Caroline closed her eyes briefly, trying to resist the morbid images that blossomed in her mind and, of course, failing. She forced herself to listen, and to look into Enoch’s worried face without flinching.
He was guilty of murder, even if justified, and although she hadn’t been there, Caroline felt she wasn’t completely blameless. All her life she’d prided herself on being a person of integrity, of principle, above compromise and shady dealings.
Yet here she was, complicit, a keeper of dangerous secrets. Because war changed everything.
“What are we going to do?” she asked, picking up her knife again, and slashing away at the already discolored potato she’d been peeling before.
What Enoch did then was unprecedented. He covered Caroline’s hands with one of his own, tightened his calloused fingers around them. “You,” he replied grimly, “are not going to do anything. Except cut yourself to shreds, if you aren’t more careful.”
Caroline heaved a great sigh.
Enoch released her hands.
She focused on the potato, working slowly now, keeping her eyes down. “You could move him—it—” She faltered. “Bury him again, I mean. In another place...”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Enoch step back. Shake his head. “I’ve thought about that,” he said, “but I’m not convinced it would do any good. I reckon everything depends on how soon the army sends a detachment back to collect their dead. If it’s right away, or even in a week or so, they might notice that somebody’s been digging and wonder why.”
Caroline went on paring. “I should think they’d be too preoccupied with their own duties to notice,” she ventured. “The army men, I mean. Obviously, disinterring bodies is unpleasant work, the kind a person might be in a hurry to finish.”
“Maybe,” Enoch allowed, but he sounded uncertain. “Seems to me, though, if anybody’s used to gathering up dead folks and hauling them someplace, it would be a soldier. They’ll have a map with them when they get back here, showing which man is buried where, and they’ll be expected to account for every one of them, too.”
While he was speaking, Enoch fetched a cooking pot and ladled water into it from a bucket. He placed the vessel within Caroline’s reach.
With a rueful smile, she put the potatoes in the kettle. “If that’s the case,” she remarked, “wouldn’t they be satisfied that the numbers match? That every soldier’s name can be crossed off their list?”
“They might be,” Enoch agreed. “Or, they might not. They might notice that extra plot, and want to know where the body got to.”
“I don’t suppose you could plant something there—a seedling tree, perhaps, or even one of my rose bushes? People do that kind of thing to honor the departed.”
“Women do that kind of thing,” Enoch pointed out mildly. “Not soldiers. Besides, I’m not looking to draw attention to the spot, Missus.”
“I guess you’re right,” Caroline admitted, discouraged. How had she wound up in such a moral dilemma, scheming to deceive the United States Army? Jacob’s army?
And not just once...
“That blasted horse keeps coming back, too,” Enoch continued, frustrated. “No matter how many times I drive that critter off, he won’t stay gone.”
Finally, Caroline had peeled the last potato. “What horse?” she asked.
“The one he was riding. The man who came after Jubie.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, “I remember.” She felt even more discouraged than before as she headed for the doorway with the kettle in hand, intending to strain the potato water onto the ground and replace it with fresh. When she returned, she set the pot on the stove, added salt and reached for the ladle.
“There must be plenty of stray horses around,” she said, as though there’d been no break in their conversation. “One more shouldn’t be difficult to explain.”
Enoch nodded, sighed. “I was hoping one of the armies would claim him. Didn’t matter to me which it was, either...”
“The horse—is it distinctive in some way?”
“No,” Enoch answered. “He’s just a plain bay gelding, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t be recognized if he happened to catch the wrong person’s eye. Especially if that person turned out to be searching for somebody who’d passed this way. Say the searcher’s another slave catcher, like the ones we had here before. Or a whole gang of them.”
Despite the heat, Caroline felt a chill. She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering. “Surely such men would have fled, with two armies around and all the fighting. They’re most likely outlaws, possibly deserters. Likely to be hanged, if they get caught.”
“Yes,” Enoch said grimly “Trouble is, any of ’em still around might not have gone far. There’s a price on Jubie’s head, probably a high one, and they won’t forget about that. They’ll want to track down their partner, make sure he didn’t cut them out of their share of the reward.” He gave a bitter, mirthless laugh. “For all I know, they’re right about that. I don’t care one way or the other, but I don’t want them turning up here.”
The thought terrified Caroline, too. She would have preferred to deal with a whole division of Confederates, given the choice. They, according to the newspapers, were under stern orders from General Lee to leave all civilians, North or South, unmolested, along with their property. Women and children, especially, were to be left alone, and the penalties for disobeying the general’s command were serious indeed.
Still, there were scoundrels, stragglers and deserters, the sort of dishonorable men Jacob had called “‘bummers.” Union or Confederate, they cared nothing for orders; they were opportunists, and they took what they wanted without qualm, often by violent means.
Caroline found herself wishing Captain McBride had left behind an extra rifle or two, and plenty of ammunition, along with all that food.
“Well, then,” she said, “we shall have to be very careful, do what we can and hope for the best.”
The statement sounded naive, even to Caroline herself. Clearly she was a woman in need of a better plan.
Enoch didn’t reply, and no wonder. He was too polite, and too kind, to point out Caroline’s faulty reasoning.
He simply put on his hat and left the kitchen house.
* * *
“It’s time for me to return to home,” Geneva announced, when they all sat down for the noon meal Caroline had prepared. “It’s been a while since the fighting has ended and it seems time.”
The kitchen house was insufferably hot, with the cookstove in use, and Caroline felt cranky and drained. Leaving the door open to capture a breeze—there was none—had served only to let the flies in.
“No, Great-grandmother!” Rachel said. She was fitful and ready for a nap. Tears pooled in her lashes and her lower lip protruded. “You mustn’t go away. Everybody goes away!”
“Rachel,” Caroline began somewhat ominously, but Geneva waved her to silence.
Jubie and Enoch kept their eyes on their plates.
“Darling,” Geneva chided gently, smiling at the child, “I’ve been here a while. I have a house of my own, and from what Mr. Flynn has told me, it is in dire need of cleaning and repairs. My friends and neighbors have been through a dreadful ordeal, too, and I want to help them, if I can.” She shook her head. “And,” she added, “it has been far too long since my friends and I have seen each other or worked on any of our Ladies’ Aid Society undertakings. I think they’d say they need me.”
Rachel was unmoved. “We need you,” she sobbed.
Caroline opened her mouth to scold the little girl but, once again, her grandmother stopped her with a single, eloquent glance. She turned a warm, understanding smile on her great-granddaughter.
“You know I will visit often,” Geneva said. “And once things are more—normal—you and your mama will come and see me, like before.”
Enoch excused himself, pushed back his chair and stood, plate and utensils in hand. Without another word, he placed his dishes on the work table and went out.
Jubie also stood, preparing to leave the table, but Caroline stopped her by looking pointedly at her unfinished meal and saying, “Eat a little more, Jubie,” she said. “For your baby’s sake, as well as your own.”
“I’m fine for now, Miss—I mean Caroline.” Her voice was strained, the use of Caroline’s name sounding rather forced.
The young woman settled back into her chair, picked up her fork and idly shunted her food from one side of her plate to the other, then back again. She kept her eyes down and said nothing.
Caroline wondered what she was thinking.
After another few minutes, Jubie glanced up. “I’m not real hungry,” she said. “Reckon it’s this heat.”
Caroline nodded, holding Rachel close. The child continued to weep, but not as loudly as before.
“I’ll carry a plate up to that Rebel, if you want me to,” Jubie offered. She stood and cleared her place at the table. “And I’ll do these dishes after, so you just leave them be.”
“Thank you, Jubie,” Caroline said.
Rachel shuddered in Caroline’s arms, sagging against her.
Jubie gave them both a slight smile and headed back to the main house.
Caroline murmured to her child, rocking very slightly from side to side.
She stayed there, in her chair until long after Rachel had fallen asleep.
* * *
Geneva returned to Gettysburg late that afternoon. She’d packed her belongings and given detailed instructions concerning the medical supplies she’d brought from her husband’s surgery before the battle, telling Enoch which she would leave behind and which she’d probably need when she got back to town.
Rachel was napping when Geneva, perched beside Enoch in the wagon seat, waved a handkerchief in farewell. Watching from the front porch, Caroline responded with a wave of her own, careful not to let her smile slip too soon.
Caroline knew from her brief trip into town earlier in the week, when she’d accompanied her friend Cecelia McPhee, that while the town buildings themselves still stood, the walls were pockmarked and soot-stained. Flowerbeds were trampled by boot soles and hooves, many garden plots and kitchen shelves stripped of anything remotely edible.
But the surrounding countryside told the true tale of those first three days of July, 1863.
Makeshift graves were everywhere, mostly dug by women. The charred remains of horses and mules stood in gruesome hillocks, some still smoldering, and the stench of death was all-pervasive, clinging to the hair and clothing of the living, sinking into every pore and absorbed with every breath.
Behind Caroline, the seldom-used front door creaked open. “You ought to come on in here now, Miss Caroline,” Jubie said. “Your little one just woke up from her nap, and she’s wanting her mama.”
Caroline turned slowly.
“Jubie,” she chided gently, “it’s better for you not to come out the front door. You might be seen from the road. No telling who’s wandering past these days.”
Jubie nodded in agreement. “You’re right, Miss. But those soldiers saw me plenty when they were here.”
“I’ll wager most of them were too preoccupied with their pain to remember. And I know that at the time they appreciated everything you did for them.”
Jubie nodded again. “Only takes one. To remember, I mean.”
“What will you do now?” Caroline asked when she and Jubie were both inside the house, the door firmly shut behind them.
“You want me to go, Miss?” Jubie asked.
Caroline took both of Jubie’s hands in her own. “Stop,” she said. “I’m not asking you to leave. I merely wondered if you have any sort of plan.”
Jubie’s smile was a bright flash, beautiful and brief. “Yes, Miss,” she said with spirit. “I do have a plan. Enoch and I have a plan.” She paused. “He’s asked me to jump the broom. To marry him. We were waiting for the right time to tell you. We only figured it out this morning.”
Caroline stared at her. “Oh, Jubie! I’m so pleased! For both of you.” She smiled. “For all three of you. So Enoch will be the baby’s father...”
“Yes, he wants to. And he says he cares for me. I could tell that by the way he acts with me, the way he is, but it was so beautiful to hear him say it.”
“I think this is a marriage that was meant to be.”
“Thank you, Caroline. Enoch and I have been talking—about staying here if you’ll allow it...”
“Of course! I would love to have you become part of the family.”
“Thank you,” Jubie said again. “We hope to live in his cabin, have more children.” She grinned down at her burgeoning stomach.
* * *
Still thinking about Jubie’s news, Caroline started toward the main stairway. She probably shouldn’t have allowed Rachel to sleep so long.
She was halfway up the stairs when a peal of sweet laughter rang out, followed by a rush of words, each one like a tiny chime.
Puzzled, and then vaguely alarmed, Caroline hurried up the remaining steps and along the hallway, passing her own closed door and moving swiftly toward Rachel’s, which stood open.
“That,” she heard Rachel say between delighted giggles, “was a silly story. Horses can’t fly, because they don’t have wings!”
Caroline stopped and listened.
“Well, most of them don’t,” Captain Winslow agreed with solemn good humor. “Pegasus was the exception.”
Caroline summoned up a smile and stepped through the doorway of Rachel’s room.
Bridger Winslow was sitting up in Rachel’s narrow bed, decently covered to the waist by sheet and blanket and wearing a rough-spun shirt so big on him that it must have belonged to Enoch.
Rachel sat in the child-size rocking chair Jacob had built for her within days of her birth, clutching one of her dolls.
“Mr. Windlesnow told me a story, Mama,” Rachel proclaimed, beaming.
“Mr. Windlesnow needs his rest, honey” she said. “You mustn’t bother him, Rachel.”
Rachel smiled up at her, eyes shining. “I only wanted to get Dolly,” she said. “I was very, very quiet, too.” The little girl raised an index finger to her lips, as if to demonstrate. “But I guess Mr. Windlesnow heard me anyway, because he woke up and told me a story about a horse that can fly. Its name was Pegglemuss.”
“That’s very nice, sweetheart,” Caroline said. She would speak to Rachel about strangers later, when she’d had a chance to think. Her daughter was only four years old, after all, and lectures on propriety and prudence would be beyond her. “Why don’t you take Dolly and go back to Mama’s room? I’ll be there in a minute to help you with your dress and shoes.”
Rachel continued to rock in her tiny chair. She so resembled a little old lady that Caroline very nearly laughed.
At the edge of her vision, Caroline saw Captain Winslow grin.
It stirred her, that warm, guileless grin, especially after all the gloom. But Caroline was wary of being stirred...
Rachel suddenly stood, clutching Dolly in both arms, and toddled over to her mother. “All right, Mama,” she said, so cheerfully that Caroline was taken by surprise.
Caroline stepped aside to let Rachel pass, heard her scamper along the corridor, chattering to her doll.
“Caroline,” the captain said, very quietly. “I would never harm a child.”
He’d called her “Caroline,” without her permission, and yet it sounded so natural that she couldn’t object.
“I know, but one must be cautious,” she said.
Deep down, she knew this man presented no danger to her daughter or to her, must have known it from the first. She would not have allowed him into her home, wounded or not, i
f she hadn’t.
“Absolutely,” he agreed. His amber eyes had darkened to a rich brown, it seemed to Caroline, and she saw gentle amusement in them.
The stirring was there again, slowly evolving into a faint ache, one that was not entirely unpleasant. Confused, she felt heat spread along her neck and pulse in her cheeks.
“Absolutely,” she repeated, awkwardly.
He smiled. “You will be fine, Caroline,” he said, as if she’d asked his opinion. “And so will your daughter.”
Caroline found herself lingering in the doorway.
The uniform Rogan had left for Bridger was nowhere in sight, but a letter from the same parcel lay on the bedside table, opened. She wondered who’d sent it—mother, sweetheart, wife?
None of her business, she reminded herself silently.
“I am glad that you seem to be feeling better,” she heard herself say.
“I’m slowly getting there,” he replied. “I suppose any kind of progress is better than none.”
Caroline nodded. It was time to leave and go about her duties, but her feet refused to carry her away.
He’d seen her glance in the direction of the letter.
“From my sister, Amalie,” he said.
Amalie had only one purpose in writing it—to tell him their father had just died of pneumonia. She’d said it had all happened very quickly, and that the funeral service would be limited to a few local landowners and “house staff.” She meant the slaves, of course, like Rosebud—because of the current difficulties with travel, thanks to the Union blockade, among other problems. He’d be buried in Fairhaven’s small private cemetery.
She’d urged Bridger not to even consider coming. What Amalie didn’t say was that she understood his conflicted feelings toward their father—feelings he’d experienced for most of his life.
He didn’t tell Caroline any of this.
“Oh,” she finally said. “Well...”
“My name is Bridger,” he said next. Another answer to a question she hadn’t asked, although she already knew his given name because Rogan had told her. Bridger. She liked the sound of it. Besides, it was certainly less awkward than Captain Winslow.
The Yankee Widow Page 24