The Yankee Widow

by Linda Lael Miller

  Minutes later, he’d recovered his equanimity.

  “You all stay inside the house,” he said. “I’ll go see to the animals and be right back.”

  No one questioned the order. Caroline sank into her rocking chair. Rachel lowered her arms from around her mother’s neck, but stayed settled wearily in her lap.

  The firing resumed, as Caroline had known it would, and went on for some time, rattling the glass in the windows and causing the few ornaments on the mantel and side tables to wobble, though the sturdy stone walls of the farmhouse buffered the noise a little.

  Caroline waited, gently rocking Rachel, although each time the child drifted off, the cannon started up again, waking her.

  Geneva had seated herself in the chair that had been Jacob’s, her face pale, her fingers entwined in her lap, her gaze fixed on something only she could see.

  Jubie paced, fretful, holding her distended belly in both hands. She stayed well away from the windows, a caution that had been emphasized by all.

  No one spoke.

  It was Enoch, returning from the barn during one of the intermittent periods when the guns weren’t firing, who broke the silence.

  “That poor ol’ milk cow is plenty riled,” he said. “We’ll be lucky if she doesn’t dry up on us.”

  Out on the road, horses thundered by. “Cavalry,” Enoch said, in a low rumble. “In a big hurry to get to the fighting, it looks like.”

  “Union or Confederate?” Caroline asked very quietly. She thought Rachel had fallen asleep, but saw no point in carrying the little girl upstairs to bed; the next round of cannon fire would only wake her again, and she’d be more terrified than ever, finding herself alone.

  “Confederate,” Enoch replied, remaining at the window. “Good thing they’re in such an all-fired rush to get themselves blown to bits on the battleground. Doesn’t look as if they’re of a mind to stop by and pester us any.”

  Not now, anyway, Caroline reflected, too numb to be afraid. “Thank God for that,” she said aloud.

  A moment later, Jubie vanished to her room in the back.

  Enoch remained standing on the cold hearth, his back to the mantelpiece, and took in the room. “Why don’t I get you some water, Missus Geneva,” he offered.

  Geneva smiled wanly and fluttered one hand. “I’m quite all right,” she said, determinedly cheerful. She turned bright eyes to Rachel, who was awake now. “You come over here and sit with me, darling,” she added. “I’ll tell you a story.”

  Rachel sprang from Caroline’s lap and hurried to squeeze in beside her great-grandmother.

  “It might be better if you both try to rest,” Caroline said, sighing a little as she rose from the rocking chair.

  Neither of them paid her any mind.

  “This used to be my papa’s chair,” Rachel told her great-grandmother earnestly. “Before that, it belonged to his papa.”

  “I see,” Geneva replied, her tone so gentle that sudden tears stung the backs of Caroline’s eyes.

  “He got killed in the war,” Rachel confided, in a near whisper.

  Geneva patted the child’s hand. “I know. I’m so sorry that happened.”

  “I hope he wasn’t scared,” Rachel went on, solemn now. “It must have been real loud, where he was. Like today.”

  Caroline did not hear her grandmother’s reply; she hurried from the room, pressing one hand to her mouth as soon as she was out of sight.

  * * *

  The artillery roared almost continuously until nightfall, then ceased.

  When the silence fell, everyone walked carefully and quietly to the kitchen house. Caroline and Geneva, with help from Enoch, created a simple meal, and an hour later they assembled around the table, except for Jubie, who stayed back in the main house for safety. They were tense, as if preparing themselves for yet another blast. Only Enoch made a move to take up fork or spoon and partake of the nourishing meal of stew, salad greens and freshly baked biscuits, even after grace had been said.

  The day had been a long and difficult one, and Caroline understood the timeworn expression, “dead on her feet” as never before. If her stomach hadn’t felt so hollow that it might have been scraped bare on the inside, she would have put Rachel to bed, spent an hour or so reading, and turned in herself.

  Tired as she was, however, she knew she wouldn’t sleep until she’d had something to eat. Besides, she needed to keep up her strength; they all did.

  She smoothed her checkered cotton napkin on her lap and surveyed the other diners, starting with her grandmother. Geneva was clearly preoccupied but, thankfully, not in the near-comatose state she’d fallen into earlier, during the barrage. She seemed to be pondering the stew pot in the middle of the table, as though it were an oracle or a crystal ball, about to reveal the future.

  Rachel sat, as usual, on Caroline’s right, perched atop a thick musty volume containing the entire history of the Roman Empire. Jacob had always intended to build a dining chair for the child, a special one with a high back, raised seat and arms to keep her from toppling to the floor.

  At the mere thought of Jacob, Caroline felt a piercing stab of loss. She closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them, her gaze connected with Enoch’s.

  He did not look away, but when he spoke, it was obvious that he wasn’t addressing Caroline alone. “Reckon there won’t be more shooting tonight. Too dark to take aim.”

  The words were quiet ones, and it was doubtful that they came as a revelation to any of them, yet the effect they had on the group was powerful. There’d been no opportunity as yet for them to learn which side had won today’s battle on Seminary Ridge; still they all seemed to feel a palpable sense of relief. It was over—for now. And tomorrow...

  Suddenly, Geneva, Caroline and Rachel all started talking at once, Geneva about tents and medicine. Rachel chiming in with earnest comments about wanting to help, Caroline laughing. Smiling to himself, Enoch refilled his empty bowl and crumbled the first of several biscuits into it, saying nothing.

  Much later, when Jubie had eaten the supper Enoch had brought for her from the kitchen house, and Rachel had finally dozed off in Caroline’s bed—where she’d begged to sleep, terrified of being alone all night—Caroline and her grandmother sat quietly in the parlor, a single lantern burning on the small table between their chairs.

  Geneva, who could not stay idle, held the mending basket in her lap and resumed her darning. Once she’d established Jubie with knitting needles and yarn, she’d taken over whatever repairs remained to be done.

  Caroline, who’d hoped to read a book she had long ago borrowed from her friend, had quickly given up, watched her grandmother as she stitched, her needle flashing silver in the dim light. The stocking Geneva was repairing so industriously had been Jacob’s and, of course, he would have no need of it, although Caroline didn’t mention that.

  “How long?” Caroline asked, very softly, catching herself off guard, since the question had not been deliberate. “How long will it be before I can speak Jacob’s name, or even think of him, without wanting to weep?”

  Geneva paused. “Hard to say,” she replied, after a period of consideration. “Grief is the same for everyone, in many ways, but there are differences.” She paused for a moment or so. “When the fever took your folks and your baby sister, the sorrow was nearly unbearable sometimes, but your grandfather and I had you, and each other, of course, and we knew we had to go on.”

  Caroline nodded. “And when Grandfather died?”

  Geneva sighed gently. Her gaze was still direct, but tears glimmered in her eyes. “It was the same—and it wasn’t. I loved my husband dearly, and losing him felt—well—it felt like an amputation. I wasn’t sure I would survive, at least in the beginning, but as the days passed, then the weeks and then these last few months, being alone has come easier.”

  “But you weren’t
alone,” Caroline said kindly. “You had me and Rachel.”

  “Yes, dear,” Geneva agreed, with a sniffle and a tender smile. “You have been such a comfort to me, as you still are now. And that precious child of yours, well, I’m not sure there are words to describe the joy she brings me. Why, the girl warms my soul like bright sunshine on a cold winter day. And Jacob was so kind, so helpful, he might as well have been my own son.

  “Still,” she went on, “I couldn’t allow myself to become a burden to you. You were mourning your grandfather, too, after all. When Jacob went away to fight, you were left with this farm, and a little girl to bring up.” Geneva lowered her head, and resumed her mending with new vigor. “Just listen to me, a foolish old woman, nattering on, when all you wanted to know was what to expect of widowhood.”

  Caroline merely shook her head; her fatigue, already crushing, seemed to settle into the marrow of her bones. She found herself wandering in an inner maze, a place of shadows, full of twists and turns and dead ends—thoughts of Jacob and how he was wounded and what that must have been like for him.

  “Caroline,” her grandmother’s voice was quiet. “It’s time we retired for the night. You need your sleep, and heaven knows, morning will be here all too soon, and with it more worry.”

  More soldiers, more rifle shots, more cannon fire, Caroline added silently. And yes, a great many reasons to be afraid.

  Except that she couldn’t afford to be afraid. Could not spare the energy that fear required of a person.

  Rachel depended on her, as did her grandmother and Jubie and, to some extent, even Enoch.

  “You’re right, Grandmother,” she said.“But what if this winter is hard, and the food we’ve put by doesn’t last until Enoch and I can plant again? And don’t say we could buy food, because there might not be any to buy, once these armies are through!”

  “You can’t worry about all that now, my dear,” Geneva said reasonably, putting away her mending. “You have to focus on taking care of yourself first.”

  “But we’re standing square in the path of two armies, Grandmother, both of them bent on wiping out the other, and they may very well wipe us out in the process!”

  Geneva put a finger to her lips, shushing Caroline. “You don’t want to wake Rachel and worry her, my dear, talking that way.”

  “You’re right. Even though everything I’ve said is true,” she said in a whisper.

  Caroline could hardly imagine worse circumstances, at least in that moment. With a final hug, she and Geneva hurried up to their rooms.

  Rachel lay curled up in the center of Caroline’s bed, plump-cheeked and rosy with sleep, a tiny smile resting, light as a fairy’s wing, on her mouth. After all that had happened, the child was dreaming sweetly, probably of puppies, tumbling and frolicking in the grass.

  Caroline’s troubled heart eased as she watched her little girl dream.

  She put out the lamp, pulled the curtains closed and began to undress. She was a miracle, this child of hers, a glorious gift.

  And perhaps one miracle in a lifetime was enough.

  10

  Hammond Farm

  11:45 p.m., July 1, 1863

  Enoch

  That damn horse was back.

  Again.

  The critter showed up out of nowhere, as though formed of the night itself, and came right up to Enoch, who’d been sitting cross-legged in the shadow of the barn, Jacob’s shotgun resting across his knees. The horse buried its wet nose in Enoch’s neck and snuffled companionably.

  He’d been keeping watch ever since Missus Caroline and her grandmother had gone upstairs to bed, but he must have nodded off, since he hadn’t heard the animal coming. His intent, his goal in staying awake, had been to prevent any stray Rebel or Union soldiers from coming in to loot the farm.

  “You get on out of here, horse,” Enoch said, although he figured he was wasting his breath. He’d already run that gelding off three times in the past weeks, but it always came back. Somehow the animal had managed to free itself from the tree Enoch had loosely tethered it to. “Stay around these parts,” he muttered, “and you might find yourself joining up with whichever army happens along.”

  “I’ve got enough troubles,” Enoch went on, holding the shotgun carefully while he got to his feet, “without getting myself hanged for a horse thief.” Not to mention a killer.

  The animal nickered again and stood its ground.

  Enoch chuckled, in spite of his predicament, and gave the horse a pat on the neck. “Reckon I’d better give you a name, if you’re going to be coming around here, making a nuisance of yourself.” He started toward the barn, and the horse ambled peaceably along behind him, blowing out loud gusts of breath as though trying to hold up his end of the conversation.

  Inside the barn, Enoch opened the last empty stall, and the gelding went inside, just as if he belonged there. The milk cow, the two mules and Old Tom, the ancient horse Enoch hitched to the buggy when the Missus drove to town or went off to church on a Sunday, didn’t pay the newcomer any mind.

  “I believe I’ll call you Trojan,” Enoch said. “Like as not, you’re plumb full of trouble.” He set the shotgun aside, took up one bucket, then another. The trough was empty so he’d have to fetch enough water to fill it.

  Trojan gave a low whinny.

  Accustomed though he was to hard work, Enoch felt his shoulders and upper arms throb. He’d hauled up plenty of water for all those soldiers the day before, lugged bucket after bucket out to the road, then trudged back for more. He hoped some of those blue-coats would recollect the kindness if they came this way again.

  “You mind your manners while I’m gone to the well,” Enoch said to Trojan as he left the barn.

  Thinking he heard hoofbeats far down the road, he paused in a part of the yard where the moonlight didn’t reach, glad of his dark clothes, and listened hard. Things had been quiet since that troop of cavalrymen rode by, except for the cannon, of course, but there could be more of them along at any minute.

  The latecomers might not be in as much of a hurry as the others had been, and thus inclined to tarry a while, help themselves to the food stored in the cellars, raid the chicken coop, strip the corn from the field and the trees in the orchard of their green fruit. Give them a bellyache for sure, that fruit, and the corn wouldn’t be ripe for more than a month, but hungry men weren’t choosy.

  Two riders appeared in the night, riding fast toward Gettysburg, but they went right on by without slowing down. In the darkness, Enoch couldn’t make out the color of their uniforms, but it didn’t matter which side they were on if they took a notion to raise some hell.

  He wished he had a pistol to stick under his belt; he had left his shotgun behind in the barn, since he needed both hands to carry the buckets. If a fight came his way, he’d have no weapon other than his two fists.

  Renegade soldiers weren’t the only threat, of course; one had to be on the lookout for deserters, drifters and thieving outlaws in times like these.

  And slave catchers, like the one he’d drowned in the creek. And the ones who’d come to the house the other day, looking for their missing companion—and for Jubie.

  A shudder ran through Enoch. Luckily they hadn’t caught sight of Trojan. But what if they came back? If they did, they’d recognize the horse for sure. Then they’d go poking around the place some more, maybe even bring in the law.

  He waited, as still as a boulder set deep in hard ground, his heart pounding fit to bust clean through his chest. He wasn’t afraid of slave catchers, but he sure as glory feared the law. Even here in the North, his reasons for killing a white man wouldn’t count for anything—only the black color of his skin would signify.

  So he listened until the last echo of shod hooves pounding over a hard-packed road had faded away. Then he went on to the well.

  He lowered the buckets, one
by one, and cranked them back up again, full.

  Back and forth he went, carrying water to fill Trojan’s trough, thinking all the while. He thought about the pregnant runaway Jubie, and young Jacob lying six feet under, a good man, a good friend dead long before his time. He considered the slave catcher, too, in his shallow grave, and wondering if McKilvoy had folks somewhere, waiting for him to come home, possibly believing he was a soldier, fighting bravely for the Confederate cause.

  With all that was going on in his mind, Enoch nearly jumped right out of himself when somebody stepped onto the path in front of him.

  “What you doin’ out here in the middle of the night?” he asked when he recognized Jubie.

  “I need to talk. To you,” she said in a near whisper.

  “Lordy, woman,” he croaked. “You can’t go surprising a man like that! If I’d had my shotgun, I might have sent you straight to kingdom come, in a whole lot of pieces.”

  He shook his head. “You get on back to the main house, Jubie, where you’ll be safe.”

  She stepped aside so he could go on toward the barn, then trailed along behind him. “I need to talk to somebody,” she said. “Somebody who will understand.” There were tears in her voice. “I might crack wide open if I don’t.”

  The barn was dark and quiet.

  Enoch heaved a sigh.

  She sat down on an empty nail keg, despondent.

  Enoch’s heart twisted just a little. “You want to tell me about your mistress, and your baby’s father and how you came to be a runaway, that’s fine. But I’ve got to keep an eye out for trouble, and if it’s coming, it’ll be by way of that road out there, so I need to stand watch.”

  With that, he left the barn, Jubie right on his heels.

  Enoch already knew that he’d listen, that he’d take in every word—and not just out of kindness or compassion.

  * * *

  Jubie rested her hands on her belly, where her baby kicked and turned, as if it couldn’t wait to get out of her. There’d been times when she would have welcomed death, or thought she would, rather than see her child sold away from her into slavery if she was caught. But when that slave catcher was after her, trying to run her down with his horse in the middle of a creek, she’d wanted to live more than she’d ever wanted anything before.