June 30, 1863
Caroline
At first they straggled past the farm gate, half a dozen at a time, seemingly worn-out young men in dusty blue, riding weary horses. A few doffed their campaign hats to Caroline, who stood on the front veranda, Jacob’s old squirrel gun out of sight but at the ready, in case there were looters among them.
Enoch waited beside the road, buckets at his feet, and several soldiers paused to water their thirsty mounts, while others drank deeply from the ladle offered, or filled their canteens. When the pails were empty, Enoch trudged back to the well for more.
It seemed a poor brand of hospitality to Caroline, for these were, after all, Union troops, and presumably friendly. She had no idea what regiment they were in or where they were from, but Jacob might have fought alongside any one of them. Surely, in her place, he would have offered the wayfarers sustenance, invited these comrades to rest themselves and their horses in the shade of the trees lining the creek.
But her Jacob was dead, now buried in the peaceful plot on the low hill beyond the orchards. She would never see him again, never touch him, or laugh with him, or watch him swing a delighted Rachel onto his shoulders.
She was raw with this knowledge, wanted only to wander like some despondent biblical figure, covered in ash, wailing and tearing at her clothes. She wanted to rage at the heavens, shake her fist at God, weep and, finally, come to terms with the realization that deep down perhaps she had not loved Jacob well enough. Not, at least, in the ways a wife should love her husband.
Not in the way Jacob had loved her.
Alas, there was no time for such scouring of the soul; the soldiers passing by on the road in front of her were proof of that. The war had, at last, come to this quiet place in the Pennsylvania countryside, and though she prayed there would be no confrontation on these grounds, her deepest instincts warned her to prepare and, certainly, to be on her guard.
It seemed odd, perhaps even shameful, this wariness, because these men clad in Union blue were protectors and certainly not the enemy. They served a cause Caroline revered, and yet they were strangers to her. Sadly, the color of their uniforms did not guarantee their individual integrity and honor; men of low character might well be among them.
She had heard stories from her friends and neighbors of perfidy on the part of common soldiers on both sides—chicken coops raided, milk cows led away or even slaughtered for meat, crops ravaged or ridden down, orchards stripped of their fruit, rail fences used as firewood, houses and barns burned, evidently for sport. Such offenders were punished if caught, the perpetrators marked as “bummers,” to be despised and scorned, but, all too often, they escaped the notice of their superior officers, if not entirely, then at least until after the damage had been done.
In the more notorious instances, compensation was promised by Mr. Lincoln’s government. However, with Union resources constantly dwindling under the enormous cost of putting down the rebellion, payment was slow in coming, if it came at all, and was never enough to fully restore what had been lost.
Worse than the unruly rank and file were the stragglers, the renegades and deserters, drifters with no allegiance to either side, and certainly none to God or their fellow human beings. Though the majority of these were simply petty thieves, stealing chickens and eggs when hungry, shirts and trousers from the wash line in someone’s backyard when their own garments grew too ragged to wear, others were more like wild animals than people. She had heard from friends in town and from neighbors that, apparently without conscience, they did unspeakable things, and Caroline feared them. Why, only two days ago, Cecelia McPhee, a farmer’s wife from half a mile down the road, had told her about a man who’d broken their windows and rummaged through their house. He’d made off with money hidden in a bureau—and left them a threatening note, scrawled on a kitchen wall.
These were dangerous times. For Rachel’s sake, for that of her grandmother and Enoch and Jubie, and, of course, for her own, she must be vigilant in all circumstances, including the ordinary kind, when one might logically expect to be safe.
Today, for instance.
The weather was hot, and the slanted roof of the veranda afforded little relief, capturing the thick humid air of that final day of June. The heat pressed in on Caroline from every side, and she longed to wade barefoot in the stream, or sit beneath a shade tree, reading or stitching., At the moment, she couldn’t help wondering if such simple pleasures would ever be hers again.
Just that morning she’d met in town with her friends Hannah and Patience; Enoch had taken her in the wagon, since he had supplies to pick up. During that hour’s visit, the three women had shared the latest news about General Lee and his troops’ movements; they’d heard that the Confederates were on their way, in fact might already be in Cashtown, a few miles to the west. They’d discussed their own hopes—and more significantly, their fears.
As the war continued, life was bound to grow more difficult, and in its aftermath there would surely be little time for indulging ordinary whims. Whatever the outcome of this dreadful conflict, there would inevitably be hardships to face, losses to mourn, suffering to be endured.
As Caroline stood on the porch, the creak of the door alerted her to the presence of another person.
“Caroline,” her grandmother said quietly. “You’ve been out here in this awful heat long enough. Come with me to the kitchen house, and we’ll have tea.”
Caroline turned to face the older woman. “Tea? On a scorching day like this?”
Geneva Prescott, clad in a plain black skirt and a white shirtwaist, her cherished cameo brooch pinned at her throat, seemed completely at ease. “Yes,” she said, firmly but with a note of compassion in her voice. “Tea has medicinal properties, you know. It’s soothing in any kind of weather.” She paused, drew a soft breath, and exhaled. “Besides, Rachel may be frightened by the passing troops, and she needs her mother. I’ve tried to distract her, but she can’t seem to settle down.”
Caroline glanced at the squirrel gun resting against the porch railing and sighed. The weapon would be of little use against a single marauder, let alone an army, but it had given her the illusion of taking some definite action to protect her home and family.
She followed her grandmother into the kitchen house, where the air was marginally cooler. Rachel stood waiting for her, wide-eyed and worried.
“Mama,” she said, in a small voice, “I hear more soldiers coming. I hear their boots on the road.”
Caroline held out her arms to her child, and Rachel ran to her, flung herself into her mother’s embrace. “I think you’ve been peeking out the window,” she told the little girl gently. “You saw those men stopping to water their horses out by the gate, didn’t you?”
Rachel nodded rapidly. “There are more of them coming, Mama. I think Jubie hears them, too. From her...new room.”
At the periphery of her vision, Caroline saw her grandmother stiffen slightly and then nod.
Caroline gave the child a reassuring squeeze. “You mustn’t be afraid,” she said softly. “Those soldiers you’ve seen are part of the same army as Papa was. They are our friends.” Dear God, may that be true.
“Jubie told me there’s another army, though,” Rachel insisted, still worried. “A different one from Papa’s. An enemy army.”
“Grandmother has suggested we go to the kitchen house and have tea,” Caroline said, hugging her daughter once more before setting her on her feet. “I think that’s a very good idea.”
Rachel’s trepidation gave way to excitement. “May I have tea, too, Mama? Like you and Grandmother?”
“You may,” Caroline said. Together, Caroline and Geneva followed Rachel. By then, she was dashing across the yard, paying no attention whatsoever as the first band of men rode on, only to be replaced by another, larger group.
“Rachel seems to be taking her father’s death in stride,” Geneva rem
arked, as they walked through the lush grass toward the kitchen house.
Caroline’s eyes smarted, and she swallowed before answering. “I’m not sure she understands. She’s so young, and she’s used to her papa being away.”
Geneva’s gaze strayed to the road, where Enoch was gathering the buckets as they were emptied by the thirsty soldiers and horses, and gave a shudder. “I fear we shall all see more death than we can credit, and soon. We must prepare ourselves, and Rachel, too.”
“I know,” Caroline said.
Geneva forced a bright smile and squeezed Caroline’s shoulders. “Let us drink our tea and think of happier things, while we can.”
* * *
It was nearly sunset when the wagons drew up at the gate, one after another, in a long line. Supper was through, and the dishes had been washed and dried and put away. A tired Rachel had already gone to bed.
Enoch stood in the yard, just beyond the path of lantern light falling through the open door of the kitchen house, and Caroline and her grandmother soon joined him.
A rider bent to lift the gate latch, then rode through, leaving the rest of the party behind. Another mounted man closed the gate after him.
“Now, you ladies have to stay calm,” Enoch said. “These here are Yankee soldiers, not Confederates. They mean us no harm.”
Caroline watched as the rider came nearer, showing no signs of urgency. She hoped Enoch was right and they had nothing to fear, but the stories were there in her mind, just the same.
The man sat tall in his saddle, his blue uniform dusty but still impressive, with its brass buttons, gold trim and epaulets. It struck Caroline that there was something faintly familiar about him, although she quickly discarded the idea as wishful thinking.
He wore a campaign hat, rather than the kepi cap, common to regular soldiers and, as he drew nearer, he removed it respectfully, revealing a head of thick hair, dark as ebony.
Caroline felt a second jolt of recognition in that moment; this was the man who had helped her find Jacob, back in Washington City.
His smile flashed white in his sun-browned face as he spotted Caroline. “Well, Mrs. Hammond,” he said. “It is a fine surprise to see you again.”
“You know this man?” Geneva whispered.
“Yes,” Caroline said, searching her mind for his name. Their acquaintance had been a brief one and she had been understandably distracted, having searched for her wounded husband for so many hours, without success.
It came to her as he dismounted. Captain Rogan McBride.
He was a captain, and he was kind. That much she knew. An acquaintance of the nurse Bessie who had befriended Caroline, given her food and a place to sleep, helped her arrange for the delivery of her letter.
“Captain McBride,” she said, with a brief nod of acknowledgment.
He walked toward them, his hat still in his hand, but stopped a short distance away. “How does your husband fare?” he asked.
It was Enoch who answered. “Corporal Hammond is dead.” he said. His voice was flat and a little hard. He had been glad to provide water for the passing men all that day, as long as they stayed on the other side of the gate, but now he sounded cautious.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” the captain replied, still keeping his distance. “I’m sure he was a good man and a fine soldier.”
“He was,” Caroline said. She wasn’t afraid of this man, but his presence was cause for concern. “Do you have business here, Captain McBride?”
“I do,” McBride said, glancing back over one shoulder at the line of wagons. “Indications are, there’s going to be fighting close by. My men and I will be moving out right away, but we need a place to leave these provisions. Frankly, I was hoping whoever lived here wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on them for a day or two.”
“How close by?” Geneva asked. “This fighting you mentioned, I mean?”
Captain McBride gave a weary sigh. “Our men are in Gettysburg now, and camped all around it as well. The Rebs are holding back for the moment, but they’re here, with more following.”
The news was not unexpected—she’d heard it from her Ladies’ Aid Society friends—but a chill coiled in the pit of Caroline’s stomach just the same. She felt a short, violent urge to race into the house, gather Rachel in her arms, and flee North.
It was a foolish thought, and it shamed her a little.
Weeks ago Enoch had tried to persuade her again. When it was rumored that Robert E. Lee and the Army of Northern Virginia meant to invade the North, an exodus had begun. Terrified, people abandoned their homes and businesses, farms included, piled their families and belongings into whatever conveyance they could procure, and had gone.
Caroline had adamantly refused to leave back then. Settled and defended by Jacob’s ancestors, the farm rightly belonged to him and, eventually, to Rachel. She had worked hard on this land since her marriage, and she’d had no intention of leaving it to be picked over, inside and out, occupied by soldiers, and finally left to fall into ruin.
She felt no differently now, though she sometimes wished, in her darkest moments, that she’d held firm when her dear friend, Susannah Kronecker, left for New York where she had family. Susannah planned to stay with them until the war was over and her husband, an army surgeon, came home.
Before her departure, Susannah, who had no children of her own, had begged Caroline to let her take Rachel along. At first, Caroline had steadfastly refused, but Susannah was persistent, and thoroughly trustworthy. Rachel would be safe in that great and distant city, with Susannah and her kin, and she would lack for nothing.
Except, of course, her mother.
Caroline reconsidered, but then Rachel’s pleas to be allowed to stay had been heartbreaking, and Caroline had given in to her daughter.
“What’s in them wagons?” Enoch asked, bringing her mind back into focus.
“Food, mostly,” Captain McBride answered mildly. “Some blankets, medicine, a few tents.”
“No guns?” Enoch pressed. “Or ammunition?”
The officer shook his head. “Nothing like that.”
“What if the Rebs get here before you come back for these goods? What are we supposed to do then?” Enoch asked.
McBride looked tired, although his voice had lost none of its strength. “No,” he said. “If the Confederates get past us somehow, and come here, they will indeed take the wagons and everything they contain, along with whatever else they can scavenge from the place.” His gaze moved to Caroline for a moment, then back to Enoch. “If that happens, don’t try to stop them. Hide if you can, and don’t come out until you’re absolutely certain they’ve gone.”
Enoch blinked, drained of bluster, and looked at Caroline with a question in his eyes.
“I have no objection,” Caroline said, “as long as the wagons aren’t visible from the road.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hammond,” McBride said, with a slight inclination of his head. “You’re behind Union lines here, and we’ll do our best to see that you remain so.”
Caroline nodded in circumspect agreement.
Enoch remained cautious. “This farm,” he said evenly, “is all the Missus has. She’s a recent widow, with a child to provide for and keep safe, and she’s loyal to the Union...”
“I understand, Mr., er—”
“Flynn,” Enoch practically barked. “Enoch Flynn.”
At that moment, the captain surprised everyone present. He put out a hand to Enoch, and said, “You have my word, Mr. Flynn.”
Minutes later, the gate was open and the wagons rolled in, passing between the house and the barn, bound for the field hidden behind the blossoming orchard.
7
North of Gettysburg
June 30, 1863
Bridger
Bridger Winslow of the 6th Georgia Regiment raised his field glasses
, peered through their scratched lenses, and gave a low whistle as the long thread of blue sprang into bold relief, widening into a river of men, thousands of them, marching in formation, rifles and muskets at their shoulders. And that was just the infantry.
“You ever seen so many blue-bellies in one place, Cap’n Winslow?” asked Lieutenant Reed, who’d been hovering at Bridger’s side for the past several minutes.
Bridger took in the trail of heavy artillery, the cavalry, the supply wagons, ambulances, mules and spare horses. As the first of the Federals filed into the small Pennsylvania market town and began to break ranks, others dispersed to make camp in the surrounding countryside.
By nightfall, he thought, there’d be as many supper fires burning outside Gettysburg as there were stars in the sky. Or, at least, it would seem that way.
“No,” he answered, after a moment had passed. “I haven’t.”
He knew Reed had been hoping for a different reply; a few comforting words, perhaps a jocular reassurance that their own Army of Northern Virginia truly was invincible, as General Lee believed, even in the face of a horde like the one flooding the rich valley below.
But Bridger was a seasoned soldier, and he knew better than to underestimate the foe, for all that he’d seen Union forces make monumental mistakes, especially under the cautious leadership of George McClellan. Beloved of his troops, if not Lincoln, McClellan’s Commander in Chief, “Little Mac” had missed chance after chance to run Lee to ground, corner him and crush any possibility of Southern independence for years, if not decades, to come.
McClellan had since been relieved of his duties, recently and very briefly replaced by Joe Hooker. Now, according to the latest intelligence, the Union army was headed by Major General George Meade. The Yankees clogging the streets of Gettysburg and spilling into the surrounding countryside were under his command.
These Yanks were an industrious lot, pitching tents and tearing down rail fences to be sawn into firewood, digging latrines, unloading wagons. When viewed with the naked eye, they resembled a massive hill of blue ants.
The Yankee Widow Page 10