It was harder in some ways, this will to survive, no matter what it took.
“Where did you come from?” Enoch asked her gently. “Before you ran away, I mean.”
Jubie felt oddly shy now that she didn’t have to fight to get him to listen. “Alabama,” she murmured.
“Alabama,” he repeated, as if he couldn’t believe it. “You came all the way from Alabama to Pennsylvania on your own?”
“No, not on my own” Jubie said. “The mistress brought me. She was set on seeing her husband—he was with Stuart’s cavalry—and he had been away from home a long time. We came as far north as we could on the trains, but her husband, he wasn’t where he was when he wrote last. And then we heard went to Virgina...” Jubie said. “The mistress figured we’d meet him there, but we never found him.” Closing her eyes, she added, “Stuart had moved on by then. In...this direction.” She saw Mr. Flynn nod thoughtfully.
“Only reason she brought me,” Jubie continued, “was so she could shame me in front of her husband. Tell him all about how I tempted their son and was now pregnant by him.” Humiliation washed through Jubie, and she swallowed. “She said she was going to arrange for my baby to be sold...”
Mr. Flynn was quiet for a while. When he finally said something, it was only, “Go on.”
“The mistress wasn’t telling the truth. I tried to keep clear of her son, but he was having none of it. He cornered me one day, when I was out picking berries for the cook, and he—he—”
The man beside her took her hand, just long enough to give it a little squeeze. “You don’t have to say what happened then,” he said, and it came out so gentle that Jubie broke down and cried.
“You believe me?” she asked, incredulous, dashing at her tears with the back of one hand.
“Yes,” he answered. That was all. Just “Yes.”
But it was enough.
Jubie drew in a deep breath, feeling stronger. “I told the mistress what really happened, over and over. She called me a liar every time. Sometimes she slapped me, too, really hard.” She paused. “When we finally got to the camp, in a place called Upperville, in Virginia, the husband was off somewhere with Stuart. We waited for a week, and the mistress got madder and madder. She rented this little room in a boarding house in a town named Hanover. She took the bed, and I slept on the floor on a nicely woven rug. I didn’t mind that. But one day the landlady came in, didn’t knock, and there I was. So this lady said this here is the North, and up here, folks don’t sleep on the floor. The landlady said good riddance and we were gone, just like that, with no place to lay our heads.”
Enoch took her hand. “Slow down, Jubie,” he said. “We’ve got time.”
“The mistress said it was all my fault the landlady had thrown us out. She said the master was bound to be even more furious, and he’d surely have me whipped and sell me off to a sin house down in New Orleans. I had to wait outside while she went in another place to ask after a room. So I thought about what was about to happen to me, and...I just ran. I hid in liveries and the like at night, and I was scared, too, but I was a lot more scared of being sold into a sin house.”
“You traveled at night?”
Jubie nodded. “Yes. Folks helped me along the way. Gave me rides in their wagon, or let me stay in their barn. Shared their food, too. I also heard, from folks along the way, that there were Underground Railroad stations around here that would help me get to Canada.”
“That’s true. And the Hammond place is one of them, as you found out.” He paused. “But then McKilvoy, the slave catcher, found you.”
She nodded. “The mistress was offering a lot of money to find me, but I knew he was gonna do plenty to me before he handed me over.”
“You still planning to head for Canada?” Mr. Flynn asked, after he’d spent a long time weighing the tale in his mind.
“Yes. I surely am,” Jubie answered, with a lot more confidence than she felt. “Me and my child. You ought to come with me. Only way people like us can ever be really free.”
She thought that Enoch might consider the idea, but she knew he wouldn’t really leave this place, or the woman who held the deed to it.
She stood up. “It ain’t no use, you know,” she said, very quietly. “You lovin’ Miss Caroline, I mean.”
He didn’t stand, but turned his gaze toward the empty road. She wondered how many times he’d thought about following it away from this farm, away from this war.
“I reckon you ought to tend to your own affairs,” he said, when she was beginning to believe he’d turned mute. “First of all, I am a free man, you know. And the Missus was the wife of the best friend I ever had—maybe the only friend—and I gave him my word I’d keep her safe. The little one, too. And that’s what I mean to do.”
Jubie believed him, just as he’d believed her. “But don’t you want a wife?” she asked. “One that’s like you?”
“I loved a woman once,” he said, without looking at her. “Love her still, to tell the truth, and I don’t expect that to change. Only thing is I don’t know if she is still alive.”
Jubie didn’t respond—what could she say? Instead she headed silently back to the main house.
Once in bed, she turned onto her side and smiled a little, thinking of her child. He would be a mixture of two races, and there was a good chance neither would accept him. Unless things changed—and she prayed they would.
She patted her belly gently. “Never you mind,” she whispered. “Your mama, she wants you plenty. And you’re gonna be free as anybody. Just you wait and see.”
The baby settled down a little, as though he’d heard the promise and taken it as gospel.
She’d hoped to fall asleep right away, now that she’d been able to confide in Enoch.
Instead, she was wakeful.
She thought about all the things tomorrow might bring, and about her own mama, dead so long now that Jubie couldn’t bring her face to mind.
Most of all, though, she thought about Enoch Flynn, and what a fine man he seemed to be. Was there hope for more between them, for something strong and real?
Up here in the North, or across the border in Canada, she’d heard that folks like her might be able to get married legally by a preacher, all legal, instead of jumping broom handles, hand in hand.
Jubie sighed and closed her eyes. She didn’t know a whole lot about Enoch, but she was sure of two things. First, he was a good man. And second...he’d been too long on his own.
A sad smile lit on Jubie’s mouth, flew off again, quick as a hummingbird flitting from one blossom to another. She was a fool to hope for anything, but she didn’t know how to stop.
11
Cemetery Ridge
July 2, 1863
Rogan
In the unlikely event that he lived long enough to get old, Rogan thought, barely able to breathe—or see—for the smoke and fire all around him, his hearing mercifully dulled by the thunder of artillery fire, he’d be hard put to tell his grandchildren where he and his horse Little Willie were on any given day, in relation to landmarks.
Equally hard to know where the situation stood with regard to the fighting right now. They hadn’t moved once they’d reached Cemetery Ridge; General Meade had arrived sometime after midnight, and Rogan expected the Union army would be ordered to advance on Little Round Top, under the command of Daniel Sickles.
He knew little more at the moment—except for the fact that yesterday, July 1, had been a Southern victory...and a Northern disaster.
Other soldiers told tales of fighting on hilltops and in valleys; they described rivers running red with blood and creeks dammed with the corpses of men and horses and mules. Rogan had seen all these horrors and more, of course, but what he remembered was the heightened state of awareness in both mind and body, the sense that he had somehow separated into two distinct entities.
When he had the luxury of reflection, which today he didn’t, he wondered if this phenomenon was an indication of insanity. After all, losing one’s mind was common in his current line of work.
This morning he’d left his horse behind the lines so he could muster out with Pickering and the other teamsters under his immediate command, although as a cavalryman, he would’ve preferred to ride into battle with his regular regiment. Until he was reassigned again, these men were his responsibility.
He had young Hastings beside him when the charge hit just ahead, landing with the force of a meteor, belching fire and smoke and driving both of them to their bellies. Otherworldly shrieks speared Rogan’s brain as he lunged to the ground, grabbing Hastings’s arm and hurling him down, too.
Rocks and shrapnel fell like hail, and Rogan let his rifle lay where it was, crosswise beneath his chest, and covered his head with both hands. He felt the shower of stones first, then the peppering of metal fragments, every one of them hot as a branding iron.
His nape and the backs of his hands burned like hell, but when he raised his head, he didn’t examine his injuries. Instead he turned to look for Hastings.
The boy lay on his back, covered in soot from one end of his skinny frame to the other. His face was all there, and so were his limbs, but the rush of relief Rogan felt was short-lived. The kid’s eyes were open, but he stared blankly up at the smoke-shrouded sky.
“Hastings!” Rogan yelled, as another blast, farther away, rocked the ground under him. “You hit?”
“Yessir,” the boy managed to say. “I believe I am.”
“Where?” Rogan demanded, as the bombardment went on.
“About everywhere, I reckon,” Hastings said. “Feels like somebody went and lit little bitty fires all over me, and there’s something broken inside, too.”
“Hold on,” Rogan ordered, as inhuman screams sounded from everywhere, amplified to a pitch that sickened his soul. He wanted to disappear into some hidden part of himself, where the agonized cries couldn’t reach, or at least squeeze his eyes shut, but he didn’t dare do either one. “You hold on, you hear me? I’ll get you away from here as soon as I can.”
Hastings actually tried smiling; it was a pitiful sight. He was a boy, not a man; should’ve been home, chopping wood and eating his mama’s cooking. “Save yourself, Cap’n. Ain’t no savin’ me.”
When yet another blast sent another rain of hot metal to falling, Rogan sheltered the kid as best he could, felt the downpour burning through his tunic and shirt to his flesh. The smell of scorched wool filled his nose, and he knew his coat was smoldering, but he waited until the fire shower let up before rolling onto his back to put the flames out.
“Best you keep moving, sir,” Hastings said.
Rogan lifted his head again, squinting, to look around for a place to shelter the boy, but there was nothing—no breastworks, no trenches, not even a good-sized rock or a God-damned tree. “I’m giving the orders here, Private,” he barked.
Again, that haunting smile. Rogan didn’t reckon he’d ever forget it. “Yes, sir,” he said, and lifted one filthy, bleeding hand in an attempt to salute.
“Tell me your Christian name,” Rogan said quietly.
“It’s Ethan, sir.”
Why had he never asked this kid who he was, aside from a soldier?
“Well, Ethan,” Rogan proceeded with deliberate calm, “where’s home?”
“Right here in Pennsylvania, sir,” Ethan Hastings replied, struggling to speak. “My ma and pa have a little place outside Harrisburg. It’s nothing much, but I sure wish I was back there now.”
Rogan’s eyes stung fiercely. He figured it was the smoke. “You’ll be there soon enough,” he said, then had to stop and cough. “I’ll see to that. Meanwhile, you’ve got to hang on.”
With that chilling placidity Rogan had seen too many times before, the boy shook his head. A lone tear cut a channel through the grime covering his face. “I truly wish I could do that, sir,” he replied, every word requiring an effort. “There’s a favor you could do me, though, if you’re of a mind to.”
Despair hollowed out a place inside Rogan and settled in to stay. “What’s that?” he asked, lowering his head so he could hear Ethan’s faint reply.
“Ma will be mighty torn up when she finds out I’m gone,” the boy answered, whispering now. He labored for every breath, and there were long gaps between words. “She knew this could happen, so I guess she’s as prepared as she can be. Pa will be all right, once he squares things away in his mind. It’s my dog, Sweet Girl, worries me the most. Pa calls her a useless critter, and I’m afraid he’ll shoot her or something, first chance he gets.”
The voice fell away, and the boy’s effort to rally the last of his strength was a painful thing to see.
“You want me to go get your dog?” Rogan asked.
“Yes, sir,” Ethan murmured. “Find her a place. Ain’t nothin’ I want more than to know my Sweet Girl is with kindly folks who’ll look after her.”
“I’ll fetch her,” Rogan promised, though he wasn’t sure he’d live out the day, or whatever was left of this particular fight, let alone how he was going to travel all the way to Harrisburg, find the Hastings farm and claim the dog, but he’d do it, or die in the trying.
“I am obliged to you, Cap’n,” the boy said on a wavering breath.
And then his eyes rolled back and his chest stopped rising and falling.
He was gone.
Sixteen years old at the outside, and he was gone.
The rage that seized Rogan in those moments was a ferocious thing. He wanted to take the boy hard by the shoulders and shake him back into the world, shout orders at him, throw back his head and bellow at the waste of a life barely lived.
Instead, he crossed Ethan Hastings’s arms across his narrow chest, weighted his eyes shut with two flat pebbles, retrieved his scorched kepi, which had been sent flying when he fell. He placed the cap gently over the still, narrow face, where no trace of a beard would ever grow.
He knew the fighting had moved on for the time being, knew there were dead and could hear dying men scattered all around him, perhaps for miles. There was nothing he could do for the boy now, but it felt all wrong to leave him out there, in that grisly company and yet thoroughly alone.
So he stayed where he was, on his knees beside the dead child, oblivious to his own condition, stricken to the heart.
“He was a good kid.” The voice was gruff, full of weariness and sorrow. “But he’s lost to us now, Cap’n, and you’re hurt. Let’s get you over to the field hospital for some tending.”
Rogan turned his head, recognized Josiah Pickering, the lobsterman. Pickering had seen hard fighting himself, judging by the state of his uniform, but he was all in one piece, standing on his own two feet, unlike hundreds, if not thousands, of other men.
He put a hand out to Rogan, helped him stand.
Belatedly, Rogan shook his head. “No field hospital,” he said. “I’m all right.” He looked down at the boy again.
The Maine man put his hand to Rogan’s back again, steered him away from the body. “Come along, Cap’n,” he said. “The boy’s gone, and if you won’t let a medic take a look at you, we’d better see to the ones that are still living. It’ll be a while before the ambulance wagons get here, and they’ll be in need of water and whatever help we can offer.”
Rogan half walked, half stumbled along beside Pickering. Nodded his head once. “How does it happen,” he wondered aloud, “that you’re not with Chamberlain and the 20th Maine? They’re a fine outfit.”
Pickering’s stride was slower than usual. “I wanted to join up with Chamberlain and his bunch, but my wife wouldn’t hear of it. Said he was naught but a glorified schoolmaster, and barely dry behind the ears into the bargain. If I was going to march off to war at my age, she told me, I had to
promise to serve as a clerk or drive a supply wagon—do something safe.”
They both smiled at the word safe.
Mundane as the exchange was, it was calming as well. Proof that there was still a world out there, despite the war—a world full of people doing ordinary things.
“Do you ever wonder what your good wife would’ve done if you’d refused to follow orders?” Rogan asked, sadly wry.
“No need to ponder that question, Cap’n,” Pickering answered. “She made it plain from the beginning. If she learned I was marching with the infantry or the like, she’d borrow a team and wagon from her cousin, pack up the children and everything we owned, right down to the bait in the mousetraps, and light out for her brother’s place in Bangor. I’d come home at war’s end to an empty house, provided I didn’t get my damn fool head blown off beforehand.”
“Would she do that?” Rogan asked. No matter how bad things were, it lifted his spirits a little, just hearing stories about regular families.
“Sure she would. She’s a spirited woman, my Sarah. She’d have me back eventually, but it would take some doing on my part to persuade her to leave her brother’s fine, big house and come on home with me.”
Men ran past, carrying stretchers.
Rogan could feel the small pieces of metal lodged in his flesh, but he didn’t let on that he was in pain. The wounds burned but were minor, he was sure, and casualties had been heavy all day; with wounded men pouring into the hospital tents, the surgeons were surely overwhelmed as it was.
He couldn’t expect them to set aside crucial operations to pick pieces of Confederate iron out of his hide.
“You’d go after her, your wife, I mean? Court her all over again?” he asked, to keep the conversation going a little longer.
The Yankee Widow Page 14