The Yankee Widow

by Linda Lael Miller

  On the other hand, given the increasing likelihood that the fighting was coming closer, it was entirely possible that Jubie would be with them when she went into labor, and that required preparation.

  She touched Jubie’s arm briefly. “Get some rest yourself now, Jubie.” Then, gathering a yawning Rachel into her arms, she carried her back to the main house and upstairs to her room, with Jubie not far behind.

  * * *

  A single lamp burned in the parlor beside Caroline when she heard the team and wagon and went out to welcome her grandmother. In the light of the moon and the millions of stars spangling an indigo sky, she saw Enoch help the elderly woman down, somehow managing to tip his battered hat to her in the process.

  Spotting Caroline, her grandmother bustled toward her. “Oh, my darling, thank you for waiting up on this long day. I’ve brought the last of your grandfather’s medical supplies in case we need them in the future. Or perhaps the Ladies’ Aid Society could use them in an emergency,” she said, with a gesture toward the wagon. The back was piled high with indiscernible goods. “Mr. Flynn has agreed to unload them right away.”

  Caroline smiled a little, weary and heart-sore though she was. Had it truly been just that morning that she’d seen her husband buried?

  Her grandmother had always referred to Enoch formally as Mr. Flynn, which was not surprising, considering that Caroline had never heard her speak of her own husband in any way other than Dr. Prescott, the doctor, or simply, your grandfather.

  “That was wise of you,” Caroline said. “We may need supplies if the fighting comes our way.”

  “Oh, it will, my dear,” Grandmother said in confidential tones. “It’s all the talk of the town.”

  Ominous words, Caroline thought, grateful for the distraction of simple duties. It seemed like weeks now since she’d sat with her friends as they sewed uniforms and made bandages to be shipped to the troops. They always shared the latest news they had heard in town or garnered from letters sent home by their husbands and sons.

  * * *

  Enoch had unloaded a sizable trunk, presumably containing clothing and other personal necessities, and he paused on his way to the house to ask where he should put it.

  Caroline directed him to the empty bedroom upstairs, just down the hall from Rachel’s.

  “Don’t forget about the bandages and sutures, Mr. Flynn,” Grandmother said. “There’s laudanum, too, along with morphine and ether, so be sure you don’t leave them where my great-granddaughter might find them.”

  Enoch gave a chuckle. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, moving on. “Reckon the whole lot ought to be put away in the cellar under the kitchen house for the time being.”

  A while later, after they’d each had a cup of tea in the parlor, Caroline helped her grandmother up the stairs and then settled her in the room that was Geneva’s whenever she visited. She lit the oil lamp on the table next to the bed.

  Earlier, Caroline had filled the water pitcher on the bureau and set out a towel and washcloth, along with a small bar of soap.

  “Do you need anything else, Grandmother?” she asked. She’d planned on telling her about Jubie, who was happily shut away in Enoch’s old room downstairs, but she didn’t have the strength for a long discussion tonight.

  Her grandmother lifted the edge of the spread and attempted to peer beneath the bed. “If there is a chamber pot,” she whispered, “I will be quite comfortable. At my age, I have no desire to go traipsing out to that privy of yours in the dead of night.”

  “You won’t have to do that,” Caroline said, amused. Then, imagining the old woman on her knees, attempting to retrieve it, she backtracked, knelt and pulled it within easy reach of the bedside.

  Grandmother was used to an indoor commode, complete with flushable water, but she seemed undaunted by the humbler facilities of the farmhouse.

  Just as Caroline was about to leave the room, her grandmother hurried over to embrace her.

  “I am so sorry about Jacob, my dear,” she said, with tears in her voice. “It is a dreadful thing to lose a husband, especially so young.”

  For a long moment, Caroline allowed herself to cling to her grandmother, the way she had when she was a child, lonely for her own parents and sister who had perished in a fast-moving epidemic. Her grandfather had died of a sudden infection only a year before, so she knew her grandmother’s grief was still palpable. Caroline’s throat was thick with emotion, rendering speech nearly impossible. Their embrace said it all.

  Grandmother patted the back of her head tenderly. “Perhaps it is too soon to say so and I know it is hard to imagine,” she said soothingly. “Grieving takes time. But one day you will meet another good man, maybe even remarry. You will be happy again.”

  Caroline drew back, sniffling a little, shaking her head. “I doubt I’ll ever meet someone who will love me as much as Jacob did. Besides, how can anyone be happy, ever, with this dreadful war devouring every good thing, like some insatiable beast? What will be left—to any of us—when—if—all this killing finally ends?”

  Her grandmother smiled gently, but said nothing.

  “Before I went to Washington City, I thought I knew so much about war, what a travesty it is, what an evil—I was even a little smug, I think. What else was there to know? After all, my own husband was a soldier. I read the newspapers and rolled bandages and collected food and blankets for the cause. I’d seen men and boys come home on crutches or in invalid’s chairs, some of them missing arms and legs, others blind or mute or deaf, and still others, like Jacob, in coffins. All that evidence, and yet I never truly credited the true cost.”

  Caroline paused, overwhelmed by weariness and sorrow and pure dread of all the horrors yet to unfold. “But now I feel the cruelty and loss, so painfully. I miss my Jacob.” She put one hand over her mouth, lest she howl like an animal caught in the cruel teeth of a trap. “What I saw in Washington City—the horrors and carnage. Nothing could have prepared me.” Long moments passed before she dared to go on. “Dear God, Grandmother, how can we live with what we are? With what we do? How does one go about raising a child in a world like this one?”

  Geneva Prescott’s expression was tender, patient. “We do whatever is before us, Caroline, the next right and sensible thing. That is the challenge and the sacrifice needed to preserve this great country.”

  Despair sharpened Caroline’s response. “Only because we have no choice,” she whispered fiercely.

  “But we do have other choices, my dear. We can turn our backs on all that we know is right, sit ourselves down, fold our hands and allow wickedness to go unchallenged and therefore to prevail. We can run away and hide. Or we can stand our ground and fight inequality to our last heartbeat, knowing that if we perish, we have done all that we could, and others will carry on, just as those who came before us have done.”

  “It’s just that kind of talk that has brought us all to this mayhem,” Caroline objected, barely able to keep her voice down. “With all due respect, Grandmother, you might not speak so if you’d seen and heard—”

  Geneva took both of Caroline’s hands in hers and squeezed them with surprising strength for a woman of her years. “I am a doctor’s wife,” she reminded her, “and, war or no war, I have seen things so unspeakably terrible that I would not dream of planting the images in another person’s mind, knowing the burden they are upon my own. But, Caroline, I have also witnessed miracles. I have looked on in wonder as shattered minds became whole, and bodies knit themselves back together, bone by bone, tissue by tissue. I have marveled at the sacredness and mystery of death, and I know it to be no less a part of life than green and flourishing youth. I do understand.”

  Her grandmother had always been practical by nature, and quite forthright in her opinions, though unfailingly kind. But, like many women of her privileged background, she had also been pampered and protected, first by her parents, and th
en by her husband. She didn’t cook or clean; in her circles, those tasks were the lot of servants. Even in small, modest Gettysburg, she’d had household help for as long as Caroline could remember, employing a series of hired girls, some the daughters of local farmers, though a number of them, mostly Irish, had been imported from places like Baltimore or New York. And, although she was well-read, having made good use of Grandfather’s vast collection of books, Geneva’s education had consisted of the delicate female arts, such as proper etiquette, at table and elsewhere, letter writing, painting dreamy landscapes in watercolors, stitching intricate samplers, learning to speak both French and Italian and, finally, achieving reasonable competence at the harp and the organ.

  “Are you saying,” Caroline ventured, having weighed these facts and found herself no less startled than before, “that Grandfather subjected you to the suffering of his patients?”

  “Your grandfather ‘subjected’ me to nothing. If he’d had his way, I would never have set foot in his surgery or accompanied him on calls. But there were times—so many times, particularly in the early years—when he clearly required my assistance, whatever his objections might have been. I wasn’t about to sit before the parlor fire, read poetry or stitch some silly motto onto a piece of cloth while he attended the sick and the injured. I learned to suture wounds, set broken bones and deliver babies, and I dare say I acquired a great many other useful skills, too.”

  Caroline’s admiration for this woman, always considerable, expanded greatly. “I never knew,” she said, astonished and, somehow, comforted. Grandmother’s absences, especially when Caroline was at school, hadn’t particularly registered with her. She supposed now that she’d assumed Geneva had been at social functions... And, of course, her grandparents had always protected her.

  “Suppose you die, too?” Caroline asked, her voice small and tremulous. She had lost so many loved ones: her mother and father, her cherished sister, Grandfather and now, of course, Jacob.

  “Oh,” Geneva said, “I assure you, I will...eventually. So will you, and all the rest of us. In the meantime, obviously, we must do our part, trusting that our best efforts will suffice.”

  Caroline could not speak for the tightness of her throat.

  “Now try and get some sleep. You have had a long and sorrowful day,” Geneva said.

  The two women embraced once again, and parted for the night, to try and find what rest they might, in preparation for yet another uncertain tomorrow.

  * * *

  There had been no real opportunity for Caroline to explain to Geneva the reason for Jubie’s presence since her grandmother arrived the evening before. Jubie stayed in the back bedroom the next morning and Enoch brought her meals. At Jubie’s own request, Caroline had given her some mending to do to keep her busy.

  Caroline was surprised by Rachel’s silence.

  She had planned on telling Geneva about Jubie that day. But first both she and Enoch knew they had to make Jubie familiar with the Hammond Farm’s hidden room—a “station” on the Underground Railroad, like the better-known McArthur’s Mill and the Dobbin House. “We all need to be prepared,” Caroline told Jubie. “We can’t be sure who might come here or why.”

  First they led her into the parlor. Then Enoch bent to remove a small rug from beneath the old harpsichord and opened the trap door. He instructed Jubie to take the steps down, a steep and treacherous flight. And once she saw the hidden room itself—dark, dusty, with no shortage of spiders—she had to make an effort, not entirely successful, to disguise her reaction. Jubie was not impressed with the space.

  But, as Caroline and Enoch let her know when she’d carefully climbed out, this dreadful little place could save her life, as it had saved the lives of others. Ideally, she wouldn’t need to spend any time there at all, but if there was some sort of risk...

  * * *

  Showing Jubie the secret room was prophetic, as it turned out...

  Barely two days later, in the middle of the afternoon, Jubie was sitting with Rachel in the back bedroom, carefully staying away from the windows, just as she’d been instructed.

  Caroline heard at least two horses in the farmyard—the stomping of hooves, the slap of reins—and heard them approach the back door. Peering outside, hidden by the curtain, she saw two unfamiliar men, not uniformed or distinguishable in any particular way. She decided to wait for Enoch to address them, confident that he would’ve heard them, too, and make his way to the house as quickly as he could. He did, and they dismounted; from his gestures, she saw that he’d invited them to tie their horses to the porch rail. He raised one hand, signaling that he’d be back, then hurried to the door, which she opened a scant few inches. “Slave catchers,” he whispered. “Looking for McKilvoy. And Jubie. I’ll stall them while you get her downstairs.”

  Caroline gasped, the kind of weak-heroine reaction she hated in books and plays, but she couldn’t stop herself. “Yes,” she whispered back, then shut the door and ran for the bedroom.

  “Jubie!” she muttered in the girl’s ear. “Down to the hiding place! Quick!”

  Jubie didn’t ask questions but immediately ran to the parlor and, throwing back the small rug under the harpsichord, she made her way down to the secret room in less than a minute.

  Caroline replaced the rug, then went to collect Rachel, who was sitting on the bed, paging through an illustrated book. “Sweetie,” she said, “you stay with me. There are two men here, and if they come to the door, you say nothing, you understand?”

  “But Mama, where’s—”

  “Not a word,” Caroline emphasized. “I’ll tell you later.” Not that she had any idea how to explain this to her young daughter, but...

  There was an impatient pounding at the side door. Caroline took her time getting there.

  With one arm around Rachel, Caroline pulled open the door and stared at the two scowling, disheveled men standing there, while Enoch, wearing an expression of indifference, stood a foot or so behind them.

  “Missus Caroline,” he said. “These here are Mister, uh, Smith and Mister Jones.”

  Smith and Jones? It was all she could do not to roll her eyes.

  “What can I do for you gentlemen?” she asked.

  The one introduced as Smith bowed in a manner she could only describe as mocking and said, “We’re looking for a friend, ma’am. Named McKilvoy. Last we heard, he was in this vicinity. Near your farm. On business.”

  “Oh? What kind of business?” she asked despite Enoch’s frown.

  “Looking for some...personal property his client lost.”

  “You mean a slave?” Once again she couldn’t resist, and Enoch frowned even more heavily.

  “Uh, that could be,” Mr. “Smith” replied.

  Caroline shook her head. “I’m sorry, sir. We know nothing about this. If you’ll give Mr. Flynn an address where we can reach you, we’ll be in touch if we learn anything.”

  Then so-called Smith turned to look at Enoch and back to her. “He can read?”

  “Yes, dammit!” Caroline rarely if ever swore. “Mr. Flynn runs this farm. Now, if you’ll leave, we can return to our tasks.”

  More exaggerated bows, then they collected their horses and rode off.

  Ten or so minutes later, Enoch was back at the house “Oh, Missus,” he said ruefully. “Best not to provoke them.”

  She sighed. “I know. I hope I didn’t create any further problems.” She paused. “I think Jubie should remain in hiding for the rest of the day.”

  Enoch agreed. “I’ll keep an eye and an ear out, in case they return.”

  Rachel stepped out from behind Caroline then. “Are those bad men?” she asked in a hushed voice.

  “Bad enough,” Enoch replied.

  * * *

  Later that day, Geneva was telling Caroline about some of the recent Ladies’ Aid activities in town. Caroline decided it
was time Geneva learned about the secret room. And about Jubie...

  Early evening, once Rachel was in bed and while Enoch brought Jubie her meal, Caroline told Geneva she was harboring a fugitive slave who had arrived the day she brought Jacob home from Washington City. She took Geneva to the hidden trap door. “Careful,” she warned. “These steps can be dangerous.”

  She helped her grandmother down the steps, walking behind her, holding her around the waist.

  There was a faint light below, coming from the lantern on the small table. Jubie was lying on the mattress beside it.

  “Grandmother, I’d like you to meet Jubilee, known as Jubie. And Jubie, this is Geneva Prescott.”

  Jubie struggled to a sitting position. “How’d you do, ma’am?”

  “I’m doing very well, Jubie.” Geneva looked at her sharply. “How far along are you?”

  “Seven months or so.” She paused. “Maybe eight.”

  Geneva nodded. “Do let me know if you need any advice. My husband was a doctor, and I’ve helped birth more than a few babies. And make sure you get as much rest as you can.”

  Caroline smiled, a bit grimly. “We’re asking Jubie to stay down here for a short time until a certain...risk is gone. So she doesn’t have much choice other than to rest.”

  “Please, Missus Caroline, is there something else I can do to help? I’m finished with the mending you gave me.”

  “Do you know how to knit, Jubie?” Geneva asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. Simple things.”

  “Then I’ll bring you some yarn and you can start on a baby blanket tomorrow.”

  6

  Hammond Farm