Agatha, you keep your money. I’ll gladly buy the material. Is there anything else?”
“No.” She paused. “Unless you could maybe find some lace or ribbon.” She leaned closer. “I don’t think that girl has had anythin’ nice in her entire life.” She shook her head, tsking. “And she’s such a good-hearted little soul.”
“That she is.” Jesselynn leaned forward and kissed her aunt on the cheek. “You are too.” She left before Agatha could say a word.
Long before she got to Carthage, she remembered why she hated riding Roman. His trot tore loose every muscle in her body, at least it felt like it. She dismounted near what looked like a general store and ambled along the boardwalk. Touching the brim of her hat when she met a woman with a market basket, she paused and leaned against a wall to eavesdrop on two elderly men sitting on a bench, one smoking a pipe, the other chewing and spitting.
“Sad, ain’t it? That Ben sure was a good man.” Hawk. Spit.
“How he lived that long, I swain.”
“You reckon they hung the guy that did it?”
“One of Quantrill’s Raiders? They never hang ’em. Can’t catch ’em. Strike and they’re gone, just like a water moccasin I see’d down in Arkansas. Now that critter come right up over the gunwale of the boat. Beat him off with m’ oar, I did.”
Jesselynn wanted to beat them with an oar. What about the dead man? What about the Raiders? They had to get out of town. And quickly.
RICHMOND, VIRGINIA
“Are you comfortable, Zachary dear?”
“As well as can be possible.” The glare he gave her said more than words could have said about what he thought of her plan. He propped his leg along the crutch he braced on the facing seat of the railroad car.
The engine whistled. The train lurched forward, coal smoke blowing by their window. Louisa dug in her satchel and withdrew her knitting just as if they were sitting in the parlor at Aunt Sylvania’s instead of on a train carrying them north to God only knew what peril.
The thought made Zachary clench his teeth. “If we ever get back home, I swear I am goin’ to—”
“Yes, dear.” Louisa played the wifely roll to the hilt, all sweetness and acquiescence now that she had her own way. But to tell the truth, once Zachary agreed to the outrageous plan of traveling north to get morphine and smuggle it back home, he’d begun preparations with a typical Highwood intensity. Gold for the purchases now filled the cavities hollowed out to hold the precious medicine, including the middle of the Bible she had lying on the seat beside her.
Anyone looking would only see a gallant young couple, she caring for a badly incapacitated husband, he a bit cantankerous, which anyone would hardly blame him for, seeing the residuals of his wounds and all. She waited on him hand and foot, even to fetching a coal to light his cigar and seeking a pillow to put under his leg.
Louisa received approving nods from an elderly couple seated across the aisle from them. While she tried to act as if traveling like this were an everyday occurrence, she wanted to plaster her nose to the window and not miss a single sight. My land, to be rushing across the country at such speeds. Oh, if only Jesselynn were here. She would be near inebriated with joy.
When the tracks ended at Fredericksburg, they transferred to a buggy for the ride to the Potomac River. Louisa nearly fell asleep but popped wide awake when the driver stopped. While she had a million questions, the look on Zachary’s face warned her that silence was a better plan.
“Easy now,” the man in black whispered as he helped them alight, traverse a small dock, and settle into a boat with high gunwales and a slender mast. Two men at the oars leaned into the pull.
At the far shore in Union territory, they entered a carriage for the drive into the capital. A basket of bread, cheese, and boiled eggs stilled the rumblings of their bellies. Louisa fell asleep before folding her napkin away.
Gawking was not polite; she knew that. Her mother had made frequent admonishments of such when they were little. But this was the capital of the United States, of which she had heard so much.
“Can we drive by the White House?” she asked once they had secured a hansom cab.
“Whatever for? This is no longer our capital, or have you forgotten?”
“You needn’t speak cruelly like that. Not all of us believe there will be two separate countries.”
The glare he gave her should have melted her bones, let alone her spirit, but she ignored him and turned to watch out the window instead. The streets were a quagmire of conveyances of all types. Blue uniforms, women in finer dress than any she’d seen for a long time strolled the boardwalks or rode at a frantic pace, as if the speed with which they arrived made any eternal difference.
“Do you know where we are going?”
“I gave the driver Cousin Arlington’s address, or at least the address we have for him. His family might be there, even if he is off with the army somewhere.”
“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that. Of course, if he is a physician . . .” Her heart felt as though it had gained ten pounds of pure lead.
“If they do not invite us to stay, we will find a hotel, and you will remain there while I see to the availability of our supplies.” He kept his voice so low she had to lean close to
hear him.
Louisa devoutly hoped they would be invited to stay with their relatives. Surely the bonds of Southern hospitality still held true, even if . . . she couldn’t bring herself to say they were on opposite sides. All she longed for was the end of the war. But then, the war hadn’t held the allure for all the Highwood women as it had for the men.
What she really wanted was an end to the injured and the dying. Sometime earlier she had ceased to pray for either side, but only for the war to cease. Never would she entrust her brother with her feelings. He’d think her a traitor.
Deep inside she wished she could talk with President Lincoln and entreat him to stop the war. He seemed like a man with a concern for men dying, unlike the Southern firebrands. Again, unbeknownst to those around her, she prayed for wisdom for the two men in charge—Abraham Lincoln and Jefferson Davis—that they would end the fighting.
The cab stopped in front of a narrow three-story house that fronted directly on the cobblestone street, three polished steps from the sidewalk to the door with a shiny brass knocker. An urn with a boxwood topiary sat to either side of the steps, lending a touch of green to the brick face. A sign that read Physician hung from an ornate iron bar attached to the wall.
“Dis de place,” the black driver announced as he stepped to the street and reached up for their one small trunk. Louisa handed out her carpetbag and accepted his hand to help her step down, turning to offer her assistance to Zachary. Getting in and out of conveyances had not become much easier, even with practice. With the driver’s hand under his right arm and the crutch under his left, Zachary led with his good foot, staggering but for the bracing of his two helpers.
“Thank you.” Once steady, he dug in his pocket for the coins, paid the man, and stared up at the windows with green shutters on the sides.
“Yo’ trunk, suh?”
“On the steps, if you will.” He nodded to Louisa. “You want to ply the knocker?”
Her heart felt as though it might knock its way right out of her chest. The moment of decision. What if they were turned away? She swallowed, glanced over her shoulder at the sound of the departing cab, took in a deep breath, and mounted the stairs. With a shaking hand, she let the knocker fall, then tapped it again.
A Secret Refuge [02] Sisters of the Confederacy Page 11